The Devils of Cardona (16 page)

“Tell them it's better than being dead. Now, untie him and leave me a piece of rope.”

The peasant obeyed, and Ventura slipped the rope around the stallion's neck. “Get on your horses and go before I change my mind,” he ordered. “And the first man who looks back will lose his face.”

The two smugglers hurried away up the path with their remaining
animals. Ventura waited till they had disappeared before leading his new acquisition back to the hill where he'd left his things. The stallion gave an agitated whinny as Ventura strapped on the saddle and fixed the bridle between the horse's teeth but did not resist, and as he mounted the animal and rode away, he decided that he would call him Andaluz.

•   •   •

N
O
SOONER
HAD
M
ENDOZA
left for Cardona than Gabriel began writing out his first report to send to the Marquis of Villareal. The thought that what he wrote would soon be in the hands of one of the king's ministers and perhaps the king himself was enough to ensure that he took special care to avoid mistakes as he sat bowed over the sloping bureau on Segura's desk. He tore up two versions before he decided that the results were good enough to satisfy his guardian. He had just finished sprinkling cuttlefish powder to dry out the wet ink when Segura came in and invited him to lunch.

The invitation came as a surprise, and before arriving in Belamar he would have thought twice about accepting it. But he was curious to see what a Morisco household looked like, especially if it was a house where Juana might be present. He spent the next three hours at their house, in a little room lined with mattresses and covered with silks, cushions and colored cloths, together with Segura, Juana and Segura's youngest son and two younger daughters. The meal consisted of bread, cheese and lentil soup, which Juana and her sisters brought on trays, and they ate from clay bowls on their laps.

Gabriel liked Segura and found his children charming and amusing, but it was Juana who interested him the most. In Valladolid all his classmates had been boys, and he rarely encountered girls or women except in the street. Most women in the city wore veils or covered their faces in public, and for some time now he'd been mildly surprised and disconcerted at how often he found himself surreptitiously peering at them or gazing at the
curtained carriages that passed through the street in the hope that their female passengers might briefly reveal themselves. On the journey up to Aragon, many women were not covered, and he found himself constantly staring even at the plainer ones.

Juana Segura was not plain at all. Even when she was not there, the thought of her olive skin and dark, serious eyes filled him with a secret excitement that grew even more intense when he was actually in her presence. He had never considered himself to be a boastful person, and his guardian had always frowned on any expression of vanity and self-importance, but now he found himself childishly seeking to impress her. When Segura's youngest daughter, Antona, asked him about Castile, he said that it was one of the richest and most powerful kingdoms on earth with the air of a man who had seen many kingdoms. He said that Valladolid was one of the great cities of the realm, where the king himself had once held his court, with wide streets, parks, squares and so many carriages that some days it was difficult to walk among them.

When Antona asked him to demonstrate his handwriting, he took out his pen and ink and wrote out a few sentences. All of them crowded around to admire his handwriting, except Juana, who only glanced at it indifferently. Segura complimented him on how elegant and straight it was and asked him if he was a professional scribe or notary. He told them that he was not and said that his guardian had allowed him to come with him as a special dispensation to prepare for his legal training as a notary. When Segura said he was lucky to have such a guardian, Gabriel was lavish in Mendoza's praises. The
licenciado
was the wisest and most fearless man he had ever met, he said, as gifted with the guitar, the vihuela and the drawing pen as he was with the sword, a man who thought about many things besides the law and knew the answer to almost any question on any subject.

If Juana was impressed by this, she gave no sign of it. When her awestruck younger sister Antona asked him what kind of clothes were worn
by the rich ladies and lords of Castile, she merely watched him with a faintly skeptical smile that made him feel like a braggart.

“Were you born in Valladolid?” Segura asked.

“No, I'm from Granada, like Don Bernardo. I was a foundling.”

“I didn't realize the
licenciado
was from Granada. And do you know who your parents were?”

“I don't. He never told me.”

“Haven't you ever asked him?” Juana said, looking at him in surprise.

Gabriel reddened. “Of course. Don Bernardo found me in an orphanage.”

“Is the
licenciado
married?” Segura asked.

“He is not, sir.”

“Yet he took you in, even though he has no wife? That is most Christian of him.”

“You might be a Morisco!” Juana looked amused at the thought.

“I don't think so,” Gabriel said.

“How can you be so sure if you don't even know who your parents were? How old are you?”

“Seventeen.” Gabriel felt himself becoming angry and defensive. “My guardian would have told me if my parents were Moriscos,” he replied firmly.

“Well, it's easy to find out,” Juana said with sudden bitterness. “Just prick yourself with a needle and see if your blood comes out black.”

“That's enough, daughter,” Segura said. “Let's be polite to our guest.”

Gabriel was surprised and confused by her acerbity, and he was relieved when Segura asked him if he wanted a game of chess. He considered himself a good chess player, but the older man quickly unraveled his defenses and checkmated him within fifteen minutes, before he had hardly time to realize how it had happened.

“Don't worry, son, I've been playing this game a long time,” Segura
said graciously. “But let me give you a tip. Most players concentrate too much on trying to take the queen, and they forget about the pawns. But sometimes the pawns are the most important pieces. Haven't I always told you that, Juana? You should play with her—she's better than me.”

Gabriel could not believe that a girl could be good at chess, let alone that Juana could be better than her father, and he felt under pressure to prove himself as the family sat and watched them intently. He tried to concentrate on the pieces, but it was difficult to think about anything except the solemn, dark-eyed beauty on the other side of the board, whose presence seemed to warm his blood as though it were being heated over a low flame. Checkmate was already looming once again when there was a loud knock on the door, and Segura went to answer it. Gabriel heard Necker asking for him and went to find the German waiting outside the doorway with Daniel.

“Licenciado Mendoza has been looking for you,” he said, regarding Gabriel disapprovingly. “He says you must bring your things with you. And Dr. Segura must come to the village hall for questioning immediately.”

Juana looked at her father in alarm, and Gabriel felt embarrassed and mystified as he followed the mayor and his escorts to the village hall, carrying his
escritorio
under his arm. Mendoza was sitting at his desk. He scowled at them as they came in and told Segura to sit down before he dismissed Necker and the militiaman.

“
Escribano
, take down Dr. Segura's deposition.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is something wrong, Your Honor?” Segura asked as Gabriel hurriedly laid out his writing materials.

“Two nuns were violated on the road between Cardona and Vallcarca by three Moriscos from Belamar yesterday evening. Did you know that?”

Segura looked aghast. “Of course I didn't know it. Do you know the names of these Moriscos?”

“Not yet. I thought you would.”

“Is that why you deemed it necessary to send an armed escort to bring me here?”

“Why didn't you tell me your daughter Susana was seduced by the priest?”

“She told you that?” Segura asked in dismay.

“She didn't need to say anything. It was written on her face when we spoke about him.”

Segura looked out the window with a desolate expression. “He didn't seduce her. He raped her,” he said. “She was fourteen. Just as he raped her mother. My wife died in childbirth having his baby. The child died, too. So no, I didn't tell you, Your Honor. Because there are some things a man doesn't want the world to know about.”

“Do your children know about this?” Mendoza asked.

“No. I told them the child was mine. But the countess found out from Susana what had happened. She took Susana as her servant to get her away from that animal.”

Gabriel had stopped writing. In that moment the world itself seemed a sadder, nastier place that was filled with dark possibilities he had not previously imagined.

“Continue writing, scrivener. Some people might ask why you didn't kill Panalles,” Mendoza said more gently, “after what he did to your family.”

“It was because of my family that I didn't kill him,” Segura replied. “Do you think they would have given me a pardon—a Morisco who'd killed a priest? And who would look after my children if I died or went to prison? Sometimes neither revenge nor justice is possible, Your Honor, and a man must learn to live without either and trust in the will of God to put things right in the next world if not in this one. Now, with your permission, I would like to find out the names of these three Moriscos.”

Half an hour later, Segura returned and said that several Moriscos had left the town three days before and still had not returned to their homes.
Their names were Vicente Péris, a wood-carver, a carpenter named Pedro Navarro, and his apprentice, Juan Royo.

“What do you know about these men?” Mendoza asked.

“That they would never have done anything like this. Péris is a family man. He has two young children. Navarro has five. And Juan Royo is only seventeen. I don't even know why they would have gone to Vallcarca together. None of them had any business there.”

“Have any of them ever been convicted by the Inquisition or the secular justices?”

“Yes. Navarro and Péris spent three years in the galleys for blasphemy. Péris was flogged and lost his house.”

“So they weren't that virtuous after all.”

“The evidence against them came from Panalles and the baker.” Segura pronounced the last word with particular contempt.

“You're saying the charges were all false?”

“I'm saying that they might not always have been good Christians, but they aren't rapists. May I return to my family now, Your Honor?”

•   •   •

T
HE
NEXT
DAY
Mendoza and Gabriel went to interview the families of the three men. Navarro and Royo were almost neighbors, and their families said that the two of them had gone together to the Huesca market to buy tools. Péris's wife said that her husband had gone to Teruel to work and had not said anything about going to Vallcarca. Their houses were poorer and more primitive than Segura's. Péris's house had almost no furniture except for a small table and two benches, and the dirt floor was covered with rush matting. His wife was pregnant, and an anxious-looking toddler hovered by her skirts as she tearfully insisted over and over again that her husband had no reason to be in Vallcarca, that he was a good man who cared only about his family.

“Do you believe her?” Mendoza asked Gabriel as they walked away.

“I don't know, sir. Her tears seemed real enough.”

“Just because a woman cries, that doesn't mean she's telling the truth, boy. And there's something she isn't telling me. Something all of them aren't telling—something that's under the surface of this damned village. Did you notice anything about their houses?”

“They were poor?” Gabriel suggested.

“They had no religious images. No pictures of the Virgin. Not even a crucifix.”

“Maybe they can't afford them.”

“Or maybe they don't want them in their homes.”

“Do you think one of these three men could be the Redeemer?”

“It's possible. Come. Let's speak to this baker.”

They returned to the town hall and dispatched Necker to summon Romero, who appeared a few minutes later, still wearing his apron.

“You wanted to see me, Your Honor?” he asked.

“Yes. Do you know Vicente Péris or the carpenter Pedro Navarro and his apprentice?”

“Of course. Péris was arrested for blasphemy and for possession of an Arabic manuscript. The carpenter Navarro was also punished by the Inquisition.”

“Did you denounce them?” Mendoza asked.

“I gave evidence to the Inquisition prosecutor, Your Honor.”

“What evidence?”

“With respect, Your Honor. It is illegal for anyone who testifies to the Holy Office to share the contents of his testimony with anyone else.”

“His Majesty King Philip would appreciate and will undoubtedly reward your cooperation.”

Romero's eyes gleamed hungrily, and his wary arrogance was replaced by a sudden animation. He admitted that he had played a minor part in the arrests of Péris and Navarro. He had seen them grimace and look away from the host when Father Panalles offered the Holy Sacrament on various
occasions. He had observed the carpenter Navarro giggling when the priest mentioned the Immaculate Conception and had witnessed him in the forest washing his face and hands and kneeling on the ground to pay homage to the false prophet Muhammad. Both men had been punished by the Holy Office for these offenses, he said, but those were only the offenses the Inquisition had been able to prove.