The Devils of Cardona

by Matthew Carr

  “Are you all right, Constable?” Mendoza asked.

  “I think my arm is broken, sir,” Necker replied. “Should I pursue him?”

  Mendoza shook his head. “No, Constable. With one arm, even you won’t catch him. Let him bleed.”

  Within minutes it was over and the bandits who had not been killed had surrendered to the Moriscos, who herded them into a group near the fire.

  “You left it late,” Mendoza said as Ventura came riding toward them.

  “You could show some gratitude, cousin.” Ventura looked down at Calvo, who was sitting dejectedly on the ground, and then back at Mendoza. “So you were right, cousin. Congratulations.”

  “How did you know?” Calvo asked.

  Mendoza bent to pick up the mace. It was a remarkable weapon, unlike anything he had ever seen, with a head made from two eagles’ beaks and lions’ heads with additional beaks protruding from their open jaws.

  “A man who writes letters to the king telling him things I know to be false? Who undermines my investigation without consulting me and then comes to save me with only fifteen men? Such a man is worthy of suspicion, even if he is an old friend. And as for not seeing Segura . . . well, it’s just a little odd that the man I sent to Jaca ends up in the hands of the Inquisition and you say you didn’t even see him.”

  Calvo said nothing as Mendoza ordered one of the militiamen to tie his hands.

  “Are we taking them back to Belamar?” Ventura asked.

  “No. To Jaca.”

  “Bernardo, please.” Calvo regarded him imploringly. “Don’t take me to Jaca. Just finish me here.”

  Mendoza looked at him contemptuously. “Do not address me by my first name. You will die, but not here. You will go on trial like any other common criminal, and the whole world will know your crimes. And then you will find out if there really is a hell.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  hey reached Jaca in the midafternoon and rode slowly along the Calle Mayor, past the shops and workshops and the market traders, priests and pedestrians, some of whom stopped and stared incredulously at the familiar figure of the corregidor and the other eight prisoners roped together on foot to a mule. They were just passing Calvo’s office when the constable who had accompanied them on their arrival from Zaragoza to Jaca more than a month earlier came out to meet them, accompanied by two of his officers, and stared in astonishment at the sight of the prisoners and his former superior.

  “Constable Vargas,” Mendoza said. “Weren’t you out raising the militia?”

  “No, sir.” The alguacil stared at Calvo, who did not look at him. “I wasn’t told to. Sir, may I ask what is going on?”

  “Corregidor Calvo and these men are under arrest for banditry, murder and treason,” Mendoza replied calmly. “I’m taking them to the cathedral jail. His Majesty would appreciate your cooperation.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The three constables joined them now as they escorted the prisoners to the cathedral jail. Two ragged beggars who were seated outside the cathedral door came toward him, and one of them brandished the stump of his arm and said “Lepanto!” before Vargas shooed him away. A moment later the warden came out to meet them in a rough brown gown and sandals. He gaped at his former superior as Mendoza repeated the charges against the nine prisoners.

  “But, Your Mercy, this is Corregidor Calvo.”

  “I’m aware of that,” said Mendoza. “And I want him to have his own cell. I warn you that if anything happens to him, I will hold you personally responsible.”

  “No one has his own cell here, sir,” the warden protested. “There’s no room.”

  “Then he will share with the others.”

  “Bernardo,” Calvo said suddenly. “Could I have a word?”

  “I told you not to address me by my first name,” Mendoza said icily.

  “Your Honor. Please may I speak to you in private?”

  “You can use my office, sir.” The warden gestured toward a little room by the entrance. Mendoza ushered Calvo inside and shut the door behind him. He sat down at a grimy table, on which the warden had left a half-eaten bowl of bean stew, a mug of beer and a crust of bread.

  “Well?” he said.

  “I beg you, Bernardo—Your Honor. I know I’ll hang for this. But please put me under house arrest until you’re ready to take me to Zaragoza, for old times’ sake. You knew my father.”

  “I did. And I know what he would have thought of you.”

  “I give you my word of honor I won’t try to escape.”

  “You dare talk of honor!”

  Calvo nodded. “All right. Forget the past, then. What if I offered you something in return? What if I told you I know where Segura is?”

  “Dr. Segura is in the Inquisition jail in Huesca. And there’s nothing that you or I can do to get him out of there.”

  “He’s not in Huesca,” Calvo said. “He’s in the seigneurial jail in Vallcarca.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because Lupe and Pachuca took him there. We wanted to make sure Mercader came to Vallcarca personally. So Pachuca took him to the baron’s jail and the baron informed Herrero. Mercader and Herrero were going to bring him back to Zaragoza with the other prisoners from Belamar.”

  Mendoza looked at him contemptuously. “Very well. You can stay at your house. But neither you nor your wife will be allowed to leave, and you will receive no visitors.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “It wasn’t only the money, was it?” Mendoza said suddenly. “Was it Vallcarca who cuckolded you, or was it his son?”

  Calvo was momentarily taken aback, and his face was bitter and filled with self-loathing as he stared down at the floor. “His son—among others.”

  Mendoza led Calvo out into the passageway, where Necker, his arm in a sling, was talking to Vargas. “The prisoner is to remain under house arrest,” Mendoza said. “His wife can remain with him, but neither they nor their servants can leave or receive visitors. Constable Vargas, I expect you to ensure that the house is well guarded and that these orders are observed. Constable Necker will assist you until I return in two days’ time. Please take care of his food and accommodation.”

  Outside, Ventura and the Moriscos were still waiting with the horses, and Mendoza told Ventura to bring Calvo’s horse with them. They rode alongside Necker and Vargas, who escorted the corregidor on foot till they reached his house, where they found his wife standing in the doorway, accompanied by two servants.

  “Licenciado Mendoza!” she called in a shrill, sharp voice. “I trust you have good cause to arrest the man who saved your life?”

  Mendoza looked at the hard, flintlike eyes, the creamy white skin and the voluptuous figure that had undone his old friend so comprehensively. “Oh, I have most excellent cause, madam.”

  He nodded at Vargas and Necker, who ushered Calvo into the house and blocked his wife’s path, and then he turned and rode away.

  • • •

  ON REACHING THE HUESCA ROAD, Mendoza sent the Moriscos and the militiamen back to Belamar, and he and Ventura continued the journey to Vallcarca with Calvo’s horse in tow. It took nearly two hours to reach the señorio and another half hour before they passed the gibbet, where the corpse he had seen nearly two weeks earlier had now been reduced to a skeleton.

  Mendoza was not entirely convinced of the wisdom of entering Vallcarca, and the sight of the gallows did nothing to reassure him. He wondered whether he should have kept his escort, but a large group of armed men riding through the señorio would have invited unwelcome attention from the baron’s militia. Their absence did not necessarily improve his chances of survival. It was possible that Vallcarca or his son had returned from Huesca. The baron had already tried to kill Mendoza once, and it was unlikely that he would allow either of them to leave the señorio alive i
f their presence was discovered.

  By the time they reached Vallcarca, it was nearly dark, and Mendoza was relieved to see there was no sign of life from the palace. As they rode into the main street beneath it, he saw members of Vallcarca’s militia walking among the stream of carts, horses, cows and pedestrians that flowed past them. One or two stared in their direction with mild curiosity, but none seemed to recognize them or show any further interest. Mendoza asked for the seigneurial prison and was directed just around the corner from the cathedral to the magistrate’s court. He left Ventura with the horses and went inside and down the stairs until he came upon a heavy wooden door with a metal grille. He knocked on the door, and a moment later a red face with a walrus mustache and a beard appeared in the little hatch.

  “Yes?”

  “I am Licenciado Mendoza, criminal judge at the Royal Chancery of Valladolid,” Mendoza said in his most pompous and imperious voice. “I’m here to transfer the Morisco Pedro Segura to His Majesty’s custody.”

  “Segura is a prisoner of the Inquisition,” the warden replied.

  “Inquisitor Mercader has been murdered, and this Morisco is wanted in connection with the crime!” Mendoza insisted.

  The warden showed no sign of emotion. “Even so you’ll need the baron’s authorization first.”

  “I have spoken to the baron. And I have a warrant for the prisoner’s arrest!” Mendoza held up his letter bearing the royal seal. “And you are obstructing His Majesty’s officials in the course of their duty!”

  The warden looked suddenly confused and had clearly never been faced with a dilemma like this.

  “All right, all right,” he grumbled. “There’s no need to take that tone with me. I only work here. Wait there.”

  Mendoza waited impatiently in the little corridor till he heard the sound of footsteps and clanking chains. A few moments later, the door opened and the warden appeared, with one arm around the shoulder of the disheveled-looking Juan Segura. Segura’s arms and feet were chained, and he looked smaller, frailer and older than when Mendoza had last seen him. His face was bruised and covered with dirt, and his white hair and beard were flecked with straw as he stared at Mendoza in confusion.

  “You have to sign the ledger,” the warden said, bending to unlock Segura’s chains. “Name, date and position.”

  Mendoza stepped into the dark entrance hall and leaned over the table, where a candle was burning near an ancient-looking ledger that seemed as if it could have been there since the fourteenth century. He dipped the quill into the ink bowl and quickly wrote the required information.

  “It seems to be in order,” the warden murmured. “But I still think we should check with the magistrate first.”

  “I don’t have time for this”—Mendoza sighed impatiently—“and I don’t think the baron will take kindly to you sticking your nose into matters that are not your concern. Here’s a little token of His Majesty’s appreciation.”

  Mendoza dropped a coin into the warden’s hand and led Segura toward the stairs. The mayor walked stiffly and with obvious difficulty, and when they reached the street, he stood looking around him with a dazed expression at the people moving back and forth in the fading light.

  “But this is Vallcarca,” he said wonderingly. “I thought I was in Huesca.”

  “I thought so, too,” Mendoza muttered.

  “But Herrero and Mercader were here. I spoke to them.”

  “And now they’re both dead, and we have to leave.”

  Segura looked even more confused now as he mounted his horse and they rode slowly back along the street the way they’d come. As soon as they turned the corner, Mendoza picked up speed, and they did not slow down until they had nearly reached the town of Cardona. Segura listened in silence as Mendoza told him about the murders of the two inquisitional officials, the battle at Belamar and the other events that had taken place in his absence.

  “So it seems you were right,” Mendoza said in conclusion. “The rapists in Vallcarca were not Moriscos. And it was Sánchez who killed Péris and tried to kill us.”

  “On Corregidor Calvo’s orders?”

  Mendoza shook his head. “I don’t think so. Sánchez was working for Vallcarca, but he was also working for the Marquis of Villareal. It’s clear from what Péris told us that he was part of the baron’s plot to bring the Inquisition to Belamar. Of course, Vallcarca couldn’t allow us to come from France and report this. But Calvo was working for Villareal. That’s why he kidnapped you and handed you over to Pachuca. You were bait—to attract Mercader to Vallcarca so that he could be killed.”

  “So who in the name of all the devils killed Sánchez the other night?” Ventura asked.

  “Pachuca was Villareal’s man. But Calvo or the Catalan must have given the order.”

  Segura shook his head and sighed. “So we Moriscos were merely pawns in a rich man’s game?”

  “In part. Mercader certainly didn’t see it that way. He was a pawn, too. But your children are alive, and your daughter Juana has done you proud.”

  “Praise be to God. But why did you come to get me, Licenciado? If Vallcarca had discovered you, it could have gone badly for you.”

  “I made a promise to your daughter.”

  “Well, I thank you.”

  Mendoza said nothing. The Belamar Valley was bathed in a silvery light and looked calm and peaceful, as though a great storm had passed through it as they rode beneath the starry sky toward the village. Outside the main entrance, the sentries stirred uneasily at the party’s approach, and their wariness turned to wild exultation when they recognized Segura. Within a few minutes, the new arrivals were surrounded by an entourage of men and women who came to touch Segura’s legs and shake his hand. Some of them danced and others clapped their hands in rhythm while children ran along excitedly beside them, shouting that the doctor had come home. By the time they reached the main square, Segura’s children had already come out to meet them. Mendoza watched as he embraced his sons and kissed his daughters one by one, and then Juana came over toward Mendoza. She no longer looked angry or hostile, and her wet cheeks shone in the moonlight.

  “Thank you, Licenciado Mendoza,” she said.

  Mendoza nodded. Gabriel was watching quietly from the shadows, and he waited till she had returned to her family before coming forward to greet his guardian.

  “Everything all right, boy?” Mendoza asked stiffly.

  “Yes, sir. So you were right about Corregidor Calvo. I’m glad Sergeant Ventura was able to get there in time.”

  “So am I,” he said. “And now there is nothing more to keep us here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  he next day Belamar finally began to bury its dead. Father García had already come from Cardona to conduct a purification ritual in the church, and that morning he held yet another funeral Mass for all the village’s dead. The countess attended, accompanied by Susana, and Gabriel stood near the back of the packed church with Ventura and Mendoza and watched as the Moriscos attempted to join in the prayers and hymns that many of them hardly knew.

  He wondered how many of them really believed that Jesus would return to judge the living and the dead and whether the dead were being buried as Moors or Christians. He wondered whether all countries were like Spain, where nothing was what it seemed to be on the surface and men and women hid who they really were and what they really felt or thought. He wondered if the king was aware of the corruption and injustice that pervaded his kingdoms. And most of all, he wondered what kind of future awaited him in a country that he no longer belonged to. Now their business in Belamar was done, and the next day they would begin the journey back to Zaragoza and Castile, and he would return to his old life, except that his life could never be the same as it was, because he was no longer the person he thought he was.

  In the past he had never understood why the boys at the colegio who b
ullied and taunted him had called him Moor. Magda told him that it was because he was cleverer than they were and because of his black hair and darker skin. She had reassured him that Spaniards had dark skin, too, and that he was as much a Christian as they were—and a better Christian, because he turned the other cheek. But now he realized that they’d sensed what he had not even begun to suspect until he came to Belamar.

  These thoughts oppressed him as he followed the mourners down to the cemetery. The entire population of Belamar had turned out for the occasion, and there were tears and lamentations as the keeners wailed and moaned and tore at their shawls and waved their arms at the sky. Men, women and children wept openly as the bodies of their friends and relatives were laid carefully into the ground wrapped in white shrouds before the graves were partially filled and other bodies were laid on top of them.

  At last the list of names came to an end, and Mendoza called Gabriel over as he went to speak to the countess. She was standing at the edge of the cemetery with Segura, Susana and Juana, and she had obviously been crying herself.

  “I understand that you are leaving us tomorrow, Licenciado,” she said.

  “We are, my lady,” Mendoza replied. “And before I leave, I would like to take down a formal deposition from you.”

  “Now?” she asked.

  “If I’m to consider the allegations you have made against Vallcarca and your father-in-law, I need a written statement.”

  “Very well, then.” The countess accompanied them to Segura’s study and sat at the table opposite Mendoza while Gabriel took up his position behind his escritorio. She calmly repeated what she had already told him about her previous meetings with Vallcarca and her father-in-law as Gabriel wrote the conversation down. Afterward Mendoza looked her statement over. “Thank you for your time, my lady,” he said, “but there’s one thing I am still not clear about. Why was Vallcarca so convinced that the Inquisition would arrest you? Was there anything he knew, or thought he knew, that could have been used against you?”