The Devils of Cardona (32 page)

Throughout the ride out of the Ossau Valley and up into the high mountains, Mendoza felt reasonably confident that no one would want to ambush an escort of ten well-armed Béarnese cavalry in a country where reinforcements were easily available. Aragon was a different matter. From the moment their escort left them on the French side of the Somport Pass and he saw that there was no escort waiting for them, he knew that their prospects of survival had suddenly receded.

When Mendoza was a child, his father had sometimes entertained and frightened him by making the shapes of animals and monsters with his fingers in the candlelight, casting shadows across the walls that sometimes seemed much bigger than his hands. Now he knew that the Redeemer was like these shadows—a reflection cast by someone else's hand, a hollow man like the carnival giants of kings, queens and warriors, their papier-mâché faces propped up on costumed wooden frames carried by men whose own faces could not be seen.

None of this was reassuring, because Péris's murder made it clear that the Catalan was not the only one carrying the Redeemer's frame. And if Sánchez was responsible, then he could not take the risk that Péris had told them what he knew, and that meant that they could not be allowed to return to Cardona. The realization that he felt safer in the heretic lands of the Huguenot king than he did in his own country filled him with a sense of irony that he did not enjoy. He felt angry at Calvo's inability to perform even this simple task, until the Spanish customs officers told them that a French post rider had been killed farther down the Jaca road early the previous morning.

With no prospect of an escort, they could either stay where they were and send a customs officer to get help or make their way back themselves. But Sánchez's men were almost certainly watching the road, and an isolated customs post was no defense against the assault that would most likely follow if they remained there. Their best course of action was to leave the road that crossed the mountains by a route of Segura's choosing. Segura had already reached the same conclusion, and they set off at an unhurried pace down the winding road that descended from the pass. It was an overcast and windy day, and puffs of low-lying gray clouds drifted through the upper valleys, obscuring the higher peaks. As soon as the customs post was out of sight, Segura wheeled his horse away from the road. They followed him at speed down a steep slope and then climbed upward once again toward a long ridge, where they paused to catch their breath.

On the opposite side of the valley from the road, they saw the seven black shapes coming down the slope behind them. Segura dismounted and led his horse downward, below the level of the ridge, so that they could not be seen. Despite his age, the mayor moved surprisingly quickly through the mountains even on foot, and it was an effort for Mendoza and Daniel to keep themselves and their horses upright as they followed him.

On reaching the bottom, they rode rapidly along rough but reasonably flat ground before ascending once again. The next two hours followed the same remorseless and exhausting pattern as they climbed and descended only to ascend once again, sometimes on foot and sometimes on horseback, in an attempt to increase or at least maintain the distance between themselves and their pursuers, but whenever they reached a high vantage point, they could see the cluster of horsemen coming toward them.

In the midafternnoon the weather came to their rescue when a thick mist enveloped the mountains, so that they were barely able to see more than a few yards in front of them. Segura insisted that they keep going on foot, and they continued to follow the seemingly haphazard trajectory in and out of gorges and valleys, leading their horses by the reins. All this was more physically demanding than anything Mendoza had done in years, and the pain in his leg was excruciating, but Segura no longer had any laudanum to give him. After an hour the mist cleared, and they got back on their horses and continued to press on, pausing only to refresh themselves and their animals at the occasional stream or river before threading their way downward through thick forests and ravines where they would not be visible from a distance.

•   •   •

N
OT
SINCE
THE
A
LPUJARRA
MOUNTAINS
had Mendoza felt so far from safety, law and civilization. But in Granada he had fought as a soldier in the royal army to suppress a Morisco rebellion against the Crown. Now his survival depended on the ability of a Morisco doctor to lead them
through a wilderness infested by unknown enemies who were trying to kill him for reasons he did not even understand. And Segura was not infallible. He had lost his original route in the mist, and the continual cloud cover made it difficult to reorient themselves as they zigzagged back and forth in an attempt to find their way down through the mountains.

It was nearly dark when they finally stopped in a small clearing at the edge of a forest of beech and sycamore trees, where they allowed the horses to graze. Segura said that it was pointless to go on in the dark when he was not sure where he was. Besides, it was unlikely that anyone else would look for them at night, and so they set up camp just inside the forest in a spot where they could see anyone who approached it without being seen themselves. They ate some bread and hard French cheese that they had brought with them from Pau and took turns keeping watch throughout the night.

Mendoza was unable to manage more than a brief doze even when he lay on the hard ground beneath his blanket. Most of the time he sat against a tree with his weapons by his side, listening to the whirring insects and the countless inexplicable sounds issuing from the dark forest as the hours passed interminably. Daniel was also restless, looking up repeatedly at the fluttering of wings or the sound of a snapping twig even when it was not his watch.

Only Segura managed to catch some sleep, and he looked almost rested when they continued their progress at first light. The sky was clear, and when the sun came up, he quickly established that they had drifted too far east. By midmorning they had reached the Somport-Jaca road again, and Mendoza decided to go directly to Jaca and seek help from the corregidor rather than attempt to cross the countryside to Belamar. The road was almost flat now, and they'd been riding for about half an hour when a group of mounted men blocked the road in front of them.

Once again they jabbed their heels into their sweating horses and drove them off the road and onto the nearby trail that led up through the low foothills toward the Gállego River. The pursuit continued for more than
thirty minutes up the hill and down into another shallow valley, which funneled out into a steep gorge before them.

“Stop when you reach the entrance!” Mendoza shouted as he passed Daniel. On reaching the gorge, he reined in the stallion and waited for the others to catch up.

“Constable, dismount and load your weapon,” he ordered.

“We'll never be able to fight that many,” Segura protested.

“No, but we can slow them down. Take the horses into the gorge and wait for us around the corner.”

Segura did as he was told while Daniel slipped the escopeta from its holster and gathered some leaves and dry twigs. The riders were visible now as he rubbed the flint and steel together till they caught fire. Mendoza had seen infantrymen who were able to load and fire a harquebus at two shots a minute even in the heat of battle, but he had also seen men set fire to their own powder and blow themselves up through their excessive haste or place the match cord too high or too low in the serpentine so that it missed the powder and failed to ignite. So far he had only seen Daniel fire off practice shots during the ride up from Valladolid. He was accurate enough, but not as fast as Martín, and Mendoza was not even sure that he could get off a shot before the horsemen reached them.

He noticed that Daniel's hand was trembling as he held the rope match against the tiny flame until it began to smolder and he carefully placed it in the serpentine before uncapping the powder bottle and tilting some powder into the firing pan and into the barrel. He glanced at the horsemen racing toward them across the open plain and unhooked the ramrod and dropped a ball into the barrel and pushed it down. The riders were now close enough to make out their faces and the color of their clothes as Daniel leaned the carbine against a rock and rested the stock against his shoulder.

“Steady, now,” Mendoza murmured. “Don't rush it.”

Daniel peered down the barrel and carefully cocked the serpentine, checking the alignment with the flash pan. The horsemen did not appear to
have seen them, and they were still riding hard toward the gorge when he pressed the trigger and the serpentine snapped downward and brought the smoldering cord onto the powder. The gun jerked backward with a loud explosion and emitted a cloud of smoke, and one of the horsemen let go of the reins and seemed to raise his arms to the sky in a gesture of supplication or protest before falling backward and over to one side.

“Well done!” Mendoza congratulated him.

Daniel was already reloading, and his hands were no longer shaking as the horsemen fanned out now behind the dead bandit's horse. They had clearly not expected to be shot at, and one of them fired a pistol in their direction, even though they were out of range. Another was waving his arms and shouting out instructions.

“Get the one in the leather hat,” Mendoza said. “He's the leader.”

Daniel squeezed the trigger, and once again the gun leaped and exploded in his arms. The leader's horse now buckled beneath him and tottered to one side, throwing him to the ground, and they watched him scramble around on all fours to shelter behind the fallen body. The other riders were also seeking cover, and the leader was signaling toward both sides of the valley.

“They're going to try to get around us,” Mendoza said. “We need to go.”

They ran back to where Segura was waiting with the horses and climbed into the saddles, guiding the animals as fast as they could across the rock-strewn floor. The gorge was not especially deep, but the steep, near-vertical walls cast them almost completely in shadow. Mendoza fully expected to hear voices or horses behind him at any moment, but apart from their own animals the gorge was silent and the bandits still did not seem to have realized that they were no longer at the entrance. After a few minutes, the path began to rise up in a gradual slope toward a lighter patch that indicated the end of the gorge.

They had nearly reached it when he heard the movement above him and looked up to see the rock falling out of the blue sky. There was just time to
swivel his horse before it crashed to the ground right in front of him. The boulder was as large as a man's head, and he drew his pistol and looked up at the faceless silhouettes peering down from both sides of the canyon. There were many more than six of them, and they were throwing rocks and stones and shooting arrows, and now another line of men appeared at the exit to the gorge and began moving toward them on foot. Daniel was just behind him, and Segura was holding one hand to his head in an instinctive attempt to protect himself.

“Move!” Mendoza yelled.

Daniel leaned forward to spur his horse, and then suddenly he straightened up in the saddle and slumped forward, so that Mendoza saw the crossbow arrow protruding from the side of his neck. The militiaman was still holding on to the reins and trying to remain in the saddle, but his horse was wheeling around and around in confusion. Segura had not yet moved at all. Mendoza shouted at him to go forward as the stones and arrows continued to fall around them and the pistol shots ricocheted off the rocks. But the mayor seemed paralyzed.

It was not until Mendoza grabbed his horse's reins that the mayor appeared to rouse himself from his trance and dig his heels into his horse's flanks. Ventura's stallion now showed its mettle, sprinting from a standing start toward the line of men at the exit, some of whom were crouching down to fire pistols and crossbows. Still holding the reins of Segura's horse, Mendoza bent forward to present a smaller target. He heard a pistol ball whiz past his face and braced himself for the shot or arrow that would send him tumbling to the ground to his death as he grasped the reins with one hand and fired at a masked man who was rushing toward Segura with a sword raised above his head.

Mendoza tossed the smoking pistol away as the bandit fell to the ground, and he drew his sword, steering the horse toward the open space where the man had been standing. Some of the bandits were surrounding him, pulling at his legs and the horse's bridle as he slashed out wildly. He felt the blade
connect with bone and heard someone howl, but hands continued to tug at his legs. And then suddenly the horse broke loose and he was riding alongside Segura and there was no one blocking their path.

Daniel was not with them, and it wasn't until they achieved a safe distance that Mendoza reined the horse in. He just had time to see Daniel's riderless horse racing toward the woods and the men on the ground hacking at his prone body before the horsemen came charging out of the gorge toward them. Once again he flicked the reins and dug his heels in. Mendoza was confident that Ventura's stallion could outrun their pursuers, but Segura's horse was lagging and looked exhausted. They continued to ride hard across the Jaca plain toward the Huesca road until they reached a pine forest where their pursuers disappeared from view.

“Go into the trees and hide yourself,” Mendoza ordered. “I'll get them to follow me. As soon as we're out of sight, go back down to Jaca. Go and see Corregidor Calvo. Tell him to call out the militia and come to Belamar immediately with as many men as he can muster.”

“What makes you think you'll get there yourself?” Segura asked.

“On this horse I have a chance. But you don't.”

Segura nodded and rode off the path into the forest. Mendoza waited a little farther up the path till the first riders appeared behind him and then urged the stallion forward. As he had hoped, his pursuers continued to follow him. Without Segura to keep an eye on, he was able to give the horse its head, and he felt its power and strength as he galloped at full tilt through the forest and up the Huesca road and alongside the Gállego River, till he reached the footbridge that led into Cardona. Ignoring the toll keeper's cry of protest, he sprinted across it without pausing to pay and continued on until he reached the Belamar Valley. He did not slow down until he saw the familiar houses and church tower jutting out above the distant promontory at the end of the valley, and for the first time since coming to Aragon he actually felt glad to be back in Belamar de la Sierra.