Return of the Clothed Gods
Chapter 1
August, 1493
Valdiz Juan DeSota has had the horses in this barn for nearly a week. He didn't mind watching them; an official, he was told, would soon come and take them. They'd be going to Cádiz (CA-ZEES) on the coast. There was a bit of cleanup to accommodate eight horses in a barn built to hold two or three, and DeSota was running low on hay. He'd check on them every couple of hours because these weren't just any horses, but the Queen Lady's horses — though they were the worst-looking nags he'd ever seen. Must be going to turn them into meat, DeSota thought, 'cause they sure look ragged and old. Not worth anything more than gettin' chopped to Hell and fed to the starving. Queen Lady's big on that, helping the sick and starving. And Hell knows there are plenty of them on the Peninsula.
Five straight days of heavy rain washing out roads and wiping out bridges had dampened DeSota's spirits. Typical rains come and go in miserable fits on the Iberian Peninsula (what Spain was called back then), but most folks just called it the Peninsula. The seaport of Cádiz, a day ride from DeSota's little hamlet, nestled between the hills along the River El Bosque (in-BosKey), now bulging up over its banks and into fields. DeSota didn't own the land, just worked it and barely survived on the patch gardens and animals he tended for the collectors, who came from Castile.
Every month, a wagon would come with the collectors to get the fresh chickens carved up just so, and the eggs, some milk, and one or two fresh hogs — three or four if he could fatten them up — with their heads and feet bound in sacks. (this is how the Sovereigns got their food to eat off the backs of the poor). He got paid little for what he turned over. It was a system designed to keep men like DeSota dirt poor and dependent on the Catholic Monarchy to live. Usually, the payment was in grain from a nearby farm or some honey loaded in a barrel.
But this was different. If he kept the horses alive — and that was the exact order, keep them alive — he'd get a gold piece or two. Ain't seen nothin' like that, he thought, since the Sovereigns tied the knot, and they needed hogs and chickens for the Great Feast. For a gold piece, DeSota would give the damn horses food off his table. Nags are all they were. It wouldn't be the first time something like that happened, gettin' screwed out of his money. I'll carve em' up and salt the Hell out of em' that's for damn sure. DeSota wasn't the only laborer holding livestock or food for whatever reason. The wagon rider who delivered them said there are hundreds of people storing stuff for the Sovereigns.
"All over the Peninsula," he said, "here and there, small and big farms. People holdin' everything from horses to egg layers to live hogs. They even want the cocks. Never seen nothin' like this before."
"War? Another war?" DeSota asked.
The Sovereigns have been ridding the Peninsula of the Jews and Muslims for years. Finally, they kicked the Muslims out of Granada, and since then, things have been quiet. Mostly finding heretics here and there and burning them in pole fires. When the wind was right, DeSota could smell the putrid stink of the pole fires.
"Naw, it ain't no war," replied the wagon rider. "But something big's going on. Talk is they're collecting all this stuff for the Grand Fleet, whatever in God's name that is. I don't know, DeSota, just doin' my job. Somebody be here in a few days to take the horses. Other than that, keep your trap shut and keep them ponies breathing.'"
Then the rains came, and it's been pouring ever since. DeSota wondered if the main road to Cádiz was still open. Later that day, a man and his son from a nearby farm visited DeSota. It was Harmon and his son, Cece. Harmon provides milk for the collectors, and he says he's got three cows in the field for pick-up if the roads clear.
"Got Ysabel's for them," he told DeSota. "Three of my girls eatin' in the field. They come a couple of weeks ago nosin' around my place. Said they was takin' the girls, and I was to fatten' them up and keep the milk coming. We'ze drinkin' some of the milk, but I have to throw a lot out."
"You get paid yet?" DeSota asked him.
"Hell no," Harmon said. "Said I'd get paid when they take em' to Cádiz. Yeah, I like to see that with all this rain. What them girls gonna do fly to Cádiz? Thing is, they picked three cows that got blackleg. They won't last six months, but I ain't sayin' nothin.'"
The Harmon spit out a lunger a mile long. They were standing just inside the open doors of DeSota's barn, where the horses were stacked in stalls and could barely move. Cece was sitting on a stool further back in the barn, chewin' an apple. They watched the rain come down in sheets. It wasn't unusual for heavy rain on the Peninsula in late summer or early fall, which introduced cooler air in those parts. The people were quite thankful for it, but not when they were holding livestock and barrels of food and water for a tiny spot of gold. That made the rain torture.
"I've been talkin' to people all around here, DeSota," Harmon said. "They say all this stuff is for the Grand Fleet. A bunch of ships goin' out explorin'.' Explorin' God only knows what. People dyin' of starvation, the sickness, and neighbors killin' neighbors cause they ain't got enough to eat. And them yo-yo king and queen's sendin' out ships explorin.'
"They puttin' these old mares on ships, Harmon?" DeSota asked his friend. "I'll be god-damned. Thems a poor excuse for horses, I'll tell you that, Harmon."
"From what I hear," Harmon said, "they got some cleric runnin' things. Some damn bishop. So people rippin' off the holy man. Fella by the name of de Fonseca. Whatever they can cheat on, they'll cheat. Them horses is the perfect example. I got a look at em' when we came in here. These mules spent years pullin' a plow and gettin' whipped. Good farm man can spot nags in an eye flash, but them seamen? Ha, they wouldn't know a good farm horse from a leakin' ship."
"So I'm holdin' these bowlegs for some crackbrained sea voyage?"
"That's right," Harmon said. "These nags and my Ysabella's. Everybody cheatin' the foreigner who's sailin' the ships, some religious fanatic sea captain who made himself an Admiral. Admiral, my eye. Wait till he gets your nags and my Ysabella's to where he's going, and they keel over. Serve the foreigner good, tell you that."