by Matthew Carr
In the midafternnoon the weather came to their rescue when a thick mist enveloped the mountains, so that they were barely able to see more than a few yards in front of them. Segura insisted that they keep going on foot, and they continued to follow the seemingly haphazard trajectory in and out of gorges and valleys, leading their horses by the reins. All this was more physically demanding than anything Mendoza had done in years, and the pain in his leg was excruciating, but Segura no longer had any laudanum to give him. After an hour the mist cleared, and they got back on their horses and continued to press on, pausing only to refresh themselves and their animals at the occasional stream or river before threading their way downward through thick forests and ravines where they would not be visible from a distance.
• • •
NOT SINCE THE ALPUJARRA MOUNTAINS had Mendoza felt so far from safety, law and civilization. But in Granada he had fought as a soldier in the royal army to suppress a Morisco rebellion against the Crown. Now his survival depended on the ability of a Morisco doctor to lead them through a wilderness infested by unknown enemies who were trying to kill him for reasons he did not even understand. And Segura was not infallible. He had lost his original route in the mist, and the continual cloud cover made it difficult to reorient themselves as they zigzagged back and forth in an attempt to find their way down through the mountains.
It was nearly dark when they finally stopped in a small clearing at the edge of a forest of beech and sycamore trees, where they allowed the horses to graze. Segura said that it was pointless to go on in the dark when he was not sure where he was. Besides, it was unlikely that anyone else would look for them at night, and so they set up camp just inside the forest in a spot where they could see anyone who approached it without being seen themselves. They ate some bread and hard French cheese that they had brought with them from Pau and took turns keeping watch throughout the night.
Mendoza was unable to manage more than a brief doze even when he lay on the hard ground beneath his blanket. Most of the time he sat against a tree with his weapons by his side, listening to the whirring insects and the countless inexplicable sounds issuing from the dark forest as the hours passed interminably. Daniel was also restless, looking up repeatedly at the fluttering of wings or the sound of a snapping twig even when it was not his watch.
Only Segura managed to catch some sleep, and he looked almost rested when they continued their progress at first light. The sky was clear, and when the sun came up, he quickly established that they had drifted too far east. By midmorning they had reached the Somport-Jaca road again, and Mendoza decided to go directly to Jaca and seek help from the corregidor rather than attempt to cross the countryside to Belamar. The road was almost flat now, and they’d been riding for about half an hour when a group of mounted men blocked the road in front of them.
Once again they jabbed their heels into their sweating horses and drove them off the road and onto the nearby trail that led up through the low foothills toward the Gállego River. The pursuit continued for more than thirty minutes up the hill and down into another shallow valley, which funneled out into a steep gorge before them.
“Stop when you reach the entrance!” Mendoza shouted as he passed Daniel. On reaching the gorge, he reined in the stallion and waited for the others to catch up.
“Constable, dismount and load your weapon,” he ordered.
“We’ll never be able to fight that many,” Segura protested.
“No, but we can slow them down. Take the horses into the gorge and wait for us around the corner.”
Segura did as he was told while Daniel slipped the escopeta from its holster and gathered some leaves and dry twigs. The riders were visible now as he rubbed the flint and steel together till they caught fire. Mendoza had seen infantrymen who were able to load and fire a harquebus at two shots a minute even in the heat of battle, but he had also seen men set fire to their own powder and blow themselves up through their excessive haste or place the match cord too high or too low in the serpentine so that it missed the powder and failed to ignite. So far he had only seen Daniel fire off practice shots during the ride up from Valladolid. He was accurate enough, but not as fast as Martín, and Mendoza was not even sure that he could get off a shot before the horsemen reached them.
He noticed that Daniel’s hand was trembling as he held the rope match against the tiny flame until it began to smolder and he carefully placed it in the serpentine before uncapping the powder bottle and tilting some powder into the firing pan and into the barrel. He glanced at the horsemen racing toward them across the open plain and unhooked the ramrod and dropped a ball into the barrel and pushed it down. The riders were now close enough to make out their faces and the color of their clothes as Daniel leaned the carbine against a rock and rested the stock against his shoulder.
“Steady, now,” Mendoza murmured. “Don’t rush it.”
Daniel peered down the barrel and carefully cocked the serpentine, checking the alignment with the flash pan. The horsemen did not appear to have seen them, and they were still riding hard toward the gorge when he pressed the trigger and the serpentine snapped downward and brought the smoldering cord onto the powder. The gun jerked backward with a loud explosion and emitted a cloud of smoke, and one of the horsemen let go of the reins and seemed to raise his arms to the sky in a gesture of supplication or protest before falling backward and over to one side.
“Well done!” Mendoza congratulated him.
Daniel was already reloading, and his hands were no longer shaking as the horsemen fanned out now behind the dead bandit’s horse. They had clearly not expected to be shot at, and one of them fired a pistol in their direction, even though they were out of range. Another was waving his arms and shouting out instructions.
“Get the one in the leather hat,” Mendoza said. “He’s the leader.”
Daniel squeezed the trigger, and once again the gun leaped and exploded in his arms. The leader’s horse now buckled beneath him and tottered to one side, throwing him to the ground, and they watched him scramble around on all fours to shelter behind the fallen body. The other riders were also seeking cover, and the leader was signaling toward both sides of the valley.
“They’re going to try to get around us,” Mendoza said. “We need to go.”
They ran back to where Segura was waiting with the horses and climbed into the saddles, guiding the animals as fast as they could across the rock-strewn floor. The gorge was not especially deep, but the steep, near-vertical walls cast them almost completely in shadow. Mendoza fully expected to hear voices or horses behind him at any moment, but apart from their own animals the gorge was silent and the bandits still did not seem to have realized that they were no longer at the entrance. After a few minutes, the path began to rise up in a gradual slope toward a lighter patch that indicated the end of the gorge.
They had nearly reached it when he heard the movement above him and looked up to see the rock falling out of the blue sky. There was just time to swivel his horse before it crashed to the ground right in front of him. The boulder was as large as a man’s head, and he drew his pistol and looked up at the faceless silhouettes peering down from both sides of the canyon. There were many more than six of them, and they were throwing rocks and stones and shooting arrows, and now another line of men appeared at the exit to the gorge and began moving toward them on foot. Daniel was just behind him, and Segura was holding one hand to his head in an instinctive attempt to protect himself.
“Move!” Mendoza yelled.
Daniel leaned forward to spur his horse, and then suddenly he straightened up in the saddle and slumped forward, so that Mendoza saw the crossbow arrow protruding from the side of his neck. The militiaman was still holding on to the reins and trying to remain in the saddle, but his horse was wheeling around and around in confusion. Segura had not yet moved at all. Mendoza shouted at him to go forward as the stones and arrows continued
to fall around them and the pistol shots ricocheted off the rocks. But the mayor seemed paralyzed.
It was not until Mendoza grabbed his horse’s reins that the mayor appeared to rouse himself from his trance and dig his heels into his horse’s flanks. Ventura’s stallion now showed its mettle, sprinting from a standing start toward the line of men at the exit, some of whom were crouching down to fire pistols and crossbows. Still holding the reins of Segura’s horse, Mendoza bent forward to present a smaller target. He heard a pistol ball whiz past his face and braced himself for the shot or arrow that would send him tumbling to the ground to his death as he grasped the reins with one hand and fired at a masked man who was rushing toward Segura with a sword raised above his head.
Mendoza tossed the smoking pistol away as the bandit fell to the ground, and he drew his sword, steering the horse toward the open space where the man had been standing. Some of the bandits were surrounding him, pulling at his legs and the horse’s bridle as he slashed out wildly. He felt the blade connect with bone and heard someone howl, but hands continued to tug at his legs. And then suddenly the horse broke loose and he was riding alongside Segura and there was no one blocking their path.
Daniel was not with them, and it wasn’t until they achieved a safe distance that Mendoza reined the horse in. He just had time to see Daniel’s riderless horse racing toward the woods and the men on the ground hacking at his prone body before the horsemen came charging out of the gorge toward them. Once again he flicked the reins and dug his heels in. Mendoza was confident that Ventura’s stallion could outrun their pursuers, but Segura’s horse was lagging and looked exhausted. They continued to ride hard across the Jaca plain toward the Huesca road until they reached a pine forest where their pursuers disappeared from view.
“Go into the trees and hide yourself,” Mendoza ordered. “I’ll get them to follow me. As soon as we’re out of sight, go back down to Jaca. Go and see Corregidor Calvo. Tell him to call out the militia and come to Belamar immediately with as many men as he can muster.”
“What makes you think you’ll get there yourself?” Segura asked.
“On this horse I have a chance. But you don’t.”
Segura nodded and rode off the path into the forest. Mendoza waited a little farther up the path till the first riders appeared behind him and then urged the stallion forward. As he had hoped, his pursuers continued to follow him. Without Segura to keep an eye on, he was able to give the horse its head, and he felt its power and strength as he galloped at full tilt through the forest and up the Huesca road and alongside the Gállego River, till he reached the footbridge that led into Cardona. Ignoring the toll keeper’s cry of protest, he sprinted across it without pausing to pay and continued on until he reached the Belamar Valley. He did not slow down until he saw the familiar houses and church tower jutting out above the distant promontory at the end of the valley, and for the first time since coming to Aragon he actually felt glad to be back in Belamar de la Sierra.
• • •
BY THE TIME HE REACHED the brow of the hill, Ventura, Necker and a group of armed Moriscos were already running toward him from the main entrance, and his pursuers were visible riding away in the distance. They had barely congratulated him on his return when he told them that Daniel was dead. One of the Moriscos asked if Dr. Segura had been killed, too, and he and his companions looked visibly relieved when Mendoza told them that Segura had gone to Jaca. He got down from his horse and told Ventura and Necker about the pursuit and ambush as they walked to the main square. Gabriel looked equally relieved to see him, and Mendoza told him to take his horse to the stable and prepare him a bath. Martín immediately noticed his friend’s absence and looked stunned and distraught when Mendoza told him what had happened.
“You’re sure he’s dead, sir?” he asked.
“I’m certain,” Mendoza replied. “I’m sorry, Constable. He died bravely, doing his duty.”
Martín nodded and followed Mendoza, Necker and Ventura into the village hall. The three men sat and stood around the hot, stuffy room and listened grimly as Mendoza told them about Péris, Jean Sánchez and the ambush in the gorge.
“Special Constable Azcona was killed in His Majesty’s service,” he said. “And it is our task to destroy the criminal conspiracy that has killed him and so many others. First, we must arrest Jean Sánchez. Second, it will be necessary to speak to Baron Vallcarca.”
Necker immediately offered to go to Cardona to arrest the bailiff, and Martín volunteered to go with him, but Mendoza shook his head. “Sánchez won’t want to return to Cardona now that he knows I’m back and the roads aren’t safe. We need assistance from Calvo.”
“Suppose Segura hasn’t gotten through?” Ventura said.
“Then we’ll send someone else,” Mendoza replied. “And if Calvo can’t send me the men I need, then I’ll raise my own militia to go search for Sánchez. I need to know how many men in Belamar would be prepared to do this. I need men with weapons and the ability to use them.”
Necker and Martín both agreed to go find out. When they had gone, Ventura told him about the murders of the charcoal burners and his decision to increase the number of sentries and place a lookout in the church tower.
“You did well, cousin,” he said. “But that boy should not have gone up there by himself.”
“Don’t be too hard on him, Bernardo. He just wanted to impress the girl. You know what young men are like.”
Mendoza looked past him as Juana and her elder brother, Agustín, appeared in the doorway, looking grim and anxious. Agustín demanded to know where their father was, and Mendoza assured them that he had thrown their pursuers off Segura’s track and that their father was almost certainly in Jaca now.
“What if he isn’t?” Juana asked coldly.
“Your father knew the risks and accepted them.”
“He had no choice!”
“There was no other way to resolve this investigation,” Mendoza insisted. “And if I don’t resolve it, then your family and your village will pay the price. Your father knew that. That’s why he came with me. He saved my life, and I did what I could to save his.”
Juana glared back at him, and the two young people left the room in high dudgeon. Mendoza returned to the dispensary, where Gabriel was pouring water into the metal tub.
“What were you doing in the forest?” he said furiously. “Didn’t I tell you never to leave the village alone?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know why I did it.”
“Being brave isn’t the same thing as being stupid, boy! And if you ever disobey my orders again, I’ll send you back to Valladolid, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
By the time the bath was ready, he felt calmer, and he sat naked in the tub while Gabriel scrubbed his back and arms and washed his hair. Afterward he changed into a clean shirt and felt as if he had returned once again to the civilized world. Gabriel still looked downcast and morose, and Mendoza gave him an exasperated smile.
“Come, Amadis,” he said more gently. “Let’s go and get some supper.”
At the tavern Necker told them that he had found twenty men willing to form a militia, but only fifteen mules and horses. After supper Mendoza returned to the dispensary, where he lay on top of the bed wearing only his hose, with his shirt off. It was a hot and windless night, but he quickly fell into an unusual and not unpleasant dream, in which Elena was straddling him wearing nothing but a carnival mask, when he heard Necker calling him and woke to find the German standing in the doorway with a torch.
“Something’s happened, sir. You’d better come.”
Mendoza quickly pulled on his boots and followed Necker out into the street and down to the lavadero, where Ventura and a group of Moriscos were gathered near the smoldering brazier by the washhouse, peering down the road into the darkness.
“We have visitors, Bernardo.”
“What time is it?”
“Just gone one o’clock.”
Mendoza peered out toward the crest of the hill, where he was barely able to make out the shapes of four men on horseback.
“Is that you, Licenciado Mendoza?” called a voice out of the darkness. “You forgot something!”
“Son of a whore, it’s the Catalan!” whispered Ventura. One of the horsemen came forward a few yards and then tossed a heavy object onto the dirt road. The four men turned away and vanished into the night, and Mendoza heard them riding off as Ventura and the Morisco sentries rushed forward to pick up the object. His cousin returned holding a bag that Mendoza knew contained a human head. His first thought was that it might belong to Segura, until Ventura held up the bloodstained head by the hair, and in the light of the torch he felt almost relieved when he recognized the eyeless face of militiaman and special constable Daniel Azcona.
CHAPTER TWENTY
ercader listened carefully as the fiscal Ramírez read out the new indictments. From time to time, he interrupted to add something or remove or change words or phrases that he did not like. But such interventions were only adornments. The case against the Belamar Moriscos was overwhelming. On numerous occasions the defendant Pedro Navarro had witnessed the mayor and doctor Pedro Segura summon the demon in his surgery or in private homes while treating patients. Segura had also left inscriptions from the Koran in the rooms of sick patients in order to cure them. He had refused to tell the priest that his patients were dying so that they would not receive the last sacrament. He had used his visits as a doctor as an opportunity to preach the teachings of the false prophet Muhammad and had written and distributed Aljamiado books to disseminate his evil teachings. He had performed the banned ritual of circumcision and had married couples from Belamar according to the Moorish custom.