The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7) Page 16

  “Nor I with you,” Alfonso replied as he set a sheaf of paper and an inkpot on the small table by the window.

  “There’s no way to get a letter home,” Rafael said, watching as Alfonso carefully laid a quill atop the paper.

  “I know. To be honest, I wouldn’t send a letter home anyhow. My father would probably berate me for getting shipwrecked, blame me for the spectacular defeat of our illustrious navy, and demand that I return to Spain immediately.”

  “Not a very realistic request, given our present situation,” Rafael replied.

  “He’s not a very realistic man. Actually, the paper is for something entirely different.”

  “Oh?”

  “Rafael, have you ever read Lazarillo de Tormes?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Because it’s brilliant. I can’t believe the author wished to remain anonymous. Had I written anything so entertaining, I’d want to shout it from the rooftops. What about the works of Lope de Vega? He’s my favorite playwright. What a wit!”

  Rafael glanced at the carefully stacked sheets of paper. “Are you saying you wish to write a play?”

  “I am going to write a chronicle about what happened to us, mi amigo. I’ll document our adventures in this hostile land.”

  “Alfonso, I hate to douse your fire, but you won’t find eager readers for your chronicle unless you record a somewhat imaginative interpretation of events, one bordering on fantasy. Spaniards don’t want to read about the defeat of their invincible navy or hear about the suffering and humiliation of their brave soldiers at the hands of pitchfork-armed peasants. If you’re looking for literary success, I suggest you write something that makes people feel good.”

  Alfonso stared at Rafael, his mouth open in surprise, then grinned sheepishly. “And that’s why I need an agent, Rafael. I have no mind for business matters, which is why my very pragmatic padre gifted me to the army. What do you say? I will write a work of staggering genius, and you will find me a wealthy sponsor who’ll finance my success. I will give you fifty percent of all profits. Between the two of us, we can be a literary triumph.”

  Rafael slapped Alfonso on the shoulder, smiling at his innocent enthusiasm. “Why don’t you get started on your masterpiece and then we’ll see if we can make you as famous as Lope de Vega. And I can certainly see why your father thinks you have no head for business. Perhaps the army was a good choice after all,” Rafael replied, teasing Alfonso good-naturedly.

  “Really? You think so?” Alfonso’s face drooped comically. “I’m not a very good soldier, Rafael, but I like telling stories. I have so many ideas.”

  Alfonso settled himself at the table and dipped the quill into the inkpot, his face taking on a dreamy quality as he gazed out the window, his mind already on his narrative.

  “Buena suerte, Alfonso. As your agent, I expect to be the first to read the finished play.”

  “Of course,” Alfonso mumbled, Rafael already forgotten.

  Rafael left Alfonso to his literary aspirations and decided to go check on the captain. With nothing to do all day, time weighed heavily on his hands and he almost envied Alfonso his burst of creativity. At least it would give him something to focus on besides their unfortunate circumstances.

  The captain’s room was on the ground floor and was vastly more luxurious than the stone cell Rafael had been relegated to. The high bed boasted thick velvet hangings in deep red to keep out the draft and there was a nightstand, a small writing desk, and two chairs placed conveniently before the hearth, where a merry fire burned bright, filling the room with a pleasant warmth. Rafael knocked on the partially open door and was bid to enter.

  The captain sat in one of the chairs, fully dressed, and in the company of Lady O’Rourke, who had taken a personal interest in his recovery. Father Joseph stood behind Lady O’Rourke’s chair, his face creased with disapproval. The captain held Lady O’Rourke’s hand in his own, palm up, and stared at the lines etched into her hand.

  “Ah, señor de Silva, do come in,” Lady O’Rourke called. “Did ye know the captain is a gifted fortune-teller?”

  “My lady, I’m no such thing. It’s merely a silly diversion to pass the time.”

  Father Joseph then translated, emphasizing the word silly.

  “But yer predictions are so accurate,” Lady O’Rourke gushed. “Why, ye’re infallible.”

  “Hardly,” the captain replied. “Everything I told you is painfully obvious to anyone who cares to look.” He released the woman’s hand and she stood, clearly reluctant to leave.

  “I will see ye at dinner, Captain,” she said, blushing like a young maid.

  “I will look forward to it,” the captain replied gallantly. “Sit down, de Silva,” he invited as soon as Lady O’Rourke had left the room in a swish of skirts, followed by the sour-looking priest.

  Rafael took a seat. He welcomed the delicious embrace of the heat and moved his feet closer to the fire. His boots were worn so thin, he felt as if he were walking around barefoot most of the time.

  “Fortune-teller?” Rafael asked once their hostess was out of earshot.

  “Don’t ask,” the captain scoffed. “I don’t know what possessed me to tell the ladies about it. Now they won’t leave me in peace.”

  “Can you really tell fortunes?” Rafael asked, shocked. The captain was so proper in his manner that this interesting ability simply didn’t fit with the image Rafael had of the man.

  Captain de Cuéllar sighed and shook his head, smiling shyly. “I was a sickly child, de Silva. My parents didn’t think I’d live to see ten summers. My nurse was of Moorish descent, but her family had been servants to mine for generations and my parents protected her, despite her refusal to relinquish her heathen faith. I trust this will go no further,” the captain said, as though suddenly realizing what he’d unwittingly admitted to.

  “Of course, Captain.”

  “Well, Noor was a great one for telling fortunes. Her grandmother had taught her, and my mother often asked her to read her palm, especially when she was worried or upset. I begged Noor to tell my fortune. My mother forbade her to do it, thinking she’d see nothing but death, but Noor felt differently. She read my palm in secret and told me I’d live a long and healthy life and rise rapidly in rank once I joined the army. At the time, this seemed fantastical to me, but her prophecy came true. I began to grow stronger, and by the time I’d reached the age of twelve, my father began to plan my military career.”

  “Your nurse taught you to read palms?”

  “She did,” the captain replied with a wistful smile. “She said it would make me popular with the ladies.”

  “I see she was right in that as well,” Rafael replied, grinning. “Will you tell me my fortune?”

  “I most certainly will not,” the captain replied gruffly.

  Rafael understood only too well why the captain refused. Just as his parents had believed the old nurse would see no future in young Francisco’s palm, the captain feared he’d see nothing but death in store for the men.

  “I only do it to amuse our hosts. We have nothing with which to repay their hospitality. Now, off with you, de Silva. I’d like to be alone for a little while, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course, Captain,” Rafael replied, and let himself out of the room. It still bothered him that Julio Fernández would get away scot-free with nearly raping a young girl, but he had to respect Aisling’s wishes. He swore softly as he walked down the dim corridor and out into the autumn chill. People like Fernández always got away with everything because of their wealth and status, even in a place such as this, where they were nothing more than burdensome guests.

  Chapter 30

  April 2015

  London, England

  Quinn set aside the charm and shook her head in dismay, annoyed with herself for jumping to unsubstantiated conclusions. Upon seeing the Hand of Fatima, she’d immediately assumed that Rafael was of Moorish descent. The earliest examples of the hamsa in Spain were the numerou
s depictions in the Alhambra, the fourteenth-century Moorish fortress near Granada. The five fingers of the hand were believed to represent the five pillars of Islam: faith, fasting, prayer, pilgrimage, and tax, but the amulet wasn’t exclusive to the followers of Islam.

  While on a dig in Jerusalem, Quinn had seen plenty of hamsas of all shapes and sizes sold in shops specializing in Judaica. The hamsa was sacred to the Jews, as well, and had been originally called the Hand of Miriam and used to ward off evil. Many charms, both Muslim and Jewish, were set with a stone, or an eye, in the palm of the hand as protection against evil. The Jewish hamsa, however, was believed to have Kabbalistic origins and was one of the few amulets permitted to the Jews, whose faith didn’t allow charms or symbols as they could be used in divinism or magic rituals. In modern-day Israel, the hamsa was as common a symbol as the Star of David.

  Rafael’s dark looks had been initially misleading, but most Sephardic Jews had the olive skin and dark coloring of their native Spain, unlike the Ashkenazi Jews, who were fair-skinned and often had the light hair and eyes common to their Eastern European homelands. Rafael looked like a Spaniard and was a practicing Catholic, as was his family, but their devotion to Christ was nothing more than a shield against the Inquisition and their only protection against brutal and merciless persecution.

  Quinn reached for her laptop and Googled the origins of the name de Silva. She’d initially assumed that Rafael’s ancestors had changed their name to something more Hispanic-sounding in order to allow them to hide in plain sight, but the information was there in black and white, and had been there all along had she chosen to research it sooner. De Silva had been a common Jewish surname in sixteenth-century Spain. Many descendants of the families bearing the name had dropped the ‘de’ after they were driven from Spain and went simply by Silva, a last name that was still in circulation today.

  Rafael had been born and raised in Toledo, the capital of Castille and one of the most important cities in central Spain. Toledo had been a prominent cultural center since the Roman times and had been home not only to Christians but to numerous Moors and Jews, who had later been expelled and relentlessly persecuted if they chose to stay. Few Jewish families had remained in Toledo after 1492, and those that stayed had lived in constant fear of discovery. Why did the de Silvas stay? Quinn wondered as she replaced the amulet in the plastic bag. She’d learned from Rafael that his father had refused to entertain the idea of leaving, but he clearly hadn’t been the only one. The de Silvas had been defying the edict for nearly one hundred years by then. Why, like the Jews of Germany during the rise of Hitler, had they failed to see the signs and stubbornly held on until they were tortured and burned for their loyalty to their culture and faith? Had it been worth it? Could a person truly live when their every day was permeated with fear of death?

  Quinn looked up when Gabe walked into the bedroom and climbed into bed next to her. “Alex is asleep,” he said with all the pomp of someone announcing that they’d made it to the top of Mount Everest. “He put up a fight. He’s becoming a real rascal, that one.”

  Quinn nodded in agreement, but her mind wasn’t on the baby, whose wily ways she was well acquainted with and more than equipped to handle.

  “Gabe, if you had been a Jew in fifteenth-century Spain, or in Germany at the beginning of World War II, would you have stayed or fled?”

  “Why do you ask?” Gabe asked, clearly surprised by the question.

  “Because Rafael was a Jew, and his family remained in Toledo long after the Jews were driven out in 1492. By 1588, they had been in hiding for nearly one hundred years, living in constant fear, and raising their children to be secret Jews while pretending to be devout Catholics in public.”

  “I couldn’t say,” Gabe replied, his expression thoughtful. “Hindsight is always twenty/twenty, but what if something happened right here, right now? What if London, or the whole of England, became unsafe for us? Would we flee? Would we leave behind everything we know and love, turn our backs on centuries of family history, and go start somewhere else? My mind says no, I wouldn’t be driven from my home so easily, but in my heart, I know I’d leave. No amount of history or tradition could guarantee the safety of our children, and they and you are my first priority, now and always. What about you?”

  “I would do anything to keep Alex and Emma safe. The mere idea of them coming to harm because of my stubborn refusal to see the writing on the wall makes my blood run cold. Having said that, I can also say that there’s no joy in being a refugee, not now and not then.”

  “‘I’m a stranger in a strange land,’” Gabe quoted Moses. “Some problems are universal and have been around as long as mankind.”

  “Rafael was definitely that—a stranger, I mean. A fish out of water,” Quinn replied. “And he was just as wary in Ireland as he had been in Spain. Things wouldn’t go any better for him if he were discovered.”

  “Is that why you think he was crucified?”

  “I think he either unwittingly betrayed himself or someone did it for him. Perhaps he mistakenly gave his trust to someone he shouldn’t have, like a woman.”

  “Would he have done such a thing, given his upbringing?” Gabe asked.

  “I wouldn’t think so, but people do foolish things when they find themselves in unfamiliar situations. What really puzzles me is the method of execution. Why would anyone want to crucify him? That’s awfully extreme, even for the henchmen of the Inquisition.”

  “Might he have been crucified by the Irish?” Gabe suggested.

  “I honestly can’t see Brian O’Rourke’s men going to such lengths. The punishment usually fit the crime. What heinous crime could Rafael have committed to warrant such a fate? If he committed murder, they’d simply put him to the sword or hang him. I found no evidence to suggest that anyone was crucified in Ireland in the sixteenth century, or any century before or after that. Crucifixion was favored by the Romans, not the Christians.”

  “I’m curious what happened to the poor man. I do feel for him. Aside from drawing and quartering, that must be one of the worst ways to go.”

  “I’d say,” Quinn agreed. “And although I might be wrong, Rafael just doesn’t strike me as someone who would do anything to warrant such cruelty.”

  “Victims of brutal crimes rarely do. Quinn, put Rafael out of you mind for tonight. You’re getting too involved, as usual.”

  “I know. I just can’t help myself,” Quinn replied, snuggling closer to Gabe. “I’m glad Echoes from the Past was renewed for a third season, but a hiatus would have been nice. These forays into the past take their toll.”

  Gabe pulled Quinn closer and kissed the top of her head. “Quinn, I’d tell you not to get so personally involved and view these people as nothing more than subjects of the program, but I know you can’t do that. You care for them, even though they’ve been dead for hundreds of years. Rafael is at peace now, regardless of what happened to him in 1588—remember that.”

  Quinn nodded. “I know, and I will lay him to rest as soon as I find out what happened to him.”

  “Have you called Drew?” Gabe asked.

  “Yes, I spoke to him earlier today. He’s going to come round tomorrow morning. Jo thought it would be easier to talk here rather than in some public place. Do you still think helping her is a mistake?” Quinn had no desire to argue with Gabe, but some part of her wanted his blessing.

  “Quinn, you are doing what any loving sister would do. It’s not for me to judge whether what Jo is doing is right or wrong.”

  You were more than happy to judge her yesterday, Quinn thought, but decided it was wiser not to voice her opinion.

  She raised her face to look at Gabe, who wore the bland expression of someone who wished to avoid a blazing row at all cost. “Say you had a child when you were in your teens and it had been given up for adoption. Would you look for it?”

  “You’re full of difficult questions today,” Gabe replied with a sigh. “Had you asked me before I met Emma, I mi
ght have said no, but now that I know what it is to be a father, I probably would. But,” Gabe paused for dramatic effect, “I wouldn’t approach the child unless I was sure I was ready to put his or her needs before my own and not plunge their well-ordered life into unnecessary chaos.”

  “Are you referring to Sylvia?”

  “No. You were a grown woman when Sylvia came along, but Jo’s daughter is only fourteen. She might not be equipped to deal with such an emotional upheaval, especially if she knows nothing about the circumstances that led to her adoption.”

  “Yes, I see your point. I wonder if Jo plans on telling her the truth.”

  “I sincerely hope not,” Gabe replied. “At least not right away.”

  Gabe’s lips found Quinn’s temple as his hand moved to cup her breast, but Quinn shifted away from him, sending a clear message. Having seen a young girl almost get raped by Julio Fernández and then speaking of Jo doused whatever desire she might have felt.

  “Just hold me,” she told Gabe.

  “All right,” he replied with a disappointed sigh, and turned out the light.

  Chapter 31

  The stormy morning leached all the daylight from the kitchen, leaving Quinn and Jo to sit in companionable silence beneath the glow of the lamp above the table. Jo had her fingers curled around her mug of tea, her face as gray as the day outside. Quinn drank her own tea, her thoughts on the upcoming meeting. She hadn’t seen Drew Camden since the end of last year when he’d completed his investigation into Jo. If not for him, Quinn and Jo might never have been reunited, so she had great faith in his ability, but as Jo had pointed out again and again, there wasn’t much to go on.

  Jo suddenly looked up, her eyes filled with panic. “What if he doesn’t want to take the case?”