The Lords of Time, Page 2

  Everybody in the audience nodded.

  “I’m sorry for the delay, but I’m afraid the author cannot be with us tonight.” He nervously stroked his bushy, curly beard.

  The reaction was immediate. Quite a few people left the room. The publisher watched them go disconsolately.

  “Believe me, I understand your disappointment. This certainly was not the plan. I don’t want to waste everyone’s evening, so let me introduce Andrés Madariaga. He is a history professor and was part of the team of archaeologists from the Santa María Cathedral Foundation who excavated an area only a few yards away, on the Villa de Suso hill and in the Old Cathedral’s catacombs. He was hoping to speak with our author tonight and explain the incredible parallels between the Medieval Quarter as we know it today and twelfth-century Victoria as it appears in the novel.”

  “That’s right,” said the archaeologist, clearing his throat. “The book is astonishingly accurate, as though almost a thousand years ago the author strolled the streets we live on today. Right here, next to the former entrance to the palace, on the stairs we know as San Bartolomé, was the medieval site of the South Gate, one of the entrances to the walled town….”

  “He doesn’t know who the author is,” Alba whispered in my ear, which warmed at the touch of her lips.

  “What’s that?” I murmured.

  “The publisher doesn’t know who the author is, either. He hasn’t said his name once, and he hasn’t referred to him by his pseudonym. He has no idea who he is.”

  “Or he wants to keep us in suspense for the next event.”

  Unconvinced, Alba looked at me as though I were a child.

  “I’d swear that’s not true. He’s as lost as the rest of us.”

  The archaeologist continued, “I don’t know if you’re aware, but we’re next to what would have been the palace’s original defensive wall, built well before the foundation of the city. Can you see it? It’s this one,” he said, pointing to the stone wall to his right. “Thanks to carbon dating, we know it was already in place by the end of the eleventh century, one hundred years earlier than we had previously thought. That means that we’re seated exactly where the novel takes place. In fact, one of the characters in the book dies nearby along the line of the wall. Many of you are probably wondering about Spanish fly—la mosca española, or cantharis. In the novel, the substance appears as a brown powder that is administered to this unfortunate character. And that’s true. Or rather,” he said, correcting himself, “it’s feasible.”

  He raised his head.

  “Spanish fly is an aphrodisiac, the medieval version of Viagra,” he went on impishly. “It’s a powder made from the crushed shell of the blister beetle, which is common to Africa. It was the only aphrodisiac proven to sustain an erection, because it contains cantharidin, a chemical compound and stimulant. Although it dilates blood vessels very effectively, it fell out of use because, as Paracelsus tells us, ‘the dose makes the poison.’ Two grams of Spanish fly would kill the healthiest man in this room. It stopped being used in the seventeenth century, after the so-called Richelieu caramels caused the death of half the French court during their orgies. Not to mention the fact that the Marquis de Sade was accused of murder when two women died after he administered the substance to them without their knowledge.”

  I looked around. Those who had remained for the archaeologist’s improvised talk were listening closely to his medieval tales. Deba was asleep beneath her grandfather’s beret, held securely in his giant paws. Nieves was following the speaker attentively, Alba was stroking my thigh, and Estí was staring at the roof beams. In short, everything was fine.

  Forty minutes later, the Malatrama publisher placed a pair of battered half-moon glasses on the end of his enormous nose and announced: “I would like to end this event by reading the opening paragraphs of The Lords of Time:

  “My name is Diago Vela. I am known as Count Don Diago Vela, to be more precise. I began to set down the events described in this chronicle on the day I returned, after two years’ absence, to the ancient village of Gasteiz, or, as the pagans call it, Gaztel Haitz, or Castle Rock.

  “I was traveling back through Aquitaine, and after crossing lower Navarre—”

  Suddenly the door behind me was flung open. Curious, I turned around and saw a white-haired man who looked to be around fifty hobbling in on a crutch.

  “Is there a doctor? The palace is empty, and we need a doctor!” he shouted.

  Estí, Alba, and I shot to our feet in unison and went over to the man.

  “Are you all right?” asked Alba, ever the leader. “We’ll call an ambulance, but you have to tell us what’s wrong.”

  “It’s not for me. It’s for the man I found in the restroom.”

  “What happened to him?” I pressed, taking out my cell phone.

  “He’s lying on the floor. It’s difficult to kneel with this crutch, so I couldn’t really get close to him, but I swear he isn’t moving. He’s either unconscious or dead,” said the man. “In fact, I think I recognized him. I think he’s…Well, I’m not sure, but I think it’s—”

  “Don’t worry about that for now. We’ll take care of it,” Estíbaliz cut in, demonstrating her legendary impatience.

  Everyone in the room was staring at us. I think the publisher had stopped reading, but I’m not sure. I glanced quickly at Grandfather, who nodded, confirming that he would take Deba home and put her to bed.

  Estí and I ran to the stairs leading down to the restrooms. In our haste, we both stepped on the glass panel covering the medieval woman’s remains. I didn’t even think about it. I arrived in the restroom first to find a very tall, well-dressed man lying motionless on the floor. His face was frozen in an expression of pain so severe that I could almost feel it, too.

  The restrooms were aseptically white and spotless. Each stall displayed a photomontage of Vitoria’s four towers.

  I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, turned on the flashlight, and held it an inch or so from the man’s face. Nothing. His pupils didn’t react.

  “Damn it.” I sighed, placing my fingers on his carotid artery and hoping for a miracle. “His pupils aren’t contracting, Estí. No pulse, either. He’s dead. Don’t touch anything. Tell the DSU so she can set things in motion.”

  My colleague nodded and was about to call Alba when I stopped her.

  “It smells like rotten eggs,” I said, sniffing the air. “He’s wearing expensive cologne, but it still smells awful.”

  “It’s a men’s bathroom. What do you expect?”

  “It’s not that. It smells like those stink bombs they used to sell in Casa de las Fiestas when we were kids. Remember?”

  “You think he was poisoned?”

  I wasn’t sure. But I am a cautious man, and I don’t like having to be sorry for what I’ve failed to do, so out of respect for the dead, I whispered my prayer.

  “This is where your hunt ends, and mine begins.”

  I studied him closely, then turned to Estí.

  “I think our witness was right. There aren’t many photos. He had a very odd physique, and I always thought…I think it’s a case of arachnidism.”

  “What does that mean, Kraken?”

  “This man suffers, or suffered, from Marfan syndrome. Long limbs, protruding eyes. Look at his fingers. At his height. If this is who I think it is, there’s going to be hell to pay. Stay with the body. I’m going to ask Alba to seal the exits. We have to take statements from at least two hundred people. If this man just died, the killer is still inside the palace.”

  2

  THE NORTH GATE

  DIAGO VELA

  Winter, the Year of Our Lord 1192

  My name is Diago Vela. I’m known as Count Don Diago Vela, to be more precise. I began to set down the events described in this chronicle on the day I returned, after two yea
rs’ absence, to the ancient village of Gasteiz, or, as the pagans call it, Gaztel Haitz, or Castle Rock.

  I was traveling back through Aquitaine, and after crossing lower Navarre, I took care to avoid entering Tudela. I had no wish to give my report to the aged king Sancho. Not yet. I had handed over his daughter Berengaria to Richard, known as the Lionheart. That monster had no honorable reason for marrying her, a fact that became clear after meeting him. And, more importantly, I was anxious to discover what was happening inside the walls of the town I could already spy in the distance.

  I would soon be back with Onneca….

  My exhausted mount struggled up the steep hill leading to the North Gate, which protected the town against anyone approaching from Arriaga.

  We crossed the bridges over the two moats. I was uncomfortably aware that a rider had been following me for three moons now, all the more reason to spur on my horse and finally reach the safety of the town wall. It was an unpleasant night, pitch-black, and the winds promised to bring the first snows of a harsh winter. A wildcat-skin cloak was all that prevented me from freezing to death. This was not a good moment to be arriving in Victoria. The gates of Villa de Suso were closed at dusk right after curfew. I was bound to be asked for an explanation, but I was desperate to get inside the walls as quickly as possible.

  There was no moon, so I carried a torch as I rode. On my left I could make out the old cemetery of Santa María. It had been a market day, and there were fish bones on the tombs. The nocturnal creatures that were feeding on them scuttled away as soon as they sensed my presence.

  “Who goes there at this hour? Can you not see the gate is closed? We don’t want any vagabonds inside the walls,” shouted the lad on the battlements.

  “Are you calling your lord Don Vela a vagabond?” I shouted, looking up and raising my voice at the foot of the gate. “Is that not Yñigo, the son of Nuño, the furrier?”

  “Lord Don Vela died.”

  “Who says so?”

  “Everybody here. Who denies it?”

  “The deceased. Is my sister, Lady Lyra, at home?”

  “I think she has refused to attend the wedding ceremony. She must be in the forge yard. My cousin is holding a torch for her. I’ll go to find her, but on my oath, if this is a trap for my lady—”

  What wedding ceremony? I asked myself in bewilderment.

  “Don’t swear an oath, Yñigo. I will receive the payment for your blasphemy. Do you want to make me richer?” I laughed.

  “Were it not that your grieving and dearly beloved brother, Nagorno, announced your death, I could swear you are my lord. You are tall and strong as he was—”

  So that was the explanation. Nagorno. Always Nagorno, the man who was everywhere.

  “Go and find my sister, I beg you,” I interrupted him. “My loins are going to freeze.”

  When he left, I dismounted and stretched my icy limbs. Was it snowing already? Victoria suffered from a bleak climate. The townspeople had hides as tough as leather.

  I had rarely yearned for a hearth as much as I did on that night.

  And Onneca…perhaps she was asleep?

  Only a few hours more, I told myself. Be patient, Diago. All in good time.

  I was looking forward to finishing my task and getting back to living my own life.

  Some moments later, the lad returned.

  “Our lady Lyra says we are to open the gate for you. She says you are alive, my…my lord. You will find her in the yard outside your forge.”

  At last I was coming in from the cold. The silent, empty wastelands were behind me. I looked back one last time.

  “Yñigo,” I instructed the boy, “if tonight or at dawn someone else asks to enter, come and tell me, but do not open the gate. Warn the guards at the South Gate and at the Armería Gate as well.”

  Nodding, the lad ran off to tell the other guards. My steed and I rounded the burial ground and headed for my family home in Rúa de la Astería.

  The seat of our Vela lineage had stood on the northern side of the hill for five hundred years, before the area even became known as Gasteiz.

  Our smithy had withstood the passing of centuries. Two hundred years earlier, it had gone up in flames and been reduced to ash during a Saracen raid, but we had rebuilt it, strengthened the walls, replaced the timbers, and carried on.

  My family always carried on, no matter what the years threw at us.

  We built the first walls to protect our backs. It took ninety men working for almost a decade to construct them. And the village grew: The Thursday market opposite our smithy attracted merchants, peasants, and laborers from the surrounding areas. Then the Santa María Cathedral, also backed up to the town wall, was built.

  The town was silent after curfew. The black sky was filling with white feathers, the flakes from a gentle snowfall that was not yet settling on the roofs. I entered the forge yard, looking for my sister.

  Several torches fitted into columns provided dim light to the yard, so I saw her from afar. Lyra often trained in fencing, trying to compensate for the weakness of her small body with the curved blade of her scaramax. Tonight, though, she was hurling a pair of battle-axes at a scarecrow, the way the Norsemen do. This raised my suspicions: Could it be possible that my trusty Gunnarr…?

  I felt a pang of regret at the two years that had passed since I last saw her. I dismounted and hugged her from behind with all my might.

  “My dear sister, how I’ve missed your embrace—” I managed to say.

  I did not expect what came next: pecking and claws that tore out several clumps of my hair. A ferocious animal had come out of nowhere—or rather, from the roof over the courtyard.

  “Munio, stop it, I beg you. You’ll be the ruin of me!” cried a voice that was not my sister’s.

  The girl I had hugged was not Lyra, although they shared a similar build and were equally small. I couldn’t spot any particular differences, though; I was too busy trying to prevent the hell bird from gouging out my eyes.

  Then she gave a whistle uncharacteristic of her sex and extended her arm. The huge white owl left me and settled on her, but not without giving me a last warning hiss.

  “I’m so sorry, my lord!” the girl cried.

  She couldn’t be from town, because single women in Victoria had their hair cut short, except for two long locks by the ears. Nor was she wearing a married woman’s wimple. It was an interesting enigma; the long blond hair falling to her shoulders was not a common sight in our parts.

  “Munio and I have been together since we were born,” she explained apologetically. “He was raised with me, and he’s in love with me. This happens with some domesticated birds. He considers me his wife, and he’s very jealous. He doesn’t allow any male to come near me.”

  “And what is your name, my lady?”

  “I’m Alix, the blacksmith.”

  “The smith? When I left, our master blacksmith was Angevín de Salcedo.”

  “My deceased father, sire. My older brothers also died of scrofula, so I returned from the convent at Leyre. My father had sent me there years earlier, even though I loved the forge. Molten iron flows through my veins.”

  “So, in a sense, you are a warrior nun,” I said with a smile as I eyed the battle-ax.

  “I was a novice, but someone had to defend the convent against the evildoers. They were pretending to be pilgrims on the Jacobean route.”

  “I brought her here, my beloved cousin,” came a booming voice from the darkness. “Lyra asked me to bring Alix home after her brothers died and there was no one left to help her with the forge.”

  “Gunnarr…? That’s you, isn’t it? I thought you were ferrying pilgrims along the English Way,” I said, rushing to embrace him.

  A giant with white eyebrows emerged from the shadows, laughing. He picked me up as though I weighed no more
than a sparrow, even though I was head and shoulders taller than anyone in all the courts I had ever been in. Gunnarr Kolbrunson was from the Danish lands, descended from a northern branch of our family—although many in Victoria secretly wagered that he was a descendant of the jentil, giants who had inhabited our mountains since time immemorial.

  “I knew you weren’t dead. How could you have died when you’re going to outlive us all?” Gunnarr whispered in my ear, his voice choked with emotion.

  “Who says I’m dead?” I asked for the second time that night.

  “You must ask your brother that. In fact, I came to Victoria for Nagorno’s betrothal. They have already said their pledges, Diago. Nagorno has given her the coins,” he said. His words were cautious, as though he was offering me his condolences. “Now they are betrothed. Nagorno and the father of the bride have insisted on witnesses for the test of her virginity. Lyra had no wish to attend, and I did not go, either, out of respect for your memory. And because, even though I am celibate, I don’t want to sleep with aching balls tonight. You decide what you’d like to do. They went in some time ago.”

  My sister appeared then, torch in hand, her face smudged with black. She had on the same leather apron she’d worn on the day we said goodbye. There had been many nights in the East when I missed the times we spent sitting quietly by the fire.

  “That’s right, Brother, I am not going,” said Lyra, her expression circumspect.

  I feared the worst. It was something I could never have imagined, precisely the opposite of what I’d been hoping for when I guided my horse toward Victoria.

  “Where?”

  “I think you know already—the Count de Maestu’s mansion, in the territory of Armería. Swear by the goddess Lur that you won’t make me regret telling you,” said Gunnarr.

  “No heads will roll, if that’s your concern.”

  “Yes, obviously that worries me. Swear it.”

  “I swear.”

  “By Lur,” Gunnarr insisted.