Act of Faith (17 page)

‘How did you get there?’ I asked.

‘Someone threw me a rope.’

‘I saw you fall.’

‘I didn’t fall.’

‘Well, you hardly flew.’

Willem dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Someone pushed me.’

I gasped. ‘Who? The Crow?’

‘I don’t know. He hit me from behind.’

‘Now do you believe me?’

He nodded. ‘Someone really wants us to be dead. I just don’t know who.’

Willem and I sat together on deck for the rest of the journey, back to back and shivering in wet clothes, glaring at anyone who came near us. Neither of us spoke another word until we reached Seville.

‘I’m never setting foot on another ship,’ said Willem as we dropped anchor in the middle of the river. ‘Ever.’

We finally scrambled ashore at dawn. A gang of women crowded around as we climbed out of the boat, all of them shouting at once.

Willem flinched as one of them grabbed his shirt. ‘What do they want?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘You don’t speak Spanish?’ He looked at me incredulously. ‘All those useless languages and not the one we need?’

‘Maybe you could try out your Latin?’

It didn’t matter that I had no Spanish. Here, as everywhere, I discovered that a smattering of local phrases mixed with Latin was
sufficient for basic conversations with innkeepers and city guards alike — and impressed Willem into the bargain. We forced our way through the crowd, found a room, then scouted around town until we came to the Archbishop’s Palace, close to the cathedral. We stood opposite, in the street, staring at the façade and watching priests scurry in and out of the front doors.

‘If Master de Aquila is really a prisoner, he must be in there,’ Willem said. ‘I’ll ask to visit him.’

‘Are you mad?’ I said. ‘Why would they let you in?’

‘I’ll tell them I’m his son. They won’t be able to dispute it.’

It made some kind of sense.

‘I’ll come with you,’ I said.

‘No, you will not. I have a feeling it’s no place for a girl.’

For once, I agreed with him.

‘Besides,’ he said quietly, ‘this is something I need to do for him.’

‘You must take him some food,’ I said. ‘If it’s anything like the prison where I visited my father, they will be able to cook for themselves and share meals between them — even with visitors.’

He threw me a scathing look. ‘You make it sound like a party.’

‘I was petrified before I went to visit Father, but when I got there, it wasn’t that horrible. In fact, my father made quite a few friends there.’

‘Perhaps things are different in England.’

‘Honestly, it might not be so bad,’ I said.

But it was.

Willem went to the Palace the next day. He was gone for hours while I sat, fists and belly clenched, waiting at the inn. He came back just before dusk, but didn’t greet me, didn’t even look at me. He flung himself into a chair, poured a goblet of wine and glared at me.

‘It wasn’t like you said. Not at all.’

His tone was so bleak I thought I might be sick.

‘It was …’ He steadied himself. ‘Actually, I won’t speak of it. I can’t.’

‘Did you find him?’

He nodded.

‘Is he well?’

‘He is weak. I think — he wouldn’t say — but I think they have …’

‘Hurt him?’

He didn’t nod, didn’t move.

‘There’s another man there — a younger man. A map-maker. Apparently you know him from Amsterdam.’

‘Al-Qasim?’

‘I don’t know. But he will never make another map. They have smashed his hands.’

‘Dear God.’

‘Torture. I think they have … I can’t … it was …’ He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘They go on trial next week.’

‘What are the charges?’

‘Printing the Hebrew Bible. It’s forbidden. And some other books.’

‘We’d better find him a lawyer,’ I said.

‘I don’t think it works like that. Master de Aquila told me how it would be. It’s called an auto de fé or something like that.’

‘The act of faith.’

‘Eh?’

‘That’s what it means,’ I said. ‘Act of faith. From the Latin
actus fidei
.’

‘Oh, shut up about Latin.’

‘Master de Aquila told me about it once. His father —’

‘Lord in Heaven.’

‘Go on,’ I said, although I didn’t really want to hear any more.

Willem sighed. ‘Everyone is already judged guilty, so it’s more like a procession than a trial. Or like a church service.’

‘With a human sacrifice at the end, just like the ancients.’

‘Maybe,’ he said. His voice was low. ‘They parade them through the whole town wearing — I don’t know — something bad, something humiliating. There’s a kind of Papist Mass, then the Inquisition hands the prisoners over to the city. No blood on their hands, then. See?’

‘I think I know what comes next.’

‘I bet you don’t,’ he said. ‘They have two choices: recant, or burn.’

‘Will he recant?’

I knew the answer. Just like my father, Master de Aquila would never stand in front of the Inquisition and apologise for printing wonderful books.

‘It makes no difference,’ said Willem. ‘All that happens if you recant is that they strangle you instead of burning you alive.’

‘How very charitable.’

‘Anyway, it’s too late. He says he has made a full confession.’

‘What?’ I gasped. ‘But why?’

‘Why do you think?’

‘I can’t imagine.’

But then I could. The disappearance at night. The suddenness of it all. No struggle. No note. Master de Aquila had ridden into the dark with the men from the Inquisition, to keep them away from us, and away from his precious manuscripts. Now he had confessed to save Willem and me, Simon and Paul at home in Amsterdam, and even Signora Contarini.

‘When he saw you …’ I began.

‘He was horrified.’ There were tears on Willem’s face. ‘I thought it would make him happy.’

‘We’ve ruined his plan,’ I said. ‘We weren’t supposed to follow him. We shouldn’t be here.’

Willem stood up. ‘We have to get him out of there,’ he said, and ran out of the room. I heard the door slam downstairs, footsteps charging down the street.

I sat still for a very long time, trying desperately to stop my mind from filling in the gaps in Willem’s story.

At long last, I heard the street door open again and a heavy tread on the stairs.

It sounded … it wasn’t … Another door creaked, and Fra Clement stood in the doorway staring at me.

‘Fra Clement! Thank God.’

He didn’t move. ‘Do not let His name pass your lips except in prayer,’ he said.

‘I’m so glad to see you,’ I said, rising from my chair. ‘They’ve arrested Master de Aquila. We have to —’

He raised one hand. ‘Why would I help you?’

‘Because …’ But I paused. He walked further into the room until he was an arm’s length from me. I looked into his eyes, but there was no friendship in them, no greeting.

‘You could write to them,’ I said. ‘To the Inquisition — tell them to let him go. Tell them he has done nothing wrong. They will listen to you.’

‘They will indeed,’ he said. ‘I have written to the Holy Office many times.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘You used to help other people, didn’t you? I remember, my master asked you to write to Rome once, when they banned Descartes’s book.’

‘Mistress Hawkins, you should not read correspondence that is not addressed to you.’

I blushed.

‘But it is no matter,’ he said. ‘I didn’t write to Rome then, and I will not do so now.’

‘What?’

‘The only reason I ever write to Rome, or to Seville for that matter, is to report on your master’s perfidy — publishing a Hebrew Bible, for example.’

I stood very still.

‘I take it as a compliment that nobody in Amsterdam ever suspected me, your master least of all,’ Fra Clement said. ‘I have now only to complete my task of bringing him to justice, finally, after all his years of heresy.’

It made no sense but it also made all the sense in the world. I felt as if I had learned a new language in a moment, as if all its vocabulary and meaning had taken shape in my mind at once.

‘You’re one of them.’

A corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smile. ‘Of course.’

I sat down again, more quickly than I meant to, as if my legs had collapsed under me.

‘What I do not understand,’ he went on, ‘is your own actions. Surely you two adventurers didn’t really imagine you’d be able to save Master de Aquila from the wrath of God?’

‘God has nothing to do with this,’ I said. ‘Master de Aquila is a good man. You know that. God must love him, as He loves us all.’

‘For all your learning, you are surprisingly ignorant, Isabella. I imagine that’s the fault of your feminine sensibilities. God cannot love any man, or woman, who rejects His teachings.’

‘You and I must disagree about God.’

‘I’m afraid it’s illegal to disagree with me,’ said Fra Clement, ‘as your master has learned to his cost.’

‘Really? Then what does God teach about those who betray their friends?’

Fra Clement’s smile vanished. ‘I have no friends amongst the Jews.’

‘But my master trusted you, and believed you were his friend — so did we all.’

‘I cannot help the gullibility of others. Nor can I blame you, Isabella, for forming such an attachment to a Jew. You are young, and easily led — or misled, I should say. I even take some responsibility for it. I thought that by introducing you into de Aquila’s household you might provide a useful service to me.’

‘You wanted me to spy on him for you?’

‘Perhaps not intentionally,’ he said. ‘But I hoped you might betray the odd confidence.’

Such a painful idea. But I had betrayed my master’s secrets — I knew it now — when I had told Fra Clement about the Hebrew Bible all those months before, in Amsterdam. I had helped him as surely as one of his paid spies. Betrayal was not too strong a word for it. Stupid. Naïve. Disloyal. Too fearful, too eager to please. I had been all of those things.

But not any more.

I stood up. ‘We will save him from them — from you.’

‘I doubt it.’

I breathed out slowly. It echoed in the silence. ‘How did you find us?’

‘News spreads like plague here, child,’ he said. ‘Your disguise is admirable, but an English youth of indeterminate gender and
a Dutch boy — especially such a tall, blond boy — cannot go unnoticed in a city of this size. I cannot believe the boy was stupid enough to visit the Palace.’

‘So now you’ve found us, will you have us arrested?’

He smiled. ‘There’s no need. I know your every movement, and have known for days. If you stir from this inn, I will be notified within minutes.’

I glanced out the window and down into the street. Sure enough, on the far corner stood a man in a cassock, staring up at our attic room. Behind him, across the road and a little further away, was the familiar figure in a black cape and hat: the Crow; waiting, watching, as always.

I turned back to face Fra Clement. ‘Traitor,’ I said.

‘You must understand, Isabella, that my actions in Amsterdam, my appearance of friendship towards your household, and others, were in the service of God. I was sent there expressly for that purpose.’

‘So you’re a spy as well? And a liar.’

He moved so fast, I didn’t have time to react — the back of his hand slammed across my face so hard I felt my teeth rattle. I fell to the floor and stayed there.

‘You are a witch!’ he hissed. ‘Look at you! A woman who can read six languages, who wears breeches and cuts her hair, who works for a Jew — I could have you burned at the stake for half of it.’

I looked up at him; tasted blood in my mouth. ‘But you won’t,’ I said quietly. ‘You have my master, but you can’t prove any of the allegations against him.’

‘I am the proof,’ he said. ‘I have witnessed his heresy with my own eyes. There is proof aplenty — banned books by Erasmus, Galileo, even your own father.’

‘You raided his library?’

‘To gather evidence of his crimes. I have the books in my possession, along with the Torah of Seville — further proof of his heretical nature.’

‘It was you who burned the workshop?’

‘God’s will, I’m afraid.’ There was a definite glimmer of triumph in his eyes that made me nauseous. ‘You and I both know that he was working on new books — a new Hebrew Bible, banned by Papal decree, and Heaven only knows what else. I had to stop his press from ever printing such blasphemies again.’

‘But you can’t prove a thing about the Hebrew Bible. It hasn’t been printed yet.’

‘I had confirmation of it from your own lips, in Amsterdam.’

I took a deep breath. ‘I have the manuscripts.’

‘What?’

‘The Hebrew Bible, the new Talmud, both nearly ready for the press.’

His eyes searched the bare room as if the manuscripts might miraculously appear. ‘Where are they?’

I summoned up a smile.

‘You will only make it worse for him,’ he said.

‘That’s up to you.’

He bent over me, his voice like ice. ‘Where are the manuscripts?’

I got slowly to my feet. ‘What if I promise to destroy them? You can let him go.’

‘That won’t be necessary. Hand them over. I will dispose of them in a matter befitting their nature.’

‘Burning, you mean? You’ll add them to the fire around my master’s feet?’

‘There’s no need to be so theatrical.’

At last, I understood. ‘Is that what all this is about?’

‘It is about …’ He breathed heavily. ‘It is only about upholding the law of God and His Church.’

‘Really?’ I sneered. ‘It’s not that you want to keep them for yourself?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘That’s pathetic,’ I said. ‘My master will burn, but his life’s work — his supposed crime — will be hidden away in some secret bookcase in your chambers so you can pore over it when nobody’s looking. A readership of one — one greedy monk. You stole his treasures and betrayed him to the Spaniards. What did they pay you? Thirty pieces of silver?’

He hit me again.

‘You have said enough, Mistress Hawkins.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Bring me the manuscripts by dusk tomorrow, or you will burn alongside your deluded master.’

‘No,’ I said quietly.

I turned my back on him and left the room.

I expected him to shout after me; to be seized halfway down the stairwell — but nothing happened. Nothing at all. I was right, then — or nearly so.

I spat blood in the dust outside the front door.

Up until that moment I had been merely angry. Anger — a pure, righteous anger tinged with fear — had fuelled our chase across Europe; had driven me on through long days in the saddle and even longer hours awake and uncertain. But now something shifted inside me and I knew that Fra Clement could be defeated.