Paradise & More (Torres Family Saga) (5 page)

      
“The Prior of Santa Cruz has not been about the palace of late,” Isaac said hopefully. “Only pray he stays away until the matter is settled.” He paused and said, “You truly believe we can gather a quarter of a million ducats so quickly?”

      
His companion shrugged. “Five years ago I ransomed nearly five hundred of our people when Malaga fell. The cost was dear to everyone who contributed. How much more so is the fate of all Jews in the Spains?”

      
“If only we had time to contact banking houses in Genoa and Naples,” Isaac said tightly.

      
Abraham Seneor's face, thin and assertive, split in a surprisingly beatific smile. “We can always bluff now and raise the money later.”

      
Isaac's short, thick frame shook with a tension-purging chuckle as he threw back his head to laugh. “Yes, my friend, let us bluff. The Trastamaras were ever good at the game when they had nothing but the backing of a handful of towns to face down all their rebellious nobility.”

      
“Their towns and their Jews, let us not let them forget that,” Seneor added gently as they approached the guards standing before the door of the audience room with their crossed halberds gleaming evilly.

      
Both richly garbed courtiers nodded ever so slightly to the guards and the halberds were pulled back, a signal for them to enter. The royal Jews were expected.

      
Isaac Torres had always been taken with the incongruity of the king and queen, who ruled with such singleminded precision yet looked such exact opposites. Fernando was swarthy and slim, with a pretty, almost effete handsomeness that might deceive a casual observer into thinking him a peacock, but the cunning in his narrowed eyes measured everyone.

      
Ysabel was short and plump with an elongated face that was as painfully plain as her husband's was handsome. Her nose was long and bulbous and her neck rippled with slight rolls of fat that were accentuated by a sadly receding chin. Faded red hair stuck out in wispy strands from beneath a woefully old-fashioned turban headdress. Yet, in her watery blue eyes a light of keen intelligence burned that was, in its own way, the equal of Fernando's.

      
The king sat back, his long, beringed fingers splayed calmly on the rich black velvet doublet he wore. Fernando Trastamara had always affected black clothing except for state occasions. Ysabel sat forward on her ornately carved chair, her small, blunt hands holding a parchment, the heavy antique material used only for official proclamations.

      
“We give you leave to enter,” Fernando said with deceptive indolence, waving Seneor and Torres forward across the gleaming marble floors.

      
They made their bows formally, since Ysabel was particular about such matters. When Isaac's eyes met hers, her look was grave and nervous.
As if she actually finds this distressing.
The thought surprised him.

      
“You have our leave to read this. The decision is a sad one, but God's will must be done,” she said quietly. Her voice was firm, yet he thought he detected a hint of uncertainty in it.

      
Both men sat at the low brass table across from the dais where the Majesties were ensconced and quickly perused the proclamation which—significantly—had not yet been signed. So they did want to bargain. Isaac's eyes met Abraham's. The old rabbi spoke first. “Expulsion of all your Jewish subjects would bankrupt the nation, gracious Queen.”

      
Ysabel's mouth firmed. “There is, of course, always the alternative Holy Mother Church so freely offers. Be baptized and know the one true faith,” she replied with soft fervency in her voice.

      
“Do you find that so unreasonable?” Fernando asked, stroking his cleanly shaven chin as he watched the two men like a cat contemplating a pair of fat canaries.

      
Ysabel looked at her consort and her pale eyes flashed angrily. She was here to save souls, not bargain to increase the royal treasury.

      
“Our faith, most gracious Highness, has sustained us for nearly five thousand years. We offer our complete loyalty to the crowns of Castile and Aragon, yet we would be Jews, not Christians,” Abraham said simply, directing his words to the queen while he noted the king's expression from the corner of his eye.

      
“This presents a problem, for now that the Moorish heretics have been driven from our lands, we would unite all the Spains under the banner of our Holy Faith,” she said, still seated ramrod-straight on her chair.

      
“Ah, but have the remaining Muslims not been given forty years in which to be assimilated and promised they may practice their religion unmolested for that span of time?” Isaac asked, already knowing the answer since he was one of the chief negotiators of the terms of capitulation.

      
“How much more worthy of such largess should your Jewish subjects be—they who raised the finances and served in the armies to defeat the Moors?” Abraham asked.

      
“We would pay for our Spanish birthright,” Isaac said bluntly, cutting to the heart of the matter.

      
Fernando smiled. “Let us discuss this.” He looked at Ysabel, waiting for her reaction.

      
She sighed, always a realist in matters of state expedi-ence. “What would you be willing to pledge in return for a grace period such as our Moorish subjects now have?”

      
“One hundred thousand ducats would greatly enhance the royal treasury after the costs of taking Granada,” Abraham said.

      
Always loving to bargain, Fernando nodded in consideration. “Surely, if the Spains have been so good to the Jews, they can pay more.”

      
Thus began the negotiations. After nearly an hour, it appeared as though accommodation would be made. Contemplating how soon he could again ask a renewal pledge, the king said with evident satisfaction, “The price for your continuing in our lands is set at three hundred thousand ducats then.” He looked at his consort, who nodded her approval.

      
“Your majesties are most gracious,” Abraham said with a smile.

      
Just then a noise at the end of the hall seized everyone's attention. The guards parted without the slightest hesitation. A white-robed friar in a long black cape stormed into the room. His rounded face twisted in furious outrage as he brandished a heavy ivory crucifix inlaid with precious jewels.

      
“Three hundred thousand is it! Well met with the Jews,” Torquemada said with a feral growl. His yellow eyes fixed first on Ysabel as he raised the crucifix and held it like a talisman before her rounded blue eyes. She seemed to shrink back on her chair. Then the Grand Inquisitor whirled toward Fernando. “Judas Iscariot sold our Lord for thirty pieces of silver—are the Spains worth so much more? Three hundred thousand pieces? Sell Him then and be damned for eternity!”

      
Torquemada hurled the heavy crucifix at Fernando's feet where it shattered, sending sparkling, blood-red rubies flying about the gleaming floor like an explosion of fiery stars. His voluminous cape flew about him like a raven's wing as he whirled away from the royal presence, given no more leave to depart than he had been given to enter. He vanished through a side door, leaving the Majesties and their two Jewish advisors stunned into silence.

      
Abraham Seneor looked at his monarchs and knew he had lost. Ysabel once more sat straight, her receding chin amazingly resolute as she stared at her consort, forcing him to meet her gaze. The king was pale beneath his olive complexion as his dark eyes narrowed on the shattered religious artifact. Abraham knew all too well how his crafty, superstitious mind worked.

      
“You will leave us now. We would confer on this matter...and I must pray,” the queen said with steel in her voice.

      
“While we await your pleasure, royal highness, we may be able to raise yet more gold,” Isaac said, hoping that Fernando's cupidity would conquer his fears.

      
“You are dismissed,” Ysabel said, rising.

      
Abraham bowed, his long caftan sleeves brushing lightly against Isaac's as a subtle reminder that unseemly protest would only harm their case. Both men departed with leaden hearts.

      
“We cannot take their bribe, my lord,” the queen said after they were alone. She turned and looked at her husband.

      
He sat stroking his chin, still staring at the precious gems that surrounded the fragments of ivory and gold. “No, I warrant we dare not. The Prior of Santa Cruz has vast support the length and breadth of Castile, even into Aragon. The people scream for the banishment of the Jews.”

      
“The Church demands it lest they corrupt the New Christians back into their ancient heresy,” Ysabel said, her voice rising ever so slightly.

      
He studied her for a moment and his old air of confidence seemed to return as he asked, “Do you fear for my soul, beloved? After all, I am one of those with Jewish blood.”

      
She snorted testily. “No, your Jewish grandmother is not what can cause your downfall—it is your desire to keep their council and their wealth. We do not need their council—we have Fray Tomás and many other learned Christians to give valuable advice. Anyway, why need we stoop to accept their petty bribes when by expelling the Jews, we may seize all they own for the glory of the Holy Faith?”

      
“And for the glory of a united Spanish Empire,” Fernando added slyly.

      
“Do not be impious,” Ysabel scolded sternly, then relented, reaching out to touch his richly embroidered sleeve rather like an infatuated young bride. “I shall pray for us and for our realms, my lord. Have the royal scribes make copies of the edict for our signature.”

      
“As you wish, my queen,” Fernando said dismissively, already turning over the mechanics of how he would apportion the confiscated wealth of the refugees to his best advantage. Deep in thought, he did not see the hurt in her watery blue eyes as she cast down her thin, pale lashes and silently quit the opulent room.

* * * *

      
“It is official. I have seen the privy seal on copies signed by them both. The Edict of Expulsion will be promulgated by the end of the month,” Lorenzo Guzman said. His pewter-colored eyes glowed, changing to an icy white. His narrow face was lit with triumph, making even his sallow complexion take on a ruddy hue. He stood up and paced restlessly across the shabby room. Long and gangly in build, he nonetheless possessed surprising strength for one used to the lavish life of a courtier. The slight paunch protruding above his tightly fitted hose was the only fat on his otherwise gaunt frame. “I am certain you can do much with this information.” He waited expectantly.

      
Bernardo Valdés rubbed his hands nervously. “If the expulsion is to be so soon, we have little time. Seville is filled with
marrano
families who will be unable to deny their Jewish relatives succor. Some Old Christians, too, will become embroiled to help save Jewish neighbors.”

      
“You, of course, must be the one to spy these things out. As a Crossbearer to the Holy Office, you have ample means at your disposal. I am only interested in one thing—the fall of the House of Torres,” Lorenzo said as he stroked his pointed beard with long, thin fingers.

      
Bernardo looked at the younger man, anger compressing his lips. “I take the risks while you reap the profits, it would seem.”

      
“I am the nephew of Castile's most preeminent ducal house. I have brought word from court well in advance of the edict—you will profit well enough here in Seville and elsewhere,” Lorenzo replied with steel in his voice. He loomed over the short, fat Valdés. Looking around the room, he gestured to the torn velvet on Bernardo's chair, then to the splinters on the library table's well-used surface. The carpet was threadbare and faded where once it had been a thing of plush grandeur. “You will gain excellent compensation—enough to refurbish this shoddy city place and rebuild your ancestral estates as befits the old nobility.”

      
Bernardo shuffled papers on the table nervously. “Why do you risk so much? You married the Torres daughter and received a goodly settlement. As New Christians of great influence at court, your wife's family might stand free of involvement in judaizing.”

      
Lorenzo's eyes narrowed and he spun on one booted foot, his heel grinding down on a cockroach unfortunate enough to have scuttled across his path. “Have you any idea how much more wealth is possessed by the House of Torres besides my little Ana's portion? Old Benjamin, my esteemed father-in-law, has grown rich as court physician. And the largest shipping firm that plies the Mediterranean is owned by his elder son and his Old Christian wife in Barcelona.

      
“There is more to it than the money, anyway,” he added tightly. “My family arranged that disaster of a marriage—me and a puerile, scrawny Jewess who follows me about like a damned lap dog. Fidelity! She had the unimaginable gall to come sniveling to me of fidelity. She even expected me to bed her when she grew fat and misshapen with child.” He shuddered at the memory of Ana's tear-filled blue eyes and bulging belly when he had banished her to his country estate. God's balls, how he wanted her out of his life forever! Her and her whole accursedly lucky family.

      
“Luck. Damnable Jewish luck. That is what the Torres possess. Even the upstart pup of a younger son drew high honors from the king for his valor in the wars. While I, of the most noble house of Medina-Sidonia, have been reduced to beg crumbs from a Jewish table! But that luck will change. I will see them all crawl! Set your spies to work and report to me within a fortnight.”