A Tale of Silence: A Dom Pedro Mystery

By Toni Cor

Civil war is raging in Portugal. For political reasons, King Afonso ordered the execution of the beautiful Inés de Castro, the only woman his son, Crown Prince Pedro, had every truly loved. Maddened by grief, Pedro raised an army, vowing vengeance on all responsible for his beloved’s death. About a year has passed with neither side gaining a decisive victory. As Pedro is considering his future actions, another problem demands his attention. A young woman. the daughter of a prominent local noble, is raped and murdered. One of Pedro’s most trusted aides is accused of the crime. Now, in addition to his other concerns, Pedro must try to save the life and honor of his young follower.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483579733

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PROLOGUE

Since childhood she had slipped away from her companions to wander alone the woods near her father’s castle. More naiad than human kind, she delighted in discovering the secret places which offered shelter from the heat of midday. She searched for and feasted on wild berries in season. She knew the streams that, even at the height of summer, ran cool and clear. In spring she welcomed back the birds and in autumn bade them farewell as they made their way to winter in southern climes. Then, one day, she encountered a companion with whom she might share her secret world.

They thought it merely a world known to none but them. Yet in truth the handsome youth and fair maiden had, as had so many--such as Tristan and Iseult—before them found their way to the realms of legend, the Forest of Morois where the rain falls not and summer lingers always. In its cool retreats they found a sanctuary where none could disturb them, no prying eyes discover their secrets, no jealous spirits begrudge them their joy, no gossiping tongues bring wrath down upon their heads.

The sun was ever a golden orb hanging from the azure vault of heaven with not the faintest cloud to dim its luster. Light gilded the tops of the leaves and the dust motes hovering in the air that was as thick and as sweet as honey. Soft breezes brought the scent of flowers and the songs of courting birds gave voice to feelings that, for the first time, arose in their hearts. The clear cool water in the streams rinsed dust and cares from their faces and sparkled like wine on their tongues.

The hours they stole together were a precious gift that they would always treasure. Here youth and maiden could walk together and speak, at first with caution and then more freely. Eyes could meet and the two could see themselves reflected in the others’ wide, dark pupils. Hands could seek each other, trace the line of cheek and neck, fingers feel the other’s pulse beating in time with their own. Vows could be spoken in all sincerity that, alas, time and fortune might make it impossible to keep. Growing ever more daring, lips could brush, meet, cling. Kisses grew deeper. Soon deep-felt desires could no longer be denied.

Alas! Mortal kind cannot long linger in the enchanted lands. For a brief moment only boy and girl may find their way beyond the fields we know. But all too soon man and woman must return that they may again take up their duties in the world of mortals, remembering only in their dreams the lost forest of Morois.

CHAPTER ONE

Portugal: The Douro River Valley,

September, 1356

A man in the finest (though slightly battered) armor rested his mount at the top of a slight rise in the road. He took a moment to savor a perfect moment in mid-autumn. The sun hovered just past its zenith, its rays bringing a pleasing warmth, not the blazing heat of summer. Only a few clouds marred the blue of the sky. All was silent but for the rustle of the leaves still clinging loyally to their branches despite their change of color. Behind him clustered a small number of armed men and, behind them, concealed by the hill, waited the rest of his troops. His eyes watched the road below him that emerged from the forest into a meadow-like area.

As expected, the first riders emerged into the open. Catching sight of the waiting band of warriors on the hill above, they hesitated for but a second. Then a wave of motion as visors and lances were lowered. Suddenly, before they could advance, crossbowmen hidden in the woods on either side emerged for a moment to let loose a flight of quarrels. Momentary confusion ensued as scattered horses and men collapsed. His own visor lowered, the watching knight swung his sword up in the air, howled For Inés!, and spurred his warhorse forward. Shouting their own battle cries, his men followed, the few that had been visible and the many following who had remained concealed. Together the mass crashed into the enemy and came close to scattering them in the first few moments.

Now the harsh sounds of battle filled the air, piercing the leader’s ears like spears: the shrill screams of wounded or dying men and horses; the clash of swords on armor; the thud of axes on flesh; the battle cries, curses and prayers of those still in the fray. Rays of light slanted down from the afternoon sun dazzling his eyes. The smell of sweat—both of men and horses—of leather, of iron, of the mud underfoot, but above all the coppery tang of blood filled his nostrils. Even through chain and plate mail his flesh registered the blows falling on his body. The first fierce joy of battle was beginning to fade and fatigue lurked on the edge of awareness, ready to begin its insidious assault.

Through the narrow slits in his helmet he could make out vivid colors and shapes. Sable, or, argent. Vert, gules, azure. Towers, mullets, crescent and full moons. Lions, boars, wolves, stags, either passant, couchant or rampant. Eagles, swans, peacocks. Dragons, griffiths, unicorns. Elements of a language he had learned to read before he could decipher or scrawl his own name on a piece of parchment. The language of heraldry proclaiming a man’s family, rank, and –usually—his allegiance.

Ribeira. He translated the coats of arms on the shields and banners. Pizarro. Vasques. Coelho. Borges. Ferreiro. Alvares. And other great houses of Portugal. On both sides of the present struggle. That was the curse of civil wars. The same coats of arms were born by friend and foe alike. He had quickly learned to identify his followers not by the emblems on their shields but by their horses, their armor, their build, the way they moved. As yet he had made no mistakes.

Filho da puta! Dom Pedro, heir to the throne of Portugal, half rose in his stirrups and twisted his body. His sword slashed down, sending a foe to the ground. He knew well the coat of arms and the knight who bore it: Antonio Trastamires, a man he had known since childhood and had once counted among his close companions. Pedro had been disappointed when Antonio did not join him but had grudgingly accepted that fact. To rise against the king required more daring than some men could muster. But to find Antonio in enemy ranks was—to Pedro—an unforgivable betrayal of their boyhood friendship. With renewed vigor, he returned to the fray.

Anger could prove invigorating for a time. Yet even the strongest arm must at some point grow weary. A brief lull in the chaos about him allowed Pedro a quick glance around the battle field. The sun was now at his back but even so light, reflected off of bits of armor not covered in mud or blood stabbed, at his eyes. His brief glance reassured him that though his followers were outnumbered they were not yet wavering. His men were holding fast. Unfortunately, so were the enemy forces.

A new opponent challenged him and he returned to the task at hand. The first exhilaration that filled him whenever he rode into combat might have worn off. Yet once again it had been replaced with the grim deliberation with which he harvested his opponents. He swung his sword, his arm tiring yet still strong. He had been well trained to endure hours of combat. Yet so had those he now faced. Inevitably one side must falter, their muscles grown weary.

Time passed. Even his muscles grew weary. As he noticed his growing weakness, he also became aware that the line of fighting men was beginning to sway back and forth. Soon one side or the other would begin to break and battle would be over for the day.

Then, to one side, he heard, above the noise of battle, new sounds: the thunder of hooves, the clatter of armor, and the shouts of men about to give battle. He threw back his head and laughed triumphantly as the opposing line wavered. Now a new group of his own knights slammed into the enemy flank. Lourenço had arrived, as planned. With renewed energy and determination, Pedro’s men moved forward. It soon became evident that the fresh warriors were all that Pedro had needed to turn the tide of battle. In a short while, those able to do so had fled, leaving behind their dead, their wounded, and those taken prisoner.

The thrill of victory was intoxicating. The urge to rush forward and cut down the fleeing enemy was almost irresistible. Fortunately, both mounted and foot soldiers were too tired to advance more than a short distance before wiser leaders halted them and brought them back to the field of battle. It was not, after all, only Saracens who had mastered the tactic of pretending to flee and then, when the enemy broke ranks and pursued, turning back to take advantage of a disorganized foe.

Pedro guided his horse to one side and lifted the helmet from his head, revealing a face with the stern, even harsh expression that made him appear older than his thirty-five years. He watched vigilantly as order was restored to what had been the chaos of battle. For a short time he allowed himself to savor the intoxication of triumph. He had felt it too seldom in the past year. But his gamble had paid off. He had won the victory he had needed.

One of his most trusted aides rode up to him: a tall, muscular, armor-clad figure, the crest on his shield almost effaced by the blows of weapons. Pedro nodded his head slightly. Chichorro. Vasco Martins de Sousa Chichorro was one of his oldest friends. Both had been raised in the household of the king where side by side they had played and fought, learned and caroused. Vasco had been one of the first to join him. Unlike Antonio. That traitor seemed to have escaped.

A slight bow and a visor was raised, revealing gray eyes and a square, clean-shaven face with a few curls of light brown hair plastered to the forehead. Usually the two men spoke casually to each other when in private but for the moment a more formal tone was required. Your Highness, I wish to report that I have captured two enemy knights.

Pedro replied in equally formal terms. You have d-done well, D-Dom Vasco. He spoke with the stutter that had plagued him since childhood. No matter what he tried, he could not overcome it. Those about him had learned to ignore his handicap.

A grim smile. One was an old acquaintance of ours. My cousin Reinaldo.

"That p-peneileiro! burst from Pedro involuntarily. Reinaldo had been a few years older and both taller and brawnier than the other two. He had taken great pleasure in bullying those weaker than himself. Pedro recovered control of himself. Well d-done indeed. He could not resist adding, D-Drain every d-dinheiro you c-can from him."

A contented smile, a nod of agreement and Vasco continued. I now ask permission to withdraw from the field of battle with my men in order to escort my prisoners north to one of your strongholds. I will entrust them to the care of the de Castro brothers until arrangements can be made for their ransom.

Pedro thought a moment. This might well solve one of the problems now facing him. D-do so, he ordered. And, V-Vasco, it would aid me greatly if you would t-take with you the other p-prisoners we have c-captured. C-commandeer as many men as you need to guard them. . .

I will do so gladly, Your Highness. He hesitated a moment then added with faint uncertainty in his face. I had hoped, Dom Pedro, when I delivered my prisoners, since the fighting season is almost at an end, I might retire to winter quarters until the struggle begins again.

Pedro managed to keep his face impassive. What Vasco said was true: winter was approaching. The chill breezes and cloudy skies they were encountering were proof of that. Soon the rains would come. The roads would turn muddy, the troops advance but slowly. Without adequate shelter illness would prove a greater foe than enemy troops. Yet he had hoped to continue fighting if only for a short time. He wanted to take advantage of and build on this victory, slight though it might be. However Vasco and others who had followed him had already served longer than their duty as vassals required. If he demanded too much of them now, they might well decide not to return in the spring. So he nodded his acceptance and asked, Will you sp-spend the winter with your f-family?

His old friend, relaxing his formality, grimaced slightly. I shall spend some time with them, he conceded. My mother will weep tears of joy at my safe return. My father will growl I have disgraced him and endangered his position at court. He shrugged. "I suppose he speaks truth. I will quickly find an excuse to retire to some quintana where I may rest during the winter months. He grinned suddenly. With luck there will be a few pretty servant girls to help me pass the time."

Pedro sighed softly, remembering the times he had spent in a quiet country manor with his beloved. He brushed the memories aside. Such a life was no longer for him. May it b-be so, he told his friend. "Adeu." Dismissing him with a gesture, he returned to surveying the battlefield.

Those with only minor injuries moved about the field of battle looking after the fallen. The dead were set aside to be buried properly later. Horses left riderless were rounded up. The animals too badly injured to recover quickly