I DIDN’T LOOK back to watch the burning house of the magistrate, Don Vicente Alonso.
When I reached the main highway I rode away from Las Conchas, all that night and most of the next day. Eventually complete exhaustion forced me to find an inn. I paid for a room and fell fully-clothed onto the bed, where I slept until I came to with a fierce headache and pangs in my stomach.
It was dark outside. I had no idea where I was or whether the hour was early or late. I’d dreamed that I was at sea, up to my neck in water on a sinking ship . . .
The bloated faces of drowned sailors drift past me. One of them is Jean-Luc; his mouth is open, crying for succour. But I can hear nothing. Above my head, the mast shatters as if hit by cannon shot. My father is hanging there, his eyes popping from his head. Slowly, silently, the mast bends towards me. I try to move out of its way, but my legs will not obey my will. I am paralysed as death descends upon me. I give out a moan of terror and throw up my hands to ward off the blow. My eyes open and I sit up in bed, shaking and sobbing.
The next days were spent in a similar manner. I had no idea where I was going or what I was doing. During the day I rode until I almost tumbled from my saddle. Then I slept the sleep of the doomed, dreaming terrifying nightmares without end. The pain in my belly increased so much that I needed to consult a doctor in one of the towns where I rested.
He said he could find nothing wrong with me except that I looked as though I needed a good night’s sleep. For an extra coin he offered to provide a sleeping draught. I shook my head and made to leave his rooms. As he saw me out of his house, he looked at me closely again and asked, ‘When did you last eat?’
I went back to the inn and forced myself to swallow the first food I’d tasted in five days. After twenty-four hours of agonizing belly cramps, I began to recover.
When I thought of what I’d done, a lowering feeling of shame began to creep through me. I thrust it aside and replaced it with another, encouraging anger to be the superior emotion boiling to the surface. I had been cheated, I told myself. Don Vicente and his wife had died by accident, not specifically at my hand.
But there was still the daughter. The magistrate had said she was at the royal court.
I asked the location of Granada and found that I’d ridden well out of my way. The next morning I arose and proceeded more slowly towards the place where Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand were at present holding court.
A hard cold weight had replaced the burning hatred inside my body. I carried it within me like a boulder used by farmers to weigh down the bag when drowning litter runts.
Nothing moved it or diminished it in any way: not drinking myself into an insensible state, nor nights spent with women, nor gambling, nor any other so-called pleasures that men deem sport or amusement to pass their time. There were plenty of such diversions available. As I got nearer to Granada, the villages and towns were full of every type of camp follower and army supplier.
One morning, in a town less than three hours’ ride from Granada, I looked properly in the slice of reflective glass hanging on my bedroom door, and the face of a ruffian looked back at me. If I was to continue with my mission, I would have to do something about my appearance. I shaved and bathed, and after prising some coins from the peacock jacket that I kept rolled up in my saddlebag, I went in search of more elaborate clothes to wear. The tailor I found assured me that he personally designed the costumes worn by the most prestigious nobles in all Spain, including the royal personages – the crown prince, the infantas, and Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand.
‘Although taller than his majesty, you do have the look of a man from Aragon,’ he said as he took my measurements.
It was a question rather than a statement, but I was not rising like a fish to feed on his bait.
‘Do I?’ I replied.
He stood back to survey me. ‘Or maybe you hail from Catalonia? How are things going in that country now?’
This tailor didn’t only want to know my origins, he wanted my politics too. I’d picked up enough knowledge on my way here to know that the Catalans were not kindly disposed to living under King Ferdinand and his Aragon government.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ I retorted. ‘I’m recently returned from sea.’
‘A mariner!’ the man exclaimed. ‘Like the famous Christopher Columbus, even now in attendance on the queen and king?’
I grunted. ‘I know him, yes.’
The tailor prattled on about how sewing special outfits for mariners was also part of his repertoire, all the while probing me for personal information. I wondered if he was one of the spies that were said to cluster around places of government or merely a casual informant like many other people. It was only when the subject of money came up, when he refused to cut any cloth unless I put down a deposit, that I realized most of his quizzing was designed to discover whether I had the means to pay him. What a delight it was to idly take out a gold coin, spin it on his shop counter, and say casually that I would take two – no, make that three – complete suits of clothing in a variety of patterns, a heavy winter cloak; and yes, I did agree that if I hoped to present myself at court then I would need his most luxurious fur capelet to sit around my neck.
In the end I found him very useful, for in his attempts to garner information he imparted to me a great deal about the workings of the court. He advised me on the most suitable clothes for court functions, the way one should act on specific occasions, how to effect an introduction, when it was considered acceptable to speak out and when to remain silent, and many other tips on manners and modes of behaviour.
While my clothes were being sewn I enquired exactly where the court was and how I might gain access to it. The words of the magistrate, Don Vicente Alonso, were in my mind. When I’d asked for the whereabouts of his daughter, he’d said she was safe. Protected. Within the court. Where the likes of me could never reach her.
My mouth twisted as I reflected how my fortunes had changed. I, Saulo, son of a sick mother and a destitute beggar, had contacts in royal circles. I thought of the mariner, Christopher Columbus, self-styled admiral of the Ocean Sea. He was now my friend. He admired the skills I possessed and would make me welcome. Under his patronage I would obtain free entry, right into the innermost circle of the royal court, to the feet of the queen and king.
No matter how well guarded she was, I would reach the magistrate’s daughter. I had to destroy her. I blamed her for the hard stone of resentment still lying within me. It existed because of her. She’d been the start of all my woes. My father had most likely asked her for only one coin. If she’d given it to him, then he, and possibly my mother, would be alive today. It was her fault they were not.
So I would seek her out.
And I would kill her.