The Errant Flock Read online

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  On the eve of the New Year, the same day the curfew was lifted, David walked to the prison. When he arrived, he sat on a grassy embankment opposite the prison doors and waited patiently for the guard watches to change and for a friendly face to appear.

  Knowing that it could take months or perhaps years for charges to be brought against his father and mother should have deterred him from continually badgering the men-at-arms for information, but he was determined to break through the Inquisition’s wall of silence. He would not give up or succumb to self-pity when his fingers and toes numbed with cold, and the familiars, sick of the sight of him, threw insults and threats his way. Nor would he fixate any longer on the scar-faced assassin, the duke, or his humiliating removal from the militia. His parents’ incarceration overshadowed every other trouble that faced him, even the dismal situation at home.

  After arriving home on Christmas Day, David had received the devastating news about his mother and father’s arrest. Later he had listened to Diego and Sinfa weeping their way through a story of how the receiver came but a hair’s breath away from discovering Sinfa hiding inside the chest. The man had lifted the chest’s lid, only to close it again after seeing old and frayed sheets, Diego had told him. And then, deciding that there was nothing worth taking note of, he’d left soon after.

  After hours of hearing Diego and Sinfa’s tears and incessant questions about what was to be done, he had decided to drink himself into a stupor on his father’s wine. Being intoxicated had felt good, he thought now as he watched a cart pull up at the prison doors. For the first time in weeks, his shame had been numbed and his concern for Sinfa diluted. His bleak imaginings of a future without his parents hadn’t disappeared like the last dregs of wine, but somehow even the terrible thought of losing them had not been able to take away his languorous mood.

  He could do nothing to help his family, he’d thought in his dreamlike state. No begging, bribing, storming the prison, and killing every prison guard would secure his parents’ freedom. Grief-stricken yet strangely relaxed at the same time, he’d also believed that it might be a good idea to assassinate the inquisitor. If there was no inquisitor, there would be no Inquisition. And then later, in the cold light of day, when his wits had returned, he’d decided that trying to find out what had happened to his parents was better than doing nothing at all.

  Watching a vegetable cart being unloaded, he was reminded of the troubles facing him at home. There was no food left in the house and no money left to buy more. He’d not managed to find employment. It seemed that no one wanted to hire a disgraced soldier. Diego, not knowing anything about tanning without his father’s supervision, was also out of a job. And Sinfa, poor Sinfa. She too was a prisoner, in all but name.

  Shielding his eyes from the winter sun, low in the sky and glaringly bright, he felt his muscles tense. He squinted in the blinding light at the figure of a man walking along the road towards the prison. It was Raul, a familiar who had shared long night watches with him and Paco. Raul was not like the other men-at-arms, who thought they were superior to their fellow citizens. He’d always been sociable.

  Looking at the distance Raul still had to walk before he reached the prison doors, David thought there wouldn’t even be enough time to ask one question. Deciding to take a chance, he stepped in front of Raul, blocked his path, and brought him to a complete standstill. “Raul, will you give me a minute of your time?” he asked.

  “I know what you want, David,” Raul said apologetically, “but you know I can’t tell you anything.”

  “I know I shouldn’t ask and you’re not supposed to tell me, but for the love of God, they’re my parents,” he said, rushing his words before Raul had a chance to stop him. “I have to know if charges have been brought against them. Please … No one needs to know that we’ve even spoken.”

  Raul looked furtively towards the prison behind him and then back to David.

  “Please, Raul,” David urged.

  “I’ll tell you what I know and then you should leave. Don’t come back to the prison again, for your sake and for theirs.”

  David nodded in agreement. “I won’t. You have my word.”

  “Your mother and father have been charged with heresy.”

  “Why?” David already suspected that they would be charged with heresy; otherwise, why would the Inquisition arrest them in the first place? He needed more information, something he wasn’t already aware of. “What heresy charge?”

  Again, Raul looked about him before he spoke. “Someone has accused them of refusing to accept a wild boar delivered to them on the feast of the Immaculate Conception. The magistrate has an accuser’s written testimony. He states that your mother called the pig’s meat the devil’s poison.”

  “That’s a lie! There was a wild boar, a gift from the duke, but it was stolen from me,” David said, stunned.

  “I have to go,” Raul said, pushing David aside. “I have nothing more to say.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Long after darkness had fallen and there was not a soul to be seen, David spotted the man he’d punched to within a hair’s breadth from death. The street, shrouded in a low-lying mist and so black that even the keenest of eyes couldn’t see more than two paces in front of them, was quiet at the best of times. There were few houses or buildings of any kind, and only a small number of neighbours, but it did house a particularly well known taverna of ill repute halfway along its route.

  Seeing Moniño stagger out of this particular drinking house didn’t surprise David. It was notorious because of its easy wenches, pleasuring men for coin, and patrons who spent their days gambling and picking fights. Frequented as often as the churches, and by the same people, it was also a popular establishment for those who preferred to wash away their sins with a jug or two of wine rather than be absolved by Father Bernardo. It was said that a good jug of wine could make a man forget even the most serious religious improprieties.

  Although the tavern now seemed an obvious place to find Moniño, David and Diego had elected to comb the entire town, sometimes going in circles to recheck those streets wide enough for a cart and mule to pass through, because they’d thought they would eventually spot the thieving whoreson delivering something or other.

  Angry at wasting so much of the day, David stroked his beard, still itchy with recent growth, and thought that his time would have been better spent stalking the tavernas all day instead of the streets. A man like Moniño didn’t work, he thought. He was a bloodsucking varlet, like a tick on the skin of hard-working people.

  Keeping his eyes on the man peeing against the wall outside the taverna, David calculated that his quarry would probably walk up the slope towards the north end of the street. There was a flat grazing area there, and taverna drinkers were known to leave their animals tied loosely to tree branches and bushes, sometimes for the entire day.

  There was to be no fighting, no blood, and no death, David had warned Diego before leaving the house. Under any other circumstances, he would care not a whit if the thief was injured, killed, or put up as pickles, but he was their parents’ accuser. He was the reason they were in prison, and he was the only person who could get them out of it.

  Watching the man from the shadow of an arched entryway, David now thought that inflicting some pain on Moniño wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. The drunken bastard, who seemed to enjoy causing harm to unsuspecting people, would probably not admit to the Inquisition that he had lied about the boar. For fear of being charged with false testimony, an even greater crime, no accuser in his right mind would take back his words. He would cling to them for dear life … But it didn’t mean that Moniño couldn’t be brought to account tonight. Life was not being kind, good, or just to his parents. In a pig’s eye, would he let Moniño off lightly!

  David gestured to Diego to cover the lower part of his face with a piece of black linen cloth, the remnants of a man’s cloak, which his mother had been sewing for a
neighbour. There was no need for Moniño to know who Diego was, David thought, but it would be pointless for him to cover his face. As soon as he told Moniño what he wanted, his identity would no longer be a secret.

  Standing perfectly still and silent in a darkened corner, they watched Moniño clumsily climb the stone stairs leading to the grassy plateau above. They followed him.

  There was no moon of any size or the faintest twinkling star. Whatever was in the black sky was covered by thick clouds. David looked about him and saw no one but their victim, staggering two steps sideways and one forward towards his cart. He gestured to Diego to move forward.

  “Stop where you are, you thieving, lying turd,” David said, his voice crackling with anger.

  Moniño turned in a large circular movement, as though the mere effort was making him lose direction. Swaying from side to side, he looked at David, and then stumbled as he took another pace forward. “Who are you? What do … hic … you want?” he slurred. Then he staggered another pace, until his face was only inches from David’s.

  David was close enough to look into Moniño’s eyes, dimmed in the darkness but still visible enough to see that they were red and unfocused. “Do you know me?” he asked with his voice laced with impatience. “Do you remember what I did to you for stealing my boar?”

  “Ask him about the accusation,” Diego urged whilst keeping one eye on the area.

  “Quiet,” David whispered.

  Moniño giggled. “Get me … to my cart … eh, lads.” And then he broke into song.

  David grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him until his head looked like a loose bottle top. God damn him! Shit! A shithouse of shit! The man didn’t even recognise him. “Moniño, you accused Isabella and Juan Sanz of not accepting the boar that you stole. Do you remember that?” David insisted.

  “Boar? Nice … piggy.”

  “He won’t talk,” Diego said, already defeated.

  “He will. I’ll get what I want from him, even if I have to pull out his tongue with his words hanging from it!” David said, throwing Diego a scathing look.

  Moniño wagged his tongue and muttered, “Pull it …”

  Letting go of him, David sighed with frustration. “God and his angels have spat on us tonight. You’re right, Diego. We’re not going to get a word of sense out of him.”

  “We have to. We can’t leave until you scare the life out of him,” Diego now insisted.

  “Does he look frightened to you? Unless we stand here and wait until the wine flows out of his body with his pee, we’re wasting our time. I doubt he’ll even remember seeing us. We’re going home.”

  “No, he needs to recant his testimony.”

  David looked once more at Moniño and then walked away, shaking his head in disgust. “No, we’re leaving,” he said firmly.

  Still unwilling to move, Diego stood his ground and glared at Moniño. “You’ll be seeing me again,” he warned.

  Moniño’s mouth spread in a lopsided snigger. Raising his hand, he placed an index finger just underneath his left ear and then drew it along the length of his gullet as though he were slicing it.

  At the gesture, Diego rushed forward.

  David turned at the sound of Diego’s angry gasp but was too late to stop him from pushing Moniño to the ground.

  The thump of the thief’s skull hitting a rock sounded like the crunch of pig’s crackling. David rushed forward and dropped to his knees. The rock beneath Moniño was saturated with blood. Spreading fast, it covered the granite surface and then dripped over the edges. Moniño’s eyes were open and staring up to the heavens. Turning to Diego, standing behind him with his mouth half open, he exclaimed, “He was our parents’ accuser, you fool! You’ve just brought hell to our door.”

  “I didn’t mean to do it. He was laughing at us. He did know who you were – I swear he did,” Diego insisted, but he looked horrified at what he’d done.

  Shaking his head in disbelief, David looked again at the dead body. There was no time to think about what had been lost here, he thought. He and Diego needed to flee the area as soon as possible. Looking at Moniño, David noticed a leather string hanging from his breeches. Bending over, he pulled it and found a purse.

  After finding four reals, he rose to his feet. Staring at the cart and mule with a pensive expression, he strode to Diego, who was still staring at the thief’s body.

  “I’m sorry, David,” Diego said.

  “Moniño was drunk, and inebriated men are apt to fall over,” David answered without a hint of pity. “We can’t bury him or move his body, but there are no witnesses and no obvious signs of violence or an attack. An accident – that’s all this was, an unfortunate accident …”

  David stood by Moniño’s cart and mule. “Diego, get up there,” he said, gesturing to the driver’s seat. “You’re leaving Sagrat … tonight!”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The inquisitor’s interrogation had started calmly enough, with seemingly innocent questions about Juan’s life and that of his family.

  “What’s your name?” Gaspar de Amo had asked. “Do you know why you have been arrested?”

  Juan had answered the questions truthfully. And to the last one, he’d said, “No, I don’t know why I am here.”

  “The Inquisition doesn’t arrest people for nothing; you are aware of that.”

  “If you say so, Your Mercy.”

  “Are you ready to confess now? You do know that if you tell the truth, you will be treated less harshly.”

  “You keep saying that, but I’ve told you that I’ve done nothing wrong,” Juan had repeated. He’d already been interrogated twice before. First he’d seen the alguacil, then the inquisition magistrate, and now he was sitting before the inquisitor. He’d spent hours assuring all of them that he was innocent, yet nobody believed him or didn’t seem to want to believe.

  He was terrified of being sent back to the cell to be forgotten, but he was even more afraid of the inquisitor losing his patience with him and turning to violence.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about Isa. The thought of her being questioned like this and living in a cell like his was making him feel physically sick. He’d not laid eyes on her since their arrest. What heresy was she being charged with? And what had happened to David and Diego? Had the Inquisition arrested the boys? And Sinfa … Did the authorities find her hiding place? Dear God, he would probably never find out. The inquisitor was bombarding him with questions, but he was not answering any of his.

  “Do you remember what you were doing on the feast of the Immaculate Conception?” the inquisitor asked for the umpteenth time.

  “Yes, how could I forget that terrible day? My farm was burned down, and my youngest child was killed.”

  “And do you now recall refusing a wild boar and saying that it was …” Gaspar de Amo paused and looked at the notes in front of him. “Yes, that it was filthy meat from the depths of hell, fit only for Christian stomachs?”

  “No. As I’ve already told you, I said nothing of the kind, nor was I or anyone else in my family offered a wild boar to eat … I’ve told you over and over!” What nonsense was this about a boar? He’d denied all knowledge of it repeatedly.

  De Amo sighed and looked at Juan in a way that would lead anyone to believe he felt pity. “The Inquisition does not like to rush to judgement,” he said. “We prefer the process to be drawn out so that our prisoners can think calmly about their crimes and come to the conclusion that to confess is to cleanse the soul. If you refuse to cooperate, the wrath of God will fall upon you through the long arm of the Inquisition. We are ubiquitous and very persistent.”

  Juan pictured being tortured and shuddered with terror. “I have nothing to say,” he said.

  De Amo closed a thick file sitting on the table. “Very well, Juan. Unfortunately, I have no more time to devote to you, so I must insist that you confess now and not waste any more of my valuable time.”

  “I have nothing to confess,” Juan said agai
n. His hands and legs were trembling. He was worn out after having no sleep and barely enough food in his stomach to keep a bird alive. His voice sounded hoarse from all the denials. “Please … a little water,” he begged. He was scared to confess but was also terrified of what would happen to him if he didn’t. How could he fight against such a filthy lie? The inquisitor would not divulge the name of the accuser, and he didn’t seem to believe in the concept of innocence, only guilt. “In the name of God, have mercy.”

  “Confess to Judaism, and God will be merciful.”

  “I will not. To make a false confession would be a sin against God, for it would be a lie.”

  “So be it.” De Amo pushed his chair back and walked over to where the magistrate and scribe sat. The magistrate scratched his head with a quill and asked, “How would you like to proceed, my lord?”

  De Amo’s expression hardened, and his eyes bore into the magistrate’s face. “He’s a stubborn one. I have invested enough time in him and his wife. I picked them because of the joint charges. I had hoped to make an example out of them to other husbands and wives,” he said disappointedly. “But with the auto-de-fé in three days’ time, I don’t see how we can give him the time he needs to come to his senses. Send for the torturer.”

  The sound of the prisoners’ screams grew louder with each step Juan took. Shackled at the wrists and ankles and pulled roughly by a thick neck chain attached to a collar, he shuffled as fast as he could and tried to keep up with the man-at-arms dragging him along as though he were a stubborn goat.

  When he was led into the torture chamber, he was left for a moment to take in the scene. A man was suspended by his arms, which were bound at the wrists behind his back, head down, and seemingly unconscious. A woman had her wrists bound high above her head, her feet dangling over a fire and covered in pig’s fat. An old man on a wooden mattress was being stretched, squealing like a pig being slaughtered.

  Juan, standing as still as a statue, open-mouthed and with tears already streaming down his face, thought that he must be in hell’s anteroom. He beseeched the inquisitor to let him go, but De Amo, sitting in a chair on a raised podium, looked to be enjoying himself. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes, fixed on the screaming, demented woman whose feet were being roasted, were filled with perverse gratification.