The Errant Flock (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Luis stood up and kicked the front of his chair with his heel in a childish tantrum. “He’s here? How close is he?”

“Within the castle walls, Your Grace. He’ll arrive at your doors within minutes,” Garcia answered.

Staring past Garcia, Luis said, “I shouldn’t be surprised. But today of all days! I’m not ready for him. I need more time to deal with this sewer of troubles. You were supposed to have dealt with them before the inquisitor’s arrival.”

“I am …”

“If that’s so, why is the council still talking about the murders and abductions? We supplied witnesses testifying to having seen marauders running from
that
house. Why do they doubt the testimonies? Well, what do you say?” Luis paced up and down the room. “For God’s sake, say something!” he shouted with annoyance at Garcia’s hesitance.

“Your Grace, the council doesn’t answer to me, and I can’t answer for them. I’ve told you what I know,” Garcia said calmly. “The members of your council are suspicious. They cannot understand why only one street in the town was targeted … and why that particular home. Some of them believe that the assailant must have known the victims. They are asking the magistrate to investigate further. You can refuse to accept their decision to pursue this. As duke, it’s quite within your right.”

“I do refuse! By God, I do. I’ll have them all locked up as heretics if they don’t drop the matter. My word should be final, not theirs. How dare these commoners muddy waters best left calm?” His own council, men chosen by him, had the gall to make decisions without him being present, he thought. He’d have their hides. “What else did my
loyal
council of men say?”

“They were disappointed to see the militia coming back empty-handed. The people need answers, Your Grace. When the bodies of the man and woman were buried, their families and just about every able-bodied person in Sagrat attended the funerals, bleating like a flock of lost goats and demanding culprits. Might I suggest you allow this futile investigation to go ahead? Send your soldiers to every house in Sagrat. Let them search for the two missing children. They’ll find nothing, and the council will have no need to examine the case further.”

Luis was not happy with Garcia’s answer. His suggestion didn’t give him any comfort or solution. “My son will be baptised within days, and I want the people’s joyful faces, not their sorrow or suspicions … No, this investigation will not go ahead. I won’t allow it to interfere with the inquisitor’s arrival or my contentment. God’s grief, the people are so intent on finding murderers that they’ve stopped coming forward to denounce heretics. Gaspar de Amo will not be pleased to find an empty prison.”

“It’s hardly empty,” Garcia said in a condescending tone. “There are over twenty prisoners incarcerated, and even with the prison’s recent extension, it only has the capacity for seventy people. If I might be so bold, finding heretics is the inquisitor’s job, not yours. I wouldn’t worry about that. Your prison will be full within days, judging by the size of the inquisitor’s entourage now approaching the castle.”

True,
Luis thought. Maybe when the inquisitor began arresting people en masse, the townspeople would forget about the murders. Garcia had said something hopeful at last. Looking at him, Luis shook his head, still disgusted with the council. “I’m not happy. I’m about to see my power and influence in this town shrivel like a bull’s balls in winter. I will have no say in the Inquisition’s policies, and now it appears I have no mandate over my council. You need to find a suspect … some wandering vagrant. A drunk, perhaps.”

“I would advise against that.”

“Why?”

“Your Grace, the people won’t believe that one man caused such mayhem.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“That we simply allow the council to proceed.”

“I’ll damn my soul to hell rather than allow a common herd to tell me what should be done!” Luis shouted petulantly.

Garcia sighed. “Your Grace, you really must leave now if you want to greet the inquisitor’s caravan.”

Luis was relieved that the old duke wasn’t alive to see his town’s chaos or the arrival of the inquisitor. He’d always wondered if his father had secretly plotted with other Valencia nobles against the Holy Office and the monarchs. Many of his father’s old friends were rotting in prison or had been exiled after losing castles, lands, fortunes, and even the tunics on their backs. But Luis suspected that dissension against the Inquisition was still present in the shadows.
Stupid men,
he thought.
Those rebel nobles should be more like me, keeping my mouth shut and living a good life.

“What of the physician’s granddaughter?” Luis asked Garcia as they walked through the castle’s hallways.

“She is incarcerated, Your Grace.”

Luis was pensive for a moment and then said, “Good. Leave her there until I find forgiveness in my heart for her grandfather.”

“What of her impudence towards me? Should she not be punished for that?”

“Being in my prison is punishment enough. Did you find the hidden money in Cabrera’s house?”

“Yes, and it was a goodly amount.”

“Did you add it to my pile?”

“I did.”

For the first time that day, Luis laughed. “At least Cabrera had something of value to leave me. What fool tells another where his coin is hidden?” He remembered well the discussion he’d had with Saul Cabrera. It had begun on the day the old duke died. Luis had asked Cabrera about his granddaughter and whether she would be well taken care of should anything happen to him. Saul had gushed with pride and had been quite happy to divulge the whereabouts of his life savings.

Luis altered the position of his upturned peaked hat and the feathers stuck on top of it. He looked noble, and he would be a regal host. Now his only task was to please Gaspar de Amo. Pleasing him and getting money from him was all that mattered. He stopped in his tracks. What would please his father-by-law more than a public execution?

“Garcia, contact the mercenaries. Ride with them and find men to burn for the murders. I’ve come to a decision. I will not let the council or the townspeople spoil my son’s baptism or the inquisitor’s visit. Don’t come back to Sagrat until you have suspects in custody.”

“I think you’re making a big mistake,” Garcia said.

“And I think you are overstepping your position. Don’t question my decisions. This is what I want; and by God, this is what I’ll have! Leave me. You shall fix this outstanding inconvenience, my lord treasurer, or you’ll be finished in this town.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

David gazed at the young woman through the cell’s bars. She was a rare sight in this place. She was not the only woman presently incarcerated, but she was probably the most innocent, the others having been locked up for crimes of debauchery, theft, and adultery.

Sinfa, lying on the dirt floor in a corner, had her face turned towards the wall and her body curled, with knees at her chest. She would not be allowed to see anyone, David thought, continuing to watch her. Prisons were secretive places, barred to anyone but guards, attendants, and authorities. Conversing with prisoners was frowned upon. Visitors were not allowed, and unless food and water were being delivered, the incarcerated remained in permanent isolation. David had no valid reason to go inside the cell to speak to the Jewish girl, for the civilian men, paid by the magistrate’s office, attended to the prisoners. But he felt it his duty to protect her and to tell her that she had not been forgotten, at least not by him.

Looking along the passageway, he saw Paco. He sat with his legs up on a tabletop with his arms crossed over his chest, and he was fast asleep, judging by the sound of his snoring and lightly bobbing head. David smiled. Paco wouldn’t stir unless a rock fell on top of him. Turning the iron key, David pushed the creaky cell door open, entered, and then closed the door behind him.

Sinfa turned around to face the door. After sitting up, she put her back to the wall, pushed her hair from her face, and squinted in the flaming torchlight. “You were the one who brought me here,” she said pitifully to David.

David stood perfectly still and then slowly removed his helmet. “Yes, I did. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve brought bread.” Watching her stare at the bread with greedy eyes, still flashing with the anger he’d seen when she’d been arrested, he got the impression that she was trying to decide whether she wanted to accept his gift or not. “Pride is a lost cause. You have to eat if you want to survive in here,” he said forcibly.

“I would rather have my freedom,” Sinfa said, still eying the bread, “but I’ll take it and thank you all the same.”

“Here, take my cloak too. It’s freezing in here.”

Scowling now, she said, “You threw me in this cell. What do you care if I’m cold? No, I don’t want it … I would rather freeze to death.”

“And I would rather you lived.” Without waiting for permission, David put the cloak around her shoulders and reminded her, “I’m a soldier, and that means I have to follow orders, even the ones I don’t like. I can’t give you back your freedom, Sinfa, but I can make sure you get enough to eat and drink. I’ll do what I can to help you. I give you my word.”

“Why are you being so kind to me?” she asked suspiciously.

Because I know that your grandfather was murdered by the same man who wants you to rot in here,
he wanted to say. Instead, he told her, “You shouldn’t be here. This is an injustice.”

Between tears, Sinfa agreed. “I don’t know what I did wrong … There have been no charges laid against me. I’m innocent. That man should be in prison for hitting me.”

“I know that.”

“You do?”

She stood up and took a few hesitant steps towards him. “Would you deliver a message to Rabbi Rabinivitch? Everyone in the Jewry knows who he is,” she said. “Ask him to plead with the duke for my release. The duke will listen to him. I know he will. Would you do that for me?”

The duke was a whoreson, and he wouldn’t order her release, David thought. And Garcia would do everything in his power to keep her locked up, without allowing her the right to a defence lawyer. “I’ll see to it,” he said.

Watching her standing there sobbing and chewing at the same time, he wondered what else he could do for her. She was headstrong, and haughty for one so young, yet she looked like a frightened child who needed her mother’s arms around her. “I’ll come back with more food, and I’ll bring you a blanket,” he said awkwardly. “Keep the cloak around you. No one needs to know who gave it to you. It’s going to rain today, and the temperature in here will drop further. Eat the bread I brought you, and don’t refuse anything that’s given to you, not even pig’s meat. No one will be cruel towards you as long as you don’t insult the attendants. Keep that in mind.” With that said, he left with the sound of her weeping ringing in his ears.

Boots thumping, men’s voices, and the sound of iron grating as it was dragged along the passageway floor startled Paco and David, who were ladling thin gruel into their bowls. They stood, and looking in the direction of the noise, they saw the first of the Inquisition’s men-at-arms in the dim light. Wearing chain mail vests, white tunics with a single cross painted on them, red cloaks with the Inquisition’s emblem sewed onto the left hand, and shining helmets, they looked like foreign soldiers. Drawing their swords, David and Paco placed their feet in an offensive stance, and eyed the strangers.

“Identify yourselves!” Paco shouted in an unnecessarily loud voice.

“Lower your swords!” one of the men-at-arms shouted back, even though he had come within arm’s length of Paco and David.

David studied the man, trying to ascertain if he was comrade or adversary, friendly or aggressive. Looking past him, he saw five or six other men crowding the narrow passageway. “Well, who are you?” Paco asked again.

Puffing up his chest and looking offended at not being recognised, the man standing slightly in front of the others retorted, “You should know who we are. We’re the inquisitor’s familiars. My name is Raul Dávila. Who’s in charge here?”

“I am,” Paco answered gruffly. “This is the duke of Sagrat’s prison. By whose authority do you come prancing in here unannounced?”

“The Holy Office of Rome and the Inquisition,” Dávila said with great pomp. “The inquisitor, Gaspar de Amo, has already presented his credentials to your church and secular authorities.”

Paco glanced at David and then stared again at the man. “Familiars? Why do they call you that?”

“Our job is to know everybody’s business, including yours.”

Paco coughed uncomfortably. “So what can we do for you?” he asked with a bit more respect.

“You can do my bidding. We’re here to inspect your prison. For a start, I need a list of your provisions and prisoner names.”

Dávila’s words were interrupted by the sound of men groaning and heavy objects rattling and banging loudly against the walls.

“Make a path for them,” Dávila said to the men directly behind him.

David and Paco exchanged another glance. David suspected that Paco was thinking exactly the same thing that he was. It was blatantly apparent that they had just lost control of the duke’s prison.

Devices and furniture filled the guard post area. Tables, chairs, ropes, chains, and empty buckets were set down first. Two torture contraptions being carried by six men followed, but they were left farther down the passageway.

David opened his mouth and shuddered with repulsion at the sight of a long wooden framed device with chains and handles at each end. “What is that?” he asked Dávila.

“We call it the rack.”

Paco, looking just as curious as David, asked, “What does it do?”

“The heretic lies on the top of the wooden framed mattress. The prisoner has his hands and feet tied or chained to these rollers here, at one or both ends. Then our torturer turns the rollers with a handle, which pulls the chains or ropes a bit at a time and stretches the heretic’s joints. Sometimes they’re pulled out of place. I once saw a torturer continue to turn the rollers until the accused man’s arm was completely torn off.”

David felt sick. Paco’s face was drained of colour, and Dávila looked as though he had enjoyed shocking them.

“Your inquisitor hasn’t wasted any time in bringing his playthings, eh?” Paco said, clearly trying to inject a bit of humour into the man-at-arms’ tale of torture.

“He’s not my inquisitor. He’s Aragon’s inquisitor.”

“My apologies,” Paco muttered.

Accepting them, Davila continued. “You’ll give me and my men a tour of the prison, and when we’ve finished, we’ll need access to your keys. Show my man here a list of your prisoners’ names and tell him what crimes they’ve committed. You two can stay at your posts until the Inquisition formally takes over … Who are these people?” he asked, pointing to three prison attendants cowering in a corner.

“They attend to the prisoners’ needs. Our prisoners are mostly petty criminals. Only a few stay here long term,” Paco said. “I doubt the Inquisition will be interested in them.”

“These attendants can go home. They won’t be needed here anymore. As for the prisoners, the inquisitor is interested in every crime committed, whether they are sins against neighbours or God. All criminals have affronted our Lord and his church in some way or another. The inquisitor will decide whether the convicts are innocent or guilty.”

David was beginning to feel uncomfortable in the presence of men who had not once parted their lips in a smile. Thinking about Sinfa, he said, “We have a Jewish girl incarcerated. What will happen to her?”

“Our inquisitor has no interest in Jews. They have never been baptised; therefore, they cannot be called heretics,” Dávila said. “He cares only for his Christian flock. Your magistrate can deal with her as he sees fit.”

              David decided not to press the matter further. Taking a step back, he leaned against the wall with a passive expression. Listening to Paco and Dávila discussing what should be done first, he wondered what
would
happen to Sinfa. And what was going to happen to Sagrat and its people?