One morning while rummaging through trash behind a traveler’s inn, Miguel heard loud talking from inside. He froze, straining to hear and ready to run away if the voices drew closer.
“The order came from the Grand Inquisitor himself,” the loudest voice was explaining, “and the deadline for them to leave has already passed.”
“Good,” another voice said with laughter, “who needed those stinking Hebrews anyway?”
“They are the reason these hard times came upon us in the first place,” a drunken sounding voice chimed in.
Miguel’s heart sank as he crouched low, listening to the chorus of hate emanating from inside. No longer feeling hungry, he crept away quietly, trembling with fear as he tiptoed down the alley.
He wandered the deserted back streets into the afternoon, not knowing what to do or where to go. He reached the edge of the Barrio as the heat of the day was setting in and, utterly exhausted, crawled underneath a low hanging juniper bush for a nap.
The sun was setting when he finally awoke, and his hunger had returned with a vengeance. He visited the stall of a produce vendor that he had traded with before, and begged for a morsel of food.
“Here you go,” the vendor handed him a small carrot after hesitating briefly, “but do not come around here any more, all right? I cannot afford to be seen helping your kind. You should really leave town. You know that, right?”
Miguel nodded, thanked the man, and walked away, slowly nibbling on the carrot in the hopes of making it last.
He wandered in the direction of his rooftop dwelling, planning to reach it before dark.
Just a few blocks from home, he heard footsteps gaining speed behind him. He turned and saw the approaching gang of thugs, just as they began to accost him verbally.
“Ho there, Jew boy!” the leader barked. “Are you out here looking for a beating?”
Miguel answered with his feet, bolting around the corner. The gang followed in hot pursuit, continuing to shout threats and curses.
He intentionally began heading away from his rooftop, not wanting to reveal the location of his home base to the thugs. Still weak with hunger, he knew he could not keep up a long run, so he resorted to the only option that remained.
Over his years of surviving alone on the streets of the Barrio, Miguel had come to learn about the underground caverns. Built by the Moors for cold storage of foodstuffs and other supplies, the network of caves and tunnels was quite extensive.
Miguel knew of several access points, though he dreaded the cold and dank darkness of the underground realm. Only fear of the alternative drove him to take refuge there that night. He sprinted with all his might to put more distance between himself and the gang, and managed to slip into one of the tunnels without being seen.
He felt his way through the total blackness until finding a relatively firm and dry ledge to rest upon. The sound of the thugs’ voices eventually faded away, only to be replaced by the grim noises made by the scurrying and slithering creatures that dwelt in the dark.
Miguel sat there for a long time, unsure whether he was shaking more from fear or from the damp cold. He waited until he was sure the thugs would have given up looking for him before emerging back onto the streets.
The crescent moon was low in the sky when he finally made it back to his rooftop. Only after stretching out on his dry and familiar bedroll, did Miguel finally give in to the tears of despair that had been ready to fall for a long time.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
The Barrio of Cordoba, scene one
Spain’s War of Reconquest had been devastatingly expensive, and the common man bore the brunt of the cost through heavy taxes. Outside of the Royal Court and the castles of the wealthiest nobles, poverty and despair raged unchecked.
The streets and alleyways of Cordoba seethed with violence, crime, and hopelessness. Brutal gangs of thugs competed for control of each neighborhood.
In one district, known simply as the Barrio, even the city militia was afraid to enter. As a result, no law was enforced other than the will of the strong.
On the west end of the Barrio, on the rooftop of a crumbling abandoned storefront, there lived a young street urchin named Miguel. Orphaned at a very young age, Miguel had quickly learned to survive by avoiding attention and staying out of trouble.
Too small and weak to join a gang, and too fearful of rejection to seek help from the church, Miguel lived mostly on discarded scraps found in the alleys behind taverns and inns.
He grew a small amount of fruit in clay pots on his rooftop, and could occasionally trade some for a bite of meat or cheese. He would steal food if starvation came too close, but he hated to do so.
Late at night, Miguel would recline on his bedroll, watching the moon and stars, and dream about a childhood he could barely remember. A real home with parents, a soft bed, hot food on the table, and even a few toys; for blessings like these he had long since lost any real hope.
Miguel’s daily struggle to survive was complicated by the fact that he was Jewish. Without the guidance of parents or a faith community, he had little knowledge of what this meant. But he did have a sense of God’s existence, as well as a persistent belief that God cared about him in a special way.
This belief was all that carried him through those long, dark and lonely nights in the Barrio.
The streets and alleyways of Cordoba seethed with violence, crime, and hopelessness. Brutal gangs of thugs competed for control of each neighborhood.
In one district, known simply as the Barrio, even the city militia was afraid to enter. As a result, no law was enforced other than the will of the strong.
On the west end of the Barrio, on the rooftop of a crumbling abandoned storefront, there lived a young street urchin named Miguel. Orphaned at a very young age, Miguel had quickly learned to survive by avoiding attention and staying out of trouble.
Too small and weak to join a gang, and too fearful of rejection to seek help from the church, Miguel lived mostly on discarded scraps found in the alleys behind taverns and inns.
He grew a small amount of fruit in clay pots on his rooftop, and could occasionally trade some for a bite of meat or cheese. He would steal food if starvation came too close, but he hated to do so.
Late at night, Miguel would recline on his bedroll, watching the moon and stars, and dream about a childhood he could barely remember. A real home with parents, a soft bed, hot food on the table, and even a few toys; for blessings like these he had long since lost any real hope.
Miguel’s daily struggle to survive was complicated by the fact that he was Jewish. Without the guidance of parents or a faith community, he had little knowledge of what this meant. But he did have a sense of God’s existence, as well as a persistent belief that God cared about him in a special way.
This belief was all that carried him through those long, dark and lonely nights in the Barrio.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Interlude, author commentary
Since the original Song of Sherwood Trilogy ends in the early 1260's and this blog resumes the action in 1492, you may be wondering what happened during the 230+ years in between. Part of the explanation exists in two books that follow the original Trilogy, making it actually a Pentalogy. In book four, "The Ends of the Earth," the great-grandson of Robin Hood, Samuel of Locksley, sets out on a mission to reach the fabled court of Kublai Khan at Xanadu. In book five, "Knight of Sorrows," Samuel's son, Robert of Locksley, joins the Knights Templar at the beginning of the 1300's. This is bad timing for Robert, as the Templars were crushed and persecuted by the Pope and company beginning in 1307. That is when, according to me, the noble Locksley name began to recede into the mists of legend. Books four and five are currently unavailable to the public.
The other part of the explanation for the time gap is history itself. Frankly, the 1300's and 1400's were pretty dark times. This was the height of the Black Death. There was essentially non-stop war between England and France. The Turks continued to chip away at what remained of the Byzantine Empire, and good times like the Renaissance and Reformation were still in the works. But in 1492 a couple of interesting things happened. First, after over 700 years of fighting, the Spanish finally succeeded in driving the Moorish invaders back to Africa. Second (you may have heard about this) a Genoese merchant named Christopher Columbus set sail trying to find a western sea route for reaching China and India. Of course, he failed to reach his goal, but he did find something else even better. Both the Reconquista and the voyages of Christopher Columbus offer a great backdrop for adventure and intrigue.
So, what about Robert Locke anyway? Is he a direct descendant of Robin Hood? Yes. Basically, the Locksley estate was confiscated by the Church after the persecution of the Templars. Generations of offspring continued (even to this day), but the title of nobility was lost with the lands. And after years on the run from Inquisitors and bounty-hunters, the name Locksley was modified to Locke in order to help avoid the authorities. In later New World Chronicles, you may even see the name shortened again to Lock.
Can a complete, unbroken genealogy be established descending from Robin Hood? No, and that was never the point. The point in all of these stories, booked or blogged, is about the spirit of Sherwood. This is not something carried in DNA. It's the ideals that matter: courage, chivalry, helping the poor, using skill and cleverness to overcome a more powerful foe. These ideals are available for anyone to adopt. Pedigree is meaningless. Words and actions, choices and commitments; these are what make us who we are.
The other part of the explanation for the time gap is history itself. Frankly, the 1300's and 1400's were pretty dark times. This was the height of the Black Death. There was essentially non-stop war between England and France. The Turks continued to chip away at what remained of the Byzantine Empire, and good times like the Renaissance and Reformation were still in the works. But in 1492 a couple of interesting things happened. First, after over 700 years of fighting, the Spanish finally succeeded in driving the Moorish invaders back to Africa. Second (you may have heard about this) a Genoese merchant named Christopher Columbus set sail trying to find a western sea route for reaching China and India. Of course, he failed to reach his goal, but he did find something else even better. Both the Reconquista and the voyages of Christopher Columbus offer a great backdrop for adventure and intrigue.
So, what about Robert Locke anyway? Is he a direct descendant of Robin Hood? Yes. Basically, the Locksley estate was confiscated by the Church after the persecution of the Templars. Generations of offspring continued (even to this day), but the title of nobility was lost with the lands. And after years on the run from Inquisitors and bounty-hunters, the name Locksley was modified to Locke in order to help avoid the authorities. In later New World Chronicles, you may even see the name shortened again to Lock.
Can a complete, unbroken genealogy be established descending from Robin Hood? No, and that was never the point. The point in all of these stories, booked or blogged, is about the spirit of Sherwood. This is not something carried in DNA. It's the ideals that matter: courage, chivalry, helping the poor, using skill and cleverness to overcome a more powerful foe. These ideals are available for anyone to adopt. Pedigree is meaningless. Words and actions, choices and commitments; these are what make us who we are.
The Fall of Granada, scenes seven and eight
When Locke once again arrived back at his tent, a pair of bored looking Spanish musketeers was there waiting for him.
“Are you Robert Locke?” one of them asked as he drew near.
“At your service,” he bowed.
“You are hereby summoned,” the other musketeer mumbled, while handing him a small slip of parchment.
Locke looked down at the writing and gleaned that it had to do with meeting Queen Isabella and gathering his reward money.
“Where should I go?” he asked.
“The Royal Court is being held at Cordoba,” the first musketeer explained.
“If you wish,” the other added, “you can use the summons to requisition a horse.”
They explained to him where to go and what to do to receive his temporary mount. He tipped them each a silver piece for their helpfulness and wished them a good day.
After starting to walk away, the musketeer that had handed him the summons paused and turned back around.
“I wonder,” the man stared hard at Locke, “were you anywhere near the South Keep, the one by the docks, around midday yesterday?”
Locke swallowed, and staring straight back into the man’s eyes answered, “Sorry, no, not that I can recall.”
The man lingered for a moment more, looking Locke up and down before shrugging, turning around, and following after his partner.
*
The weather remained pleasant, so Locke decided to spend one more night relaxing on his knoll. In the morning, he rolled up his tent and set off to find the livery.
The horse was a bit of a disappointment, but it was still far and away the best horse he had ever received for free.
He let the animal maintain an easy pace as it carried him and his belongings north to the royal court of Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon.
“Are you Robert Locke?” one of them asked as he drew near.
“At your service,” he bowed.
“You are hereby summoned,” the other musketeer mumbled, while handing him a small slip of parchment.
Locke looked down at the writing and gleaned that it had to do with meeting Queen Isabella and gathering his reward money.
“Where should I go?” he asked.
“The Royal Court is being held at Cordoba,” the first musketeer explained.
“If you wish,” the other added, “you can use the summons to requisition a horse.”
They explained to him where to go and what to do to receive his temporary mount. He tipped them each a silver piece for their helpfulness and wished them a good day.
After starting to walk away, the musketeer that had handed him the summons paused and turned back around.
“I wonder,” the man stared hard at Locke, “were you anywhere near the South Keep, the one by the docks, around midday yesterday?”
Locke swallowed, and staring straight back into the man’s eyes answered, “Sorry, no, not that I can recall.”
The man lingered for a moment more, looking Locke up and down before shrugging, turning around, and following after his partner.
*
The weather remained pleasant, so Locke decided to spend one more night relaxing on his knoll. In the morning, he rolled up his tent and set off to find the livery.
The horse was a bit of a disappointment, but it was still far and away the best horse he had ever received for free.
He let the animal maintain an easy pace as it carried him and his belongings north to the royal court of Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
The Fall of Granada, scenes five and six
Night had fallen by the time Robert Locke reached his tent, perched upon a grassy knoll just outside the main Aragonese army camp. Every part of his body ached and groaned for rest, but his mind was still racing with all that he had done and seen during the last few days.
With a sigh he sat down in front of his tent to clean the cinders and splinters out of his badly lacerated feet. After pouring olive oil over the worst cuts and bandaging his feet to the ankles, he looked into his box of provisions and frowned at the paltry selection.
He finally chose a chunk of dried and salted meat to gnaw on while inspecting the rest of the damage to his body. Once he satisfied himself that none of the damage was permanent, he foraged back into his tent for his smoking pipe and snuff canister. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed his full water canteen as well.
After draining the canteen in a single long gulp, he tossed it back inside the tent and went to work packing and eventually lighting the pipe. He leaned back in the cool grass and puffed on the pipe just often enough for it to stay lit.
His thoughts wandered far and wide, even back to England and his troubled childhood. He watched the stars and moon emerge from behind a cloud while thinking disdainfully about his drunkard of a father, who had lived just long enough to drive his mother to madness.
He thought of his two sisters, both of whom had succumbed to the plague.
He remembered Tyler of Bristol, the privateer that had taken him on as a sailor and introduced him to the adventurer’s life. Those were the days when he had learned to fight and fence, to sail and to survive.
Yet even Tyler had betrayed him when it suited his own needs.
Robert Locke had learned early to rely upon himself. He acted alone, making no commitments and bearing no regrets.
He pulled a long toke from his pipe and heard the sizzle of resin that let him know the bowl was nearly exhausted. Finally feeling his own exhaustion of mind as well as body; he slowly exhaled, turned around, and slid inside his tent where he fell asleep almost instantly.
*
Locke awoke to the commotion caused by hundreds of Spanish soldiers on the move.
“What is happening?” he asked one of the nearby Spaniards.
The man shrugged, adding only, “Some kind of announcement is coming…”
Not having any pressing matters to attend to, Locke followed the crowd back into Granada. The city had been Christianized, at least visually, with incredible efficiency.
Every crescent moon had been torn down and replaced with a cross. The mosques had been renamed with makeshift signage. And to Locke’s horror, a great bonfire had been set, fuelled entirely by books that had been deemed heretical.
“Who decided which books should be burned?” he asked a young priest that was monitoring the fire.
The priest looked confused and answered with the question, “Of what books have we a need, save for the Holy Scriptures?”
“I suppose we shall never know,” Locke said in disgust before walking away toward the city center.
The priest ignored him, staring into the flames as if in a trance.
In Granada’s main plaza, Locke came upon an enormous crowd gathered around a wooden grandstand that had been constructed overnight. Soldiers and citizens were packed in so tightly, that he had a difficult time getting close to the stage.
A herald blasted a long shrill note through his silver trumpet and the throng instantly grew quiet. After a momentary silence, the Grand Inquisitor Torquemada rose up and spread wide the arms of his crimson robe.
“Good Christian men,” he began with a strong and silky smooth voice that carried easily to the ends of the plaza, “Our Lord has blessed us greatly this day! For where once there was evil, there now is good. And where once there was war, there now is peace!”
A roar of approval went up from the crowd, and the Grand Inquisitor basked long in the thundering adulation.
“For eight long centuries and generations beyond counting, our people have fought and died in order that hope, purity and righteousness might be restored upon this land. We, above all the generations before us, have been favored by God with the honor of witnessing the fulfillment not of our own will, but of His and His alone!”
Again, Torquemada let the crowd give long and loud voice to its collective feelings of pride and accomplishment.
“Yet think not for a moment, my little lambs,” Torquemada droned on in a fatherly tone, “that we have reached some end, or that our work is in any way done. For the expulsion of the dark Moorish overlords was only the first of our tasks. And now that the enemy from without has been driven back, now my lambs, we must turn to face the enemy within!”
The crowd was suddenly quite reserved.
“Look into your own hearts!” the Grand Inquisitor challenged. “Ask not whether you have prayed, but have you prayed with sufficient fervor? Ask not whether you have fasted, but have you fasted unto sufficient agony? Ask not whether you have paid your tithes and offerings, but have you paid them with sufficient joy?
“And then, and only then my dear children, look around you. Look upon your neighbors, your brothers, your sisters, your sons and daughters. For yes, we are indeed our brother’s keeper. And yes, indeed it is fitting to admonish a brother. And better to face admonishment, is it not, than to be cast into hellfire? And is it not more favorable to face correction than to lose one’s soul for all eternity?”
A smattering of applause came forth, particularly from those closest to the grandstand.
“Moreover,” Torquemada continued, “we must seize upon this moment to finally rid ourselves of a plague that has festered too long in this land, a pestilence that the Moorish overlords tolerated all too readily. You know of whom I speak! By the authority given to me by God, through the grace of our King and Queen, I hereby declare that the rotten and creeping Jews, those who murdered our very own Lord and Savior, are hereby expelled from this land!”
The crowd found its voice again, and the cheering went on for so long that Robert Locke had to steady himself against the waves of nausea he felt.
“Yet did Our Lord not teach us to be merciful?” Torquemada finally motioned for quiet. “Did he not instruct us to repay evil with good? That is why I ask of you, my lambs, to inflict no violence upon the Wandering Jew this day. Rather you shall grant them safe passage by road or upon the waves until midnight tomorrow. Show them the mercy they denied our Precious Christ, and allow them to depart our lands in peace.”
The crowd murmured indecisively.
“And one final matter…” the Grand Inquisitor scanned the crowd. “In our grace and mercy, we shall grant the departing Jews the clothes upon their backs, the sandals upon their feet, and provisions for their journey. Yet extend not this mercy to encompass the gold, silver and other wealth they have hoarded through their trickery and deception. Rather pray my children, that by returning these treasures into the bosom of Mother Church, we may purchase for these lost and wandering souls some glimmer of hope for absolution in the sight of Our Lord. Through me, your Lord God has spoken to you. Go forth now in peace and brotherly love for one another.”
With a sigh he sat down in front of his tent to clean the cinders and splinters out of his badly lacerated feet. After pouring olive oil over the worst cuts and bandaging his feet to the ankles, he looked into his box of provisions and frowned at the paltry selection.
He finally chose a chunk of dried and salted meat to gnaw on while inspecting the rest of the damage to his body. Once he satisfied himself that none of the damage was permanent, he foraged back into his tent for his smoking pipe and snuff canister. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed his full water canteen as well.
After draining the canteen in a single long gulp, he tossed it back inside the tent and went to work packing and eventually lighting the pipe. He leaned back in the cool grass and puffed on the pipe just often enough for it to stay lit.
His thoughts wandered far and wide, even back to England and his troubled childhood. He watched the stars and moon emerge from behind a cloud while thinking disdainfully about his drunkard of a father, who had lived just long enough to drive his mother to madness.
He thought of his two sisters, both of whom had succumbed to the plague.
He remembered Tyler of Bristol, the privateer that had taken him on as a sailor and introduced him to the adventurer’s life. Those were the days when he had learned to fight and fence, to sail and to survive.
Yet even Tyler had betrayed him when it suited his own needs.
Robert Locke had learned early to rely upon himself. He acted alone, making no commitments and bearing no regrets.
He pulled a long toke from his pipe and heard the sizzle of resin that let him know the bowl was nearly exhausted. Finally feeling his own exhaustion of mind as well as body; he slowly exhaled, turned around, and slid inside his tent where he fell asleep almost instantly.
*
Locke awoke to the commotion caused by hundreds of Spanish soldiers on the move.
“What is happening?” he asked one of the nearby Spaniards.
The man shrugged, adding only, “Some kind of announcement is coming…”
Not having any pressing matters to attend to, Locke followed the crowd back into Granada. The city had been Christianized, at least visually, with incredible efficiency.
Every crescent moon had been torn down and replaced with a cross. The mosques had been renamed with makeshift signage. And to Locke’s horror, a great bonfire had been set, fuelled entirely by books that had been deemed heretical.
“Who decided which books should be burned?” he asked a young priest that was monitoring the fire.
The priest looked confused and answered with the question, “Of what books have we a need, save for the Holy Scriptures?”
“I suppose we shall never know,” Locke said in disgust before walking away toward the city center.
The priest ignored him, staring into the flames as if in a trance.
In Granada’s main plaza, Locke came upon an enormous crowd gathered around a wooden grandstand that had been constructed overnight. Soldiers and citizens were packed in so tightly, that he had a difficult time getting close to the stage.
A herald blasted a long shrill note through his silver trumpet and the throng instantly grew quiet. After a momentary silence, the Grand Inquisitor Torquemada rose up and spread wide the arms of his crimson robe.
“Good Christian men,” he began with a strong and silky smooth voice that carried easily to the ends of the plaza, “Our Lord has blessed us greatly this day! For where once there was evil, there now is good. And where once there was war, there now is peace!”
A roar of approval went up from the crowd, and the Grand Inquisitor basked long in the thundering adulation.
“For eight long centuries and generations beyond counting, our people have fought and died in order that hope, purity and righteousness might be restored upon this land. We, above all the generations before us, have been favored by God with the honor of witnessing the fulfillment not of our own will, but of His and His alone!”
Again, Torquemada let the crowd give long and loud voice to its collective feelings of pride and accomplishment.
“Yet think not for a moment, my little lambs,” Torquemada droned on in a fatherly tone, “that we have reached some end, or that our work is in any way done. For the expulsion of the dark Moorish overlords was only the first of our tasks. And now that the enemy from without has been driven back, now my lambs, we must turn to face the enemy within!”
The crowd was suddenly quite reserved.
“Look into your own hearts!” the Grand Inquisitor challenged. “Ask not whether you have prayed, but have you prayed with sufficient fervor? Ask not whether you have fasted, but have you fasted unto sufficient agony? Ask not whether you have paid your tithes and offerings, but have you paid them with sufficient joy?
“And then, and only then my dear children, look around you. Look upon your neighbors, your brothers, your sisters, your sons and daughters. For yes, we are indeed our brother’s keeper. And yes, indeed it is fitting to admonish a brother. And better to face admonishment, is it not, than to be cast into hellfire? And is it not more favorable to face correction than to lose one’s soul for all eternity?”
A smattering of applause came forth, particularly from those closest to the grandstand.
“Moreover,” Torquemada continued, “we must seize upon this moment to finally rid ourselves of a plague that has festered too long in this land, a pestilence that the Moorish overlords tolerated all too readily. You know of whom I speak! By the authority given to me by God, through the grace of our King and Queen, I hereby declare that the rotten and creeping Jews, those who murdered our very own Lord and Savior, are hereby expelled from this land!”
The crowd found its voice again, and the cheering went on for so long that Robert Locke had to steady himself against the waves of nausea he felt.
“Yet did Our Lord not teach us to be merciful?” Torquemada finally motioned for quiet. “Did he not instruct us to repay evil with good? That is why I ask of you, my lambs, to inflict no violence upon the Wandering Jew this day. Rather you shall grant them safe passage by road or upon the waves until midnight tomorrow. Show them the mercy they denied our Precious Christ, and allow them to depart our lands in peace.”
The crowd murmured indecisively.
“And one final matter…” the Grand Inquisitor scanned the crowd. “In our grace and mercy, we shall grant the departing Jews the clothes upon their backs, the sandals upon their feet, and provisions for their journey. Yet extend not this mercy to encompass the gold, silver and other wealth they have hoarded through their trickery and deception. Rather pray my children, that by returning these treasures into the bosom of Mother Church, we may purchase for these lost and wandering souls some glimmer of hope for absolution in the sight of Our Lord. Through me, your Lord God has spoken to you. Go forth now in peace and brotherly love for one another.”
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The Fall of Granada, scene four
The crowd of women and children huddled near the back of the burning hall, crouching low to the floor as black smoke filled the air over their heads. Most of the children were crying, but the women remained silent.
One of the women pointed her finger at a shadowy figure coming toward them through the flames. Suddenly though, a loud cracking sound shook the room, and a shower of sparks preceded the collapse of a large timber beam from the ceiling.
The shadowy figure vanished in a maelstrom of smoke, ash and swirling flame. The women looked up with sinking dread as the remainder of the ceiling looked set to fall in upon them.
Then out of the flames, the figure reemerged. Robert Locke was a bit singed, but otherwise intact. With smoke stinging his eyes, he looked all around for a way out. A small glass window seemed the only option, but it could not be opened.
He drew his musket and blew most of the thick colored glass outward with a single shot. Tearing off his own shirt, he wrapped the cloth around his hand and worked quickly to knock away the glass that remained.
The frightened innocents could not understand his verbal commands, but they obeyed his hand motions and cautiously approached him. Locke began by shoving a pair of women through the opening, and then carefully handed the smallest children out to them.
The larger children he simply threw out the window, knowing their bruises and bumps would heal, but only if they escaped before the rest of the roof fell.
As he finally boosted the last of the women through the window, he heard the same cracking sound that had preceded the first cave-in. He dove forward and shot out of the window carried on a hot gust of wind, smoke and flaming debris.
Wiping the soot from his eyes, he looked around and saw that they were not far from the docks. He urged the women and children forward, practically shoving them toward the water’s edge.
Locke stopped and turned when he heard a chorus of shouting behind them. A group of Inquisition guards armed with long pikes was racing toward them, apparently committed to fulfilling Torquemada’s instructions that none of the abandoned Moors survive.
Locke motioned for the women and children to continue their flight to the last of the ships. He then drew his sword and walked calmly toward the onrushing guards.
The pike-men paused when they came upon him and shouted angry commands for him to stand aside. Locke replied by examining his trousers and brushing away some of the larger deposits of soot from the pant legs.
Enraged, the lead guard lowered his pike and charged. Locke stepped aside at the last moment, grabbed the pike by its long handle and yanked it forward causing the guard to lose his balance and fall flat on his face.
The other guards rushed in, but their pikes were easily tapped aside by the Englishman’s agile sword-strokes. He disarmed one of them, sheathed his own sword, and swung the captured pike in lazy arcs that kept the others at bay.
Locke continued sporting with the hostile church soldiers until the last of the refugees were aboard the ships, and the vessels had pulled a comfortable distance out into the bay.
By then a group of Spanish musketeers was on the way to support the floundering pike-men, so Locke took his leave. After bowing cordially to the Inquisition guards, he bolted from the scene.
The clumsy guards pursued him for several city blocks before losing sight of him altogether.
One of the women pointed her finger at a shadowy figure coming toward them through the flames. Suddenly though, a loud cracking sound shook the room, and a shower of sparks preceded the collapse of a large timber beam from the ceiling.
The shadowy figure vanished in a maelstrom of smoke, ash and swirling flame. The women looked up with sinking dread as the remainder of the ceiling looked set to fall in upon them.
Then out of the flames, the figure reemerged. Robert Locke was a bit singed, but otherwise intact. With smoke stinging his eyes, he looked all around for a way out. A small glass window seemed the only option, but it could not be opened.
He drew his musket and blew most of the thick colored glass outward with a single shot. Tearing off his own shirt, he wrapped the cloth around his hand and worked quickly to knock away the glass that remained.
The frightened innocents could not understand his verbal commands, but they obeyed his hand motions and cautiously approached him. Locke began by shoving a pair of women through the opening, and then carefully handed the smallest children out to them.
The larger children he simply threw out the window, knowing their bruises and bumps would heal, but only if they escaped before the rest of the roof fell.
As he finally boosted the last of the women through the window, he heard the same cracking sound that had preceded the first cave-in. He dove forward and shot out of the window carried on a hot gust of wind, smoke and flaming debris.
Wiping the soot from his eyes, he looked around and saw that they were not far from the docks. He urged the women and children forward, practically shoving them toward the water’s edge.
Locke stopped and turned when he heard a chorus of shouting behind them. A group of Inquisition guards armed with long pikes was racing toward them, apparently committed to fulfilling Torquemada’s instructions that none of the abandoned Moors survive.
Locke motioned for the women and children to continue their flight to the last of the ships. He then drew his sword and walked calmly toward the onrushing guards.
The pike-men paused when they came upon him and shouted angry commands for him to stand aside. Locke replied by examining his trousers and brushing away some of the larger deposits of soot from the pant legs.
Enraged, the lead guard lowered his pike and charged. Locke stepped aside at the last moment, grabbed the pike by its long handle and yanked it forward causing the guard to lose his balance and fall flat on his face.
The other guards rushed in, but their pikes were easily tapped aside by the Englishman’s agile sword-strokes. He disarmed one of them, sheathed his own sword, and swung the captured pike in lazy arcs that kept the others at bay.
Locke continued sporting with the hostile church soldiers until the last of the refugees were aboard the ships, and the vessels had pulled a comfortable distance out into the bay.
By then a group of Spanish musketeers was on the way to support the floundering pike-men, so Locke took his leave. After bowing cordially to the Inquisition guards, he bolted from the scene.
The clumsy guards pursued him for several city blocks before losing sight of him altogether.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)