The Inquisitor's Wife

  * * *

  After extracting my promise of cooperation, Torquemada remained vague as to what I should do next, saying that things would soon become clearer to me. I followed him meekly back to the Patio of the Maidens, where doña Berta stood waiting beside Antonio, who held my cape over his arm. At the sight of Fray Tomás, Berta nervously averted her gaze, waiting until the silent monk had disappeared before speaking.

  “Poor child,” she murmured as soon as he was out of earshot. She’d brought another rag dampened with cool water and discreetly passed it over my brow. “And you feeling so ill!” This latter was a criticism of Torquemada, although she was careful not to be more specific.

  “I’ll take her home,” Antonio said eagerly. He had put on his cloak to leave, and his lute was hanging again from a strap slung over his shoulder. As he spoke, he unfurled my cape with a snap and set it over my shoulders.

  Berta pulled herself up to her full, plump stature and shot him a disapproving look. “I should say not!” she countered. “Her Majesty appointed me the girl’s chaperone, and I have no intention of surrendering her to an unmarried young gentleman at this point, especially one as handsome as you. I’ll see her home. The driver’s waiting.”

  She put a maternal hand beneath my elbow and began to steer me back inside the reception halls that opened onto the Patio de la Montería. Antonio stepped in front of her.

  “You don’t understand,” he said earnestly. “Doña Marisol and I have been friends since we were children. Our houses stand side by side. As her neighbor, I feel responsible.…”

  Berta lifted both pale brows in disbelief. “I saw the way you two were eyeing each other during the performance; responsibility isn’t the name for what you feel. No one’s that good an actor.”

  A short, stout juggernaut of propriety, she pushed past him. I felt too queasy, too exhausted and distraught over Torquemada’s threat against my father to care whether I rode home with Antonio or not. But I was still making plans to steal over to my father’s house that night and speak to him secretly. My mother had been right: We’d been fools not to leave town sooner.

  I let the indefatigable Berta lead me back through the handsome reception halls to the Patio de la Montería, where a number of carriages were still parked, the drivers drowsing in their seats. We found our carriage and rumbled out past the Lion’s Gate into the city. The farther away we got from the Alcázar, the darker and more deserted the streets.

  “I hope you’ll be feeling better by tomorrow evening,” Berta said. “Her Majesty enjoyed your singing and asked that you come to the palace tomorrow for a more private celebration. I’ll come for you again at the same time.”

  It was impossible to say no; I nodded, overwhelmed. Afterward, doña Berta fell silent and began to drowse.

  Battling thirst, hunger, and nausea, I fell into a trancelike state as my mind worked to figure the fastest way out of Seville. The police were patrolling the streets at night because of the number of conversos escaping the city; those caught were presumed to be heretics and were promptly arrested—or killed if they resisted. I thought of all the sailing ships anchored at the harbor. No one had stopped my mother the night she ran to the river; the police were looking for people in wagons with belongings. Perhaps, if my father and I were willing to leave everything behind—except for enough money to bribe a sea captain …

  I couldn’t risk letting my father stay in the city another day. Even if he hated me, even if he shouted for me to leave him, I had to find a way to convince him to leave. Tonight.

  I leaned my forehead against the cool glass of the carriage window and closed my eyes as our coach rounded the corner onto the cul-de-sac where the Hojeda house lay. I was still puzzling over the precise words that would make my father listen to my scheme when I heard doña Berta let go a little cry of fear and surprise. I lifted my face and looked out at the street.

  The Hojeda mansion was dark, save for a feeble sputtering lamp that hung at the carriage entrance. Gabriel’s men-at-arms had multiplied in number; at least two dozen stood in small groups circling the outer front walls, peering out like vultures from the shadows. The windows at Antonio’s house were likewise black, making the house look as though it were unoccupied. But the front entrance of don Diego’s home was bright as day in the glow of torches held by a wagon driver and one among three deputies. Along with Seville’s sheriff, a man who had often visited our table, the deputies stood in a row in front of the iron gate leading to our front patio, marking a path from the gate to the back of the open wagon.

  My father staggered in front of them. Shoeless, he wore only his rumpled lawn nightshirt and leggings, his hair wildly disheveled; his hands were shackled in front of him at the wrists. A Dominican monk walked ahead of him, leading the way to the wagon, and a fourth deputy with a drawn long sword walked behind him, prodding him with the flat of it when he lagged.

  I shouted for the driver to pull over in front of the Hojeda house. Before the wheels creaked to a complete stop, I pushed open my door, jumped from the carriage, and ran shouting to don Diego.

  Thirteen

  “Papá!” I cried. “Papá, I won’t let them take you! I won’t let them take you!”

  I don’t know how I got from the carriage so fast in heavy skirts and a long cloak—faster than the distracted guards could react. I wound my arms around my father and pressed my cheek against him. I drew in the scent of his skin at the juncture of his jaw and neck, which I’d been so homesick for, the smell of his shirt and even the wine on his breath. The heat of a torch on my back, the sting of black smoke, the slither of long swords being unsheathed—I cared about none of them. I wrapped my arms awkwardly around my father and squeezed with all my strength, meaning never to let go.

  In that instant of contact, his chest shuddered; the men’s shouts drowned out the sound of his sob.

  “Get away!” my father raged at me. Or pretended to: Torchlight glinted off the shiny tears trailing down his cheeks as he writhed in my grip, unable to lift the heavy shackles high enough to push me away. “Get away. I don’t know you anymore! I disown you!” His voice cracked on the last words.

  Stronger arms caught mine from behind and pulled until the pain grew intolerable. A man’s body pressed against my back as his fingers dug deep into my gut on either side of my navel, forcing me to yelp. My trembling muscles gave way, and they pulled me from my father. I shouted at them to let me go and kicked backward with full force, causing one of the men holding me to stumble. I lunged, but the other caught me at once.

  “Papá!” I screamed again as they took don Diego away. While he’d been sleeping earlier that night, the back hem of his nightshirt had been pressed up into an awkward fold, revealing his right thigh up to the curve of his right buttock; I wanted to strangle his captors for submitting him to such public humiliation. The sole of his leggings caught on a stone and he stumbled, brushing against the sheriff’s shoulder. Distracted, my captors eased their grip, and I lurched forward toward him, wanting only to touch him again. Two deputies converged to block me with their bodies, but I launched myself off my feet, brazenly grabbing their shoulders to pull myself up, to at least see him for another fleeting second.

  Framed between two flaming torches, my father clambered with his legs as the sheriff pushed him up into the back of the wagon, where the black-and-white Dominican sat waiting. When the wagon began to roll away, the deputies recruited two men-at-arms to hold me back.

  “Don’t worry!” I shouted, before don Diego was completely out of earshot. “I’ll come for you! I’ll get you freed!” And when he’d rumbled out of sight, I murmured to myself, in a spasm of foreboding, “I love you.”

  The instant the wagon disappeared onto San Pablo Street, a fiercely strong hand clutched my elbow, pulling me off balance, forcing me to stumble forward rather than fall. Gabriel towered over me in the carriage lamp’s wan glare. Rage etched deep grooves in his brow; his arm was lifted, palm up, ready to strike. He was hissing m
y name.

  I bared my fingernails like a cat and lunged at him, aiming for his eyes. Although I didn’t succeed, the longer nails—hard and strong, like my mother’s—caught the promontory of his cheek, just beneath the eyes. I felt them sink into his flesh and withdrew them to the sight of blood, pleased.

  But the image was far too fleeting. Before I could take another breath, the side of a huge hand blotted out everything to my left. First came the blinding flash of light and with it, a flare of pain along the left side of my face. In the next instant, the right side of my head met the ground with a force I knew would make me faint, and there was nothing to do but yield to the darkness.

  * * *

  I woke to find Máriam perched, spine straight, on the edge of a chair pulled up next to my bed. Her black gown hung on her spare frame, and her dark skin gleamed in the light of the oil lamp on the little night table. The instant she realized I was awake, her scowl transformed into a grin.

  “Marisol,” she said, leaning over me. She looked genuinely relieved and happy to see me, but her voice was oddly faint, as if she were speaking on the other side of a thick glass window. I had to strain to make out each word. “How do you feel?”

  After a second of silence passed, I realized I couldn’t hear well because of the roaring in my ears—that, and Máriam seemed to be whispering. I didn’t remember where I’d been or what had happened; the right and left sides of my skull throbbed so badly that I decided I had a fever or even plague. I tried to move my head and soon realized that if I continued, I’d be violently sick, so I lay very still. But I kept blinking, because the details of Máriam’s burnt-umber features kept blurring into her black veil, and both occasionally blurred into the trembling shadows gathered on the dingy wall.

  “Terrible,” I croaked at Máriam, but my tone was darkly cheerful, and her smile deepened a bit. Then she started as she heard something I couldn’t, and glanced over her shoulder at the open doorway leading to the antechamber. Her frown returned, and her eyes narrowed with a hatred so deep and dangerous, I grew frightened. She turned back to me, her scowl easing, and put a long, elegant finger to her lips. Someone was in the other room.

  In the next instant, Fray Hojeda, his eyelids heavy from want of sleep, moved into the room. Gabriel was right behind him.

  Hojeda pushed rudely past Máriam, displacing her, and shoved the chair behind him. Then he planted his feet at the level of my waist and leaned over me, the light catching his odd profile with its bridgeless, downturned nose. I tilted my chin down to see I wore only my best chemise; the silk clung immodestly to my breasts, which were full, like my mother’s. I pulled the blanket from my waist up to my neck and wished I could leave the room. After years of publicly manifesting wrath on cue, Fray Alonso Hojeda had no difficulty working himself into a rage before my eyes, despite his sleepiness. His eyes blinked rapidly; the muscles around his mouth twitched and drew the corners back into a grimace.

  But my nominal husband seemed determined to speak first. Although he didn’t force his older brother to shift the position of his feet, Gabriel sidled up tightly against him until he stood near my shoulders.

  “Move aside!” the friar snarled at him.

  Gabriel was oddly unmoved. I tilted my head back and saw the blood drying on the curve of his cheek just beneath one clear green eye, where three of my fingernails had gouged a pattern not unlike those made by the graceful arches surrounding the Patio of the Maidens.

  “I hate you,” I said to Gabriel. I didn’t care if he hit me again. If I’d been able to move, I would have gouged out his eyes. “Why didn’t you warn us? Why didn’t you stop them from arresting him? Go save him! Now!”

  Gabriel’s eyes were bright with fury. “There’s a more important issue. You shamed me out in the street, screaming and carrying on. And when I corrected you, you were going to strike me.”

  I looked at him in disbelief. “My father,” I repeated. “You have to save my father. Tonight. What if they hurt him or torture him? He’s an innocent man, a good Christian. You have to help him!”

  “You forced me to hit you,” Gabriel accused. His eyes were burning cold. “You caused a scene.”

  It taxed my will to swallow so much rage, but I did it for the sake of don Diego. “What if it were your father being dragged to prison, don Gabriel?” I asked softly.

  He fell silent; his expression grew perplexed. I thought suddenly of old white-haired don Jerónimo, shouting at his son. Come away from that filthy little marrana! Gabriel had disappeared behind the gate, only to yelp in pain as don Jerónimo struck him. I tried to imagine life without my parents’ constant affection, one where there was only scorn and abuse.

  I pressed. “I love my father, and he loves me. I’d die to save him. Please, help him!”

  The beginnings of compassion flickered in Gabriel’s eyes. Fray Hojeda took advantage and pushed him backward, forcing him to stagger. As Gabriel found his balance, the friar stepped up to my bedside again, blocking my husband’s access.

  “I’m exhausted,” Hojeda announced flatly, his face haggard, “and you’ll answer my questions now, so that I can go to bed. You’ve no right to be angry, Marisol. You should instead be on your knees praying that your own heart is pure. You heard the Edict of Grace, and if you’ve failed to divulge any heretical practices you’re aware of…” He let the thought dangle for a few seconds before adding, his tone ridiculously wheedling, “You can tell me. Denounce your father. Tell us what you know. It will go easier on him that way.”

  I turned my face from him, gritting my teeth as the bruise left by Gabriel’s fist met the pillow. “My father’s innocent. He’s an Old Christian. He’s never had anything to do with the Jewish religion or with Judaizers. He raised me in the church. He’s saintlier than the rest of you!”

  His eyebrows rushed together in a thunderhead of self-righteous judgment, but he no longer had the energy to muster sufficient outrage at the insult. “But he married your mother,” Hojeda said nastily, softly, which wounded me far more than any show of anger could.

  My expression must have revealed my pain; the friar calmed, pleased, and said, “You can help us by telling me what happened at the Alcázar when you saw Her Majesty. Did you put in a word for me? For Gabriel?”

  My head hurt too badly to shake it. “No,” I said. As Hojeda’s owlish scowl deepened, I added, “There were so many people pressing to see her. I had no chance to speak to her, except to thank her for her public praise and her kindness. She invited me to the Salon of Ambassadors afterward. Doña Berta—my chaperone—said that the queen liked my singing and asked me to come sing again at the palace tomorrow night.” I felt a wave of panic. “It’s not tomorrow night already, is it?”

  “No, no,” the monk soothed. He was completely changed, his frown traded for the suggestion of a smile, his eyes suddenly wide and bright, his demeanor warm. “Don’t worry, doña Marisol, you have plenty of time to rest now.” He spoke over his shoulder to his younger brother, who stood simmering behind him. “Gabriel, have the African slave find Lauro and tell him to bring some fresh meat from the larder. You can spare it. We want Marisol to look pretty for her performance tomorrow. We don’t want any bruises on the side of her face.” Fray Hojeda turned back to me with a feigned half grin.

  “My dear,” he said pleasantly. “Was Antonio Vargas there? Did you see him?”

  I averted my gaze. “Yes. He played the lute while I sang.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “Only as much as was necessary.”

  His brow furrowed a bit. “You didn’t speak to him or anyone else about his relationship to Fray Tomás de Torquemada, the abbot who spoke to him in his office?”

  “No.”

  Hojeda sighed. “Then you will remember to try to put in a good word on my behalf and Gabriel’s to Her Majesty tomorrow without fail. I may not be a member of the Inquisition, but I am the abbot of San Pablo, and I have a say as to how prisoners are treated in the jail on the m
onastery grounds. I can be of much help to you. And of course…” He glanced over his shoulder briefly at my brooding husband. “Don Gabriel has great influence with the Inquisitors and the judges. Be good to us and we will be good to your father. Do you understand this, Marisol? Will you try to remember its grave importance?”

  For a long moment, I couldn’t bring myself to answer.

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  After Fray Hojeda left, my mind cleared a bit; I saw that my rage was pointless and possibly harmful. I had to get control of myself in order to plan quickly; one night in jail, and my father would die of humiliation, if grief didn’t kill him first.

  “I’m sorry, don Gabriel,” I whispered to my husband. “I’m too heartbroken over my father to know what I’m saying. Please, is there anything you can do to help him? Now?”

  The muscles in his face shifted as some crafty scheme occurred to him, but any pleasure he felt at his cleverness soon faded and was replaced by uneasiness. “Perhaps. If you’re willing to give me something in return.”

  I hid my dread. “What would that be?”

  Gabriel leaned closer, bringing his face toward mine. The lamp’s steady yellow glow made the fair skin around the edges of his nostrils and the tip of his nose translucent. A few stray hairs around his face caught the glow and glinted dazzlingly, fine strands of lightning.

  “Get closer to Antonio,” he said, and dropped his gaze—but not before I saw the shame and jealousy in it.

  Those few words so startled me that I spoke without thinking. “Closer? What do you mean?”

  A dark red flush traveled upward from his neck to just below his eyes. His voice grew low and raw. “Don’t make me say it,” he whispered.

  I stared at the fine tracery of veins on his cheeks, on his half-lowered eyelids, and gaped at the realization that my so-called husband was asking me to have an affair. Seconds passed before I collected myself enough to speak. “I can’t believe you would ask me to jeopardize my immortal soul,” I said, my tone hard. “I want nothing to do with Antonio Vargas.”