Gabriel used the momentary silence to speak. “I made a bargain,” he said forcefully. “With her father.”
“A bargain?” Fray Hojeda’s thick gray brows were still locked in a scowl—he was a generation older than his younger brother—but the fire in his eyes dimmed slightly, edged with calculation. “What sort of bargain?”
Gabriel glanced sidewise at me, then back at the friar. “I know you’re upset—but if you will hear me out in private, I can explain this to your satisfaction.” He nodded down the covered walkway at the distant great front door. “Let us walk together. We can speak when we get to the sitting room.”
Hojeda said nastily, “You will speak to me of this now. I don’t care whether it hurts her feelings.”
But he followed his younger brother; as the two headed for the door, Gabriel looked over his shoulder at me and said, “If you could give us some distance, please, Marisol…”
Lauro scuttled ahead of us, clearly too terrified to remain in the older Hojeda’s presence regardless of what courtesy commanded. Blanca curtsied again to her master; I nodded, shaken by my reception on my bridal night. With Blanca a deferential step behind me, I walked several paces behind the men, past sprays of bougainvilleas and begonias bitten and browned by the cold.
I could hear only snippets of what Gabriel said in a hushed voice. His shoulders and back, like his older brother’s, were draped in black but were leaner, more muscular; the monk’s were covered with a thick layer of fat. Beside Fray Hojeda’s new wool cloak, Gabriel’s looked many years tired, with spots shiny from wear.
I expected to overhear words of love or lust but heard only fragments of what seemed to be a business conversation.
“An agreement…” Gabriel murmured. “The Holy Office … marriage … legal control…”
Hojeda rumbled a reply. “… could do without…”
Gabriel countered him. “… but then, Vargas…”
I shook my head and blinked. Surely he hadn’t just uttered Antonio’s last name; I must have mistaken another word for it, or perhaps he was talking about a different man: There was certainly more than one Vargas family in Seville.
Still tense, Hojeda inclined his head toward his brother. “Still … shame of it…”
“… the property and inheritance…” Gabriel said.
Gabriel continued speaking, now so softly I could make out nothing, and Hojeda fell silent and let him speak without interruption.
By the time we arrived at the great front door, the area lit dimly by a single torch, Hojeda turned toward me with a guardedly civil expression, while Lauro opened the heavy door and held it for us.
We entered a large drafty sitting room which offered few opportunities for sitting—only a pair of stools and one single padded chair with arms, the upholstery faded and torn.
“You there, girl,” Hojeda said to Blanca, who curtsied, trembling. “Go and fetch us some wine. And afterward, keep yourself in the kitchen. Anything you might hear you are never to repeat, or God will punish you. Lauro, join her.” He then turned to me. “As for you…” He motioned to the padded chair.
I sat—I admit, with an expression of challenge, not compliance, on my face—and watched as my husband took the stool beside me.
Hojeda leaned over me, his owlish gaze penetrating, and extended his hand. “The ring,” he said, in a tone that threatened.
Without a word, I pulled it off my finger and handed it to him.
He hid it within the folds of his habit, then, staying on his feet, he began to lecture Gabriel and me as if he, the friar, were in the pulpit.
“What’s happened here tonight is to remain secret,” he said, his tone calmer but cold. “In the morning, you both will go to have the marriage annulled.”
“Marisol,” Gabriel said forcefully, stepping in between us. “Blanca will escort you to your quarters now. Stay there until I summon you.” He turned to his brother. “Alonso, you must hear me out in private and in full. Then we will abide by your decision, whatever that may be.”
“Do you swear it?” Fray Hojeda asked, scowling.
“I swear. Go, Marisol.”
* * *
Like my father’s, my husband’s house was mudéjar in style, but on a grander scale. The flat-roofed dwelling—large enough to house two wealthy extended families with a plethora of servants—centered around a central courtyard five times larger than the one I grew up with; the traditional fountain was monstrous, with three separate basins. A statue of Santiago Matamoros—Saint James the Moor-slayer—overlooked the tallest center basin. It only made sense that the infidel-hating Hojedas would claim Santiago as one of their favorite household saints.
Usually Saint James was portrayed as a fierce warrior on a fiercer steed, in the act of slaying a Moor. But this particular Santiago seemed expressionless, bland, his horse static. Water bubbled up around the dying soldier trapped beneath Santiago’s mount’s hooves and spilled down into two other, lower basins, now filled to the brim with rainwater. The left-hand basin was topped by the imperial eagle, recalling the Roman past; the right, by the lion, symbolizing Spain’s prophesied Christian king who would come like a messiah to cast out Muley Hacén, the current Muslim sultan of Granada, to our east. In addition to the great fountain, the courtyard featured a long narrow reflecting pond, lined by tall palms that rustled with the slightest breeze.
Blanca escorted me first through a covered entranceway and foyer, then through the courtyard, the lamps above the burbling fountain hurriedly relit after the rains for the wedding party’s arrival. We made our way over slick cobblestone paths, past statues, overgrown hedges, and the murky reflecting pond.
The forty-odd windows of the hulking rectangular palace surrounding us were dark, save for a few downstairs and two on the third floor. The light from Blanca’s lantern played upon the intricate stone fretwork railing, throwing black lace shadows onto her white veil and gray gown; the glow also revealed thick spider webs in the ceiling corners, and cracks in the pale stone walls. These, along with the worn, uneven stone beneath my feet and the pervasive odors of dust and mold, conveyed a sense of decaying grandeur. We traversed empty, silent corridors up to the south wing on the top floor, where the door to my new chambers lay ajar. By then, Blanca had revealed that she’d been a postulant in the Dominican nunnery at San Pablo and would have taken novice vows had her parents not needed her income.
“Here you are, doña Marisol,” she announced in a girlishly high-pitched voice. She gestured with the lamp for me to enter ahead of her, and I stepped into the warm low-ceilinged room. A lamp on an ancient writing desk lit the antechamber; rickety wooden chairs sat beside a pitted ebony table. A fraying, musty-smelling Persian carpet covered worn marble floors, and near the door, the dingy stucco walls sported a single large crucifix, the only decoration.
The bedroom was equally as spare, furnished with pieces from a previous century. To my right was a small fireplace, the stucco above it stained with a half oval of soot; on the wall between the fireplace and window was a door that I assumed led to a closet, but a tug on the handle revealed it was bolted from the inside. To my left stood a very old bed covered in worn dark green brocade, where, I suspected, Gabriel’s mother had died giving birth to him. At its foot, my trunk sat open on the floor, its contents neatly folded and ready to be unpacked. The bedspread was matched by long drapes that emanated the same stale scent as the rug out in the antechamber; they covered two rectangular windows as large as the doors.
The instant I set foot in the bedchamber, the blaze in the hearth made me break into a sweat. I shrugged the silk shawl from my shoulders onto the bed and would have gone to one of the windows if Máriam hadn’t already been struggling to push one open. Her back was to us as we entered, so that only her black gown and veil were visible. Without a word, I went to her and tried to help.
Behind us, Blanca set her lamp down upon the night table, and cried out: “Forgive me, doña Marisol! I’ve made the room too warm! It won?
??t open, but I know what to do!”
She went to the other window nearer the fireplace and produced a key. After struggling for a few minutes, she unlocked the window—actually a door leading to a balcony—and pushed her full weight against it until it opened. The fire leapt at the sudden inrush of cool air.
Flushed from her efforts, Blanca turned back toward me; her mouth dropped at the sight of Máriam’s dark features. “Holy Mother, save us!” She crossed herself.
“Amen,” Máriam replied, and crossed herself as well; she directed a kindly smile at the startled girl. “Don’t be afraid. I’m a good Christian, just like you.”
Blanca recoiled at the notion. “You’re from Africa,” she said warily, “so you were born a Muslim. Or worse…”
“I was born a Gentile,” Máriam said with stubborn cheer, “just as you were. And the Apostle Paul wrote that Christ came to save all Gentiles.” Her smile widened. “My name is Máriam, after the Holy Mother. I waited on doña Marisol’s mother before my mistress was born.”
“You must treat Máriam with respect,” I added fiercely. “You can keep my chambers clean and come when I call you; otherwise, Máriam will wait on me. You must always do as she says.” To Máriam, by way of explanation, I said, “Blanca was raised at the Dominican convent.”
The girl looked at Máriam with dismay and took another glance at my scowling face before forcing a wary smile. “Hello,” she said, without conviction.
“Are there other servants?” I asked the girl.
“For you? Or for the household?”
“For me.”
Blanca shook her head. “I’m the only one.” She directed a faintly resentful look at Máriam. “It’s true that I have little experience, doña Marisol. I came from the convent only yesterday. But I’m a hard worker and very honest. I can bring a cot in here to sleep with you, if you like, or out in the antechamber. Or next door.”
I was surprised. My mother had had three chambermaids in addition to Máriam, and when I was younger, I had two nurses to watch after me. I had expected many more servants, given such a great house. “Next door will be fine. You can leave now. Come for me when don Gabriel says it’s time for supper.”
Still owl-eyed, Blanca nodded and made a small curtsy before leaving us. By then, Máriam had pulled the glass-paned door leading to the balcony halfway shut and had discouraged the fire so that it threw off less heat. I walked over to where she crouched poker in hand in front of the hearth. She didn’t look up but continued to push logs together to smother most of the flames.
“Máriam,” I said softly, as if there were someone nearby who might overhear. “Why did you come?”
I was thinking about the mystery of my dowry—what my father had paid or promised Gabriel—and hoping my father had said something to Máriam that might help me solve it. Nothing in our household ever escaped Máriam’s attention—except for one terrible thing.
A long silence followed as Máriam stared hard into the fire, her skin stretched taut over the bones of her cheek and jaw. I looked down at her dark eyes, reflecting tiny golden flames, and was astonished to see them filmed with tears. I’d never seen Máriam weep, and she didn’t break down now or let her tears fall but swallowed several times until she was able to speak.
I fought the impulse to kneel beside her and embrace her; Máriam resisted physical shows of affection. Instead, I waited until she finally said, her low, husky voice a whisper: “Your father tried to dismiss me. But I promised your mother I wouldn’t leave you.”
* * *
Some eighteen months ago, my father brought us the first news of an Inquisition. I remember the day well: Queen Isabel and King Fernando were staying in the Royal Palace—the Real Alcázar in Seville—and all of us were keenly excited for news of the monarchs. It was summer, and I was downstairs in the kitchen discussing the upcoming supper with the cook. Afterward, drowsy from the heat, I went upstairs to the large shaded loggia where my father liked to entertain guests, and sat fanning myself as I watched for my father’s return from work.
Our house faced east, and the setting sun had slipped behind it, casting long sharp shadows and coloring the street and the pale walls of the Hojeda’s palace across the street a vibrant orange. I recall catching sight of my father as he walked down the dry, dusty street toward home: He was facing north, so that the intense rays struck him from the side, leaving half of him eclipsed by darkness. He was too distant and the glare too great for me to see his expression, but I knew at first glimpse that something was wrong. He had always been a vigorous, energetic man, with forcefully upright posture, but that day, his head was bowed, his face inclined toward the street; his normally square shoulders sagged.
At the sight of him, I stood up in alarm, convinced that someone had died, and hurried downstairs to hear the bad news. But by then, my father had regained his composure. Though his air and voice were sad, he assured me that he was merely tired. But instead of eating in the dining room, he asked the servants to bring a supper up to the loggia for my mother, him, and me, and then dismissed them all, so that the three of us had complete privacy.
Only then did he begin to speak, in a low, carefully controlled monotone. The truth of the monarchs’ visit had been made clear to him, he said. All of us had hoped that Queen Isabel had come in response to letters from several of Seville’s most respected conversos—the mayor, my father, and several of his fellow city councillors included—asking for military assistance against unprovoked, violent attacks in the streets by Old Christians, especially devotees of the preaching of Fray Alonso Hojeda, the Dominican abbot of San Pablo Monastery.
But this was not the case, my father told us sadly. In fact, Queen Isabel had come to meet with Fray Hojeda not to discourage his preaching but to hear his argument in favor of an Inquisition that would persecute any converso found to be a “Judaizer.”
“But we’re good Christians,” I countered blithely. Over the years, I’d never caught my mother lighting another Sabbath candle, and it had been easiest to believe that she had kept her promise to be a perfect Christian. At that very moment, her studio downstairs was full of a few dozen glazed white statues, including some large pieces for local churches: Saint Annes, numerous Marys, Jameses, Josephs, and cherubs. She’d been busier than ever with her painting—so much so that I had been working alongside her almost every day.
“We have nothing to hide.”
“What are you saying, Diego?” my mother demanded of my father. “What would such an Inquisition do to us if it comes?”
He turned to me, his large blue eyes guarded and strangely apologetic. “Marisol,” he said gently. “I’d like to speak to your mother alone.”
I wasn’t quite sixteen then and thought that my father was treating me like a child. I rose sullenly, leaving my dinner half-eaten, and went to my room. Within a quarter hour, I heard my parents shouting at each other. Rapid footsteps followed, punctuated by the unequivocal slam of my mother’s chamber door.
They didn’t bring up the subject again in my presence. Over the next several months, I took to questioning one of the chambermaids, Rosalina, whose brother waited on the councillors at the city hall. The news wasn’t good: Queen Isabel had petitioned Pope Sixtus IV for permission to begin an Inquisition in Spain, and the Holy Father had granted it. Yet for a year, there was no more word; the many powerful conversos in town felt tentative relief.
And then, this past September, word came that the Inquisitors had arrived among us, gathering evidence in hopes of making many arrests. By October, they no longer hid their presence, but on Sundays made grim religious processions through the streets of Seville, preceded by three altar boys bearing crosses and followed by a small choir from San Pablo chanting psalms of penitence. I watched them from my mother’s balcony as they passed by on the main thoroughfare. The Old Christians watched reverently; conversos, however, greeted them with hisses. I watched in uncertainty and silent shame.
By then, wagons heaped with
belongings had become a common sight on the streets, and even at night, I sometimes heard the rattle and creak of wheels as conversos—many of them from wealthy, well-connected families who had lived in Seville for a thousand years—left their homes behind to flee to Portugal, Africa, or nearer sanctuaries in Spain offered by the Marquis of Cádiz and the Duke of Medina Sidonia, the latter of whom had taken a conversa for a wife. Men my father had worked with for decades, fellow parishioners at the Church of San Francisco, even servants who worked in our household, disappeared overnight, leaving behind empty, shuttered homes and abandoned properties. We wanted to believe that all of them escaped safely—that the rumors that many of them had been arrested in the night by the Inquisition and sequestered from the public eye were false. Regardless of the reason for their disappearance, the Inquisition’s receivers came to claim the properties until the owners could be located or proven innocent.
My father insisted that we were safe; the queen’s consort, Fernando, was a converso, as were almost all of her closest advisors. We were far too important for her to let any harm come to us. It was only a show put on by the Dominicans, my father said, meant to put a fright into us, and only cowards would run from it. The conversos in Seville controlled most of the government and were far too powerful, anyway. I believed him.
My father courageously invited large groups of Seville’s prominent conversos to his table. I waited on the men alongside the servants, hoping I might learn more about the situation—but always, my father dismissed the servants and me before the real discussion began. Still, I remained close enough to listen to the cadence of the conversation and hear the anger and panic rising in their muted voices. I heard just enough to know that these men—the mayor, the councillors, lawyers, physicians, landowners, and priests, even the major domo of Seville’s great cathedral—were anxious.