The Hand of Fatima Page 19

  It was also Salah who told Hernando of the muleteer’s demand for animal fodder.

  ‘That’s my business,’ Hernando replied curtly, trying to get rid of him.

  When the sweaty trader had left, Hernando wondered yet again how on earth he was going to find supplies for all the animals.

  It was noon, and the women were preparing a meal, but with the arrival of Barrax and his men the previous day’s relaxed intimacy had vanished. Now Aisha, Fátima and Salah’s wife went around the house full of strangers with their heads and faces covered. Although she could no longer smile at him, Fátima tried to let her tender gaze linger on him a few seconds longer than necessary, yet it was not long before both she and Aisha realized there was something wrong.

  ‘What’s the matter, my son?’ Aisha asked when there was no one else within earshot. Hernando pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Your stepfather has not returned – I heard you telling the corsair captain as much. So what is wrong?’ Seeing Hernando avoid her gaze, Aisha added: ‘Don’t worry about us. It looks as though the corsair is not interested in women . . .’

  Hernando did not listen to any more. Of course Barrax was not interested! Wherever he went, Hernando was conscious of the pirate’s lewd eyes upon him, whether Barrax was on his own or idly caressing one of his boys. He had stared at him all through the meal, when Hernando was sitting opposite them with Salah. Everyone else ate outside. How could he tell his mother what was going on, if she had not already guessed? And how could he confess that he was keeping a young Christian girl hidden out by the wall in the field, a girl who by now was probably starving, scared out of her wits, and capable of . . . What would Isabel be capable of? What if she left her hiding place and was caught? The King’s men would come for him. How could he explain to Aisha that he had no barley for the animals, and that by nightfall, or the next day at the latest, Barrax’s men would be demanding what Aben Humeya had promised their captain? How could he tell her he had disobeyed the King and stolen one of his captives? They had cut the Narila muleteer’s hand off for stealing a crucifix; what would happen to him for robbing Aben Humeya of a Christian girl who was probably worth three hundred ducats?

  ‘Why are you trembling?’ asked his mother, clasping his cheeks in her hands. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘No, Mother. Don’t worry. I’ll sort everything out.’

  ‘What needs to be sorted out? What—?’

  ‘Don’t worry!’ he cut her off sharply.

  He spent the afternoon looking after the animals. He also tried to approach the part of the wall where he thought Isabel must still be hiding, but did not manage to get close enough to speak to her, even if only over the wall. This was because Yusuf was always by his side, alert, wanting to learn and constantly asking him exactly what he was doing to the horses.

  At one point, however, when they were near to where Hernando thought Isabel must be, he showed Yusuf how the horses’ muzzles were covered in earth.

  ‘Do you know why?’ he asked.

  ‘Because they’re trying to eat roots,’ the boy replied, surprised that Hernando should be asking him such a simple question.

  ‘Yes, because there’s no food!’ Hernando said loudly, trying to make his voice carry beyond the wall. ‘We’ll all have to make do until tomorrow!’

  ‘She’s had something to eat,’ Yusuf whispered. Hernando nearly jumped out of his skin. ‘I heard someone crying and went to see what was going on,’ the boy explained. ‘I gave her a hunk of bread. Don’t worry,’ he hastened to add, seeing how worried Hernando looked, ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

  What would happen the next day, though? Hernando could not help thinking. He patted Yusuf affectionately on the cheek, and then looked up at the leaden skies covering the Sierra Nevada.

  That evening, prodded by the worried Aisha, Fátima also tried to discover what was wrong with Hernando. She did it in such a gentle way he almost imagined he could see her features beneath the veil covering her face.

  He raised his right hand to lift the veil, but just as he was doing so, a sudden noise drove Fátima away.

  ‘Where’s the barley?’ he heard Salah ask.

  The fat merchant had slid silently into the room, which was next to the steps descending to the cellars where Salah kept his treasures. As Fátima tried to edge past him, the merchant stepped in her way and brushed himself against her, obviously enjoying the contact.

  Hernando was still standing with his hand held out towards the veil. Fátima’s sweet whisper still caressed his ears.

  ‘Leave her alone!’ he shouted. ‘Why are you so interested in the barley anyway?’ he asked bitterly, once he had seen Fátima escape the other man’s clutches and disappear upstairs.

  ‘Because there isn’t any.’ Salah’s tiny eyes glittered in the dim glow of a lantern hanging over the top step of the stairs. ‘Everyone in the market place is talking about a young Morisco with a scimitar at his belt who was dragging along a pretty young Christian girl he had been given by the King in order to buy fodder.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The girl isn’t here, and you haven’t sold her. No one in Ugíjar has bought her from you. I know.’ Hernando had not thought of this possibility, and yet all of a sudden he felt relieved. The answer was staring him in the face. As he thought through his plan, the anxiety he had felt all day vanished. Salah was still talking, a triumphant sneer on his lips. ‘Thief! What have you done with her? Did you rape and kill her? Have you kept her for yourself? She’s worth a lot of money. If you hand her over to me, I won’t say a word . . . but if you don’t . . .’ The merchant was threatening him. Hernando did not flinch. ‘. . . I’ll go and see the King, and you’ll be executed.’

  ‘But I have sold her,’ Hernando calmly replied. He glared at the fat, sly merchant.

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘I sold her to the only merchant I know in Ugíjar. I thought that by selling to him I could get a better price, but . . .’

  ‘Who’s that . . .?’ Salah started to ask, but fell silent when he saw Hernando feeling for his scimitar.

  ‘But that fat merchant hasn’t paid me,’ Hernando calmly continued. ‘So now I don’t have the Christian slave, and I have no money to feed the King’s horses either.’

  He drew his sword and pressed the point against Salah’s belly. The merchant retreated as far as the wall. Hernando grasped the sword hilt tightly in his hand: he had no intention of being disarmed this time.

  ‘Who would believe you?’ stammered Salah, realizing the trap Hernando was setting for him. ‘It will be . . . it will be your word against mine. You’ll never be able to prove you handed her over to me.’

  ‘Your word?’ said Hernando, narrowing his eyes. ‘No one will ever hear your side of the story!’

  As he made to thrust with the sword, Salah fell to his knees. The blade ripped through his clothes and stayed level with his throat.

  ‘No!’ Salah begged. Hernando pressed the sharp tip against his Adam’s apple. ‘I’ll do whatever you say, but spare my life! I’ll pay you! I’ll pay whatever you wish!’

  He burst into tears.

  ‘Three hundred ducats,’ Hernando conceded.

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course. Three hundred ducats. Whatever you say. Yes.’

  The tears dried up as suddenly as they had appeared. Hernando pressed a little harder at his throat. ‘If you try to cheat me, you’ll pay for it. On my word of honour.’ Salah shook his head vigorously. ‘Now get up and open your cellars. We’re going to get the money.’

  They went down the steps, with Salah in front and Hernando holding the sword to the back of his neck. Salah took some time to undo the two locks guarding access to the cellars: his back blocked out the light from the lantern that Hernando was now holding.

  ‘On your knees!’ growled Hernando when the door finally creaked open and Salah made as if to enter. ‘Walk like a dog.’ The merchant obeyed, crawling into the cellar on all fours. Hernando kicked the door shut behind them. Stil
l pressing the sword into the panting Salah’s body, he tried to see what was in the room. ‘Now, flat on your face, with your arms and legs outstretched! If you make the slightest movement, I’ll kill you! Where is there another lantern?’

  ‘In front of you, on the chest,’ said Salah, coughing as his words raised dust from the floor.

  Hernando found the lantern, lit it, and looked round the room.

  ‘Heretic!’ he exclaimed as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. ‘Who would ever believe your word?’ The cellar was filled with a pile of statues of the Virgin, crucifixes, a chalice, mantles, chasubles and even a small altarpiece, all of them heaped alongside old barrels stuffed with foodstuffs, clothing and all kinds of other goods.

  ‘They’re worth a lot of money,’ the merchant blurted out in his defence.

  Hernando said nothing for a few moments, then he reached out and touched a figure of the Virgin and Child that stood near him. This time you did save me, he almost said. If it had not been for those Christian images, one or other of them would have died.

  ‘Where are the ducats?’ he asked.

  ‘In a small chest, next to the lantern.’

  Hernando found it. ‘Sit up,’ he ordered. ‘Slowly, with your legs out and open wide,’ he quickly added when he saw the merchant trying to rise to his feet. ‘Count out three hundred ducats and put them in a bag.’

  When Salah had finished, Hernando put the bag and the box back where he had found them.

  ‘Are you going to leave them there?’ Salah asked, bewildered.

  ‘Yes. I can’t imagine a better hiding place for the King’s money.’

  They shut the door in the same way they had opened it, with Hernando threatening Salah the whole time.

  ‘Give me one of the keys. That one, the big one,’ he demanded, when Salah had finished with the locks. When he was clutching it safely in his hand, he went on: ‘Now for one last thing. You are to come with me to see the captain of the guards. If you say anything, I’ll talk my way out of it. They may or may not believe me, but with everything you’ve got hidden here you won’t live to find out. They’ll kill you without a second thought. Do you agree?’

  Out in the courtyard, Salah said nothing as Hernando talked to the leader of the harquebusiers. He gave him orders to place one of his men outside the entrance to the cellars at all times.

  ‘The King’s money is in there,’ he explained. ‘The only people who can go in are Salah and me, together. If something should happen to me, you are to break down the door and recover what belongs to the King.

  ‘Pray to the All-merciful’, he told Salah once the pair of them were back inside the house, ‘that nothing happens to me.’

  ‘I will pray for you,’ the merchant said, through gritted teeth.

  Early the next morning each of them used their key to open the locks under the watchful gaze of the guard at the top of the stairs. Once they were inside, Salah made to shut the door behind them, but Hernando forced him to keep it half open. He wanted the merchant to be listening out for any noise from the stairs that might mean someone would see his hoard. Hernando took several ducats out of the bag and handed them to Salah.

  ‘Go and buy barley and fodder,’ he told him. ‘Enough for several days for all the animals. I want it here by the end of the morning. Oh, and I need you to buy me some rich clothing.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Those are the King’s orders. Accept the fact that this is going to cost you more. I also want some black – no, white girl’s clothes.’ Hernando smiled. ‘And a veil. I especially need a veil, and I need it right away. I’m sure you’ll be able to find things like that amongst . . . amongst all this.,’ he said, gesturing towards the piles of goods in the cellar.

  Shortly afterwards, Hernando left the cellar dressed in green with a red and silver taffeta tunic. On top of this he wore a gold and purple cloak embroidered with pearls and a cap with a small emerald in the centre. He had Hamid’s scimitar at his waist, and was carrying Isabel’s clothes. He could sense Salah’s look of hatred behind his back. During the night, Hernando had gone over countless plans as to how to get Isabel out of Morisco territory, but none of them had satisfied him, until . . . Well, why not? Hadn’t he resolved the problem of the animal feed? He had to follow his instincts. On his way out he ran into Barrax and his little boys. The corsair captain stepped to one side and bowed. Hernando pushed through them, wishing them peace.

  ‘I would fill this cap here with sapphires as blue as your eyes if you would come with me.’ The corsair sighed as he passed by.

  Shocked, Hernando stumbled, but then recovered his composure. He reached the porch, and asked Yusuf to bring his horse round. Shortly afterwards, the boy reappeared with the bay saddled and bridled.

  ‘I have to do something for the King,’ Hernando told Fátima and his mother. The two women could not hide their admiration at his elegant attire.

  He mounted his horse, spurred on, and galloped out of the house up to where the Christian girl was hiding.

  ‘Put these on.’ Isabel was still crouching where he had left her the day before. She did not move until the horse was almost on top of her. ‘Do as I say!’ Hernando insisted when he saw her hesitate. ‘What are you looking at?’ he shouted at a group of soldiers who had come to see what was going on.

  Hernando drew his sword and charged the Moriscos. His golden cloak shimmered around the animal’s flanks. The men ran off.

  ‘Hurry up,’ Hernando insisted, returning to Isabel.

  The girl had nowhere to hide, but knelt down and tried to cover herself as best she could while she took her own clothes off. Hernando turned his back on her, but was worried by how long she was taking. More soldiers could arrive at any moment.

  ‘Are you ready yet?’ When there was no reply, he turned towards her, and glimpsed her tiny breasts. ‘Hurry up!’ Isabel was struggling with clothes that were very different from the ones she was used to. Overcoming his embarrassment, Hernando got off his horse to help. ‘The veil! Don’t forget to cover your head properly.’

  When she was ready, Hernando swung her up on to the horse in front of him, so that he could clasp her round the stomach. He rode off, and although Isabel swayed and rocked, she did not complain. Hernando hesitated between heading for Órgiva or Berja. He decided that although the Devil Iron Head was in Berja, he would be more likely to meet Moriscos on the way to the other village. Aben Aboo and Brahim were roaming around Válor, and the last thing he wanted was to run into his stepfather. He knew the way to Berja: he had passed it on the way to Adra a couple of months earlier. About half a league from the coast he would need to turn off towards the east, and aim for the foothills of the Sierra de Gádor. When he felt he was far enough away from Ugíjar and Aben Humeya’s army, Hernando reined in the bay, which was already in a lather.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Isabel asked.

  ‘To your own people.’

  After they had trotted on for a while, she asked a second question. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  Hernando did not reply. Why was he doing it? For Gonzalico’s sake? Because of the warmth of the hand that had held his through the little boy’s last night? For the link he had established with Isabel while the two of them were watching Gonzalico being butchered? Or simply because he could not bear to see her fall into the hands of some Berber or renegade Christian? Hernando had never even asked himself the question. Instead, he had reacted as his instincts told him to. But why in fact was he doing this? He was only creating problems for himself. What had the Christians ever done for him that he should be defending one of them?

  Isabel repeated her question. He spurred the bay into a canter.

  ‘Why?’ the girl asked again. He dug his heels into his mount until it was going at full gallop. He held Isabel tightly round the waist so that she would not fall off. She weighed hardly anything: she was only a little girl. That was why he was doing it, Hernando concluded with satisfaction as the wind whipped round his
face. Because she was nothing more than a little girl!

  None of the Moriscos they met along the way tried to stop them. Instead, they moved out of the way, staring curiously at this odd pair:

  a slight female figure in white, head and face covered, and a proud-looking rider dressed in rich clothes who was holding her tight, while his scimitar clinked against the haunches of his mount.

  They reached Berja before noon. Every house had its own garden, and the village was protected by several high towers that rose above the roofs. To give his horse a rest over the last stretch, Hernando slowed to a walk. It was then that for the first time he could really feel Isabel’s body pressed against him. Her robe was wet with sweat, and her stomach was hard and tense beneath his hands.

  When he saw the village of Berja in the distance he put these thoughts out of his mind. People were working in the fields. Some Christian soldiers were resting out in the open; others were collecting fodder for the horses. The noon-day sun beat down. The bay, feeling itself reined in and aware of its rider’s anxiety, snorted and tossed its head. The red tints in its coat glinted in the sun, just like Hernando’s cloak . . . and like the armour of the Marquis of los Vélez and that of his son, Don Diego Fajardo, who at that very moment were standing outside the town gate.

  As Hernando swung Isabel down to the ground, a group of soldiers ran towards them, weapons at the ready. He pulled off her veil so that they could see her blond hair. He drew his scimitar and raised it to the back of the girl’s neck. The soldiers in the lead came to an abrupt halt some fifty paces away, and the others piled into them.

  ‘Run, child! Get away from him!’ one of the soldiers shouted, loading his harquebus.

  Isabel did not move.

  Hernando sought out the Marquis of los Vélez’s eyes. The two men looked at each other for a few seconds, then the Christian commander seemed to understand. He gestured to his soldiers to pull back.