The Devils of Cardona by Matthew Carr Page A

side by side on wooden tables. Mendoza had seen many corpses in his life, but the three naked, headless shepherds were a shocking and disturbing sight. One had been shot in the chest. Another had been struck in the chest by a crossbow bolt. The third had a deep diagonal cut just above his right shoulder. The boy with the crossbow bolt bore the marks of wounds on his hands and feet and also on his chest. All the bodies had been washed, including the three heads lying neatly in a basket, and asMendoza looked more closely at the boy’s chest, he saw that the wounds were in fact letters that had been carved into it with a knife.
    â€œIHS,” he murmured. “The Holy Name of Jesus.”
    â€œThat’s what it says?” Franquelo made the sign of the cross. “The dirty heathen scum.”
    Mendoza thought of the first weeks of the Morisco rebellion in Granada, when the Moriscos had slaughtered the Christians of the Alpujarras. It was all strikingly similar, from the grotesque blasphemy and sadism to the mockery of religious symbols and rituals. And yet it seemed incredible that the Moriscos of Aragon should have dared to embark on such a provocation after the terrible punishment that had been inflicted on Granada. Gabriel was standing nearby, looking pale and distraught, and he suddenly hurried from the room with one hand over his mouth.
    They found him outside in the street, leaning over a pool of vomit.
    â€œAre you all right?” Mendoza asked.
    Gabriel nodded, obviously embarrassed at being the center of attention. Just then they heard the clatter of hooves, and a mule-drawn cart pulled up outside the entrance to the hospital. In the driver’s seat, a bearded old man in a frayed gray tunic and cloth cap held the reins. He was flanked by two younger men, both of whom were carrying swords and daggers. Two more men were seated in the back, one of whom was holding an escopeta across his lap.
    â€œI’ve come for my boys, Franquelo,” the old man said.
    â€œThey’re inside, Paco. This is Alcalde Mendoza. The king has sent him from Valladolid to bring these villains to justice.”
    â€œThere’s only one kind of justice these devils understand.”
    â€œI promise you, Señor Quintana, that I will do everything I can to find who killed your sons,” Mendoza assured him.
    â€œThen you better go to Belamar de la Sierra, because that’s where those devils came from, and everybody knows it.” Quintana turned away into the hospital without waiting for a reply.
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    â€œD O YOU HAVE ANY SUSPECTS ?” Mendoza asked Franquelo as they walked back to the courthouse.
    â€œNo, sir, but the killers went to a lot of trouble to crucify them. The campsite where they were killed is nearly an hour away on horseback.”
    â€œHave you searched this place?”
    â€œNot yet. We haven’t had time.”
    Like many rural
alguaciles
Mendoza had known, Franquelo did not seem overburdened with energy or intelligence. “And what about the priest? Do you have any suspects for that?”
    Calvo laughed. “Yes—the whole town! Panalles was stuck like a pig, but no one heard him scream. Whoever did it also had time to desecrate the church, but the whole town just slept through it! No one is talking! Not to me. Not to the Inquisition. And not to Franquelo. I tell you, Bernardo, what we need to do is make a couple of arrests, bring them down here and stretch them till they talk. Then maybe the fear will open up some lines of inquiry. Especially after this.”
    Mendoza said nothing. Even though he himself had subjected suspects to the torment, he did not approve of torture either as a first resort or as a substitute for a full investigation, and he was disappointed to hear his old friend advocating such primitive methods.
    â€œOne thing is certain,” Calvo said. “This was some kind of message. Bandits would just