The Inquisitor's Wife (35 page)

Tenderly, as if Antonio were his own son, he cradled Antonio’s head in one hand and with the other, brought the rim of the cup to Antonio’s lips. Antonio drank haltingly, but don Francisco coaxed him into taking a bit more each time he stopped. When the curly headed man approached to make use of his surgical tools, don Francisco waved him away.

“Can you talk?” don Francisco asked Antonio.

The latter nodded, and don Francisco eased Antonio’s head back onto the straw.

“We failed,” Antonio rasped. “Don Diego is still a prisoner.”

I stiffened, riveted by shock.

A look of sorrow passed among the men, leaving the mood even more somber.

“Jorge betrayed us,” the injured man continued, “else we would have succeeded. He tried to kill me, but I managed to slit his throat first.”

“But where are the others?” don Francisco demanded.

“All dead. Killed by guards when Jorge cried out and betrayed us. He must have gone to the Dominicans to get a larger bribe.”

The curly haired surgeon and dark-haired man crossed themselves; don Francisco braced his forehead and cheek with a hand and began to weep silently.

“I escaped without exposing my identity,” Antonio added hoarsely.

“Our five best men. May God give them eternal rest,” don Francisco said somberly, wiping away his tears. He nodded to the surgeon, who knelt down beside the patient, unwrapped the wound, and bathed it with wine, pouring straight from the flagon.

At the hiss of pain that emerged between Antonio’s gritted teeth, I repressed my urge to run to him. Don Francisco rose from the straw and drew me away from the scene. “He’ll be fine, Marisol. Carlos is a very able barber.”

“You tried to save my father,” I said, “and Antonio was wounded, and men I didn’t even know died.” Despite my best efforts, I began to weep. “Won’t their families be in danger now?”

“None of them were married,” don Francisco answered. “None had any traceable connection to me or anyone else here.”

“But why would you risk so much for my father and me?”

“I would do nothing less for one of my kin,” don Francisco answered gently, “and surely your father came to know, over the years, what his wife was doing for us, but he has chosen to keep silent. Why would we not risk all to save him and to prevent the possibility that our secret would be divulged?”

“Thank you anyway,” I breathed. I kissed him solemnly on each cheek.

Behind us, Antonio let go a yelp as the surgeon began the work of sewing up the wound. I started. Don Francisco distracted me.

“Will you work for us, then, Marisol?”

“Anything,” I replied, and meant it.

He managed a wan smile. “Then come and see the task before you.”

He led me to the back of the barn, where the lantern’s glow revealed a long worktable draped in nubby black silk. “Here,” don Francisco said, and threw back a corner of the fabric.

I let go a faint gasp at the work of art before me, dazzling in the light. It was in the shape of an inverted warrior’s shield, though half the size, created from the very purest gold. Carved into the center were Moses’s two tablets of the law, flanked by great bas-relief pillars of fire. Beneath the tablets, two lions lay curled; above the tablets was an ornate three-dimensional crown. Three chains held it fast atop something.

Don Fernando lifted it reverently. “This is a Torah breastplate,” he said, then nodded at what lay beneath: an old scroll, the parchment brown with age, with bright golden finials.

“And this is a Torah—the Book of the Law. There is another one that your grandfather, a rabbi, kept for his congregation. That one is many centuries old and irreplaceable: To the Sánchez and Abravanel clans, it’s far more priceless than any jewel.”

I stared at it in wonder, imagining that, as a little girl, my mother had listened to her own father read from such a sacred manuscript.

“You lied to me,” I told Máriam. “You told me everything in their house had burned down, was rubble, that the entire library was lost.”

She shrugged, her gaze fixed on the Torah scroll. “Sometimes,” she said softly, “it’s necessary to lie in order to protect the people and things that you love.”

Don Fernando cleared his throat. “It’s far too difficult an operation to move people along with such heavy belongings. Better to smuggle out treasures one at a time. Which is what we have done with your mother’s help. And now, only this one—and the most precious one—remains. You can help us save the one that belonged to your grandfather’s congregation.”

“But how?” I asked.

“By finishing your mother’s work. By painting the large statue of Santiago. We’ll need it tomorrow.”

“But Torquemada has demanded I go to the prison tomorrow,” I protested. “And if I’m arrested…”

Nearby, the dark-haired smaller man cleared his throat. “Our spy told us earlier that the queen and Torquemada fled Seville a few hours ago. One of the guards at the Alcázar fell sick with plague and had to be carried out.”

“Don’t rejoice too soon,” don Francisco warned me. “Torquemada will surely leave your interrogation to someone else, such as Fray Morillo. I wouldn’t even be surprised if Fray Hojeda uses this event to gain some control of the Inquisition.” He hesitated as if trying to decide whether to continue. “Gabriel and Alonso Hojeda are incompetent and none too bright. But they are nonetheless dangerous to you.”

He trailed off and his tone grew matter of fact. “The auto-de-fé will be held in two days. Despite the danger, Marisol, will you paint the statue of Santiago for us now, tonight, knowing that it will carry your family’s sacred Torah to a safe place? Even knowing that we cannot afford to make another attempt to rescue your father?”

“You can’t save him?” I countered, aghast.

“I lost five fighters and Antonio is wounded. The Inquisition will no doubt put extra guards around your father. And on the day of the auto-de-fé, there will be even more protection around the prisoners. I won’t lie to you Marisol; there is little hope of our saving him.”

I covered my face in my hands.

When I finally looked up, I saw that the old man’s gaze had grown piercing. “Don Antonio says you have been summoned tomorrow to watch your father be tortured. It’s why we chose tonight to attempt to rescue him. If you cannot hold your tongue tomorrow … then we will
all
die. Not just your father. Do not make the mistake of thinking that confession will protect you or anyone else. They will use it to damn you, Marisol.”

My eyes burned with tears as I said, “On my mother’s soul, I swear to keep silent.”

“Good,” he replied. “The Santiago statue must be painted before daybreak, so that you can return to don Gabriel’s house without him being the wiser. The Torah shield is packed firmly inside with wadding so that the treasure cannot fall out. Once you have finished, don Antonio will bring it to us on the day of the auto-de-fé.” He paused, his expression grown sympathetic but still firm. “You cannot stay behind and expect to survive, Marisol, whether your father lives or not.”

“Don Francisco,” Máriam said respectfully, “there are two things that Marisol should have with her tonight as she paints the statue.”

He raised a brow, questioning.

In response, Máriam pulled the black silk back farther, revealing other religious relics as well as a neatly folded white prayer shawl and a pair of gold candlesticks.

I cried out softly at the sight of the last two: They had been my mother’s.

“Tonight
is
Shabbat,” Máriam said softly.

Don Francisco’s eyes grew liquid; so did mine. “Please,” I asked, “may I take them with me tonight? I won’t disrespect them.”

“Of course,” he replied huskily. “Of course, Marisol.”

Máriam reverently lifted the candlesticks—both with white, unused tapers in them—and wrapped them in the prayer shawl.

As she did, don Francisco took me aside and said in his sternest voice: “There is something I must tell you now that I share with all of my true friends. Remember it well, for it can save you in times of great danger. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I answered solemnly.

“If trouble befalls you, go to the river docks near San Pablo Street. Get there by whatever means necessary. If the danger is extreme…” He paused, eyeing me. “I had best let Antonio tell you when the time draws nearer. The less you know now, the safer you are.”

I didn’t want to hear more: It seemed as if he were mocking my mother’s death. I turned away, upset, just as I heard Antonio calling out my name.

The surgeon was just rising, carrying away with him a clean cloth on which the fishhook and bits of black thread rested, and a bloodied cloth.

“How is he?” don Francisco asked, referring to the patient.

“It was a deep cut, but I cleaned it well,” the curly haired barber answered. “With luck, he’ll survive.”

“Will he be able to fool them all tomorrow?”

“Probably. So long as he’s the kind the poppy doesn’t make too queasy. He needs rest and water now, and something to eat when he’s able.”

Don Francisco let go a grunt of relief. “Good. Don Antonio, you rest now. We need you strong so that you can pick up the statue the day after tomorrow. Carlos will take care of you tonight and see you back to your house when you are strong enough. Don’t worry.”

Antonio’s red-gold hair was still dark with sweat and stuck to his forehead, his complexion still chalky. His eyelids were half closed and his mouth stretched into a faint but decidedly inebriated smile. He said, “Oh, I’ll deliver the statue on time. And I can never worry about anything again! She’s not really married!”

I blushed as the others smirked.

“Drunk on wine and the poppy,” the curly haired surgeon said knowingly. “He’ll be feeling little pain for the rest of the night.”

“Come,” don Francisco said softly to all but the patient and me, “let’s give them a moment alone. They deserve it.”

The others didn’t leave the barn but instead went to the back, disappearing into the shadows so that it really did seem like Antonio and I were alone.

I went and knelt beside him on the straw; although he still seemed rather weak, his mood was decidedly better. His head was supported by a small bale that served as a pillow; his unwounded right arm was next to me, the freshly bandaged left arm mostly hidden from my view.

He caught my hand in his right one and squeezed admirably hard; I met his pressure with my own, and he grinned hugely.

“Marry me,” he said.

“You’re silly drunk,” I countered. “You probably won’t remember this conversation tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes, I will,” he retorted. “Just like I remember when I was fourteen. Hanging upside down on that old olive tree in your father’s orchard. Do you remember?”

I smiled, remembering Antonio at fourteen, his limbs gangly and long at that age, his voice beginning to deepen. I recalled too how comical he had looked that day, his straight strawberry hair hanging beneath his reddening face with its upside-down, toothy grin.

We could make a bunch of little Christians!

“I remember,” I said, a bit embarrassed that the others were listening. “How can you ever forgive me, Antonio? I thought you betrayed me.”

“It doesn’t matter, Marisol. None of it matters. There’s only right now.”

He grinned lopsidedly at me until I couldn’t keep from breaking into a full, affectionate grin myself. I finally said, “That day when you were hanging from the tree—you asked me to stay with you forever.”

“And I asked you to marry me,” he said, slurring a bit. “And you said…”

“That all our children would be considered
conversos.
”

He laughed weakly. “Where we’re going, Marisol, no one will care if our children are
conversos
or Christians or Jews. So. When you have this sham marriage-that-isn’t-a-marriage annulled … will you marry me? Only if you love me, of course.”

I drew a deep breath and let it out, deciding that I no longer cared who heard or saw. “Of course. Of course, I’ll marry you, Antonio. Of course. I love you.”

I bent down and kissed him, and he kissed me back with an enthusiasm unexpected of a frail, wounded man. Despite don Francisco’s promise of privacy, the other men in the barn roared their approval; even so, neither of us faltered, but kept our lips pressed together fast.

Eighteen

Máriam and I left Antonio, the surgeon, and don Francisco behind in the barn, while the small dark-haired man, Martín, drove us back toward town, while we were covered beneath a tarp in the wagon. Once we entered the city proper, Martín left us on a small side street not far from our neighborhood.

From there, we made our way to the western side of Antonio’s family property—through the scraggly remnants of an ancient olive grove. At last, we came upon the tall stone wall that enclosed the family house. Despite the darkness, Máriam had no difficulty finding the single large stone that came loose when she pulled on it.

We squirmed through the opening, and Máriam led me unerringly across the large property toward the house, pausing not far from the old tree where Antonio had first proposed marriage to me; I could see the dark outline of my parents’ now-abandoned house over the top of the fence.

Máriam began to brush the ground with her foot until she came upon a scattering of gravel; soon, I heard her boot heel connect with something more solid.

“Help me,” she whispered, bending down to touch the earth.

I reached down, my fingers sifting through earth and stone until they found the edge of something thick and wooden. Once we had pulled upward enough so that the outline of the trapdoor became clear, Máriam and I swept away enough of the heavy dirt and gravel so that we could get the trapdoor open.

I admit, I was terrified making my way through the narrow, airless tunnel—particularly after Máriam closed the door behind us, blotting out even the faint light of the moon and stars, leaving us in total blackness. But she caught my hand firmly and dragged me onward, not pausing at the eerily silky sensation of spiderwebs on our faces and shoulders, or the muted squeal of rodents.