The Devils of Cardona (26 page)

“Why don't you just go directly to Vallcarca himself? He's only in Huesca. Go and arrest him.”

“On what basis? Speculation and supposition? If he does have anything to do with the Catalan, he has no reason to tell me. and I haven't enough evidence to arrest him for anything. I need witnesses, and Péris is the only one left.”

Ventura still looked unconvinced. “Béarn is a big place.”

“Péris's wife says there's an address in Pau where he usually stays. I'll be back in a week. I'll take Daniel as an escort. The rest of you can stay here. I need you to recover, cousin, so that I can send you back out into the field. I shall leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

“But you don't speak French. And the roads are dangerous.”

Mendoza smiled. “I know that, cousin. But I have an excellent guide.”

•   •   •

A
T
FIRST
LIGHT
THE
NEXT
DAY
, Gabriel saddled Ventura's Andalusian stallion, which his cousin had persuaded him to take with him. It was difficult even to make the fretting animal stand still, but Ventura insisted that Andaluz was more suited for a journey into the mountains than was Mendoza's own horse. Gabriel, Necker and Martín also watched them go, and Segura's entire family came to say good-bye to their father. Mendoza watched Segura embrace his children one by one and ignored the angry looks from Juana and the oldest sons. It was not pleasant to deprive a family of their father, but Mendoza needed to speak to Vicente Péris and Segura was the best man to help find him. Not only did he speak French, but he had also been to Béarn himself and knew the mountains well.

Segura had agreed that there was no other way to find out what had happened in Vallcarca and that a journey to Béarn might be the only thing that could save Belamar from an inquisitorial investigation, but Mendoza knew that one or all of them might not come back. It was also possible that they might not find Péris and that the entire journey might turn into a futile diversion. He had spent much of the night turning over these possibilities in his mind, and he dismissed them now as they trotted slowly down the road, past the trickle of peasants heading into the fields and out through the ravine toward the looming peaks and cliffs that separated them from France.

They followed the same route through the forest that the drovers had
taken before bearing off into the more inaccessible mountain paths with which Segura was surprisingly familiar. Mendoza was armed with a sword and pistol, and Daniel carried his escopeta in a saddle holster and wore a bandolier carrying powder bottles and pouches of ammunition. Even Segura had brought a sword and a pistol with him. But such weaponry would be of only limited use against a surprise attack, and Mendoza felt tense and vigilant as they climbed up through the folding valleys and steep slopes behind Sallent de Gállego toward the higher peaks.

By midmorning they were above the tree line, climbing paths that were so steep and precipitous that they were sometimes obliged to dismount and walk the horses to coax them forward. The Andalusian handled these climbs well, as Ventura had predicted, but he needed a strong hand and constant pressure, which soon made Mendoza's thigh ache once again. The sun was nearly overhead when Segura pointed out the twin peaks of the Pic du Midi in the distance and said that they would be in France by late afternoon. Soon the path began to even out, and they were able to look down at the cascading peaks and valleys behind and in front of them as they made their way across a wide plateau where the going was easier. Eventually they reached a small mountain lake.

Segura suggested that they stop to allow the horses to graze, and Mendoza did not object. He hadn't eaten all morning, and his leg was throbbing painfully. He hauled it over the saddle and stood rubbing his thigh while Daniel took off his leather jerkin and morion and knelt by the tarn, splashing water over his face.

“Something wrong, Alcalde?” asked Segura.

“An old wound. It doesn't like long rides.”

“I can give you something that might help.” Segura reached into his bag and produced a small bottle of dark liquid.

“What is it?” asked Mendoza, looking dubiously at the vial.

“Laudanum. Opium and alcohol. I've only recently started giving it to patients as a painkiller. Try it. I promise not to poison you.”

“You heard that, Constable?” Mendoza said as Segura measured out a teaspoon. “If I drop dead, I want you to arrest Dr. Segura immediately.”

“I will, sir,” Daniel replied.

“If the Turks couldn't kill you, I don't suppose there's any point in my trying,” Segura said.

“Well, it certainly tastes like death,” Mendoza grumbled as he drank it down. “On second thought, Constable, you have my permission to shoot him.”

“Yes, sir.” The militiaman forced a smile.

Daniel was normally the more sanguine of the two special constables, not difficult considering how permanently gloomy Martín seemed, but he, too, had looked downcast ever since Mendoza had given him the order to accompany them to France. Mendoza cupped his hands and drank from the lake to wash away the bittersweet taste of the laudanum, and they ate a lunch of figs and almond fritters with sugar and cinnamon that Juana had prepared for them.

“Gabriel tells me you are going to be married next year,” he said to the militiaman. “Is she pretty?”

“Pretty enough for me, sir.”

“And will she bear you many children?” Segura grinned.

“God willing.”

“Don't worry, son,” Mendoza assured him. “You will find your way to the marriage bed and have a houseful of children. And coming out here will get you back sooner.”

Daniel looked pleased, and Segura also smiled at him reassuringly.

“How is it that you know these paths so well?” Mendoza asked Segura.

“When I was a boy, my father used to take me on these paths when he went to France,” Segura said. “It's not what you think, Don Bernardo. Not everyone who crosses the frontier away from the main roads is a
contrabandista.
In 1513 His Majesty Fernando the Catholic himself signed a treaty with the king of France that allowed free passage across the frontier to
those who live closest to the roads—on both sides. My father was a stonemason, and a good one. The king of Navarre's mother, the late Queen Jeanne d'Albret, was among his clients, so he often came to Béarn to work, and sometimes I came with him.”

“Did you ever meet her?”

“I did. A most devout and saintly woman.”

“And a Lutheran, and an enemy of Spain who murdered Catholics and never accepted our annexation of her father's kingdom,” Mendoza said playfully.

“It is not for a country doctor to know the thoughts of queens and great princes, Licenciado. But many people dream of their lost kingdoms. It doesn't mean they have plans to recover them.”

“Do you ever dream of recovering yours, Doctor?” Mendoza asked.

“All of us have dreams, Don Bernardo. But I never spoke to the queen or her son about politics, nor did my father. He went to Béarn to work, not conspire.”

“Just like Péris. You Belamar Moriscos are well traveled.”

Segura did not look amused. “Indeed, Licenciado, but we always come back, because Spain is our home. Your page tells me you are from Granada.”

“My parents' house looked over the Alhambra. I played there as a child.”

“With Old Christians?”

“With Old Christians and Moriscos. Some of them I later fought against in the War of Granada.”

“And now you must prevent one here in Aragon,” Segura said.

“And I will. With your help.”

•   •   •

B
Y
THE
TIME
M
ENDOZA
remounted his horse, the pain was already beginning to recede. Soon they found themselves once again on level ground, and they made their way across a broad, windswept pass until
Segura told them that they were now in France. Below them the mountains stretched back as far as they could see, like a rolling green ocean broken by splashes of gray rocks and patches of snow, and Mendoza saw an eagle flying above them. Segura pointed out the Pic du Midi, its twin peaks looming in front of them, gnawing at the sky like a large, gaping mouth. Apart from Lepanto, Mendoza had never been outside Spain, and he felt light-headed and curiously indifferent to danger as they rounded the Pic du Midi and descended the thickly wooded slopes of the Valle d'Ossau, through a succession of narrow valleys and grassy meadows dotted with sheep and grazing cattle.

Soon they reached a long, winding path that ran roughly parallel to the Gave d'Ossau and led downward past stone shepherds' cabins and austere mountain villages that seemed even poorer than their counterparts on the other side of the frontier. As they descended, they encountered men and women carrying tools, piles of wood or wooden butter churns down from the high pastures or leading donkeys and mules laden with cheeses. The women were paler and more insipid-looking than their Aragonese counterparts, Mendoza thought, and they dressed differently, with handkerchiefs tied around their heads, their four corners pointed upward, and red capelets and peaked hoods. Many of the men were wearing blue shirts and berets, which they doffed respectfully when they saw Mendoza approaching on horseback.

Segura recommended that they spend the night in a village where he had stayed before, and they were approaching it when they saw a couple walking toward them accompanied by two barefoot children wearing little more than rags. The man was carrying a wooden toolbox, and as they moved deferentially to the edge of the road, Mendoza noticed that he had a large lump on the side of his neck and that all of them had the same identical badges that appeared to be a duck's foot sewn onto their tattered, patched-up clothes.

“What kind of people are those?” he asked.

“The people here call them Cagots,” Segura said. “Outcasts. They have their own villages, and they're allowed out of them only during the day. You saw the lump on his neck? That's a goiter. Many of them suffer from it. Their ancestors were lepers—at least that's what the locals in these parts believe. So they hate and persecute them. Of course, it's nonsense—these are inoffensive people. But then it seems that every country has its Cagots, wouldn't you agree, Licenciado?”

Mendoza merely grunted as they proceeded along a narrow dirt road that reeked of offal where chickens and enormous black pigs mingled with the human population, past drab houses with mostly glassless windows. The innkeeper greeted Segura warmly, but Mendoza was not at all surprised when the mayor announced that there was only straw to sleep on.

Supper was equally primitive, consisting of a bowl of millet porridge flavored with a greasy vegetable soup. Mendoza was dabbing at it without enthusiasm when an unshaven little man in a stained brown tunic and a red sash came into the room and greeted Segura in French. Segura explained that he was the village constable and that he'd come to ask for their names and the purpose of their visit.

“Ask him if he knows Vicente Péris,” Mendoza said.

To his surprise, the constable recognized the name and said that the wood-carver Péris had often come through the village. Only three days earlier, he had passed through once again and told everyone that he was on his way to Pau to ask the king of Navarre to grant him sanctuary from the Spanish tyrant Philip II. Mendoza ignored the ironic smile on Segura's face, but the straw bed seemed suddenly more bearable now that they had news of his quarry. He was about to retire when there was a knock on the door and a sallow young woman appeared with an equally unhealthy-looking child, whose left eye was swollen and completely closed.

Mendoza noticed the disapproval on the innkeeper's face and the duck's-foot badge on her dirty dress that marked her as a Cagot while Segura
spoke to her and knelt to examine the boy. He reached into his bag for another of his jars and applied some ointment to the boy's eye. The mother thanked him and kissed his hands, but no sooner had she left than there was another knock on the door. Within a few minutes, a line of patients of all ages stretched out into the street, and the innkeeper poured Segura a bowl of water as he pulled up a stool in front of the fire.

“You knew this was going to happen?” Mendoza asked.

Segura nodded. “There's no doctor up here, and most of these people can't afford one. So I always come prepared. I make only one condition: that I treat Cagots as well as villagers.”

Mendoza knew physicians in Valladolid who would never dream of treating anybody who could not afford to pay their fees, some of whom attended only wealthy patients, and he could not help admire the heretic doctor as he watched him working his way through the line of sickly patients. He was too tired to watch for long, however, and he and Daniel retired to their communal bed. On closing his eyes, he saw an extraordinarily vivid and strange procession of images passing through his mind like a series of frescoes. He saw Romanesque paintings of the apostles with almond-shaped eyes and beautifully folded cloaks and the Virgin Mary holding in her arms a pale, staring baby Jesus who already looked like a wise man.

He saw armies of Christians and Moors fighting on an open plain and heard the clash of swords and scimitars and the cries of the dying and the wounded. He saw an impossibly beautiful Salome who looked like Elena performing a sinuous dance to the music of lutes and vihuelas. At one point he opened his eyes, and he seemed to hear the music as if it were coming from outside the inn, and he was no longer sure whether he was awake or dreaming or whether the rats scuttling around in the darkness were real or imagined as he floated just above the world, in a very warm and pleasant place where he had never been before.

•   •   •

I
N
HIS
BEDCHAMBERS
IN
THE
A
LJAFERÍA
, the inquisitor Mercader lowered his nightshirt to his waist, knelt at the foot of the bed and flicked the birch rod sharply across his naked back. From the bedside table, the lantern illuminated his bony arms and chest as he whipped himself till his whole body was running with sweat and the image of the apprentice Juan Royo's nearly naked body stretched out on the rack like a beautiful Christ began to fade.