by Ken Hood
CHAPTER THREE
They were German mercenaries, the landsknechte the Spanish called lansquenets—mostly big, bearded men who seemed even bigger in their heavily padded doublets and hose. A man unfamiliar with them might laugh at those grandiose multicolored velours and velvets and satins, with piping and padding and pleats, all elaborately slashed to reveal linings of contrasting hues and set off by wide, flat caps with trailing plumes and, in many cases, gold chains around their necks. He would not laugh twice, for landsknechte were tough as anvils, the elite shock troops of the Fiend's army.
Their leader was grizzled and leather-faced as if he had seen many hard campaigns, but he was bedecked in crimson and chartreuse as splendid as any of the younger armored butterflies behind him. While he rode up on a magnificent, skittish black even bigger than Atropos, he seemed to be looking more at Toby than at the don. Or was that only Toby's guilty conscience saying so?
The don halted to let this upstart challenger approach, while the pallor of his anger made the copper mustache burn even brighter than usual. Toby edged in close to his stirrup like a child seeking comfort from its mother. Neither of them had anticipated the ruthless efficiency of landsknechte, who had cleared the entire valley so that there would be no residents to warn northbound travelers about the ambush and yet allowed southbound traffic like Johnson's party to pass undisturbed—clever!
Toby himself should not have underestimated the Inquisition. There was not a friar in sight so far, but he did not doubt that they were close. What a deadly combination! The baron and the Inquisition were an obscene partnership in the first place. It was no surprise that Oreste was willing to pay any price to gain possession of Granny Nan's pretty amethyst, even the indignity of dealing with the Inquisition and assigning it some of his best troops; and perhaps no more unexpected was that the Dominicans would stoop to cooperating with the notorious hexer if it let them snare a nefarious international monster such as Tobias Longdirk had been made out to be. Why, it was a good deal all round! The amethyst would go to the viceroy in Barcelona, and the Inquisition would get the infamous Longdirk as payment for services rendered.
Doña Francisca urged her pony forward a few paces. "Captain, you are in the presence of the illustrious Don Ramon de Nuñez y Pardo, a hidalgo of Castile! By what right do you dispute his progress?"
The mercenary ignored her, directing his answer to the don himself, with frequent sidelong glances at Toby. His men were already closing in on other members of the party, disarming them and taking charge of the horses.
"I bear authority from the Holy Office, senor. The venerable friars have asked for your assistance in answering a few questions. You will dismount now and surrender your weapons, which will be returned to you when—"
"It is outrageous! The viceroy himself will hear of this insult to—"
"You refuse to assist the Holy Office, senor? On what grounds?"
Even Don Ramon could not find an answer to that, but he was shaking with fury. To avoid straining his self-control any longer, Toby removed his baldric and surrendered his sword to a fresh-faced boy as tall as himself, a human maypole of mulberry, sulphur yellow, and cerulean blue, but too young to have earned any gold chains yet. Another man confiscated his staff. As the pilgrims were escorted off along a track through the trees, he was somewhat flattered to note that although the don merited two guards and nobody else more than one, he had a personal escort of six. Six landsknechte were the equivalent of at least a dozen ordinary soldiers.
—|—
The concealed camp was no makeshift affair, for its tents were well staked, the privies decently screened, the livestock paddocks built of stout rails. Prisoners and their baggage were delivered to an empty space at the edge of the clearing, where a dense growth of thorns would provide some shade—and also block off one possible direction of escape, of course. Their mounts were led away to a corral. Half a dozen guards remained, leaning on their pikes and saying nothing.
The ground was overgrazed and fouled by horses, but reasonably comfortable for sitting, certainly better than being shut up in a tent. Three black-robed friars came and made notes of all the names. One departed but two stayed, standing in silence. As they and the landsknechte could overhear anything that might be said, no one spoke at all. The waiting had begun.
Toby had not yet seen any faces he recognized, but he felt a stabbing case of déjà vu. Everything he looked at echoed inside his head as if he should have been expecting exactly that. It was only a few hours since his last vision, his last starting-over, and events had not had time to diverge very far. He was sliding down the same drain again. He might even be into an endless loop already, fated to repeat the next week or two over and over for ever.
He leaned back on his elbows with Hamish on one side of him and Gracia on the other, all of them silent. He began counting: five tents, three wagons, six mules, four chained wolfhounds, stacks of animal fodder, a field kitchen, two flagpoles—one bearing the green banner of the Inquisition and the other the Fiend's yellow diamond on black—twenty-five horses, at least a score of soldiers beyond the six he had seen ride out on patrol, at least half a dozen friars, and two or three nondescript civilians. Say thirty or thirty-five in all, which matched the accommodation and the commissary reasonably well. The most incongruous object was a cage of steel bars standing in one of the wagons. It was the sort of cage in which bears were carried to bear baitings, but why should the Inquisition transport wild animals? No bets that that cage was warded against demons.
After a delay of about twenty minutes, when the anxiety level had presumably risen enough, a soldier and one of the mousy clerks came over to the prisoners and led Guillem away to one of the tents.
Obviously the interrogation was going to take all day, but when Toby Longdirk had nothing to do, there was one thing he could always do. He chose a clean spot to lay his head and went to sleep.
—|—
He came awake suddenly, and long training made him remain absolutely still, eyes closed, until he had worked out where he was and what had disturbed him... the landsknechte camp... voices. But several times before he had vaguely registered voices as his companions were led one by one to the tents, and each time he had merely drifted back to sleep again.
This time there was something different.
A voice he knew!
Like Hamish turning back the pages of a book, he dug for it: "You now, child. Yes, you. And stop that bawling, or I'll kick your pretty little ass. Come on! Move!"
Toby opened his eyes and raised his head. Pepita was being led away by one ear, and the man taking her was one of the clerks. He was stocky more than heavy-set, with a rolling gait that in itself now seemed familiar. But it was his voice that had set bugles a-blowing, for it was the voice of the young tormentor in the vision, the one who had made threats about cojones, the one with the deft line in kidney punches. Oh, yes!
Revenge? Why not? Worth a try...
Toby cursed as he realized that he was the last. How long had poor Pepita been sitting there in terror with her only remaining companion snoring his stupid head off instead of offering comfort? He yawned, rubbed his eyes, and sat up.
Sunset had turned the sky bloody and set a cool wind to trailing dust clouds across the camp and flapping tents. The horses whinnied restlessly in their corral; once in a while a hound bayed. Thunder rumbled faintly to the north—now that might turn out interesting! The hob liked to play with thunderstorms. He had been knocked off his feet by lightning bolts more often than he could remember.
Just he and two landsknechte remained, one in red, one in green, leaning on their pikes and staring at him with wary interest. They were far enough away to be out of reach, but close enough that any aggressive move against one would get him stunned or hamstrung by the other's pike. Everyone else had gone, and their baggage also.
He located his companions, sitting in a row at the far side of the camp. They were still guarded and apparently forbidden to speak.
"Sit!" barked Red.
Toby turned to face the hedge and unfastened his codpiece. "Boys do it standing up." After a moment's satisfaction he pretended to be surprised that they were still watching him. "This interests you?" he inquired of Green. The man flushed, but he did not stop staring.
Making himself respectable again, Toby moved to a dry spot and sat down, wishing he dared do some limbering-up exercises. When he got his chance at that pretend-clerk, if he did get a chance, he would have to move very quickly. Revenge! He would not think of it as a murder, although it would be treated as one. That did not matter, because he was going to die anyway. Undoubtedly he would still be taken to Tortosa and tortured, but one of the actors in that sordid drama would be replaced by an understudy. Yes, yes! And there was always the chance that he might win a quick and easy death in the resulting fracas.
Time passed. Fires in the kitchen area streamed banners of flame in the wind. Thunder again, closer. It felt like rain. Red and Green moved a little nearer to the prisoner as the light faded, never taking their eyes off him.
Even in a fair fight he wouldn't bet very much on himself against either of these two, for they were both almost as big as he was and the padding in those foppish-seeming garments was actually linen armor that would block any but the surest sword strokes. Behind him was a dense wood, with thick, thorny undergrowth, so the only way he could make a run for it would be straight through the camp. They had horses, they had dogs. Escape was impossible, submission unthinkable, so only revenge remained, right?
Thunder rumbled again. The wind had died away, but the air was suddenly cold. For the first time in months Toby wished he had a warm cloak—or was his shivering triggered by fear? Fear might rouse the hob, Brother Bernat had said. So might thunder. Rousing the hob might be exactly what was needed under the circumstances. Even if it became too engrossed in the storm to pay much heed to him or recognize that he was in danger, a hob rampage would be a welcome distraction.
The troop of six landsknechte that he had seen depart earlier came riding into the camp. That must be all of them, and the day's patrolling was over.
A soldier led Pepita out of the tent and took her over to the others.
More waiting.
Then, at last, the clerk emerged with another landsknecht and came strutting across to the last prisoner.
"Stand up!" said the guard in guttural Castilian. "Bring your belongings and come with us."
Toby rose reluctantly. The clerk had not come within reach. He was standing a pace back from the landsknecht and coldbloodedly assessing Toby—perhaps measuring him for the rack or judging his capacity for the water torture. Smiling!
"You're not going to hurt me, are you?"
Eagerness gleamed in the tormentor's eye. "Why do you ask, senor? Have you committed some crime worthy of punishment?"
Not yet, sonny, not yet! But I will.
Lightning flashed.
Toby strode over to the inquisitors' tent with his bundle on his shoulder and the guards at his heels. As he reached it, thunder rolled overhead.
CHAPTER FOUR
Déjà vu! The tent was about three spans square, with a familiar smell, stale and sour. Lanterns hung on the ridgepole cast a pale light on a floor of elaborately patterned carpets, whose beauty stood in strange contrast to the starkness of the only furniture, a trestle table facing the door. It held two plain wooden candlesticks and the same green crucifix he had seen in his vision. The soldier went to stand at one end, and the stocky tormentor to the other.
Three Dominicans sat on stools behind the table. He remembered none of them from the torture chamber vision, but they were all vaguely familiar, memories of memory. The one in the center was a plump-faced, slug-shaped man in his forties who looked weary, as well he might after so many hours of interrogation. To his right sat an older man, gaunt and ascetic; he would go till he dropped. The one to his left was younger with freckles and a red tonsure. Those two each had a thick book and an inkwell with a quill standing in it, so they must take turns at recording the proceedings, and it was the younger man's turn now, because his book was open. (Was that, just possibly, a change from last time?) Another landsknecht came in and stood behind Toby, meaning he now had two armed and capable fighters to evade, but he still thought he would be able to kill the tormentor when the moment came. He must not show any interest in him until then.
Silence. A flash gleamed through the striped linen of the walls. More silence. Thunder, not so near as last time. Horses whinnied in fright and the hounds began baying, until men shouted at them. More silence. The friars stared steadily at the prisoner, but he recognized the intention to disconcert him and ignored it. He knew many ways to slay a man with his bare hands, especially one he outweighed by half. At the first distraction he would kill the little bugger and hope one of the landsknechte would panic and shove a sword through his heart.
Still more silence.
He returned the inquisitor's gaze as calmly as he could and thought he was doing quite well at that, although one of the lanterns was uncomfortably close, illuminating his face clearly but also dazzling him. The crucifix was worrisome, because any of those colored-glass jewels on it might harbor a demon, and Brother Bernat had said that the Inquisition must use gramarye of some sort. So it was possible that the hob was helpless already, or could be quickly curbed if it started anything.
Flash!
Rumble.
"Does the witness understand Castilian?" asked the slug. The redhead reached for his quill to record the question.
"I know some Castilian."
"Does the witness agree to be questioned in Castilian?"
"I do."
"The witness will state his name and birth date and place of birth."
"Tobias Longdirk." That was not the name on the poster, but they weren't going to mention the poster. "The seventh day of September, 1501. I was born at Tyndrum, in Scotland."
The recorder did not ask to have the names repeated; he must have heard them several times already.
"The witness is traveling with certain other persons. The witness must list their names."
And so on. Where had the witness come from? Where was the witness going? Why? "I am a retainer of Don Ramon." Was the witness a deserter? This was how they had managed to waste a whole afternoon and half an evening. More trivia—what was the witness going to do in Barcelona? "Senor Brusi has offered me employment if the don does not wish to extend my service." Thunder, much closer, so close that he had to ask for a question to be repeated. Hob! Come on, hob! Do something! What languages did the witness know? (Why should that matter?) Why had the witness come to Spain? Could the witness read and write? Among the feints, a sudden punch: "What gramarye has the witness seen on his journey?"
"None."
"The witness states categorically that he has never observed evidence of hexing or demonic possession?"
"He does. I mean, I do."
"Never? Anywhere?"
"None whatsoever."
"Other members of the party have reported seeing flagrant displays of gramarye within the last few days. The witness may wish to amend his statement."
"I am telling the truth."
"He was present during these displays."
"If I was, I saw nothing unnatural. Tell me when—"
"Has the witness ever observed evidence of necromancy?"
Toby asked to have that word explained. Conjuring the dead.
"No."
"Or discussed it?"
"No. I never heard of it until just now."
The pasty-faced inquisitor reached down and brought up Gracia's bottle to set it on the table. Toby's heart went to a fast trot.
Fortunately a deafening crack of thunder interposed to explain any reaction he showed. That bottle had been inside Hamish's pack! Did they search everyone's baggage or had Hamish admitted to having b
ooks, which the inquisitors would certainly demand to see? How many lies had Hamish told about Gracia? What had she said about her voices, the wraiths she claimed to see? What had he said about Toby, hobs, demons, amethysts, Wanted posters...? Lying to the Inquisition was a major crime, evidence of possession or gramarye. And what would happen to Gracia herself? The Inquisition tortured women, too. Not Gracia! Had Toby brought disaster to all of them? Fury burned like acid in his throat.
"Has the witness ever seen the bottle he is now being shown?"
"Yes. It belongs to Senora de Gomez. Or she has one just like—"
"What else does the witness know about the bottle?"
Shrug. "It seems to have great sentimental value for her. She asked Senor Campbell to carry it. As far as I know, there's nothing in it."
"How does the witness know that?"
Demons! "He... I don't. I just assumed it was empty. Perhaps I asked her, I don't recall. I'm sure she can tell you if—"
Father Guillem had warned him to keep his answers short.
"Does the witness possess any jewelry?"
Toby laughed. "Me? I'm as poor as beggars' lice."
"The witness must answer the question."
"The answer is no."
"Does the witness wear a locket?"
"No."
Thunder! Very close.
Come on hob! Do something. Distract them so I can kill that tormentor and make a break for it!
The hob did nothing.
"Other persons have stated that the witness wears a leather locket around his neck."
Pepita? "The other persons are mistaken."
"The witness will remove his doublet and shirt."
An order to strip was the traditional preliminary to torture. He did not expect that here—unless this time was to be different from the vision, which it might be—but they could not suspect how much he already knew of their procedures. His heartbeat surged again as he realized that this might provide the distraction he needed, but he pretended to be alarmed. "Why? I've told you you're mistaken."