The Errant Flock (11 page)

Chapter Nineteen

The sun had risen, and unlike the previous day, it was beginning to cast warmth into the air. The clear blue sky and bright sunlight hurt Sinfa’s tired eyes, and she shielded them with her head shawl, drawing it down as far as the tip of her nose. She shivered, muttered insults under her breath, and swore to despise most of her neighbours for the rest of her life. Then she smiled gratefully at the handful of faces waiting for her to lead the procession back to her house and vowed to look after them until the ends of
their
lives.

“Most of my grandfather’s oldest friends and neighbours have refused to give him the burial he deserves,” she said to those brave enough to stand with her. “We know he didn’t end his own life, and I promise you that I won’t stop looking for answers. Someone will eventually tell me the truth.”

“You’ll never find the truth,” her neighbour Rebecca said sadly. “I doubt you’ll even get to speak to the duke. He’s got no time for us Jews now.”

Sinfa sighed, too tired to argue. She looked once more at the grave and scowled. It had been dug some distance away from all the other tombs in the graveyard, signifying that Saul Cabrera had been given a sinner’s burial and would lie in the ground in shame, for all to see and for all eternity. There had been no eulogies or praise for the man who had devoted his life to caring for others, and Rabbi Rabinovitch, who had stood just outside the graveyard gates, had left before the first handful of soil was thrown onto the body. “I’m ashamed of my own people for believing such nonsense,” she said, turning away from the grave.

The small group left the graveyard and walked in silence towards the Jewry. For the first time in her life, Sinfa was alone. There would be no outpouring of kindness or offers of charity from the Jewry’s streets, as her grandfather would have wished. She’d seen nothing but disrespect from those who had lined the way with their backs to her grandfather’s burial procession, and she knew exactly what she’d be walking into when she got home.

An unladylike grunt left her mouth. Rabbi Rabinovitch and Guillermo were traitors. They were a couple of backstabbers who had showered her with sympathetic words and were then too afraid of public opinion to be seen at the graveside with her. They’d be waiting for her, like a couple of vultures picking bones. They wouldn’t be too ashamed to demand her inheritance and her property. Guillermo would seek her hand, even though he loved another woman and had hidden that from his father for more than two years. “You’re getting nothing from me,” she mumbled under her breath, “not even my friendship.”

Sinfa’s thoughts were interrupted by loud crashing noises coming from the Jewry. Her belly twisted in a knot, and heat coursed through her body. Many times she’d watched and heard Jewish properties being knocked down after their occupants had left or died. Her grandfather had told her once that this was the duke’s way of making sure no other Jew ever moved into Sagrat or a vacant house. “If they get rid of Jewish houses, they get rid of Jews,” he’d stated.

The Jewry was an ugly neighbourhood now. Its buildings were desecrated, with some dangerously clinging to weakened foundations caused by untidy demolition in connecting houses. They were pulling her house down, her instincts screamed, and by the time she got home, everything of value would have been taken or left in ruins.

She broke into a run, forgetting mourning traditions and ignoring how she must look with her dress revealing bare ankles and her head shawl wrapped around her neck. It couldn’t be her house, she tried to convince herself. It was a beautiful building … Why would they destroy such a landmark?

As she ran, she saw images of all she owned being smashed into the ground, but these images disintegrated as another dreadful thought came to mind. Fear and panic spread through her and left her legs shaking. She looked towards the far end of the Jewry’s wall and gasped when she saw the plumes of dust rising above it. They were going to find the money. The house would be ripped apart, and they’d come across the sacks of coin in the shallow hole in the hallway! “They can’t have it,” she groaned. “It’s mine … Oh dear God, they mustn’t find it!”

Sobbing, she ran through the Jewry’s open gate and passed the marketplace and fish market, which opened only on Fridays. She inhaled the smell of fresh fish brought from the port and felt nauseated as it filled her nostrils. A small queue of people stood patiently waiting for their turn. Sinfa knew most of the women there and glanced fleetingly at the faces as she bolted past them. Angry voices shouting after her all the way down the street upset her further, and she choked loudly on a cry that ripped from her throat.

“Don’t run! Has your family not shamed us all enough?” She heard various versions of such things being screamed at her. She ran on, remembering that today was the start of Shabbat. Her public display of grief would not be tolerated tonight, but she would grieve all the same, she thought defiantly.

              The house’s ornate front door was already lying on its side against a neighbouring house’s wall. A couple of soldiers stood outside beside a cart loaded with the house’s valuables. Pieces of furniture were stacked in the street, the neighbours greedily eying them, probably hoping that the militia would leave some behind. Window shutters were smashed and unhinged from their brackets. Cracks zigzagged across the entire length of the house’s front facade, and half the street was covered in a cloud of grey fog.

She ran into the dust-filled house panting for breath and with her mind frozen in fear. Her black gown was dirtied at the hem, lightened by dust, and half covered by a shawl trailing on the ground. But the dress was not as untidy as her hair, partly secured in a coiled braid but with so many loose tendrils hanging around her face and down her back that it looked like a wild horse’s mane.

At first, she stood in the centre of the hallway with a sense of helplessness and resignation, in the same way she had seen evicted neighbours do before her. But when her eyes began to sting and fill with grit, she felt the full force of her rage rise to the surface. She had to protect what was rightfully hers. This was barbaric. It was a sin!

Her eyes flashed dangerously at the soldiers on their knees, pulling up the floorboards and seemingly uninterested in her arrival. The noise was deafening, so loud that she could barely think. She stared at the ground and then glanced at the stairs leading to a second floor. Just in front of the arch under the staircase was the money, every real, maravedi, and ducat her grandfather had ever saved during years of service and hard work. They would be upon it within minutes. It would be a grand day for the duke’s coffers, she thought.

“Get out! Leave my house immediately!” Her eyes narrowed. She couldn’t let them take it. She’d be destitute. “You have no right to do this!” She heard herself scream the words, and instead of shutting up, she found her protests growing. “How dare you destroy the physician’s home on the very day he is buried! Have you no decency? Stop this at once or I’ll flay the lot of you!”

“Silence!” The roaring voice came from the doorway between the family room and the hallway. It was so gruff and loud that it made Sinfa jump and halt her ranting and raving. She stared at the appearance of the stocky dark-haired man dressed in black finery and with a condescending smirk on his flushed round face, and she took an involuntary step backwards.

She flicked her eyes from soldier to soldier, frozen where they knelt and stood, with tools unmoving, but she was far too angry to feel afraid of what they might do to her.

“Who are you to silence me in my own home?” she shouted at Garcia.

“Who are you to order the duke’s men out of here?” Garcia parried back.

              “I am Sinfa Cabrera, and you are trespassing. This house is under the protection of the duke, and I live here with his grace and favour.”

              “Is that so?” Garcia sneered. Walking across the hallway, dodging men and holes of deep red soil, he came to stand only inches from Sinfa’s face.

Sinfa felt the heat of his breath on her skin and recoiled at his nearness. Her throat was dry and filling up with dirt and wood dust. She coughed nervously in the strange silence that seemed to be lasting forever.

“So you think you have the right to live here after what your grandfather did?” Garcia asked. “Do you honestly believe that any good Catholic nobleman would allow his property to be despoiled by the family of a self-murderer?”

“He didn’t kill himself, Your Honour. It wasn’t suicide, and I’ll tell the duke that if you take me to him,” Sinfa retorted.

“You, see the duke? No, wenches like you don’t stand in the presence of nobility.”

“Don’t you dare call me a wench – and don’t presume to speak for His Grace. My grandfather was a loyal servant to the Peráto family. I don’t believe the duke thinks his physician capable of such a terrible deed, and you can’t tell me he does. Anyone could tell you that my grandfather wasn’t physically able to get up these stairs without hanging onto both banisters, so how do you think he managed to climb onto the top of a wall that was probably just as tall as he was? The soldiers lied, and you’re lying too!”

Sinfa glanced Garcia’s arm just as it shot out, but she was too slow to react. The blow to her head forced her neck to twist to the side. It was such a jolt that she thought she might have broken it. Straightening herself, she stared at him with tears in her eyes and said, “Only cowards hit women.”

The next backhanded blow to her face knocked her off her feet. She felt her body falling to the side but was too unbalanced to right herself in time to stop herself from falling over. Looking up dazedly from the floor, she saw a soldier standing over her and blinked away her tears. His eyes shone with sympathy and kindness. He helped her up, and she thanked him.

Staring again at Garcia, she knew all was lost, yet she was not ready to give up. She looked at the soldiers. They were scowling with disapproval at the man who had hit her.  “You have already destroyed this house, but by law everything inside it is mine. You have no right to take my belongings,” she said respectfully. “May I ask Your Honour to leave me alone for an hour so that I can collect my possessions? After that, you can finish your destruction of a perfectly good home. I won’t protest further.”

Garcia laughed and wiped the trickle of blood running down the side of her mouth with his thumb. “No, you’ll leave now,” he told her. “I don’t have time for any more of your nonsense. Go on – get out of my sight.”

At last, Sinfa’s tears flowed, along with her disgust for the man whose name she didn’t even know. “You’re a swine! I’ll take my complaints to the highest office. I’ll see you lose your position for this injustice!” Her chin jutted in defiance, but she knew she must be looking like a pathetic child, with tears running down her cheeks and barely able to see through the curtain of hair covering her face. She ran her fingers through her heavy mane and pushed it away from her forehead. Staring once more at the soldiers, she was comforted by the pity present in their eyes. “The duke won’t be happy about this,” she said as a last-ditch effort to save her inheritance.

Garcia took a step forward, grabbed Sinfa’s arm in a tight squeeze, and pulled her towards him until her face was inches from his own and their bodies were touching. “Who do you think sent me? You’re a stupid Jew. Do you think the duke cares about you and your kind? He wants to cleanse this town. You’re an infestation, and if I had my way, I’d wipe your Jewish arses on the floor and throw the lot of you all into the pigpens as fodder!” He looked then at the soldiers and seemed to be enraged even further at the contemptuous stares that met his eyes. “What are you all gawking at? The spectacle is over. Get back to work!”

Garcia’s scowl deepened as he met David’s eyes. If there was ever any doubt of Sanz’s hatred towards him, it had just been removed with that cold, threatening glare, he thought. If he could disobey the duke’s order, he’d kill the bastard where he stood. He’d give anything to watch the impertinent upstart take his last painful breaths, with all his secrets dying with him … But he would leave that pleasure for another time.

“You, Sanz, take this girl to the prison. Throw her in the coldest, dampest cell and let her calm her temper,” he ordered. He looked again at the other soldiers. “She threatened me. You all heard her call me a swine, did you not?” He waited. There was no response. “Well, speak! Answer me, you good-for-nothing goat pokers!”

“Yes, Your Honour. We heard her, Your Honour. Yes …” Slowly and one by one, the soldiers gave in.

Looking at Sinfa, Garcia said. “Wench, you want a roof over your head? Well, you can have one, with the duke’s compliments. You can rot, stink, and eat pork. How would your impertinent mouth like that, eh?” He smirked at her reddened face and swollen lip, glad to be seeing the back of her.

Chapter Twenty

David steeled himself to enter the house but couldn’t quite urge his body to move towards it. He stood on the other side of the street, in the exact same spot as he had on the night he’d first laid eyes on the young couple’s home, and he cursed Garcia with every breath he took.

Watching the people in the street staring into the house through the shuttered window reminded him of pilgrims visiting a shrine. Women arrived with woollen blankets, bread, and steaming cooking pots exuding smells of kid meat and vegetables. They knocked on the door, and he saw his mother’s tear-stained face.

The mood in the street was sombre, but it was also tinged with fear and anger. Every face held shock in red-rimmed eyes and half-open mouths. It was as though they still couldn’t quite believe what had happened to the young family. People here would only find peace when someone had been punished for a crime that sickened and terrified them, David thought. Therefore, it would be only a matter of time before the duke and Garcia found it necessary to sacrifice an innocent man to appease the town’s need for justice. It would be an easy task for them to pick someone at random, torture him, and extract a confession, for when prisoners suffered the agonies inflicted by a skilful torturer, the vast majority said exactly what the interrogator wanted to hear.

It wouldn’t be him. No, they wouldn’t accuse him of anything. If he faced a public death, and it would have to be a public spectacle, he would scream the truth about the crime to every citizen before the executioner had time to shut him up. The duke wouldn’t risk pointing the finger at him. No, if they were planning to kill him, they would be thinking about a more subtle murder. He’d be taken somewhere outside of town into the mountains or maybe to the densest area of the forest. His body would never be found. He’d be a good meal for the wolves.

Death terrified him. Any man who said he wasn’t afraid of it was a liar. He’d woken up that morning grateful to be alive but wondering why Garcia hadn’t finished him off yet. He’d go about his business today thinking that it might be his last. The next time he got into bed, his dagger would be in his hand. He probably wouldn’t have a peaceful night’s sleep ever again.

He straightened his shoulders. What was wrong with him? His brother had died trying to save his father’s property, yet here
he
stood, unharmed and wallowing in self-pity. Garcia was a bully, but like all bullies, he was also a coward, and like all cowards, he would prey on the helpless and run from the strong … The whoreson didn’t have permission to commit murder, for had the duke ordered an assassination, he, David, would already be dead.

At last, David found his nerve and walked towards the house, passing men and women who were visibly shaken by what had occurred two nights previously. He said good morrow to them and walked on, focusing his eyes on the door. A man put his hand on David’s arm and tutted disapprovingly. “How could anyone want to live in a blood-filled house
?
I wouldn’t live there if they paid me a bucketful of ducats,” the man said.

“I hope you lot find out who did this,” a woman said.

“You’d better. If you don’t, this town will never recover,” another person added.

David nodded. “We will. Go back to your business. Leave these people in peace.” Even with his glaring disapproval, those who were already standing seemed determined not to move. There was nothing he could do, David thought, apart from appealing to their consciences. “I’ve come to visit my parents. There’s nothing to see here,” he told the neighbours again. “Go on now. Go back to your homes and let my mother and father grieve for their youngest son … and thank you for your kindness,” he added, recognising the women who had brought blankets and food.

“I don’t want you here,” Juan told David, grabbing his boots and then sitting on the edge of the bed to put them on. “If you don’t go, I will.”

              “I’ll leave Papa. I just want to make sure you’re both all right.”

“Do we look all right? Do you see what you’ve brought us to? Your mother is wiping blood from the wall and the floor!”

              “Hush, you foolish man!” Isa snapped. “There are people right outside the door. Do you want the whole town to hear you?”

“I want him gone,” Juan told her in a quieter voice. He’s not welcome here.”

“He has my welcome, and by God, he’ll have yours too. When are you going to stop being angry with him?”

Juan grumbled, “Not for as long as I take breath.”

“You’re taking breath now because of him,” Isa retorted. “We’d be dead with our throats cut if it hadn’t been for his sacrifice.”

“His sacrifice? What about the poor souls he killed? What about their sacrifice? And how do you know we’d be dead were it not for what he did?”

David said, “I’m sure of it, Papa.”

“Did you hear that, Juan? He’s sure, and I believe him. He’s our son … and he’s the only one we have left,” Isa said, now sobbing.

David went to the window, putting distance between himself and his father. The closed shutters allowed only narrow ribbons of light to enter. It was a dreary day, and had the focus of the townspeople not been on the murders, everyone would have been talking about the possibility of rain.

He turned to face the room. Candles flickered in the corners, casting shadows of his parents’ forms on the walls. The cot and partition curtain had disappeared. The little girl’s straw pallet was also gone, and even the pots and pans, chamber pots, and a small pile of clothes that had been there had been removed.

“Papa, I’ll find you another house. You can’t live here. I can afford to pay your rent until you get on your feet. I spoke to the blacksmith. He’ll take you on. He knows you’re a good saddle maker, and he’s happy to let you use an empty space in his workshop.”

“I don’t want your help.” Juan’s voice was defiant, but his eyes lit up at the prospect of work.

David continued, spurred on by his father’s thinly veiled interest. “Papa, there are   rumours up at the castle. They say the inquisitor is coming. He’ll bring men-at-arms, horses, and mules. They’ll use the blacksmith, and you’ll get plenty of commissions for bridles and saddles, purses, and travel chests … There are vacant houses on the other side of town. I’ve seen them. I’ve already asked about the rent.”

“I said I don’t want anything from you!” Juan hissed loudly. “I will find my own way and look after your mother without your money or your council.”

David recoiled at the forcefulness of his father’s words.

Isa, now fully weeping, lay on the bed and pushed her face into the new mattress.

“You see what you’ve done to your mother?” Juan said angrily.

“I’ll leave. I’m sorry, Mama.”

Isa turned her head and sat up. “You’re not going anywhere.” She looked at Juan with eyes blazing with anger. “You always were as stubborn as a hot fly, Juan Sanz, but this time I will be just as obstinate. I miss my Juanjo and Diego. I might die of grief … It’s suffocating me, and I can’t breathe! This is our only son, and you love him, as much as I do. We are a family, and only as a family will I survive this terrible time.” She choked back her tears and swallowed painfully.

Crawling across the bed to where Juan sat, she put her arms around his neck and kissed the top of his head. “My love, if you send David away, I will leave with him,” she warned him gently. “Now, you listen to me. If there’s a job for you with the blacksmith, you must take it and be thankful, for I won’t forgive you if we starve because of your selfish pride. I don’t want to live here. I’ve cleaned every bit of this place, and I still see and smell death and innocent babies – and that little girl’s terrified face when Diego took her to God only knows where! I can’t live here, so if David says he can help us, then that’s what we’ll let him do.”

David, still standing by the window, watched his father’s hand stroking his mother’s arm, which was still curved around his neck, and asked, “Papa, will you forgive me?”

Juan sighed. “I’m your father, and I would die for you. I love you son, but you must ask God for forgiveness, and I must ask yours for the terrible words I’ve spoken.”

Relieved to hear his father’s kind words, David asked, “Did Father Bernardo send you here?”

“No, he looked after us,” Juan said. “He gave us and another family broth and bread as well as these old clothes. We were told to wait until the council found us somewhere to live. The lord treasurer himself came to the church and settled us and two other families. He asked for our names, told us not to worry about our debts because the duke had forgiven them, and then he gave us his condolences. He insisted on bringing us right to this door. He then came inside and ordered his men to remove the previous owners’ belongings.”

David scoffed at the duke’s generosity regarding the unpaid rent on the farm.

Isa said, “We accepted gratefully, son. Garcia doesn’t suspect us. He asked about Diego’s whereabouts. Your father told him that your brother had joined a ship’s crew some days ago and that he wouldn’t be coming back.”

“I wanted to kill the bastard for putting us in here,” Juan spat. “Does he mean to watch our every move?”

“I don’t know, but we have to presume that is the case,” David suggested.

A loud rattling knock at the door and raised voices outside stopped the conversation. Juan got up from the bed and cracked the door open to see what the commotion was. A man and woman, both about his age, stood surrounded by an even larger crowd of people than were there before David arrived. The man’s face was drained of colour. The woman’s swollen eyes looked as though they hadn’t closed in days.

“You have a soldier in there with you?” the man asked Juan.

“Yes, he’s my son. What’s this about?”

Pushing past Juan, the man and woman stepped inside the room. Juan quickly closed the door, barring the onlookers, and turned to face the strangers.

The man’s arm was around the woman’s shoulders. The woman’s arms were clasped around his waist. “Look at my poor daughter’s house,” she sobbed loudly.

The man said, “My name is Eduardo. This is my wife, Alma. This was my daughter’s house … our little girl’s.” He was crying now as well. “Her name was Elena, and her husband’s name was Adolfo. The children were named Angelita and Matias.”

Alma pointed to Isa. “You’re sitting where my Elena sat three mornings ago, feeding her infant. I was here with her. I had brought her some potage. I thought it would do her good.”

“Our deepest condolences, Alma,” Isa said tearfully.

Looking at Juan, Isa, and David in turn, Alma sniggered contemptuously. “Condolences? What kind of people are you? How could you come to live here when my family’s blood still stains the walls and their murderers are still at large? You’re worse than vultures picking at flesh! My child is not yet cold in her grave … You shouldn’t be here. No one should live in this house!” Alma was crying breathlessly.

The man said, “This is a disgrace. It’s disrespectful. Can you not see what this is doing to us? We’ve lost everything!” His wild angry eyes flicked from left to right. “Are we not to have their possessions? I made the baby’s crib with my own two hands. Where is it? My wife here sewed every sheet and blanket and all the children’s garments. What have you done with their personal belongings?”

Juan said awkwardly, “Your family’s possessions were taken away by the lord treasurer. We had nothing to do with their removal … He told us we had to live here. You see, marauders burned down our house, and our son was killed.”

David saw the man glaring at him and thought he should say something, but he found it difficult to find words of solace when he was the cause of everyone’s grief. He wanted to tell Eduardo and Alma that their infant grandson was alive and well at the castle and that their granddaughter was with Diego, far away by now.

“No decent Christian would live here now. You lost your son, but we lost our family and you’re making yourself at home as though they never existed!” the woman shouted at Isa.

Upon hearing his mother crying loudly, David finally found his voice. “That’s enough. I can’t even begin to imagine the pain you must be feeling, but please don’t take your anger out on my parents,” he said. “Can you not see my mother and father’s sorrow? They too have lost a child. Their home has been destroyed. They have lost all their possessions, and they were forced to live here against their will.”

Juan asked gently, “Do you really think we would be here if we’d been offered any other roof over our heads?”

David said. “We’ll find the culprits. Every militiaman who can be spared is out looking for them. They will face justice soon enough.”

“No one will tell us anything!” the man snapped. “The duke sent his condolences, but when I went to the castle to seek an audience with him this morning, he wouldn’t even see me.” He asked David, “Are you searching for my grandchildren? They might have been taken to the port. Is your cavalry looking to the north or towards Valencia? If the scum manage to get our little ones into the city, you’ll never be able to find them … Why have you not caught the swine yet?”

Alma said, “Angelita has the curliest of hair. Matías, the baby, is marked by God. He has a deep red patch in the centre of his back. It’s shaped like a fig. Please … please find them. I know they’re alive!” And she wept again.