The Devils of Cardona (5 page)

Sooner or later he would have to get back on his horse. He tried to think of a destination, but he had never been good at plans, and he soon gave up the effort and closed his eyes. He had nearly dozed off when there was a knock on the door, and a squeaky-voiced monk who sounded like a eunuch told him that a messenger from Valladolid had come to see him.

•   •   •

“D
ID
I
EVER
TELL
YOU
that you remind me of Titian's
Venus
?” Mendoza ran his fingers through Elena's thick red hair and traced the perfect curve of her back as she lay on her stomach beside him in Prosecutor Izarra's bedroom, propped up on her elbows like a sphinx.

Elena laughed. “How do you know? You've never even seen her.”

“I've seen Antonio's copy.”

“So you compare me to an imitation?”

“Not at all. I compare you to an image of imagined perfection by one of the greatest artists on earth.”

“Very well, then,” she said, kissing him lightly on the lips. “In that case I accept your compliment.”

She rolled over onto her side and wrapped one leg over him and pressed her face against his neck. It had been a most agreeable evening that Mendoza was in no hurry to bring to an end. First he had attended a performance in the patio of Elena's house-cum-salon performed by the Fanini commedia dell'arte troupe on its way home from Madrid to Rome. The play was inconsequential but still enjoyable, and the subject matter was appropriate—a romantic tale of forbidden and impossible love between a Morisca noblewoman and a Christian aristocrat in Don Juan of Austria's army during the War of Granada.

As a veteran of that war, he knew better than most of Elena's guests how inauthentic the play was, but he had no desire to spoil the evening, not when Attorney Izarra was in Madrid and Elena was looking fabulous in a green bodice and a pleated farthingale skirt embroidered with gold threads and pearls. He always enjoyed the company of actors, and the Italians were lively and amusing. After the play they had danced a succession of pavanes and galliards, and he had accompanied Elena on two villancicos by Mudarra on the vihuela, which were well received.

In accordance with their usual arrangements, he left with the last of the
guests and pretended to go home, waiting in the shadows near her house till she drew her curtain and closed it. Then he hurried across the street with his face half covered and entered through the servants' door that her maid had left open for him. By the time he reached her bedroom, she was already in bed with her hair unfastened, and they feasted on each other with an eagerness that was sharpened by the long wait and the element of danger that their liaisons always implied. Because both of them knew what might happen if their affair ever became public knowledge. The cuckolded prosecutor would be obliged to defend his honor regardless of what he did in his own time. He would have the right to kill his wife himself or have her executed, or confine her to a convent. The law also allowed him to have Mendoza killed or challenge him to a duel.

If it came to a duel, Mendoza knew that the odds were in his favor, but the
procurador
did not have to kill him to end his career, because a mistress was not compatible with the moral standards expected of His Majesty's judges in public, however many of them might violate these expectations in private. These were not possibilities to be relished, but Elena, more than any woman he had ever met, was a risk worth taking.

“Are you really taking the boy to Aragon?” she asked.

“Why not? Gabriel needs some experience of the world. He hasn't even been to Madrid. There are boys who join the army even younger. Saravia is happy because he won't have to pay the full court rate—and he'll have been promised something from Villareal.”

“Will it be dangerous in Aragon?” she asked him.

“For you, anywhere outside Valladolid or Madrid is dangerous.”

“Not merely dangerous,
cariño
. Barbarous. Just the thought of the Pyrenees makes me shudder.”

“You never called me ‘darling' before.”

“Well, tonight you've earned it.”

Mendoza grinned. “I'll wrap up warm. Anyway, Gabriel is looking forward to it. He sees it as an adventure.”

“I also like adventures, Alcalde,” she said, rolling over to one side, “but I don't like to travel so far in search of them.”

“I'm glad you still think I'm worth exploring.”

“Like the Indies, there are still parts of you waiting to be discovered. And you haven't bored me—yet.” She stroked his face with the back of her hand. “Who else are you taking on this expedition?”

“Constable Johannes Necker. Not much initiative. But dogged, honest and dependable, like a bloodhound—and tough as nails.”

“Who else?”

“My esteemed cousin Luis de Ventura—perhaps. I haven't heard from him yet.”

“I don't know him.”

“He's a sergeant in the Naples tercio. We fought together in Flanders and Granada. He's a swordsman, a gambler, a rake and a bit of a rogue. I haven't seen him in two years, but my mother mentioned to me in a letter that he was in Madrid and in some kind of trouble again—woman trouble. He usually goes to a monastery when that happens.”

“He sounds exciting. But why do you need such a man?”

“Luis is one of the best fighting men I have ever met. And he is absolutely fearless. In Granada he would go off by himself behind Morisco lines. We called him ‘El Invisible.' He once spent three days at the court of Aben Humeya, the Morisco king, disguised as a Morisco. No one detected him. If you ever get in a fight, it's good to have Luis de Ventura on your side.”

Elena regarded him with amusement. “You're rather looking forward to this, aren't you?”

“Not exactly. These investigations aren't comfortable. No more drawing classes with Antonio. No
comedias
. Bad food. No beds. My poor vihuela must remain untouched. And most of all I won't see you.”

“Thank you for putting me last.”

“It wasn't listed in order of importance.”

“I'm glad to hear it. And how long will you be gone?”

He shrugged. “It depends on the investigation.”

“You'll forget me,” she pouted.

“Far more likely that you'll forget
me
. Especially if you have any more Italian actors coming by.”

“Such little faith in womankind, Your Honor! Let me prove how wrong you are.”

She clasped her fingers behind his neck and pulled him toward her, and they made love once more, before he got dressed and sneaked out the way he had come. Outside, the streets were completely dark, apart from the occasional faint light from the windows and the glow of a
sereno
's brazier. He limped down the middle of the road, eyeing the darker shadows carefully. It was only ten minutes to his house, but at this time of night there was no one he might meet who could bring him anything good at all, and even an encounter with one of his own constables on the nightly
ronda
might set the wrong tongues wagging.

As he made his way through the darkened streets, he heard the scuttling of rats and the dismal wail of a cat in heat. Above him the sky was bursting with stars and moonlight made it slightly lighter than usual, as he scanned the doorways and porticoes warily for the slightest sign of movement. He had just crossed the Plaza Mayor when he heard the sound of footsteps from behind him. He shifted suddenly to his left, swinging the stick around hard at knee level of the dark shape looming out of the darkness. His would-be assailant cursed as the blow caught him on the side of the left knee, before Mendoza jabbed the stick into his belly.

The man fell to the ground with a yelp and lay clutching his knee as Mendoza drew his sword and held the point against his throat. “You know I'm entitled to kill you in self-defense, thief?”

“I'm not a thief! I was on my way home!”

“Really? Then what's this?” Mendoza kicked the wooden club away
from his hand. “Get up and crawl back into the sewer you came from. If I see you again, this will be your last night on earth.”

The thief got up and hobbled quickly away, cursing under his breath. Mendoza had barely resheathed the sword when he heard the sound of hooves coming toward him. He turned and saw his cousin leading his horse, wearing his familiar wide-brimmed feathered hat with one side pinned back.

“That was well done, Bernardo,” Ventura said. “I'm glad to see that the law hasn't made you soft. Sergeant Luis de Ventura reporting for duty, Capitán.”

Mendoza laughed at the mock salute and embraced him. “So it was true, then. You were in the monastery. Were you seeking salvation or sanctuary, cousin?”

“Both. But I decided to see what you had to offer instead.”

“A complicated mission to Aragon,” Mendoza said. “Which you will be paid for. Does that tempt you?”

“Right now anything that pays is tempting. Because this horse is all I own.”

“The night watchman can take care of him till the morning. We leave tomorrow. And I won't ask what made you seek refuge with the Hieronymites.”

“And I won't ask you what you are doing out at this time of night.”

Luis laughed the ribald, infectious laugh that Mendoza had heard so many times during the War of Granada. His cousin had never been to his apartment before, and Mendoza ushered him into the dining room and produced some bread, ham and wine from the kitchen.

“Well, well, Alcalde Mendoza,” Ventura said. “I see you've gone up in the world. You earn a better living than I do.”

“So you've left the tercio?”

“For now. But I was thinking of reenlisting till you gave me a reason
not to. And the abbot has told me I have to go out and do good in the world for my penance.”

Mendoza laughed. “Did he? Well, I'll do my best to give you that opportunity.”

Until Ventura had entered the monastery, the two of them had shared the same house and been more like brothers than cousins. Instead Mendoza was the one who had been brought up in his uncle's house as if he were the man's son, except for a brief period when Ventura had abandoned the monastic life. These childhood bonds were strengthened when they fought together in the same war and the same army, and the conversation quickly turned to the War of Granada, to the battles they'd fought in and the comrades they'd known and lost, until Mendoza sensed that his mercurial cousin was becoming gloomy.

“This investigation also involves Moriscos,” Mendoza said. “I assume that won't bother you?”

“Not in the slightest. And the farther I am from Madrid, the better.”

Mendoza shook his head in exasperation as his cousin described his near-fatal adventure with Ágata de la Prada and the cuckolded husband whose minions were hunting for him.

“You won't change, will you, cousin?”

“No. But you certainly have. An apartment like this . . . you only need a wife to complete it.”

“So Magda was telling me.”

“And how is Gabriel?”

“He's fine. He asks too many questions, and he doesn't know what questions he shouldn't ask. As long they are only directed at me, it shouldn't be a problem.”

“Does he ever ask about Granada?”

“No.” Mendoza looked at him severely. “And I don't tell him. And I don't want anyone else to do it either.”

Ventura looked as though he were about to say something and then
changed his mind. It was nearly dawn now, and Mendoza offered his cousin a place on his own bed, but Ventura preferred to sleep on the floor. Mendoza brought him a blanket and pillow and retired to his own room. Lying in his own bed, he found himself thinking of Granada, and he saw once again the scene that he knew would be permanently engraved in his mind until the day he died. He saw the elderly Morisca stabbing at him with a sharpened stake in the doorway of the smoke-filled house that had been hit with cannon and musket fire, ignoring his order to surrender. He saw himself run her through with his sword, and he felt once again the same shame and disgust as he walked away. He heard the piercing cry of a child from inside the bombed house and looked in through the gaping hole in the wall where the cannonball had struck, squinting against the smoke at the broken chairs and the overturned table, at the rising flames and the blood and the bodies of five children of various ages, a young woman and a much older man. He saw the toddler, naked and crying out for his mother, sitting among the bodies with the fire coming toward him, and just before he fell asleep, he saw himself go back into the house and carry the child out on his bloodstained arm.

•   •   •

T
HE
FOLLOWING
MORNING
Ventura was greeted with great delight by Magdalena and especially by Gabriel, who had not seen him in more than ten years and barely remembered a man whom he had come to regard as something of a legend.

“So I understand you're going to be our
escribano
,” Ventura said.

“Si, señor,”
Gabriel said. “I can't wait.”

“Do you know how to use a sword, boy?”

“He's not coming to fight,” said Mendoza. “The quill will be his sword.”

“You never know,” Ventura said. “Aragon is a lawless place. Haven't you heard that those Morisco bandits like to eat their victims alive? They roast them over a slow fire first.”

“Jesus and Mary!” Magda made the sign of the cross. “You cannot take the boy to such a place, Don Bernardo!”

“See what you've done?” Mendoza asked.

“Only joking, Magda.” Ventura grinned. “I've been to Aragon many times. It's perfectly safe. And don't worry about the fighting, boy. It's probably the only thing I'm good for. And your guardian can fight, too, by the way. A judge of cape and sword.”