The viscount glared at Armada, who looked around the room, making sure no weapons were within easy reach.
“Yet you claim to be descended from him. It’s well known you need nobility from both sides of your family to join the Order of Santiago. You have claimed your father was Federico Marañón, which would mean your grandfather was titled. But your father was born in Cadiz and had many children. How is that possible? Unless his claims of descendancy from the Marañóns were exaggerated.”
The viscount threw his head back and let out a laugh, startling Armada and making him lose his train of thought.
“I had no idea you were such a gullible man, Armada. No idea!”
Armada was left reeling as the viscount stuck his head out the window. “Gaspar! Get my bottle from the coach and bring it up here!”
Gaspar soon appeared in the doorway, holding a dusty brown bottle that he placed on the table. He popped the cork and poured the brown liquid into two glasses, one of which was given to Armada.
With one sniff, Armada could tell what it was.
“Go on, Armada. Drink it. You’ll need it for what I’m about to tell you.”
Armada took a sip to find it was oloroso sherry, aged to perfection. It was rare when he came across sherry this old that had been aged properly, as most were kept in damp cellars and spoiled after a few months.
The viscount poured it down his throat in one go and gave his glass to Gaspar, who filled it again.
“I hate to ruin your day, Armada, but you have this all wrong. You let my boy’s delusions get into your head.”
“Delusions?” Armada asked.
“Yes. He’s too much like his grandmother. She was always spreading rumours that my grandfather wasn’t who he said he was. I never believed them, of course. But my boy listened to her, and I’ll tell you the same thing I told him—it’s all lies. My mother likes to get people talking. That’s all.”
“Did you ever consider that she might be right?”
“Of course not. Don’t be a fool!” the viscount said. “My grandfather was Federico Marañón, born in Cadiz to Benito and Mencía. I have a certificate of limpieza de sangre from Seville to prove it. The people of this pueblo are just putting ideas in your head because they’re jealous. They want a bit of nobility for themselves, so they concocted this entire affair to make it work. Now, drink. It’s the only way to temper the embarrassment you must be feeling right now.”
Armada stayed to finish his drink and to have another. He was subjected to another few minutes of the viscount’s thoughts on the arrogance and greed of the poor before Armada decided he’d had enough and left.
The viscount thought he’d won, which is what Armada was hoping. He wanted the viscount to relax, for it would make the temptation to boast about his victory over the Brotherhood too much to resist. And who was there for him to boast to?
Gaspar, his quiet servant who stayed in the shadows, doing what he was told but always listening. And tomorrow morning, when Armada arrived with the irons, claiming to have found new evidence, it wouldn’t be the viscount he would arrest but his unsuspecting servant. With any luck, Gaspar would recount how the viscount crowed about his cleverness all night, which would hopefully contain an admission of guilt.
Armada returned to the army camp to find Lucas sitting alone at the campfire while Barros snoozed away next to him.
“I don’t understand, sir. It’s just the two of them now,” Lucas said, pointing to Barros.
Pedro was no doubt doing watch duty in the tower at the moment.
“Why are they still working the watch, sir? Why don’t they just return to Malaga and ask for more men?”
“Duty. Pedro and Barros do this job for more than just the wages, although I doubt you’d get either of them to admit it. They are the kind of soldiers any army would be lucky to have.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s get some sleep. I think tomorrow is going to be a big day.”
Soon Lucas was snoring away next to Armada, who felt his own eyelids growing heavy. The case was now all but solved, and his reward was going to be a good night’s sleep. No ghosts would haunt him this night. And the cold breeze was blowing to the south, keeping the scent of the bay from creeping inland.
But something was wrong. There was a noise that didn’t fit. It shattered the stillness with a sense of urgency.
Armada listened, annoyed at his sleep once again being interrupted. They were footsteps running over a ground covered in dry, brown weeds. And they were heading straight for Armada’s shelter.
Armada heaved his body into a sitting position, listening. The moon had not yet come out, leaving him cast in total darkness. And whoever was running towards him was not announcing their arrival.
“Hello there? Who is that?” Armada asked.
The footsteps were upon him. A blunt instrument smacked into the side of his skull. Armada fell over, groaning as pain shot from his temple into the rest of his head. He heard Lucas waking up and struggling with the assailant, but his dizziness meant he could do little to help.
There were hands over his body, in the pockets of his coat, in the mattress he slept on. The man was looking for something.
The attacker’s hand plunged deeply into his coat by his thigh and grabbed something. A moment later, the footsteps were running away again.
“Sir! Sir, are you all right?” Lucas asked.
Barros was there and helped Armada to his feet.
The pain was beginning to subside, suggesting he was not hurt. “Yes, Lucas. Thank you. How are you? Are you injured?”
“No, sir. I got away.”
“Good.”
“Those townspeople. They are coming in the night now!” Barros yelled.
Armada felt his pocket. The baby rattle had been taken, thus confirming what the attack had been about.
“No, I think this attack was more specific than that, Barros,” Armada said. “Lucas, get the mule hitched up. We must get to town.”
“Now, sir? But it’s the middle of the night.”
“I’m aware of that. But it seems our killer is in a bit of a rush to leave town. And by the look of his coach and horses, if he manages to set off before us, we’ll never catch him. Go on, Lucas!”
Soon Armada was holding on to the side of the cart for dear life as Lucas urged their nameless mule on down the hillside as fast as he dared in the darkness. Armada felt the excitement in the air. The viscount was more desperate than he’d thought. Such a crude and obvious attack and with so little effort given to hide his ultimate goal of getting the rattle back. Armada had all the evidence he needed now if he could just catch the man in time.
After what felt like ages, Lucas pulled the cart up at the front door of the inn. Armada was glad to see the coach and horses were still in the stables.
Armada leaped out of the cart and barged through the front door of the inn before storming down the corridor towards the end of the hall.
The innkeeper appeared behind him in his dressing gown, holding a candle. “Excuse me, Constable! You can’t go in there! The viscount is sleeping!”
“Yes, and I intend to wake him up!” Armada said before banging on the door. “Viscount! I wish to have a word with you! Right now, if you…”
The door to the viscount’s room swung open, revealing it was unlatched. Armada snatched the candle from the innkeeper and peered inside the room to find a scene of utter destruction. Furniture was overturned and broken up, trunks had been tipped over with their contents spread all over the room, and the bed in which the viscount slept had collapsed.
“What do you think happened, sir?”
“I don’t know, Lucas. This doesn’t make any sense.”
Armada kneeled next to the collapsed bed to find the viscount lying on the edge with his arm across his chest, a long dagger having been plunged into his side. By the amount of blood on the floor, it hadn’t taken long for him to die.
“It must have been quite a struggle,” Ar
mada said.
Groaning came from the wardrobe in the back, and Lucas opened it to find Gaspar curled up into a ball and crying.
“Gaspar, what happened?” Armada asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I just woke up…and the viscount…he was already…already dead. The man just ran out the door. I didn’t see him.”
Gaspar was shaking all over and had to be coaxed out of the wardrobe. The innkeeper took him out into the corridor to get some air.
“Sir, if it wasn’t the viscount, then…”
“I’m afraid so, Lucas.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
April 1563
Mencía heard the footsteps of the priest approaching behind her and straightened her posture. It was a silly gesture, one born from years of being told to sit up straight by one nanny or another while attending church. They always sat in the front pew, one of the many privileges her wealthy father enjoyed. But as such, their appearance to everyone else in attendance was of paramount importance. Their clothes had to be just right, their hair, their shoes. Everything had to have the air of respectability and of class. Otherwise, her father risked his reputation.
It was why she always sat in the front pew now. It was the only one that felt comfortable.
“Here you are, my dear,” the priest said as he sat beside her and handed her a wooden bowl full of hot soup.
It was watery, as the priest admitted he never had much extra to eat, but the warmth of it helped to settle her stomach.
The priest was a bookish man named Barreda who was very kind. His spectacles were thick and made his eyes appear larger than they were, making him look a bit silly whenever he smiled. But Barreda was the type of man to have a lot of use for such a look and smiled often for people.
“That man is outside again,” Barreda said. “He still wishes to talk to you.”
Mencía said nothing. Garcia and his men had surrounded the church and settled in for the night, believing Mencía may well make a run for it. But she would show them. She was prepared to wait in this church for years if she had to.
It was hardly a victory. The church was austere, with walls made of stone that seemed to suck up whatever vestiges of warmth were left over from the afternoon. A cold draught was blowing in from under the front door, making the candles on a table by the lectern flicker and giving the entire space the feeling of a large prison cell.
How was it she had ended up imprisoned once again?
“You should hear what he has to say,” Barreda said. “He may well turn out to be a merciful man.”
“He is titled, Father,” Mencía said. “Mercy is not a virtue of titled men. They consider it a weakness. He will settle for nothing less than my neck in a noose.”
“I spoke to him this afternoon. I would not judge him so harshly,” Barreda said. “He can relate to your situation, you know. I shouldn’t tell you this, but he has a child of his own, just a few months old. He, too, worries for its future, just as you do for yours.”
“Having a child doesn’t make him a good person. Otherwise, my father would have…”
Mencía cut herself off. She didn’t want to let herself get upset at Barreda. He didn’t deserve it. He was a kind man. And Mencía knew she was not an easy person to be kind to. Growing up amidst aristocrats and the elite, you learned to always be suspicious of kindness. For nobody in those circles ever gave it without expecting something in return. It was how that world worked. The kindness that Father Barreda showed her made her uncomfortable. She had no idea how far it extended or how much to trust it. In a strange way, she felt closer to Garcia, as blackhearted as he must be, for at least she knew what kind of a man he was.
“Just speak to him for a few moments. Let him know you won’t try to run in the night. That way he can let his men sleep. They deserve a bit of kindness, just as you do.”
Mencía felt exhausted. She couldn’t fight back against Barreda’s pleas anymore.
“Very well, Father. But then you must let me get some sleep.”
“Of course,” Barreda said, smiling.
He rose and went to the front door and stuck his head outside. A muffled conversation followed, and then Barreda gestured for Mencía to come over.
Mencía went over to the front door and stood well back from the threshold, out of reach of Garcia who peered at her from the front stoop outside.
“Baltasara Aguilar?” Garcia said. It was the name Mencía had given Barreda, who had passed it on.
“Yes,” Mencía asked.
“I am Benito Garcia y Delgado. Thank you for agreeing to speak.”
Mencía considered Garcia, whom she had never taken a close look at before. He was much younger than she’d first thought, somewhere in his thirties, his hair wavy and black. He had a moustache that, while neat and trimmed now, would someday be large, grey, and bushy as all old men wore them. He wore the fine clothes, covered in pearl buttons and satin trim, and the leather boots and gloves of an aristocrat who wished to advertise his wealth. And if there was any further doubt, a shiny silver sword had been sheathed at his waist, one with intricate engravings on the handle.
They were engravings Mencía recognised.
“Don Garcia, I see,” Mencía said, gesturing to the sword. “You’re with the Order of Santiago.”
Garcia smiled. “I don’t know many peasants who would have spotted that.”
“You don’t know many peasants,” Mencía said.
Garcia’s smile faded.
“Señora, I think it is time you gave yourself up and paid for your crime. I have my men camped all around this building. There is nowhere for you to run.”
“I know,” Mencía said. “And if I decide to come out, I will let you know. But it’s not yet.”
“Please, it is the honourable thing to do.”
“Honour is so easy for you, isn’t it?” Mencía said, not bothering to hide the disgust in her voice. “It is so simple and always seems to work in your favour.”
“I am an honourable man, which hasn’t always been easy,” Garcia said.
“What about your wife? Do you fight so hard for hers as well?”
“I am unmarried.”
Mencía couldn’t help but put her hand to her cheek and laugh.
“What is it? What is so humorous?” Garcia asked.
Mencía allowed herself a moment to let the chuckle fade away on its own, then shook her head at Garcia in amazement.
“Honourable, are you? So who was she? A servant girl? A maid? A prostitute, perhaps?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The mother of your child,” Mencía said, slipping an accusatory edge into her tone.
“How did you…?” Garcia said. “That damn priest…”
“Go on, Don Honourable. Whose honour did you ruin?”
Garcia glared at Mencía. “I ruined nothing,” he mumbled through gritted teeth.
“So you married her?”
“Of course not! She was a peasant, a woman of no consequence. There was no reputation to ruin.”
“And the baby? What about his honour?”
Garcia had no response, turning into the darkness so Mencía couldn’t see the confusion she knew was there.
“There’s nothing I can do about that,” Garcia said to the darkness.
“But you’d like to—”
“Enough!” Garcia shouted, turning back around to face Mencía. “This is about your honour, which can only be salvaged if you give yourself up and pay for the heinous crime you have committed. You have nowhere left to run.”
It was a thought Mencía had been trying to avoid, but now that Garcia was shouting it at her, it was becoming more real somehow. This town, so far from everything she knew and where she knew no one, may well become her final resting place.
“Think of your baby, Baltasara,” Garcia said. “What kind of life will it lead, knowing its mother fled from her crimes? What honour is there in that?”
Mencía could feel a rag
e boiling up inside of her. She hated this arrogant man who seemed to feel such glee at the power he wielded over her destiny. She hated his honour and his titles and his wealth and was glad her baby had nothing to do with it. She wished she could somehow cleanse Federico from all of this arrogance so it never touched him.
And that’s when Mencía realised what she had to do. It was so clear to her.
“You’re right,” Mencía said, feeling a calm wash over her. “I need to think of my baby, just as you must be thinking of yours.”
“So you will give yourself up?”
“I have a better idea. I want to trade you. My freedom for a chance at restoring your baby’s honour.”
“What?” Garcia said.
Mencía took a breath. After her next words, there was no going back.
“My name is not Baltasara Aguilar. I am actually Mencía Marañón.”
Garcia didn’t move. As she predicted, he knew the name well.
“Mencía Marañón? Daughter of Alonso de Marañón?”
“I changed it to get away from him,” Mencía said. “It’s why I killed your friend. And I’m sorry. I will regret what I did to Salvador for the rest of my life. It will always haunt me,” Mencía said.
“Dear God…” Garcia said.
“You want to give your child honour? Take mine,” Mencía said. “Let me go, and I’ll write a letter to my father, saying you and I married and ran away. He knows my handwriting; he’ll know it’s real. The letter will say we had a child, your child. With the Marañón name on his mother’s side, your baby will have the chance at titles and honours even you can’t achieve. He could even join the Order.”
“That’s mad,” Garcia said, shaking his head.
“It’s also the only way your baby will have a chance at being anything other than an illegitimate peasant. Not to mention how well it will salvage your own reputation.”
A Murder Most Watchful Page 20