by Matthew Carr
“Where are you going, señora?” Mendoza asked.
“To grieve for my husband,” she said coldly.
“Perhaps if you had cared for him more when he was alive, he would not be dead. Come with me.”
She did not protest as he ushered her across the courtyard past the terrified-looking servants and into the kitchen, where he closed the door behind them.
“Sit down,” he ordered. “Can you write?”
“Of course I can write,” she said.
“When you arranged to see Rodrigo Vallcarca, did you write or use your servants to communicate with him?”
“How dare you? I never—” Her white cheeks were flushed now. “I have no idea what you are referring to.”
Mendoza leaned over the table so that his face was only a few feet away from hers. “Do not lie to me, señora. As far as I’m concerned, you are partly responsible for that corpse upstairs. I don’t have Calvo, but I will charge you with complicity in his crimes unless you cooperate with me.”
“I knew nothing about his business!”
“Maybe, maybe not. But as the investigating judge, I assure you that I can see to it that you go to the galleys for at least five years. Do you think you could survive that, madam?”
Señora Calvo stared back at him and shook her head.
“Nor do I,” Mendoza said. “And if you want to avoid it, then you’re going to have to help me.”
“How?”
Mendoza smiled humorlessly. “You are going to write a love letter.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
odrigo Vallcarca was not the type of man to think ahead, but even he knew better than to tell his father that Corregidor Calvo had been arrested and taken to Zaragoza. To do that would have required him to ride out to the hunting lodge, and it would also risk depriving himself of the night of pleasure that now lay ahead of him. Instead he waited until his family had retired to their rooms and then walked quickly through the rows of eucalyptus trees and out beyond the front gate to the little copse where his servant was waiting with his horse already saddled. He rode on alone, because servants were not required to be present for an occasion like this, and now the prospect of a night with Cornelia Calvo in her husband’s own bed made his flesh ache and filled him with a craving that grew sharper as the trees and mountains flashed past him.
He saw her lying naked beneath him, and the thought of her wrapping her thighs around him was enough to make him squeeze the horse more tightly with his own. Even now when he put his fingers to his nose, he could still smell the perfume from her letter, in which she had called him her darling, her lover, her young bull, and told him that her bed was empty and her lips were moist. She had never sounded so passionate and so eager, and as he urged his horse on through the moonlit night and felt the warm wind blowing in his face and hair, he promised himself that she would walk with difficulty the next morning.
On reaching the outskirts of the city, he slowed down and rode through the darkened streets to the stables near the pilgrims’ inn, where he left his horse and continued on foot. Soon the corregidor’s house appeared before him. He quickened his pace at the sight of the faint glimmer of light from the upstairs bedroom and imagined her white skin against the sheets in the canopy bed. On reaching the front door, he glanced around him and turned the handle. As she had promised, it was unlocked, and he slipped inside like a thief. No sooner had he shut the door behind him than he felt the barrel of a pistol against the back of his head and heard a voice saying, “Put your hands up and keep perfectly still.”
Vallcarca did as he was told while a hand slowly drew his sword from its sheath.
“Is this a robbery?” he asked. “If so—”
“Shut up until you’re spoken to.”
Vallcarca heard movements from one of the other rooms now. For a moment he thought that Calvo had lured him into a trap as two men emerged from a doorway on the other side of the courtyard. One of them was carrying a torch, and as they came closer, he saw the judge who had humiliated him in front of his servants, accompanied by one of Calvo’s alguaciles.
“Mendoza?” he exclaimed. “Why, that bitch from hell!”
“That’s no way to talk about a lady,” Mendoza said. “Bring him in.”
Still holding the pistol pressed against Vallcarca’s temple, Ventura prodded him forward in the back with his own sword and directed him toward the open doorway. Inside, Mendoza sat down at a table, where a younger man was already waiting by an escritorio. Ventura gestured to him to sit down.
“Rodrigo Vallcarca, you are under arrest,” Mendoza said.
“What the hell for?”
“For the murders of the priest Father Panalles, Gonzalo del Río and his family and the alguacil Franquelo. I am also charging you with the murders of the Count of Cardona, Inquisitor Mercader and Commissioner Herrero and all the members of their party, in addition to rape, banditry and other offenses against His Majesty’s peace.”
“What?” Vallcarca stared back at Mendoza with an expression of stupefied incomprehension. “But this is nonsense.”
“I have signed confessions from the bailiff Sánchez and the Morisco Vicente Péris and from three of the bandits who took part in the murders of the del Río family. I have enough proof to hang you ten times over.”
“You’ve got Sánchez?” Vallcarca’s face fell. “When? How?”
“Never mind how. Their statements prove beyond any doubt that you are the man who organized and directed these crimes, and before you hang, you will confess to every one of them.”
Vallcarca bit his lip and looked around him with a bewildered and trapped expression. In the flickering light of the candle, the judge’s face had a slightly hellish glow and his black eyes were devoid of pity or mercy.
“Damn it, Mendoza,” Vallcarca protested. “It wasn’t me. Sánchez is just trying to save his own skin! I swear on my mother’s milk I didn’t order any of this! I just did what I was told!”
“That’s what Sánchez said,” Mendoza replied. “Except that he said he took orders from you.”
“It’s not true! Sánchez killed Cardona on my father’s orders! It was my father who sent him to kill you in France! It was nothing to do with me.”
“Isn’t it?” Mendoza nodded at Gabriel, who picked up his quill and dipped it in the inkwell. “In that case, if you want to save yourself, I advise you to start telling me why.”
• • •
BARON VALLCARCA AWOKE in his hunting lodge to hear the startled flutter of birds just outside the window. Lying in the darkness with the woman sleeping beside him, he heard the unmistakable sound of horses’ hooves from somewhere in the distance. The sound was so faint that he thought he might have imagined it, and he slipped out of bed and peered through a gap in the curtain. It was not yet daylight, and there was no sign of life from either inside or outside the house. Even the servants had not yet gotten up to start the fires and prepare the guns.
He was tempted to go back to sleep a little longer, but he felt the same tingling sensation at the back of his neck that had once saved him from Huguenot sentries or assassins during the wars in France, and he had learned never to ignore it. The woman stirred vaguely but did not wake up as he put on a shirt and unsheathed the sword that was hanging from the chair before walking barefoot into the dark hallway. As he descended the stairs, he thought once again that he heard movement from outside. He padded over to the window and looked down over the yard, but it seemed silent and empty. Finally he drew back the latch and opened the door. It was only then, as he stepped onto the wooden veranda, that he saw the man in the morion helmet standing directly in front of him with an escopeta pointed at his head.
“Drop your weapon,” the man commanded.
Vallcarca took an instinctive step backward as other shapes began to move toward him in the darkness, and he reached for the door handle.
“One more move and your brains will be all over that door,” said the man with the escopeta. “Dead or alive, it makes no difference.”
Vallcarca dropped the sword. All around the yard, men were advancing cautiously toward the house now in a semicircle, bearing pistols, swords and escopetas, and one of them was walking more slowly, tapping a stick on the ground.
“I wouldn’t try it, Baron. The house is surrounded. And it would not bother me at all if my men were to shoot you like a dog.”
“Mendoza,” Vallcarca said disgustedly as one of the men stepped onto the veranda and held a sword against his throat. “What brings you here so early?”
“I’m arresting you in the name of the king for murder, blackmail and other crimes against the public peace.”
“Well, can I at least get dressed first?”
Mendoza shook his head. “Your servants can bring what you need to Zaragoza.”
“Zaragoza! Damn it, Mendoza! I’m Vallcarca, not some peasant! At least let me get my boots on!”
“Take him.”
Vallcarca clenched his fists and looked momentarily inclined to resist until the point of Ventura’s sword dissuaded him. One of the constables tied his hands, and Ventura prodded him forward with the sword. Some of the servants had come out onto the veranda now and watched as their master was led barefoot and tied up through the yard. Mendoza ordered them to go back inside, and he followed Vallcarca out along the road to where the horses and carriage were waiting. Ventura pushed the baron into the carriage, and Mendoza and his cousin sat down opposite their prisoner as they rode back toward the Huesca road.
“I don’t know where you got these allegations from, Mendoza,” Vallcarca said furiously. “But neither you nor the corregidor will ever see me hang.”
“Corregidor Calvo is dead,” Mendoza replied calmly. “But your son has been very cooperative.”
“What are you talking about?” Vallcarca looked suddenly less certain. “My son’s at my father-in-law’s house.”
“Not anymore,” Mendoza said.
They stopped at the turnoff to Huesca and waited until the countess’s militia escort appeared, together with the carts carrying the prisoners they had taken from the Catalan’s band. As the cortege came closer, Vallcarca saw his son sitting in one of the carts with his legs and feet bound together. He glared at him incredulously, but Rodrigo looked away as if he had not seen him. Mendoza gave the order to move out, and they began to wind their way back down to the scorched white plain as the sun came up and flooded the arid hills with dazzling, luminous light. They were not long past Huesca when they came across a group of travelers who were coming in the opposite direction in a procession of horses, mules and carts. One of them was a sweating priest in a black soutane, perched uncomfortably on a mule and leading a donkey carrying a large bundle.
“God be with you, brothers,” he said, glancing nervously at the prisoners and their armed escorts. “How is the road ahead?”
“Very quiet,” Necker replied.
The priest and the other travelers looked relieved.
“May I inquire where you are going?” Mendoza asked.
“To Belamar de la Sierra,” the priest replied gloomily. “It’s a Morisco village. Do you know it?”
“I do, Father,” Mendoza said. “As a matter of fact, we have just come from there.”
“I understand there have been some problems in the village,” the priest said.
“There were, Father.” Mendoza smiled as the carriage moved away. “But I think you’ll find that things are much calmer now.”
• • •
THE ARRIVAL OF such a large contingent of prisoners caused great excitement in Zaragoza, where rumors of what had taken place in Cardona had already begun to circulate through the city. As they rode along the crowded Corso, pedestrians, shopkeepers and artisans stared curiously at the wild beasts from the mountains who had murdered two inquisitors. The more daring bystanders ran up to the carts and attempted to hit the prisoners before Ventura beat them off. By the time they reached the city jail, a large crowd was following them, and some of Mendoza’s men were obliged to push them back as the prisoners were led inside.
The prisoners were still being processed when the viceroy arrived, accompanied by his servants. Mendoza had already written to Sástago to inform him of his imminent arrival, and the viceroy congratulated Mendoza on a successful conclusion to his investigation. When Mendoza replied that the investigation would not be concluded until his prisoners had been tried and convicted, the viceroy looked suddenly anxious. He nevertheless invited Mendoza, Ventura, Gabriel and Necker to stay at his house once again, while Vargas’s men and the Moriscos made their way back up to the mountains.
After a fine lunch of roasted peacock and almond sauce, the reasons for the viceroy’s anxiety became clear when Mendoza gave him a detailed account of the investigation and everything that had taken place since they’d last met.
“My God, Mendoza,” Sástago said. “I told you your investigation would be difficult, but I didn’t expect anything like this. This is real villainy. The king was preparing to send troops to put down the rebellion. There was even talk that the wedding might have to be called off.”
“There is no need for that, Your Grace. This is a conspiracy, not a rebellion. I know the names of the men responsible. And I intend to make sure that they pay the price for their crimes—from the highest to the lowest.”
“Was Mercader aware of this?”
“No. Pachuca was Villareal’s man. Mercader believed what he wanted to believe. He wanted heresy, and Vallcarca was only interested in Cardona. He had the countess’s husband killed so that he could get her to marry his son. When that failed, he tried to get an Inquisition investigation in Belamar so that she would turn to him. If she was arrested, that was all right, too, because then Espinosa would have become her daughter’s guardian and he would have married her off to Rodrigo. It was a good plan, but Villareal wasn’t going to let it happen. He bought off the baron’s men and used them for his own purposes.”
“Which were?”
“Cardona. Villareal wanted the señorio for himself. He wanted to persuade the king to send troops to occupy Cardona, partly because he didn’t want Vallcarca to get it and also because he expected to be rewarded for his efforts. And why not? He was Aragonese. He was already directly involved in this affair from the beginning. As treasurer of the Council of Aragon, he would have been the logical choice as Crown administrator for Cardona once law and order had been restored. Of course, that would not have taken long, because he was responsible for organizing the mayhem in the first place!”
“A clever plan,” Sástago agreed. “And a diabolical one. But who is this Catalan?”
“His name is Lupercio Borrell. He’s a bandit. He was in the baron’s employ, but he was also Villareal’s man. That’s all I know about him.”
At the mention of the name, Sástago looked even more anxious. “He’s not just a bandit, Don Bernardo.”
“You know him?”
“I know of him. Borrell was a spy for our cause in France during the Wars of Religion. The Crown paid him, but he reported directly to Villareal here in Zaragoza. And there’s something else you should know. Some years ago one of Villareal’s daughters was impregnated by Rodrigo Vallcarca. Some say she was seduced. Others said she was raped. Either way the young lady had the baby before Villareal sent her into a convent. Of course he was angry with her—she ruined a very lucrative marriage. But the marquis was even angrier with Vallcarca. Naturally it was all hushed up. It didn’t seem relevant—until now.”
“So it wasn’t just money,” Mendoza said. “Honor was involved—if you consider that murdering innocent people and stirring up treason and rebellion in order to take revenge on your enemies is an honorable thing to do.”
“But a man who will do suc
h things will not allow himself to be ruined. Be careful, Licenciado. Villareal has the ear of the king. He is also a grandee.”
“And his rank will not protect him from His Majesty’s justice,” Mendoza said firmly.
The viceroy said that he had just received a letter from Villareal’s secretary asking why he hadn’t had any communication from Licenciado Mendoza or Corregidor Calvo in nearly two weeks and requesting further information on the situation in Cardona. The letter had also suggested that Mendoza was not competent and might have lost control of the investigation.
Mendoza looked unperturbed. “The marquis will never receive any letters from me,” he said. “From now on I will communicate the results of my investigation only to His Majesty.”
Sástago frowned once again. Whatever happened to Villareal, he said, neither Vallcarca nor his son nor any of the other prisoners could be tried by a Castilian judge, and Mendoza would not be able to take any of his prisoners to Castile. Diplomacy and the infanta’s wedding demanded that these norms be respected. He had nevertheless arranged a compromise with the justiciar of Aragon, in which the prisoners would be tried by an Aragonese judge and Mendoza would be able to advise and give evidence but not to pass sentence.
Mendoza was not entirely surprised by this. The following day he and the viceroy met with the justiciar of Aragon, Juan de Luna, who said that Mendoza would be required to hand over all his depositions to the trial judge. Mendoza politely refused and said that Castilian law did not allow him to hand over documentation that he had acquired in the course of an investigation. Both Sástago and the justiciar looked worried now, and after some discussion Mendoza agreed to allow his Aragonese counterparts to read and even copy his depositions in his presence or the presence of his scribe but not to hand them over.
He also managed to extract certain commitments in exchange for his cooperation. Rodrigo Vallcarca was not to be sentenced to death on condition that he testify against his father. Any prisoners or bandits who provided information on the conspiracy against Cardona would receive a similar commutation of sentence, and the Countess of Cardona’s father-in-law, the Marquis of Espinosa, was to be banished from the señorio in perpetuity.