The Errant Flock Page 24

  After he’d inspected all the men and was satisfied that he recognised them, he crossed the courtyard towards his carriage. His eyes settled on Captain Tur standing next to the carriage door, and then they flicked to the man standing slightly behind him. Sucking in his breath, he stared at David from across the courtyard. Dressed in full armour and looking like a hardened soldier, he no longer seemed like the wide-eyed apprentice who’d shook like a shitting dog only weeks previously. Was the dog now going to turn on its master? Luis wondered.

  At first angry, he now felt a cold stab of fear. Passing soldiers, he absently wished them a blessed Christmas, but in the forefront of his mind, his inner voice was repeatedly screaming betrayal! Thinking about Sanz and the child he was supposed to have killed but didn’t had kept him awake all night. Feeling the hairs rise on the back of his neck, he shivered and asked Tur, “Why are these two men not on watch in my prison? I need them there, not here.”

  “Your Grace, it’s Christmas,” Captain Tur answered falteringly. “A few men have been granted leave. I’ve been strengthening our defences and using more soldiers to guard the walls, at your request. Your escort is larger than usual …”

  “That’s not what I’m asking, Tur!” Luis shouted. “I already know what you’ve been doing for the past three days. I want you to tell me why Sanz and this … this other man … What’s your name?” he asked Paco.

  “Paco Morales, Your Grace.”

  “Morales? Yes, that’s right. So tell me, why have you and Sanz disobeyed my orders?”

  “We didn’t disobey you, sir. We were at the prison earlier this morning. We were informed by the inquisitor’s familiars that the entire prison is now under the control of the Holy Office,” Paco said sheepishly. “We were denied access and told not to return. My apologies. I presumed you were aware of the changes.”

  Boiling with rage, Luis recalled the previous evening. He’d extended the inquisitor every courtesy, he thought, now resenting every kindness he’d done for the man. His father by law had eaten well, drunk the castle’s best wine, and had spent hours tediously boasting about the prison filling up with heretics. He’d even demanded money from Sagrat’s vaults to cover the cost of the prisoners’ meals and the upcoming auto-de-fé. Yet he’d said nothing about the Inquisition’s plans for the prison.

  Stepping into his carriage, Luis refused to look again at David. His mood, already gloomy, darkened further. The inquisitor had just humiliated him in front of his men. “What are you standing there for?” he hissed at Tur. “You’re coming with me. Move your arse!”

  David and Paco sat with their backs against the wall next to the north-east gate and wiped the sweat from their faces. Tur, seemingly blaming them for the duke’s foul mood, had ordered them to carry every rock up the stairs to the battlements and not to stop for so much as a sip of water until the task had been completed.

  Closing his eyes, David ran his fingers through his damp hair. When was the last time he’d had a proper night’s sleep or had thoughts about anything other than trying to stay alive?

  “Get on your feet, David. Tur’s coming,” Paco said, giving David a sharp nudge.

  Seeing Captain Tur striding across the courtyard towards him with a thunderous look on his face gave David a nervous jolt. Tur was fuming; that much was clear. But who was he angry with? He could only presume that the captain’s meeting with the duke had not gone well and that his anger had something to do with the extra defences.

  Tur motioned David to follow him to the centre of the courtyard, and when they had reached the selected position, he said in a loud enough voice for every soldier to hear, “David Sanz, give me your sword.”

  Paco, who had been a step behind them, scowled with disapproval. “Why do you want his blade?”

  “I’m talking to Sanz, not to you, Morales. Take a step back,” Tur said, his voice crackling with anger.

  David felt as though his lungs were on fire. Looking at Tur, he wondered if all the rage he saw was directed towards him and Paco or if perhaps he was bothered by his conscience. Tur had a sour face, and he always looked irritated, David thought, continuing to stare at the captain. But it was rare to see such anger shining in his eyes.

  For a brief second, David looked at the men who’d gathered around, and he felt the horror of public humiliation. If he had support from any of them, they were not showing it. “Your blade, Sanz,” Tur said through his teeth.

  David drew his sword and rested the blade in the palms of his hands. When a militiaman was asked for his sword, it meant only one thing. He looked at it for a brief second and recalled the day that Tur had presented it to him and welcomed him into the militia’s ranks. Reluctantly, he outstretched his arms and offered the sword’s hilt end to Tur. “Captain, my sword is yours,” he said with a catch in his voice.

  Tur also looked at it briefly, and for just a second, David thought he saw a flash of regret cross his sunken eyes. But if he had, it had gone in the time it took a man to blink.

  Tur took the sword and handed it to another militiaman who was standing next to him. “David Sanz, your services are no longer required. You are dismissed from the militia,” he said piercingly, for everyone to hear.

  “Why?” Paco asked again.

  Ignoring Paco, Tur continued. “Remove your armour, chain mail, and helmet.”

  Starting to disrobe, David felt his palms slick with sweat, his fingers fumbling, and his knees nervously knocking together. Aware that all eyes were upon him, he thought he should ask Tur why he was being dismissed. He deserved to know and so did his brothers-in-arms.

  Looking up at the watchtower, he fought to keep his fury in check. Until now, he hadn’t realised just how much he hated the duke. Standing in the frame of the tower’s arch, hands on hips and with a victorious smirk on his face, Peráto seemed illuminated with malicious glee.

  Glancing again at his fellow militiamen and noting their sympathetic expressions, David felt the need to speak. Yes, he was being disgraced, but he would not leave this castle like a cowed dog.

  Taking off his armour, he asked. “Why am I being dismissed? In what way have I displeased the duke?”

  “That’s not your concern,” Tur answered.

  “Then whose concern is it? I’m losing my livelihood, Captain. Do I not deserve an explanation?” David insisted.

  “The duke has found you unsatisfactory. That is all I can tell you,” Tur said, averting his eyes.

  David had expected a change to his circumstances. On the way from the prison, he had said as much to Paco, but Paco had insisted that he’d never seen a militiaman being dismissed. It was unheard of, he’d said. Being a brother-in-arms was a lifelong privilege, and that was why the men in private militias were carefully vetted.

  After giving the duke a long, cold stare, David said sarcastically, “Once a brother, always a brother – isn’t that so, Captain?”

  Ignoring David, Tur said to the men. “Listen, all of you. If Sanz comes anywhere near our gates, arrest him for trespassing. This order comes directly from the duke’s own lips. Anyone who disobeys his command will find himself shamed and living outside this brotherhood.” Pointing to the men standing closest to him, he concluded, “The four of you escort Sanz through the gate.”

  With his arms being held and his feet being guided by his fellow militiamen, David set off on his walk of shame to the south-eastern castle gate. However, as soon as the duke and Captain Tur were out of sight, the two men let go of David’s arms and strolled beside him in a companionable silence. Their gesture of friendship gave David some comfort.

  He couldn’t stop thinking that all he’d ever wanted was to serve in the militia. Yes, it was true that he no longer had the stomach to serve Peráto, but still, he felt as though his heart had bottomed out in a pit of failed ambitions. His dreams had ended, he thought, walking through the south-east gatehouse. His employment and income were gone, and he was now more vulnerable than ever to another attack.

  Chapte
r Forty-Eight

  During Mass earlier that morning, Juan’s mind had been filled with dark thoughts of Juanjo, so cruelly taken, and of David struggling to atone for sins. Yet since arriving home, his thoughts had turned brighter and more optimistic. He smiled at Sinfa, sitting on a stool cleaning beans. Her health was improving, apart from a couple of suppurating sores on her lips. She seemed to be coming to terms with her new situation, although her courage probably hid her sorrow. He and Isa had asked her to become their daughter, and she had accepted.

  Since renting a room in the blacksmith’s premises, his life had improved. He and Diego had more orders than they could handle, for it appeared that the inquisitor’s entourage couldn’t get enough of his goods. He was doing so well that he’d managed to afford a decent-sized joint of kid meat and a carafe of wine for the family’s Christmas feast, and for the first time in a long while, he dared to believe that his fortunes were on the rise.

  Stoking the dying fire, he sighed with satisfaction. He had David to thank for much of his new-found success. Whilst on watch in the prison, his charming son had somehow managed to convince the Inquisition men-at-arms that the blacksmith’s tannery was by far the best place in Sagrat to purchase leather goods.

  Juan couldn’t remember his father ever being asked to produce so many tunics, boots, bags, parchments, trunks, and even leather bottles in such a short space of time. And the patrons paid half the money before he and Diego had even started tanning the ordered items. Over the past weeks, he’d deduced that many of the Inquisition men were affluent, not just because of the amount of coin they were willing to part with, but also because some of his customers had asked for their family crests to be indented on new saddles. It was a pity, he thought, looking at Isa’s shabby dress. He might have become a wealthy man one day. Isa might have been clothed in beautiful gowns by next Christmas had they not been set on leaving Sagrat.

  “Are you going to stare at me and this old dress all day or resurrect that fire? The meat won’t boil without a flame,” Isa said, looking amused.

  Juan smiled tenderly. For all her shabby clothes, she was still beautiful.

  “We should have saved some food for David. I doubt he’s having a feast up at that prison,” Isa said, looking at the empty plates.

  “We don’t know when he’ll be back, Mama,” Diego said. “It could be days before we see him again.”

  “Don’t crease your brow, my love,” Juan said, kissing Isa hard on the mouth. “It’s Christmas. David will forgive us.”

  “The meat was cooked to perfection,” said Diego.

  “It was wonderful.” Sinfa sighed contentedly.

  “It was,” Juan agreed. “One more goblet of wine to wash it down wouldn’t go amiss, don’t you think? I might sing to you today.”

  “Spare us that torment,” Diego laughed.

  The banging on the door was startlingly loud. Juan, putting his finger to his lips, gestured for quiet. Sinfa rose quickly to her feet and rushed into the sleeping room. Isa, following behind, opened the lid of a wooden chest which sat against the wall and helped Sinfa climb inside it. Then she gathered up every blanket and piece of clothing she could find and covered Sinfa’s body. “It’s probably just a neighbour wanting to borrow something. Don’t make a sound,” she whispered just before she covered Sinfa’s head. This was not the first time Sinfa had been hidden, for every time there had been a knock at the door, the family had taken this precaution.

  Throwing straw pillows on top of the chest, Isa surmised that the likelihood of a neighbour coming into the sleeping room were slim. A person would be rude to barge into a private chamber uninvited.

  Back in the family room, Isa ordered Juan and Diego to remain seated on the floor and then she planted a smile and opened the door.

  Her face drained of colour. Heat raced through her body. Having heard stories, there could be only one reason why these men should be at her door.

  “What took you so long?” an Inquisition man-at-arms standing on the doorstep, asked. Clearly irritated at being kept waiting outside, he pushed Isa aside and barged into the room, followed by two more familiars and a well dressed, official-looking man holding a ledger.

  “Are you Isabella Merendez?” the official looking man asked Isa.

  “I … I am.” Isa’s eyes darted to Juan. “And who might you be?”

  “I am the inquisitor’s alguacil. Which one of you is Juan Sanz?”

  “I am, Your Mercy,” Juan said.

  Sensing what was about to happen, Isa watched in horror as the alguacil held up a written parchment. She had heard so many tales of Inquisition arrests but had always supposed that the suspects must be guilty of something. The alguacil was becoming well known in Sagrat. He had already detained four other people in this street alone, and God only knew how many others, he had taken to prison. This was clearly a mistake, she thought. She and Juan had committed no crime.

  “This is an Inquisition arrest warrant for Isabella Merendez and Juan Sanz. You will come with us.”

  “No!” Isa shouted. “On what charge?”

  “The charges will be read out to you when you have your audience with the inquisitor. That’s all you need to know.”

  Isa’s terror-stricken eyes bore into Juan. Pleading with a look, she begged him not to say a word to anger the men. Her throat closed up. Grabbing at it, she fought for breath, and then she uttered pitifully, “No … Please … no.”

  “As long as you come with us voluntarily, we’re not going to hurt you,” a familiar said, plainly unmoved.

  “We have done nothing wrong,” Juan finally said.

  “That’s what everyone says. Take them,” the alguacil told the familiars.

  Isa heard the order and hurriedly moved towards Juan. Her legs buckled at the knees. Her head was spinning, and the men were blocking her path. “No, no, it’s a mistake!”

  “If I received a coin every time someone said that, I’d be a very wealthy man,” a man standing in the doorway said.

  “Who are you?” Juan’s voice snapped.

  “I am the Inquisition’s receiver,” he retorted, puffing up his chest and appearing to be angry that Juan didn’t already know that. “After you two have been taken away, I will remain behind to take note of your valuables and possessions. If you are found guilty, they will be confiscated.

  Dear God, Isa thought. Sinfa was inside the chest. He was bound to look there. “We eat on the floor. We have nothing of value!” she screamed at him.

  The alguacil frowned. “Lady, we’ve devoted enough of our time to your objections. There’s no point arguing with us. One way or another you’re going to the prison.”

  Still rejecting what the man had just said, Isa continued to stare dazedly at Juan. “Why are they doing this? Tell them, Juan. Tell them we’re innocent.”

  Juan, looking devastated and defeated, finally found his voice. “We are innocent of whatever it is they think we have done, but we can’t fight them, my love. We must do as they say.”

  Feeling her stomach clench like a vice, she moaned with despair. He was wrong. If the men took Juan and her to the prison, they would probably never get out, she thought. There were rumours about prisoners in Valencia locked up for years without being charged with a single crime. Sinfa had only been incarcerated for two weeks, yet her imprisonment had almost killed her. She had sores and rat bites, and her head had been eaten alive by insects! David rarely spoke about what went on inside the prison, but she knew … and she knew she would rather go to hell.

  “No, I’m not going!” she shouted defiantly.

  “You’re making this difficult for us, the alguacil said tolerantly. “The inquisitor wants to save your soul and bring you back to the flock. Don’t you want salvation?”

  “God is my salvation!” Isa spat angrily. “I’m a good Christian, and so is my husband.”

  With his patience seemingly at an end, the alguacil gripped the back of Isa’s neck. Pinning her against the wall, with her face
squeezed between its stones and his hand, he ordered her not to move.

  “Remove your cord belts and tie the husband’s wrists too,” he told the men-at-arms. “I’m not going to drag the wife out into the street by the scruff of the neck. Not today.”

  Isa could hear Juan’s muffled voice behind her, say, “Get your hands off my wife.” She tried to turn around, but when she struggled, the man who had tied her wrists behind her back pushed her cheek hard against the wall and held her there by digging his fingers into her skin.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Isa could see Diego, who had come to stand at the door. Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he had the good sense not to utter a protest or get in the men’s way. Isa’s lips trembled, and she managed to mutter, “I love you, Diego.”

  Pushed back into the room, Diego was ordered to stand against the wall and not to move.

  As soon as her arms were tugged and she was roughly pulled back from the wall, Isa’s legs gave way. Facing the door on her knees, she saw a closed cart outside. She wanted to scream no! but she was breathless and could only manage to utter choked sobs.

  As though her life depended on escaping, as soon as she was picked up off the floor, she struggled to free herself from the man’s grasp. But when she saw Juan walking with dignity towards the cart, she realised that only an army could stop this arrest.

  Landing with a thud on the carriage floor, she stopped moving and stared longingly at Juan sitting against the wall. His wrists were tied, but he was able to shuffle on his backside to where Isa lay surrounded by her crumpled skirts.

  “We can’t fight these fanatics, my love,” he said tearfully, bending over her. “Struggling against them, screaming at them, and telling them you’re innocent, won’t help you.”

  “The duke did this to us because David is our son,” she sobbed, her head against his chest. “He will never allow us our freedom. I will never see you again or hold my boys in my arms. I hope they kill me soon …”