The Inquisitor's Wife (26 page)

I looked into my glass and was surprised. The liquid was neither white nor red as I expected, but pale pink—a color of wine I’d never seen before, much less drunk, although I’d heard of it. I lowered my face to it and drew in the fragrance of raspberries and roses; I drank and tasted the same, along with yeast and a bright, slightly fizzy astringency that tickled my tongue and nose.

It was so delicious that I immediately took another sip while doña Berta watched, smiling at my delight. She then managed to charm the man first in line at the table full of food so that he allowed me to cut in front of him. I stared at the king’s feast in front of me. Local delicacies from the River Guadalquivir included small delicate crayfish in their boiled-red shells, mussels sautéed in garlicky olive oil, whole baked fish with saffron, and roasted ducklings. There were snails with butter sauce, peacocks reassembled with their bright, uncooked feathers and stuffed with rice and pine nuts, and my favorite,
ortiguillas,
briny little anemones fried in oil. There was an array of pastries, some of which looked like the jeweled, gilded walls of the salon. My stomach was still uncertain despite my hunger, but I requested a small portion of mussels and one of the pastries, a small almond sponge wedding cake. Unlike the dusty
polvorón
I’d eaten under Gabriel’s roof, this cake was moist, soaked in syrup fortified with brandy and intensely flavored with almonds. Like the wine, it was one of the most delicious things ever to touch my tongue. When combined with a sip of wine, the cake’s flavor grew more intense, producing yet a third taste in my mouth that left me craving more. Before I even tried the mussels, I went back for a second helping of cake.

The second piece of cake required me to drink more wine in order to enjoy the mix of flavors that lingered on my tongue, which led quickly to my being far more inebriated than I’d ever been. Soon the garlicky smell of the untouched mussels made me a bit queasy. I handed my plate to a passing servant and wandered alone toward the front of the stuffy room in search of fresher air, leaving doña Berta to chat with another guest near the tables.

At the front of the crowd in the room’s center, three pairs of young courtiers danced. Two of the couples consisted solely of the queen’s fair flowers, the pretty young maidens dressed in scandalously diaphanous gowns in spring colors. The third featured another maiden paired with a handsome young man with short blond curls in a tight-fitting doublet and leggings that showed off the sculpted muscles in his chest and legs, not to mention his well-packed codpiece—an immodest Italian style no native of Seville would dare sport on city streets. The two were performing a stately court dance, one that required a slow procession about the dance floor followed by exaggerated bowing to one’s partner.

Several strides beyond them, at the wall opposite where guests were being served, stood a podium covered entirely in red velvet. A single high-backed padded chair rested atop it, covered in the same red velvet, and on that chair sat Isabel of Castile.

Her black gown and veil were gone, replaced by a deep blue brocade gown heavily embroidered with bright thread of gold. A small golden crown rested atop her veil of sheer dark blue silk, light as air and threaded with gold ribbon. The colors couldn’t have suited her auburn hair and eyes better; naturally blue-green, her eyes reflected only the hue she wore, making them look almost as startlingly dark blue as Antonio’s. Her square collar now revealed a bit of her white décolletage, although it was not as scandalous as her dancers’ or even doña Berta’s.

What caught my eye most was her jewelry. Around her neck hung a king’s ransom: at least a dozen heavy gold necklaces, one laden with sapphires and diamonds, another strung with rubies, yet a third sporting large perfect pearls. A cascade of diamonds and sapphires spilled from her ears. Like doña Berta, the queen wore a ring on every finger save her thumbs: emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and pearls were set in the brightest, purest gold I’d ever seen. The simple little crucifix she’d worn at the Inquisitors’ offices and earlier that evening was gone.

“Hear, hear!” Isabel called to the lutists, who immediately stopped playing. “Enough formality. This good city has endured enough suffering. Play something lighthearted. Something … rustic, a country dance.” She winked at one of the lutists. “Giovanni, my darling, you know what your queen likes to hear!”

Giovanni, the head lutist, nodded and picked out the first few notes of a tune. His fellow musicians quickly joined in, and many in the crowd roared happily as they recognized a popular Andalusian drinking song. Most started clapping and joined in the singing; I stood swaying and grinning drunkenly at the dancers, who organized themselves into a circle and began clapping their hands in time to the music. Other male courtiers magically appeared, most of them dressed in the Italian style, in tight doublets and in leggings with the codpieces scandalously exposed. This was a far cry from Spanish custom, where older men wore tunics hemmed below the knee and complained about the young men who dared wear tunics that fell mid-thigh.

Still clapping their hands, the dancers began to move around the perimeter of the imaginary circle, each man paired with one of the lovely flower women, whose layers of sheer skirts partially revealed the shape of their comely legs. I wasn’t as familiar with drinking songs and didn’t know all the words, although I was inebriated enough to try to sing along. The lyrics were at least as scandalous as the tune we’d sung in Antonio’s office, focusing on the fine white breasts of a fisherman’s lover and how he far prefers them and her company to that of his boat and the sea.

Isabel too began to clap in time to the music, and suddenly hurried down from her throne to replace one of the men and join in the dance with one of the flower women as her partner. She was agile, with a light step—a natural dancer—and being one of the few in the room who was completely sober, she was the most graceful of the lot. The fact that Her Majesty had joined the dance compelled everyone in the room to turn toward her and join in the clapping.

When the second chorus sang again of the lover’s white breasts, the most handsome of the male courtiers reached out with both hands and seized the breasts of his female companion. I held my breath, waiting for Isabel’s outraged reaction.

The queen laughed. Not a small chuckle but a laugh straight from the belly, and she covered her mouth and flushed. This led to all of the dancers giggling through most of the dance, and the male courtier with his revealing codpiece repeated the act every time the song mentioned breasts. Isabel laughed heartily each time.

She was no weakling and remained on the floor for a total of six vigorous dances, all of them with earthy themes. She wouldn’t allow the lutist to slow the pace, despite the fact that her fellow dancers were gasping for breath. Unwisely, I’d made my way to the front row of the spectators, where the wine made me forget myself and clap and sing with drunken enthusiasm.

After the sixth dance, as Isabel was thanking the musicians and her fellow dancers before returning to her throne, she caught sight of me in the crowd. Her Majesty grinned suddenly and motioned to me.

“Doña Marisol, you have pleased us,” she said. “Come and dance! Enjoy this night while you can.”

As she moved back toward the red velvet podium, I handed my goblet to a passing servant and, filled with panic at the thought of dancing in front of such illustrious company, moved out onto the smooth marble floor.

“The sausages!” Isabel called to her musicians. “Do you know a song about sausages?”

The head lutist looked at her blankly as Isabel hummed the first line in an off-key alto; the queen immediately looked to me.

“Doña Marisol!”

I nodded, showing my understanding so that she need not finish her command, and sang the first few lines of the song. The lutists nodded and began playing the introduction. The male courtier with the most impressive codpiece and tightest doublet immediately caught my hand.

“Marisol, is it?” he said in my ear. His tenor was high-pitched and his intonation rather feminine; his accent was faintly Italian, as if he’d been born in that country and come to Spain in his youth. He was possibly the most handsome man I’d ever seen, with golden curls, pale gray eyes, and a flashing diamond in his ear. His clean-shaven face revealed his dimples, one in his chin and two others bracing his mouth. The latter flashed attractively whenever he spoke or smiled. “My name is Marco.”

His refusal to address me as
doña
was incredibly forward, as was his gaze, which took me in frankly from head to toe. I blushed and lowered my eyes as Marco pulled me into the circle.

“You’re my partner now,” he said, waving away his previous one, dressed in pale yellow silk. His tone was bluntly flirtatious. “And the most gorgeous young woman I’ve ever seen. Come dance with me, beautiful Marisol.”

The dancers weren’t slow to please the queen. They’d already quickly organized themselves into a wide circle, each male paired with a female, and were launching into the first steps of a country dance, the
chiarantana.
I hurried with Marco as all the participants suddenly closed the circle by walking to its center, so that everyone met. Just as quickly, we all retreated out to the circle’s perimeter and moved briskly around the circle.

I’d been nauseated earlier by the smell of the garlicky mussels; three glasses of the pink wine from Champagne in France hadn’t helped matters. As I began to revolve around the circle, the room began to spin, slowly, and when I closed my eyes to blot out the dizzying sight, I could still feel everything moving around me. I opened my eyes, but they wouldn’t focus; instead they twitched, unable to rest on a single object.

I gritted my teeth and continued through sheer will. Back on her throne, Isabel was clapping and crowed happily at the lines
Oh, how could I resist his sausages, well stuffed?
At that point, one of the other male courtiers grabbed his female flower and began to simulate the marital act, slowing those of us moving around the huge circle’s perimeter.

“Oh!” Isabel called from her throne, her hands to her cheeks in mock dismay. “Hurry and get my confessor! My ladies are supposed to be virgins!”

Her words prompted a chorus of raucous laughter.

I reminded myself that I’d lived a sheltered existence, that such crudeness was to be expected in royal courts. But it was hard to hear the sarcasm in Her Majesty’s voice. I’d been taught as a child that Isabel was a saint who spent her days and nights in prayer and kept company only with nuns and monks.

Once the dancers began to move again, Marco caught my hand and spun me around. The act caused the room to start revolving again, this time faster. Unable to catch my breath in the hot, airless room, I felt a flush of uncomfortable warmth, then a chill, followed by the sickening, unmistakable urge to empty my stomach.

I let go of Marco’s hand and staggered off the dance floor, with my hand clamped firmly over my mouth, and pushed my way rudely through the crowd toward the horseshoe arches and black marble columns where soldiers stood guard. They parted easily to let me rush past, as if they were accustomed to drunk guests needing to make hasty exits.

I ran past a dizzying blur of patterned tiles, white marble, and arches within arches within arches. Soon I found myself lost in a corner, clutching the busy walls. Despite my efforts, a bit of the almond cake made its way up—but I was already so ashamed at leaving the dance while the queen watched, and so desperate not to be sick inside the Alcázar, that I forced myself to gag it back down, my eyes tearing as the acidic bile burned my throat.

A gentle hand suddenly supported my elbow. I looked up through streaming eyes at doña Berta, her pale eyes full of pity.

“Poor child,” she said. “Come.”

I let her lead me, even though moving made me start to feel sick again. By the time Berta got me outside and into a deserted corner of an unlit garden, I could no longer control myself and heaved the remnants of the exquisite wine and cake onto an oleander bush. Another servant appeared in the darkness with a basin and towels, and when I finally came to myself, I was alone again with doña Berta, who was gently wiping my face with cold water.

“My fault, I fear,” she murmured. “I keep forgetting that you local young ladies aren’t as accustomed to drink as our courtiers.”

As soon as I could move, Berta steered me away from the oleander so that I wouldn’t have to watch the former contents of my stomach dripping from it. The breeze was delightfully cool, the air fresh, the gentle rustling of palms restorative. I lifted my veil and let it dry the perspiration on the back of my neck as I listened to Berta lecture me on how to recover. I must sip cold water slowly and make sure that I drink plenty, but not too fast, that night. In the morning, I must eat a raw egg. If symptoms persisted past the morning, a glass of sherry or brandy would ease them.

“Your husband will never forgive me,” she said, “or Her Majesty.” When I protested that the blame was mine, Berta shook her head and said shortly, “You’re
my
charge.”

We sat half an hour out in the dark garden, until I felt recovered enough to walk again. “Time to go home,” Berta announced. “Can you walk to the Patio de la Montería?”

I nodded, even though part of me wanted to find Antonio again before I left. I’d probably never have the chance to see him alone again. Despite my anger at him, singing with him had brought the only real joy I’d felt since he’d left Seville. At the same time, I feared the feelings it had stirred. That and the lingering nausea and headache convinced me to give up and go home.

Keeping my gaze downcast, I let doña Berta lead me haltingly back into the palace and out again onto the Patio of the Maidens. As we neared the spot where the queen had addressed the crowd—right in front of the doors leading back into King Pedro’s Palace—I remembered that I had left my cloak in the reception hall. Berta left me leaning against one of the archways in order to run back and get my cloak for me. I’d been waiting only a minute when someone stepped in front of me, blocking my view of the retreating Berta. I looked up.