The Devils of Cardona (21 page)

•   •   •

N
ECKER
AND
V
ENTURA
rode together to the point where the robbery had taken place, and the German then returned to Belamar with the Andalusian in tow, leaving Ventura to continue the rest of the journey on foot. He had an excellent memory for landscape and had no difficulty retracing
his steps to the spot where he had seen the bandits emerge from the forest three days before. He took with him the same supplies he had once carried on similar solo reconnaissance missions in the Alpujarras: a small knapsack with a day's worth of food, a few extra balls and powder for his pistols and a cape to use as a blanket. In addition to the pistols, sword and parrying dagger, he also carried a smaller knife in his boot and a crossbow, as well as a quiver stuffed with extra arrows draped around his shoulder.

The opening through the forest was not visible from a distance, but he soon located a wide natural pathway that led into a forest of towering oak and beech trees. At first it was easy to follow the trail the bandits had taken, from the broken branches, trampled vegetation and occasional articles of clothing or strips of material that they had dropped or discarded. After a while the tracks became less frequent, but the trail remained fairly obvious as the forest opened up into rockier and more inaccessible terrain, bisected by steep canyons, high cliffs and streams and mountain lakes that he was obliged to wade or jump across.

From the sun's position, he calculated that he was moving northeast, away from Belamar toward Cardona and Vallcarca. He continued to keep himself concealed as much as possible, walking alongside or around the path that he thought the bandits had taken, but there were times when no tree or rock cover was available and he had to walk out in the open, uncomfortably conscious that he was visible to anyone who might be watching. By midday the sun was directly overhead and shade was scarce, and he was dripping sweat even after he'd discarded his leather doublet and stripped down to his shirt.

To keep himself cool, he wore a head scarf, which he periodically dipped in water, but it was hard-going in the heat without a horse, harder even than the Alpujarras had been. Whether it was because he was getting older or because he had spent too much time in Madrid taverns, his body felt
heavy and stiff, and he stopped frequently to catch his breath. As always these signs of weakness irritated him and spurred him to walk even faster in an effort to overcome them. It was not until around two o'clock that he found himself walking in forest once again, and finally he decided to take advantage of the shade to eat something. He sat down with his back to a tree in a small clearing and ate some of the bread, figs and hard manchego cheese that Beatriz had given him. He smiled momentarily at the thought of her voluminous hips enveloping him as the priest's bed creaked beneath them like a ship on a rough sea, when he heard the sudden scrabbling movement coming through the undergrowth toward him.

He drew his sword and crouched down in readiness as the boar came bursting out of the trees, snorting and grunting. It was a large animal, as large as any he had hunted. He barely had time to take in the stiff mud-covered hair, the long snout and wide tusks before it leaped toward him, and he rolled sideways and thrust the blade upward into its exposed throat. The animal squealed and collided with the tree before rolling over on its side. Ventura rammed the blade repeatedly into the writhing body until it finally lay motionless. He was still getting his breath back when a voice from behind him said, “Drop your sword and unbuckle your belt.”

He did as he was told, and the voice ordered him to drop the belt with the dagger and the two pistols and turn around slowly with his hands in the air. Ventura turned to find himself facing two men. The man who had spoken was sitting on a horse, holding the reins in one hand and a crossbow pointed at Ventura's chest in the other. His companion had been riding pillion and now jumped to the ground beside him to hold a short broadsword at waist height. His hair was covered in a head scarf, and he held his weapon as though he knew how to use it, with his feet at the correct distance apart and his free arm stretched out to the side for balance. They might have been bandits or smugglers or both, Ventura thought, but they were certainly not shepherds. Already he was calculating the number
of steps he would have to take, because he knew that neither of them could leave the forest alive and that everything would be decided within the next few minutes.

“Good day, gentlemen,” he said, slowing down his breathing to keep his mind clear.

“What are you doing here?” demanded the man with the crossbow.

“Hunting.” Ventura nodded at the bloody carcass.

“With pistols like these?” His companion bent and picked up one of the guns while keeping his own trained at a point just above Ventura's groin. “These are gentlemen's pistols,” he said. “Flintlocks, too.”

He held one of the pistols toward the man on the horse. In a single swift movement, Ventura reached down and drew the short dagger from his boot and pulled the swordsman toward him by his shirt, plunging the blade into his solar plexus. The swordsman barely let out a cry before he went limp, but Ventura continued to hold him upright, shielding himself from the dead man's companion, who was circling around them trying to get off a shot with the crossbow. As soon as the arrow thwacked into the ground behind Ventura, he pushed the body away and stabbed the rider in his right thigh.

The horseman cried out in pain and tried to wheel the horse away, but Ventura was all over him now, pulling him down and stabbing him repeatedly. Even after the man was on the ground, Ventura continued to stab him until he, too, lay motionless. When Ventura looked up, the horse had bolted, and he heard it crashing through the forest. He had no idea if there were any other men in the vicinity who might come looking for their companions, and he quickly dragged the two bodies out of sight and gathered up his weapons before hurrying away from the scene, half running and half walking till he came to a stream, where the horse had stopped to drink.

He removed its saddle and slapped its flank with the blade of his sword to send it back in the direction he had come from, then paused to wash his face and hands before continuing to follow the trail.

•   •   •

I
N
THE
MIDAFTERNOON
he saw the thin trail of smoke rising in the distance, and he took special care to avoid unwanted scrutiny, climbing and scrambling up rocks to avoid the obvious paths or crawling on all fours through more exposed areas. The smoke was coming from another forested slope on the other side of a wide valley, and he scanned the trees and rocks for pickets and sentries as he continued to walk parallel to a distinct and clearly well-used path till he heard the sound of cattle and human voices up ahead. He waited until it was nearly dark before continuing forward, weaving through the trees and crawling on his belly for the last few yards until he was looking out across a large clearing overlooking a stream.

Dozens of men were moving around in the dusk or sitting around campfires and primitive bivouacs made from branches, with pyramid-shaped stacks of weapons protruding outside them. He estimated that there were fifty or sixty of them altogether, including some women, in addition to horses, mules and grazing cattle. They did not seem to be concerned about being discovered, and there were no sentries that he could see. The only concessions to security were the large Pyrenean mountain dogs, which seemed more interested in the cattle than in any potential intruders.

At this point his mission had been accomplished. He had found the camp where the men who'd attacked the tailors' carriage had come from, he knew how large it was, and all he had to do was retreat into the forest, retrace his steps the following day and make his way back to Belamar to pass this information on to his cousin. But as in Granada and many other places, success filled him with the same desire to go further and find out even more, the same desire that had led him to enter Purchena and the Morisco villages disguised as a Morisco and cross the picket lines of rebel camps in Flanders.

He waited until it was completely dark and then left his pack behind a tree to walk casually out into the clearing, with the crossbow tucked under
his cloak. He moved without haste, adjusting his pace to the slow rhythm of the camp, keeping back from the campfires so that his face could not easily be seen.

Some of the men were sharpening knives and swords, others playing cards and dice. Many of them were drinking wine or brandy, and a few were clearly the worse for wear. Such behavior might equally have been found among bandits or rebels. Even the Moriscos of Granada sometimes drank alcohol, despite Aben Humeya's strict orders, but unlike in Granada, here he heard no Arabic, only Spanish and a similar language that he guessed must be Aragonese. And the Moriscos of Granada had had officers and men who looked and acted like soldiers. He had just recognized some faces from the attack on the tailors, sitting by a fire a few yards away from him, when a stout little man crashed against him in the dark and would have fallen over had he not caught him.

“Thank you, brother!” The man giggled foolishly and offered him the open bottle. “Baltasar Plata is indebted to you, sir! Let's drink to the Moriscos! May every last one of them burn in hell!”

“Hombre, you said it.” Ventura took a swig and handed it back to him. “The sooner the better.”

“God willing! I didn't leave my flock for nothing.”

“You're a shepherd, friend?” Ventura asked.

“I am. And there are more of us coming! We're going to exterminate these infidels. And if we fuck some of their women first, who's to say we didn't deserve it!”

“Well, it's one way to baptize them!” Ventura said.

The shepherd laughed so much he nearly fell over backward. Just then a tall bearded man in a black cap and wearing a pistol in his belt came toward them and shouted in an authoritative voice that the jefe wanted to speak to them all. Baltasar Plata lurched unsteadily toward the biggest campfire, and Ventura followed cautiously behind him. All around the campsite, men were converging on the same spot, until they were gathered
in a large, unruly group in front of the fire, where a tall and better-dressed man in a broad hat, folded on one side, was standing on a log in front of the fire. Ventura saw the silver mace hanging from his belt and recognized the man who had led the attack on the tailors' carriage as he raised his arms for silence.

“Has anyone seen Paco or El Mozo?” he asked. “They went out hunting this morning, and they haven't come back to camp.”

“Probably too drunk to stay on their horses!” called one of the bandits.

“Gone whoring in Vallcarca!” shouted another.

The jefe raised his hand again, and the laughter abruptly ceased. “This isn't a joke. Some of you are new to these mountains, but let me tell you that anyone who leaves camp or stays away without permission can expect punishment! If you ride with us, you carry out my orders! Is that understood?”

The Catalan nodded with satisfaction as his listeners murmured their assent. “Now, I know that some of you
montañeses
have been wondering why you left your flocks,” he went on. “You came here to fight Moriscos, and you haven't been doing it. Well, tomorrow some of you will get your chance. Tomorrow, like the Cid's, your blades will drink infidel blood! For Spain and Saint James!”

All around him Ventura heard whoops and cheers of approval, and some members of the camp raised swords and fists and echoed back the Moorslayer's name. The Catalan was just explaining that only half the camp would be required and that he would be selecting them first thing the next morning when Ventura noticed a man standing in the entrance to a large bivouac observing the proceedings. The bivouac was set so far back that his face could not be seen, and it was only because one of the bandits behind the Catalan raised his torch to cheer that Ventura even made him out at all. Ventura was about to move around the group to get a better look at him when he was dazzled by a torch directly in front of his face.

“Son of a whore, I thought it was you!”

Ventura recognized the triumphant face of the smuggler Rapino, whose horse he had taken only three days before, and he knew he was in trouble.

“This
cabrón
is an
alguacil
!” Rapino shouted. “Hold him!”

Ventura drew one of his pistols and shot the smuggler in the stomach, then lashed out with the barrel as one of Rapino's companions tried to grasp his sleeve. All around the camp, men were swarming like angry bees as he ran as fast as he could from the shouts and barking dogs and into the forest.

aron Vallcarca normally enjoyed spending the summer at his father-in-law's country house outside Huesca. The house and its gardens were large enough for him to keep the necessary distance from his wife and children and close enough to Huesca and Jaca for him to see the women he preferred to see. His father-in-law also owned a hunting lodge, where he was able to receive them at a discreet distance from the house itself. Some summers he spent half the week hunting while his servants passed messages and letters back and forth and made the necessary arrangements. If his wife had any idea who came and went, she never gave any indication of it, and in any case she knew better than to visit him there without permission or to ask him questions about how he spent his time.

Her father had long since ceased to ask anyone questions about anything. He was almost senile and spent his
days sitting on the terrace gazing out at his orchards or taking baby steps around the garden with the help of one of his servants. Every time the baron saw him, he hoped that it would be the last, and each summer he was always mildly surprised and disappointed to find the old man still sitting on the patio with the blanket on his legs, still smiling the same half-witted smile.

The old man sat beside him now, gazing out across the fountain and the lemon trees toward the setting sun with an expression of blissful serenity that might have been admirable in a saint but in Vallcarca's father-in-law's case merely confirmed his disintegration into a simpleton. Vallcarca did not feel serene himself as he looked beyond the lemon and orange trees toward the spreading sunset that lit up the horizon like a forest fire. He watched the carriage and its escort approach the entrance beyond the rows of eucalyptus trees, and his jaw tightened with anger at the sight of his eldest son riding among them.

As the carriage and horsemen came closer, the baron saw that his son was accompanied by his servants, and long before he saw the wide mouth and fleshy lips, he could hear him braying like a donkey.

“Matilde!” he called. “They're here! Tell the servants.”

Vallcarca's father-in-law looked at him with vague curiosity as the baron's wife obediently came out of the house, accompanied by three servants, and adjusted the blanket on his lap. Vallcarca took her arm, and they went down the stairs to await their guests. A few moments later, the carriage came to a halt and one of the riders dismounted and opened the door for the Marquis of Espinosa.

Vallcarca considered himself to be a keen judge of human nature, even though his view of humanity was essentially predatory and concerned with whom he might be able to dominate and who might be a threat to him. He had recognized immediately that Licenciado Mendoza belonged to the latter category. The father of the late Count of Cardona was another matter. Even his letters carried the faint whiff of perfume and talcum powder, and
it was much stronger in the flesh. A man who smelled like a woman would always bend to the will of a stronger man. Even his soft hands conveyed the malleability of an aristocrat who had spent too much time gambling in the Houses of Conversation in Toledo and Madrid and was too weak to recognize when his vice had become a sickness that was destroying him. And it was precisely his sickness that made him useful, Vallcarca thought as he gripped the older man's boneless white hand and smiled at him.

“Marquis. How good of you to come. It's been a long time.”

“It has indeed, Baron. And what a pleasant surprise to find my future son-in-law on the same road.”

Vallcarca bowed slightly and ignored his son's complicit smirk as Espinosa kissed his wife's hand.

“You must be tired, Don Alfonso. My servants will show you to your room. When you've refreshed yourself, come down to the drawing room and we can discuss the happy matter that most concerns us.”

“It will be a pleasure, sir.”

Vallcarca waited until his wife and servants had disappeared with Espinosa and his entourage. It was only then that he looked at his son.

“Come inside,” he ordered.

Rodrigo's smile immediately vanished, and he looked wary now as he followed Vallcarca past his father-in-law into the drawing room.

“Well?” Vallcarca demanded.

“It was done as you asked, sir. But there was one minor difficulty.”

Vallcarca looked at him.

“One of the alcalde's men was in the camp.”

“Did they catch him?”

“No. But they will. In any case he didn't see me.”

“What makes you so sure?” Vallcarca had his back to his son now and casually picked up a leather whip from a table and began winding it around his hand so that the handle was protruding like a club.

Rodrigo's smirk returned. “Because I didn't reveal myself. He couldn't—”

Vallcarca swung around and struck his son a vicious blow across the face with the leather handle. Rodrigo yelped and held up his hands to protect himself, but his father now began to flail at his head and shoulders till he dropped to his knees and covered his head with both hands. Finally Vallcarca stopped and stood panting over his son, who looked at him with an expression of pain and fury.

“I didn't know he was going to be there!” Rodrigo wailed.

“Why didn't you tell me you tried to fight Mendoza?”

“I didn't think it was important!”

“You didn't think it was important,” Vallcarca repeated disgustedly. “You threatened one of the king's judges! He could have arrested you, and that would have drawn attention to me, which I don't want! But you didn't think of that, did you? Were you at the farm, too?”

“Of course. To see that the work was done well.”

“I don't need you to do that, boy. What if you'd been seen there? From now on you don't go anywhere without my orders and you do not exceed them. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” A red weal was beginning to appear on Rodrigo's face.

“Good,” Vallcarca said. “Now, get out of my sight.”

•   •   •

T
HE
DAY
AFTER
THE
MASSACRE
, the town crier informed the population of Belamar that Her Excellency the Countess of Cardona had invited anyone who wished to pray for the souls of the murdered family to attend a special Mass at her own church the following Sunday. Mendoza had already resolved to go to church in one of the villages, but he decided to go to Cardona instead. That morning Segura's two sons unexpectedly brought a wooden tub into the kitchen and boiled a pot of water on the fire so that
he and Gabriel were finally able to bathe. Afterward Juana came and took away their dirty clothes, and later that afternoon they came back from another visit to the del Río farm to find those clothes dried and neatly folded.

On Sunday morning, he woke feeling clean and surprisingly rested. Gabriel polished his shoes and brushed off the ruff that he'd brought with him, which had just about retained its shape. Necker had also managed to brush himself down till he looked almost presentable, and they left the two militiamen to maintain an official presence and made their way toward Cardona. On the road they passed dozens of Moriscos, including Segura and all his children. Most were on foot and had set out early to get there in time. Others rode mules and horses or sat in carts dressed in their best clothes.

By the time they arrived, a large crowd was already gathered around the entrance to the church, and they left their animals with one of the hostlers and went inside. Like its exterior, the inside of the church was considerably grander than the church in Belamar, with an elaborate gilt retablo depicting scenes from the Passion, and carved wooden benches for the choir, and thick stone pillars and high walls lined with statues, shrines and chapels, decorated with gold and silver and fine bas-reliefs of martyred saints. Most of the benches were already filled, and extra chairs had been brought in, but soon these were also taken, and many of the congregants were forced to stand. The front bench had been left empty, and a murmur spread through the congregation when the countess appeared in the doorway, accompanied by her daughter, Carolina, together with the bailiff Sánchez, Susana and two other servants.

Mendoza turned to watch as she dipped her hand in the baptismal font and made the sign of the cross. She was wearing a long hooded cloak that reached from head to toe, and she pushed the hood back to reveal a black widow's manto that left only her mouth exposed. As she entered the church, the poorer Moriscos crowded around her with expressions of devotion and supplication, and some of the older women kissed the hem of her cloak
before the countess continued to walk down the aisle with her gaze fixed firmly on the altar and the cross.

This was the first Mass that Mendoza had been to since leaving Valladolid and the first that he had attended since Granada in which so many congregants were Moriscos. Most of them seemed attentive and joined in the prayers and responses as if they knew them. Others looked more uncertain and seemed to be merely mouthing the words or copying what others were saying. It was impossible to tell from their outward appearance whether they really believed in what they were hearing or whether they were only pretending to, but the same could be said of many Old Christians or of the criminals he had arrested and punished in Valladolid who went to Mass every Sunday and confessed to their most recent sins before committing new ones.

Piety, like virtue, was not always detectable from the outside, he thought, and even its visible manifestations could not always be taken at face value. In Valladolid there were women who went to church and sighed as if they were fit to swoon in order to impress their neighbors; there were shady lawyers who ostentatiously went to receive Communion and seemed to assume that merely being seen to receive the sacrament was enough to cleanse their reputations as well as their souls. Mendoza had no doubt that the countess was sincere, however, as he watched her lips moving beneath the manto and the rapt attention that she brought to every part of the service.

The theme of Father García's sermon was reconciliation and forgiveness. He quoted from 1 John 2:11: “for he that hateth his brother is in darkness, and walketh in darkness, and knoweth not whither he goeth, because that darkness hath blinded his eyes” and exhorted Old and New Christians in the congregation to come together in the love of Jesus Christ and reject the hatred that had now manifested itself in such a terrible form at the del Río farm.

Mendoza doubted that the message would have any impact on those
responsible for the massacre, but the countess's fervent attention suggested that she genuinely believed it might. She exuded the same humility, sincerity and innocence when she walked toward the altar and knelt down to take Communion with her head bowed. After the service he came out onto the steps to find her dispensing coins to the beggars who hovered around the entrance. In Valladolid pious ladies of high degree generally avoided contact with the humbler inhabitants of the city even during Holy Week, but the countess appeared to treat both the poorest and the better-off congregants with equal consideration.

She seemed particularly keen to speak to the relatives of victims of the massacre, and he watched her take the hand of an elderly Morisca whose daughter had been married to Gonzalo del Río and been killed at the farm and murmur words of comfort and condolence in her ear. Mendoza wanted to pay his respects, but so many people clustered around her that it was difficult to find the right moment. She also spent some time in conversation with Segura, who seemed to be doing most of the talking. At one point she glanced in Mendoza's direction, and he was just about to approach her when she turned away and walked back toward the palace with her retinue. Even though he did not generally stand on the dignity of his office, he felt put out by her indifference and told Gabriel to give a coin to the hostler as he prepared to leave. He was just about to mount his horse when Sánchez came walking briskly across the square toward them and announced that his mistress wished to see him at the palace in half an hour.