to have these little victories, it sweetens their mood.
I’ll say this for the girl, she made sure we didn’t starve. She was good at setting snares. Me? I’ve never attempted to catch so much as a mouse. I knew, of course, that someone must catch and kill animals, I’d seen enough bloody carcasses hanging in butchers’ rows, but as far as I was concerned meat had always presented itself to me swimming in rich sauces and bearing no resemblance at all to the beast which gave it its name. Iceland seemed sadly lacking in rabbits or hares or any edible mammal, but the river provided ample duck, and now that we knew what we were looking for we saw that the hillsides were swarming with ptarmigan springing up like mushrooms in autumn. We shared this meat with the falcons, though somehow they always seemed to get the choice portions, while I had to make do with anything that was considered not good enough for them.
I can’t say I cared much for the falcons. I was terrified that one lunge with those dagger-sharp beaks of theirs and they’d have my eye for supper. But in time I got used to carrying one on my arm, once Isabela had made a pad for me with a twist of cloth stuffed with moss, for their claws were like dragons’ talons.
The first two nights Isabella removed the cloth bindings from their eyes and kept the birds constantly awake, to man them, as she put it. In other words, make the vicious little brutes tame and docile, and accustomed to the sight of us. I was amazed at how quickly they grew used to us. And while we still hooded them when we walked, at night their bright eyes watched us and they learned to take the raw bloody morsels she held out to them wrapped in a few feathers to help them digest the flesh.
Once we reached the sea, the ptarmigan were replaced by seabirds and eider duck. Take it from me, gulls are not good eating. So I tried my hand at fishing and managed to hook a seal, which would have been a welcome catch had it not been dead, and not just dead, but rotting and putrid. Nevertheless, I spent many hours drying the parts of it I could salvage over a fire. Isabela begged me to throw away the stinking mess, but as I told her, it was the first thing I’d caught and I wasn’t going to part with it, despite her wrinkling her pretty little nose and protesting.
Even her laughing protest was a sign that relations between us were thawing. The fact that I had, in all modesty, saved her life, did make her trust me a little, though I could tell at first she was still extremely wary of me. I suppose it was only to be expected. When a woman learns you’ve crossed several seas with the express intention of murdering her, it’s only natural she should be a tad reserved in your presence, a little jumpy when you get too close.
But I did not attempt to explain what that bastard Vítor had told her. That’s another lesson I learned early in life, never offer excuses until they are asked for, it makes you look guilty. But finally, one night as we sat shivering around a tiny fire, roasting a plump little duck, she asked me if what Vítor had said was true. Of course, I told her the whole story … well, most of the story … some of the story … Look, I admitted my name was Cruz, what more do you expect? One should never distress a lady with the truth.
I stared into the flames with an affecting sigh. ‘It’s with a heavy heart I have to tell you that I put you in grave danger, Isabela. The truth is, there are those of us in Portugal who are seeking to overthrow the Inquisition, even perhaps the throne itself if we must. We have helped some to escape the clutches of the Inquisition; we steal records and sometimes even assassinate key members of the familiaries, making it appear as an accident so as not to arouse suspicion. It is dangerous work.’
I stole a glance at Isabela. Her eyes were wide and she sat motionless, obviously completely enthralled
‘There was one man,’ I continued, ‘a lawyer, who was responsible for reporting many innocent people. We couldn’t allow him to continue, but we couldn’t simply lie