The Inquisitor's Wife (27 page)

Antonio and Fray Tomás de Torquemada stood in front of me. Although they were matched in height, Torquemada seemed to loom over the younger man. Antonio was uncharacteristically tight-lipped and grim. He took a step back from the monk, as if to distance himself; he wouldn’t look directly at me, daring only to cast me an occasional sidewise look. Someone who hadn’t grown up with him might have thought he was simply avoiding me, but—I thought—I could still read him well enough to know that he was nervous, desperate to be rid of Torquemada and doña Berta.

Fray Tomás’ tiny eyes focused with unsettling intensity on my face and would not look away. There was no kindness in them, no human warmth, only the cold amusement of a cat toying with its prey.

“Doña Marisol García de Hojeda,” Antonio announced with terse formality. “May I introduce you to Fray Tomás de Torquemada, the prior of the Dominican monastery of Santa Cruz in Segovia?”

Torquemada bowed without a sound or a smile. When he rose he said, in a voice almost as soft as a whisper, “Doña Marisol, I should like to have a word with you alone, if I may.” His tone was as unctuous and polished as any courtier’s, yet it held a dangerous undercurrent; he took a half step closer to me, and as his robes shifted, they revealed that his broad, large-boned skeleton held hardly any meat. Yet he pulled himself straight in such a way that, gaunt or no, he was as physically imposing as possible. For some reason, I flashed on the memory of Gabriel, his arm around Antonio’s neck as he pounded the latter’s head mercilessly.

“I’m ill,” I croaked. “I have to leave. Doña Berta is getting my cloak and will be right back.”

Torquemada tucked his chin and slowly lowered his gaze to mine, taking a step closer so that he towered over me. “Antonio will stay here and tell her where you’ve gone,” he said slowly. “I would think you’d be far more concerned about pleasing Her Majesty.”

Puzzled, I looked again to Antonio, who was busy examining the flagstones near his feet.

“Please,” I said. “I’m not well enough for conversation.”

“Only because you allowed yourself to become drunk,” Torquemada countered scathingly. “God’s work doesn’t wait because of sin. Come.”

Antonio remained silent as I let myself be intimidated into going alone with the monk. I followed Fray Tomás through a different archway, down different corridors lined with more dizzyingly patterned tiles and up a staircase. At last we arrived at the door to a small, private chamber deep in the palace interior, where the music and drone of partygoers grew muted. Walking so quickly made me feel sick again, but fear proved a good distraction.

Torquemada motioned for me to enter the chamber ahead of him. It was windowless and mostly dark, lit by a single thick taper burning in a brass wall sconce. A carved wooden crucifix hung nearby; beneath it sat a rickety prayer bench, on whose upper shelf rested a small statue of Saint James. In one corner, a wooden plank, the height and breadth of a man, lay on the floor beside a folded, many-times-mended blanket. The monk entered after me and pointed to a chair beside a small plain desk. Once I sat down, he took the chair behind the desk, facing me.

He made no effort to smile or set me at ease. Instead he sat silently, studying my face intently for long, torturous seconds until he finally spoke.

“You and Antonio Vargas seem quite taken with each other,” he said, and waited.

I curled my hand into a fist and pressed my fingernails hard into my flesh, hoping to distract myself from flushing violently at his words.

“I don’t know how he feels,” I said coldly. “I’m certainly not taken with him. We were sweethearts, but then he went off to university and forgot me.”

“Someone watching the two of you sing together wouldn’t think so,” Torquemada countered.

I shrugged. “It was an act for Her Majesty, so that she would enjoy the song.”

“You’re both quite the performers, then. I was entirely convinced.” He paused. “Is there anything you would like to tell me, doña?”

The tone of his question was intended to unnerve me, shame me. I narrowed my gaze and frowned curiously at him. “Regarding what, Fray Tomás?”

“Regarding the Edict of Grace. Did you go to the square and listen to the edict and bull that Fray Morillo read?”

I nodded.

“You’re a
conversa,
the daughter of a
conversa
who drowned in the river not long ago. There is much gossip in town regarding the circumstances of her death. You may be skilled at dissembling, Marisol, but your hair and eyes and flesh betray you.”

I felt a blast of heat on my cheeks and dropped my gaze to the desk. Its unvarnished surface was scratched and pitted from decades of wear; like Fray Tomás, it seemed out of place in such glorious surroundings. I glared at the burls in the wood furiously. I despised Fray Tomás for the ease with which he spoke of my mother’s death, for the way he referred to her as nothing more than a
conversa,
as if she’d been something less than human.

When I looked back up at him, I wondered whether the depth of my hatred showed.

“One might say the same for your hair and eyes,” I said softly. I was tempted to bring up the cardinal Torquemada who had confessed to being a
converso,
but the monk’s expression stopped me.

His lipless mouth twisted in disgust, his eyes narrowed to slits beneath a thunderous scowl. “Don’t insult me!” he hissed. “God is not fooled, Marisol García. I must know: Did your parents ever pray together on Friday evenings, or light candles and keep them burning until Saturday night? Did you ever celebrate Passover?”

“Of course not,” I lied, my tone ragged with outrage. All I could think of was my mother, Magdalena, leaning over to light the Sabbath candles, her profile luminous in their golden glow.

He spoke over me, raising his voice to drown me out. “Your father has been denounced and is under investigation.”

The end of my gasp coincided with his last word. For several seconds, I couldn’t draw a breath.

“You’ve heard the Edict of Grace. It’s your solemn duty, Marisol, to report all heresy that you witness. It would be wise to tell me everything you know about your father, now. You would not only be saving his immortal soul, you would spare yourself from being interrogated as a witness. You could save yourself from suspicion.”

“My father’s an Old Christian.” I was angry with myself for not being able to keep my voice from shaking. “He’s always attended Mass and confession regularly and brought me up in the true faith.”

The friar lifted a grizzled brow. “He never prayed facing East? Never uttered a foreign word when he prayed? Did he eat pork?”

“No. Of course we ate pork. We’re Christians.”

Torquemada narrowed his eyes at me, unimpressed. “Then surely your mother did not, and your father protected her. Others have said that your father is a Judaizer. Some say he’s the head of a planned uprising against the Crown.”

“They’re lying!” I leaned forward over the desk, my nerves partially forgotten; no one had been more loyal to Isabel than don Diego. “Who says that my father’s done such a thing? Who accuses him? We’ve always been faithful to the queen!”

“Their anonymity is guaranteed by law.” Fray Tomás’s smug tone goaded me. “You know, if my father were under investigation and in danger of being arrested, I’d do everything possible to help him. I’d cooperate with authorities. Especially knowing that those who are arrested undergo extremely painful torture if they don’t willingly confess.”

“Is my father going to be arrested?” A sickening chill settled over me. It was one thing to hear such things from my mother’s lips, quite another to hear them from Torquemada’s.

“Much depends on you, Marisol.” A corner of his lipless mouth quirked upward. “For example … there is the case of don Francisco Sánchez. Not just the wealthiest man in Seville, but a
converso,
like you. Except that both of his parents were
conversos,
and he’s long reputed to be a Judaizer. How well do you know him?”

“Not well at all,” I answered honestly, my anger eclipsed by a desperate desire to protect my father. “My parents knew of him, though he never dined at our table. I was just introduced to him formally this evening.”

“He seems to have taken quite an interest in you.”

“He was just being polite. As you pointed out”—my tone hardened—“my mother recently died. He was sharing his condolences.” I paused. “You’d be far better off talking to don Antonio about don Francisco. His family was better acquainted with him.” It was cruel of me to single out Antonio, but Torquemada was already kindly disposed to him.

“I see.” The Dominican looked at a distant spot on the wall behind me and nodded as if my answer vaguely pleased him. When his gaze refocused on me, he spoke again, this time in an easy, relaxed manner, as if his previous efforts to intimidate me had been in jest. “You could be of great help to Her Majesty, doña Marisol, and especially to your father, if you got to know don Francisco well.”

In my mind’s eye, the birdlike Sánchez patriarch stood next to me, clutching my hand and whispering
May I send a carriage tomorrow?
Perhaps I should have mentioned it. Perhaps Torquemada already knew. But I had no desire to endanger a man as kind as don Francisco, and so I said nothing. When my hands began to shake again, I withdrew them hastily from the table and clutched them in my lap, hoping the friar didn’t see.

“I will,” I answered huskily. “To help my father, of course I will.”

Fray Tomás’s mouth stretched into a black, cavernous smile. “Yes, doña Marisol. Of course you will.”

*   *   *

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.