The Errant Flock Read online

  “Then we are agreed on this matter.”

  Luis nodded gratefully. “We are indeed.”

  Chapter Thirty

  It was not yet dawn. David walked out of the prison and manoeuvred his way through a throng of people seemingly undaunted by the steady downpour that was drenching them. He calculated that possibly one hundred townspeople or more had gathered. They were no longer shouting or threatening to storm the prison, David noted, but neither did they seem in any hurry to leave the area surrounding it.

  Some of the crowd sat in empty carts. Others sheltered together in groups under awnings and in doorways. A line of militiamen and Inquisition men-at-arms, dressed in full armour with weapons at the ready, barred the prison’s doors like a wall, and a couple of the soldiers greeted David as he walked past their line.

  Going deeper into the gathering, he felt his arm being pulled and heard voices shouting in his ear, asking questions he didn’t want to answer. Who were the murderers? they wanted to know. What were their names? Had they been interrogated yet? Would they be executed soon? David ignored them, until one voice called out his name. David turned sharply. Standing before him was Eduardo, the lost babies’ grandfather. David swallowed painfully and nodded in recognition.

  “Eduardo, how are you fairing?” he asked.

  “My wife is sick, but I hope to take home some good news. Is it true that you have the men who killed my daughter and her family?”

  “We do.” David felt as though he were suffocating. A large crowd had gathered around him, clinging to every word. “The two men will face justice. I hope this brings you and your wife some comfort. That’s all I know, Eduardo.” Not wanting to say more, David strode away from the crowd.

  Behind him, he could hear Eduardo shouting. “Did you hear that? The murdering turds will be going to hell this night, and I’m not leaving until I have seen their blood run out of their bodies!”

  David walked hastily down the hill towards the Jewry, leaving the people behind, and tried to focus on all he had to achieve before going back on watch. He hadn’t forgotten about Sinfa or about his promise to seek out Rabbi Rabinovitch on her behalf. The noise of the crowd, gruff voices of Inquisition men-at-arms, and the rough handling of the two men incarcerated for the murders must have terrified her. She had been in the back of his mind even during the commotion following the arrival of the two prisoners. She was never far from his thoughts.

  David knew the rabbi he was going to visit. For years, the Sanz family had attended the synagogue and all Jewish ceremonies. When David and his brothers were babies, the rabbi had officiated at their circumcisions. He’d also been present at the burials of deceased Sanz family members. During the Jewish festivals of Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, the rabbi had always made a point of going from house to house, preaching the importance of being Jewish and urging people to hold fast to their religions. That period in his life seemed so long ago now. He was a Jewish outcast, a convert who would not receive a warm welcome when he turned up at the rabbi’s door.

  David had asked himself a few times why no one from the Jewry had gone to the prison to enquire about Sinfa’s welfare. She was suffering terrible indignities, yet he’d been at the prison for the best part of three days and not one living soul had asked if she was alive or dead.

  Recognition crossed the rabbi’s face. “I know you. You’re David Sanz, Juan Sanz’s lad,” he said sullenly. “What do you want?”

  David stood awkwardly, like a scolded boy, at the rabbi’s door. He straightened his shoulders and removed his helmet. He didn’t have time to feel guilty about not being a Jew anymore. In his mind, he was neither Christian nor Jew. His soul was lost, and when he died, it would go to the same place as all other evil souls, regardless of religion.

  “Sinfa Cabrera is in prison. She needs your help,” he said. “You must plead her case to the duke.”

  “I know where Sinfa is, but I cannot plead for her. The duke won’t see me. I … I tried, but he won’t give me an audience.”

  “You must try again,” David insisted.

  “I can’t, I tell you. Sinfa has caused her own downfall, and she must suffer the consequences of her actions.”

  “Is this how you protect your people? You leave them to rot in a stinking prison when they have no business being there in the first place? Is this how you fight for the rights of Jews?”

  The rabbi’s face reddened. David couldn’t decide whether Rabinovitch was embarrassed or angry, but either way, he would not back down. “Are you turning your back on her?” he asked.

  “I will never turn my back on Jews! I have given my life to this community. Can you and your family say the same? No, you became Christians because of your father’s earthly ambitions … for a piece of dirt! You’re all traitors, every one of you. Don’t you dare come here and tell me what I must do. I officiated at your mother and father’s wedding. I walked with your grandmother to the burial ground when we laid your grandfather to rest – and with your father when he laid her to rest.”

  “That’s all in the past. I’m here to discuss Sinfa.”

  “I can do nothing for her. I no longer have the duke’s ear or his favour.”

  David didn’t know whether to feel pity or anger. After Cabrera’s death, all Jews were probably feeling vulnerable. “Just tell me that you have tried. Let me go back to her with news that you have not forgotten her,” he urged.

  “I told you that I did try. I sent my son to the castle. When the soldiers saw a Jew coming, they refused to let him through the gatehouse.”

  “Your son is not the Jewry’s rabbi. You are, and you still command respect, even at the castle. You can’t give up so easily,” David said curtly.

  Poking his head outside, Rabbi Rabinovitch looked left and then right, checking that no one was listening to the conversation. “You listen to me, you impertinent young pup. I have almost two hundred souls in this Jewry. We are confined by walls and marked as undesirables by these badges they make us wear on our sleeves. My people are terrified to leave the neighbourhood. They are afraid to complain to the town council when they lose their businesses. We no longer speak to Christians and Moors, who were once our friends, lest we are accused of corrupting souls. We are cornered like rats, with no safe haven in Spain to run to.

  “I loved Sinfa’s grandfather like a brother. I weep for him and tire of the accusations against him, for I know they are not true! But I cannot put my people’s lives in danger because of a silly girl’s temper tantrum. I will remain in the shadows until the duke forgives Saul Cabrera. Eventually, Luis de Peráto will look favourably on the Jews, just as the old duke did, and in the meantime, I will pray for Sinfa. She will be freed eventually.”

  “Freed eventually,” David repeated angrily. “Is this what you tell yourself to ease your conscience?”

  “I can do nothing …”

  David took a step closer, disgusted at the cowardice and fear on the rabbi’s face. “You don’t deserve to be rabbi of this Jewry. You have condemned a young woman to death.”

  Dismayed and angry, David left the Jewry. Having only a couple of hours to spare, he quickened his pace. He wanted to take his parents to see a house. With two bedrooms, it was much bigger than the hovel in which they now lived. It was unoccupied and sat in the same street as Paco’s family home. Getting his parents out of their current situation was a priority.

  There was good news. His father would work at the blacksmith’s premises. His mother would sew and mend tunics. She was an excellent seamstress. Life would be kinder to them, and when they were settled, he, David, would find some measure of solace for the terrible crimes he had committed.

  He halted at the sight of a young boy with watery eyes, red cheeks, and a runny nose. Dressed in rags, he was surrounded by firewood and sitting on the ground outside a hovel.

  Memories surfaced, and David’s eyes welled up as images of his brother Juanjo drifted through his mind … Juanjo, with his filthy face
and hands and his proud cockish stance when he arrived home after collecting and selling bundles of kindling … His mouth spread in a grin from ear to ear whenever he brought home bread and, on occasion, a cut of kid meat or a couple of fish for their mother. Juanjo had been a dreamer and never happier than when he was regaling the family with his fantastical stories and imaginary adventures. He would have become a good man, David believed, maybe even a great one.

  David sniffed and then grabbed his purse, which was tucked into his leather belt. “How much do you want for a bundle, lad?” When the boy told him, David handed over the coin. “Do you live here?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Well, if you’re going to sit here and wait for Sagrat to wake up, you should get yourself a woollen blanket. Your mama won’t be happy if you catch cold, will she?” David smiled, ruffled the boy’s hair, and picked up the tied bundle of thin branches.

  Behind him, he heard the grating hiss of a sword blade being drawn from a belt. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Sensing danger, he said harshly to the boy, “Go inside your house – now.”

  He turned around slowly, one hand gripping his sword’s hilt, and his eyes widened in recognition. There was no mistaking the identity of the man standing in the middle of the street. The taunting smirk and ragged scar had haunted him for days. He stared into the marauder’s eyes and felt a cold rush of fear. The man had come to kill him …

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Candles flickered inside houses. Outside in the deserted street, a heavy downpour battered the earth, watering the soil and turning it into a slushy stream running over David’s feet. “You,” he said to Alejandro. He drew his sword.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a patch of bright red and shifted his gaze from the marauder for just a second. Even from a distance, David could see the horse’s white breath leave its mouth and a man wearing a hooded red cloak sitting on its back. David instinctively knew whom the rider was … Garcia had finally made his move.

  “We meet again.” Alejandro planted a smile on his face, yet he stood with his arms and legs in an offensive stance. “Do you still want to fight me?”

  A deep growl left David’s throat, and he unleashed the rage he’d been nursing for days. With the agility of a cat, he moved forward, his flushed face and hooded eyes filled with hatred. Advancing, he watched Alejandro’s belligerent smirk being replaced by surprise and fear, and self-belief soared within him. “I’m going to send you to hell, you murdering turd!”

  The two men were equally matched in height and build. David’s arms, as thick as tree trunks, were taut with solid muscles, strengthened over the years by lifting and swinging bladesmith’s tools and, later, swords, longbows, spears, and maces. Energy rushed through him. His desire for revenge dulled his senses. No more hiding. No more fear. He would not die at the hands of this bastard, his inner voice screamed. He’d kill the marauder and piss on his dead body!

  David spun around in a complete circle, pivoting on one foot and with his arm in the air, gaining speed and momentum. Drawing back his elbow slightly, a movement needed in order to obtain the best line for his thrust, he faced Alejandro and then lashed out with his sword. At the first clash of steel, David felt his sword vibrate and bend against the heavier and larger claymore blade. He stumbled backwards but quickly regained his footing in time to deflect Alejandro’s swift slashing parry. Using that sword, the bastard would likely tire long before he did, David calculated, but there was a possibility that his own sword would bend and break under the weight of the thicker blade.

  The two swords struck at an alarming speed. Alejandro was a superb swordsman, David kept thinking, and he was quick on his feet. The street had a steep incline. David knew that if he took his eyes off his opponent for even a second, he would die. Alejandro held the higher ground, which gave him a huge advantage. He had strength, skill, and a tactical mind, but after every clash, David searched for weaknesses.

  Watching for moments of tenseness in his opponent’s hands and shoulders, David managed to gauge when Alejandro’s next strike would come. He was also noticing that just before Alejandrostruck, he glanced in the direction he was going tomove. David was aware that he was defending rather than attacking. This was clear because he had lost ground and was moving backwards down the incline, sliding in the mud as though he were skating.

  Every time he jabbed, Alejandro blocked and then struck back twice as hard. David’s sword hand was becoming painful, and for a brief second, he saw his death.

  The crashing sound of steel on steel grew louder as the thrusts intensified. Both men were panting and grunting like beasts. The rain blurred David’s vision. His sodden cloak was heavy, making it hard to dodge, twist, and turn. But neither the torrential rain nor exhaustion deterred him or Alejandro from trying to inflict a fatal blow.

  For a brief second, David took his eyes off Alejandro and saw people coming out of their houses. He couldn’t stop now, he thought. He dies or I do. The thought of death energised him. Raising his sword, gripped now in both hands, he groaned loudly and rained it down in an attempt to slice into Alejandro’s shoulder and render his arm useless.

  Alejandro ducked and deftly moved out of the blade’s reach. Then, with his arm outstretched, he swung his body around at the hips in a half circle and pivoted back until he faced front. His claymore flashed with speed through the air, slicing into David’s forearm.

  David lost all feeling in his hand. His sword fell from his grasp, and he groaned in disbelief. Looking down, he saw it hit the ground, and sink into the mud. He panicked. The marauder’s sword would cut him down by the time he reached his weapon. Without thinking, he lunged forward and threw a punch. His fist connected with Alejandro’s jaw. Stumbling backwards, Alejandro slipped in the mud and fell onto his backside.

  Getting back up, Alejandro’s sword was forgotten for the moment. Both men traded blows. David, losing all strength in his wounded arm, felt Alejandro’s fist raining onto his face and tasted blood spraying from his nose. He fell to his knees, rolled over in the ankle-deep mud, and reached his sword. After grabbing it, he tried to stand, but twice he slipped on his thinly soled boots, which were seeping in water.

  Panting, he looked up and saw Alejandro standing above him, sword in hand and swinging it high above his head … Inexplicably, he held it there, and then he harassed David with childish giggles, false lunges, and feints, as though savouring the moment just before going in for the kill.

  David’s eyes bored into Alejandro, and then sensing the exact second of the strike, he rolled his body twice, ending up a few paces from where the sword’s tip landed.

  For just a brief second, Alejandro stood looking down at his sword sticking in the slush. Grunting angrily, he flicked his eyes to David, painted in deep red mud, almost the same colour as the blood dripping from his arm, and struggling to get to his feet. Clearly losing his enthusiasm, Alejandro jerked his sword from the dirt and moved to strike David again.

  David, now back on his feet, panted with exhaustion. His sword did not feel as comfortable in his left hand as it did in his right, but he’d learned to use both over the years. Don’t give up! his mind screamed.

  The two men glared at each other. A handful of men stood watching from a safe distance. Women who had come outside were told to get back indoors. David braced himself and planted his feet in an en garde position. Alejandro struck first. David blocked but felt his feet slipping again, as he was forced to take another couple of steps backwards. He would die now, he thought. His wounded arm was heavy and limp. He couldn’t hold the lower ground any longer, and he couldn’t beat the marauder with only one functioning arm.

  He glanced at the onlookers, and then he stared directly into Alejandro’s eyes. “Get this over with,” he panted.

  Alejandro nodded. “It will be my pleasure,” he answered.

  With a grunt, Alejandro swung his sword. David’s body swerved, evading the weapon’s tip by a hair’s breath, and then h
e too struck with every bit of strength he had left.

  Neither man saw the onlooker with a thick log in his hand advancing towards Alejandro from behind. When he thumped the wood against the back of Alejandro’s skull, shock and surprise crossed both the sword fighters’ faces.

  David, a spectator now, gasped at the ferocity of the strike. Alejandro staggered towards David with the force of the blow. His pupils rolled upwards, and then he dropped like a stone to the ground.

  Holding the sword limply in his left hand, David advanced on Alejandro, whose unsteady legs were slipping and sliding in the mud as he tried to stand. The neighbours’ angry shouts halted David.

  “That’s far enough, lad! There have been enough killings in these streets of late!” the man holding the bloody log said to David.

  David looked briefly at the onlookers’ furious stares. The battle with the marauder was over, he thought. The people had saved his life, but they probably wouldn’t think twice about wrestling him to the ground if he tried to carry on with the fight.

  Alejandro had managed to get to his feet after struggling with his heavy muddied cloak. The back of his head was bleeding. He touched the wound and then looked at the blood on his hands. “You were fortunate, but this is not over. You hear me? This is not over!” he shouted at David.

  “Off with you!” the man with the log said to Alejandro. “Don’t show your face in this street again.”

  “I’m coming for you,” Alejandro told David. He then turned his back on the crowd and strode away.

  “I’m here, you bastard! Come and get me!” David retorted to Alejandro’s retreating form.

  Filled with hatred, David watched the marauder trample through the mud towards the end of the street. When Alejandro reached the corner, the horseman in the red cloak appeared, riding a horse and leading another. After Garcia handed the reins of the spare horse to the marauder, David returned Garcia’s stare. He was too far away to see the treasurer’s expression, but he didn’t need to look into Garcia eyes to know that they were full of hatred. The feeling was mutual.