The Inquisitor's Wife (9 page)

We rattled onto worn, uneven brick pavement; in the darkness, I got the impression of an immense property that stretched back to infinity. We pulled up to the north side of the house—the side facing the abandoned olive grove where, years earlier, Gabriel had beaten the old Jewish man—and came to a stop beside a one-story covered walkway. Beneath its tile roof, in the glow cast by torches freshly lit after the rain, a young woman in a white veil and plain gray dress curtsied as my husband and I climbed out and approached her. In one hand she held a flickering lamp. Beside her stood a thick-boned, brawny hunchback of about forty; had he been able to straighten himself, he would have been the taller by far. As it was, he barely came to her shoulders, for once his spine left his waist, it swelled outward and then in again so that his face naturally looked down at the ground. He was forced to bend his neck at a harsh angle in order to meet his master’s gaze. I looked at his broad, ponderous features and pale, vacant eyes and realized that he was an Hojeda, like my husband, if a less fortunate one. Both of them wore an odd look of terror, as if they wished to warn us of some impending danger but could not.

“This is Lauro,” my husband explained, gesturing. “My valet. And this”—he gestured at the young woman, who I guessed was a few years younger than I—“is Blanca. She’ll be your chambermaid and provide whatever you need.” He looked sideways at me. “Whatever the African—what was the slave’s name again?”

“Máriam,” I prompted, looking behind us to see whether she still followed the carriage, but she’d disappeared. “She’s a paid servant, not a slave.”

A thunderous roar drowned out my words before I finished them. “Gabriel! In God’s name, with is
this
?”

Gabriel’s brother Alonso—known by his monk’s title as Fray Hojeda—moved his white-robed, black-caped girth with impressive alacrity to push aside Lauro, while poor Blanca jumped aside in fear. The friar’s livid round face was contorted with fury, his mouth drawn in disbelief and disgust.

I had wondered whether Gabriel had told his brother and how he intended to get around the friar’s hatred of
conversos
. Or, as their father, don Jerónimo, had called me,
that little marrana.
I wasn’t surprised to learn that Gabriel had lacked the courage to confront his brother before the deed.

“What are these women doing here?” Fray Hojeda demanded, as Gabriel’s height visibly diminished beneath his brother’s full-on rage. In a flash, the friar slapped Gabriel, leaving a bright red mark on Gabriel’s already flaming cheek.

Both Blanca and I cringed; Blanca took two steps back, her eyes huge.

“Why does
she
hold those silk blossoms?” Hojeda’s hands gesticulated wildly; he loomed toward me to scrutinize me more closely. I did my best not to flinch. “Good God, there is a ring upon her finger! Gabriel—you pathetic fool—you have
married
her! Don’t lie: I watched from the balcony. I saw her father leave the carriage, I saw the African bringing her trunk into this house!”

“It’s true,” Gabriel said, his hand still pressed to his smarting cheek. He clearly intended to sound defensive and determined, but his voice quavered on the second word. “Brother, I have good reason. Please, if you will just listen.…”

Hojeda was in no mood to do so; his lip twisted. “Your lust has gotten the better of you! Lust and idiocy! Insanity! We’ll go at once tomorrow and have the wedding annulled. What are you thinking, bringing
her
of all people under this roof? You bring dishonor to our house.”

Gabriel straightened as he found a modicum of courage; he stepped between me and his brother. “Alonso,
listen
to me.”

But Hojeda was beyond listening. “I come here wanting to see my baby brother, and I find him gone at a time that he is always home. Lauro would not tell me where, or why this little piece of work”—he gestured at Blanca without looking at her—“was saying that you’d hired her as a chambermaid when there’s no money for it. I was stupid enough to be frightened for you! Frightened! But no! You were in a strange church in front of a strange priest marrying…” He gestured at me, unable to find the right word.

Gabriel used the momentary silence to speak. “I made a bargain,” he said forcefully. “With her father.”

“A bargain?” Fray Hojeda’s thick gray brows were still locked in a scowl—he was a generation older than his younger brother—but the fire in his eyes dimmed slightly, edged with calculation. “What sort of bargain?”

Gabriel glanced sidewise at me, then back at the friar. “I know you’re upset—but if you will hear me out in private, I can explain this to your satisfaction.” He nodded down the covered walkway at the distant great front door. “Let us walk together. We can speak when we get to the sitting room.”

Hojeda said nastily, “You will speak to me of this
now.
I don’t care whether it hurts her feelings.”

But he followed his younger brother; as the two headed for the door, Gabriel looked over his shoulder at me and said, “If you could give us some distance, please, Marisol…”

Lauro scuttled ahead of us, clearly too terrified to remain in the older Hojeda’s presence regardless of what courtesy commanded. Blanca curtsied again to her master; I nodded, shaken by my reception on my bridal night. With Blanca a deferential step behind me, I walked several paces behind the men, past sprays of bougainvilleas and begonias bitten and browned by the cold.

I could hear only snippets of what Gabriel said in a hushed voice. His shoulders and back, like his older brother’s, were draped in black but were leaner, more muscular; the monk’s were covered with a thick layer of fat. Beside Fray Hojeda’s new wool cloak, Gabriel’s looked many years tired, with spots shiny from wear.

I expected to overhear words of love or lust but heard only fragments of what seemed to be a business conversation.

“An agreement…” Gabriel murmured. “The Holy Office … marriage … legal control…”

Hojeda rumbled a reply. “… could do without…”

Gabriel countered him. “… but then, Vargas…”

I shook my head and blinked. Surely he hadn’t just uttered Antonio’s last name; I must have mistaken another word for it, or perhaps he was talking about a different man: There was certainly more than one Vargas family in Seville.

Still tense, Hojeda inclined his head toward his brother. “Still … shame of it…”

“… the property and inheritance…” Gabriel said.

Gabriel continued speaking, now so softly I could make out nothing, and Hojeda fell silent and let him speak without interruption.

By the time we arrived at the great front door, the area lit dimly by a single torch, Hojeda turned toward me with a guardedly civil expression, while Lauro opened the heavy door and held it for us.

We entered a large drafty sitting room which offered few opportunities for sitting—only a pair of stools and one single padded chair with arms, the upholstery faded and torn.

“You there, girl,” Hojeda said to Blanca, who curtsied, trembling. “Go and fetch us some wine. And afterward, keep yourself in the kitchen. Anything you might hear you are never to repeat, or God will punish you. Lauro, join her.” He then turned to me. “As for you…” He motioned to the padded chair.

I sat—I admit, with an expression of challenge, not compliance, on my face—and watched as my husband took the stool beside me.

Hojeda leaned over me, his owlish gaze penetrating, and extended his hand. “The ring,” he said, in a tone that threatened.

Without a word, I pulled it off my finger and handed it to him.

He hid it within the folds of his habit, then, staying on his feet, he began to lecture Gabriel and me as if he, the friar, were in the pulpit.

“What’s happened here tonight is to remain secret,” he said, his tone calmer but cold. “In the morning, you both will go to have the marriage annulled.”

“Marisol,” Gabriel said forcefully, stepping in between us. “Blanca will escort you to your quarters now. Stay there until I summon you.” He turned to his brother. “Alonso, you must hear me out in private and in full. Then we will abide by your decision, whatever that may be.”

“Do you swear it?” Fray Hojeda asked, scowling.

“I swear. Go, Marisol.”

*   *   *

Like my father’s, my husband’s house was
mudéjar
in style, but on a grander scale. The flat-roofed dwelling—large enough to house two wealthy extended families with a plethora of servants—centered around a central courtyard five times larger than the one I grew up with; the traditional fountain was monstrous, with three separate basins. A statue of Santiago Matamoros—Saint James the Moor-slayer—overlooked the tallest center basin. It only made sense that the infidel-hating Hojedas would claim Santiago as one of their favorite household saints.

Usually Saint James was portrayed as a fierce warrior on a fiercer steed, in the act of slaying a Moor. But this particular Santiago seemed expressionless, bland, his horse static. Water bubbled up around the dying soldier trapped beneath Santiago’s mount’s hooves and spilled down into two other, lower basins, now filled to the brim with rainwater. The left-hand basin was topped by the imperial eagle, recalling the Roman past; the right, by the lion, symbolizing Spain’s prophesied Christian king who would come like a messiah to cast out Muley Hacén, the current Muslim sultan of Granada, to our east. In addition to the great fountain, the courtyard featured a long narrow reflecting pond, lined by tall palms that rustled with the slightest breeze.

Blanca escorted me first through a covered entranceway and foyer, then through the courtyard, the lamps above the burbling fountain hurriedly relit after the rains for the wedding party’s arrival. We made our way over slick cobblestone paths, past statues, overgrown hedges, and the murky reflecting pond.

The forty-odd windows of the hulking rectangular palace surrounding us were dark, save for a few downstairs and two on the third floor. The light from Blanca’s lantern played upon the intricate stone fretwork railing, throwing black lace shadows onto her white veil and gray gown; the glow also revealed thick spider webs in the ceiling corners, and cracks in the pale stone walls. These, along with the worn, uneven stone beneath my feet and the pervasive odors of dust and mold, conveyed a sense of decaying grandeur. We traversed empty, silent corridors up to the south wing on the top floor, where the door to my new chambers lay ajar. By then, Blanca had revealed that she’d been a postulant in the Dominican nunnery at San Pablo and would have taken novice vows had her parents not needed her income.

“Here you are, doña Marisol,” she announced in a girlishly high-pitched voice. She gestured with the lamp for me to enter ahead of her, and I stepped into the warm low-ceilinged room. A lamp on an ancient writing desk lit the antechamber; rickety wooden chairs sat beside a pitted ebony table. A fraying, musty-smelling Persian carpet covered worn marble floors, and near the door, the dingy stucco walls sported a single large crucifix, the only decoration.

The bedroom was equally as spare, furnished with pieces from a previous century. To my right was a small fireplace, the stucco above it stained with a half oval of soot; on the wall between the fireplace and window was a door that I assumed led to a closet, but a tug on the handle revealed it was bolted from the inside. To my left stood a very old bed covered in worn dark green brocade, where, I suspected, Gabriel’s mother had died giving birth to him. At its foot, my trunk sat open on the floor, its contents neatly folded and ready to be unpacked. The bedspread was matched by long drapes that emanated the same stale scent as the rug out in the antechamber; they covered two rectangular windows as large as the doors.

The instant I set foot in the bedchamber, the blaze in the hearth made me break into a sweat. I shrugged the silk shawl from my shoulders onto the bed and would have gone to one of the windows if Máriam hadn’t already been struggling to push one open. Her back was to us as we entered, so that only her black gown and veil were visible. Without a word, I went to her and tried to help.

Behind us, Blanca set her lamp down upon the night table, and cried out: “Forgive me, doña Marisol! I’ve made the room too warm! It won’t open, but I know what to do!”

She went to the other window nearer the fireplace and produced a key. After struggling for a few minutes, she unlocked the window—actually a door leading to a balcony—and pushed her full weight against it until it opened. The fire leapt at the sudden inrush of cool air.

Flushed from her efforts, Blanca turned back toward me; her mouth dropped at the sight of Máriam’s dark features. “Holy Mother, save us!” She crossed herself.

“Amen,” Máriam replied, and crossed herself as well; she directed a kindly smile at the startled girl. “Don’t be afraid. I’m a good Christian, just like you.”

Blanca recoiled at the notion. “You’re from Africa,” she said warily, “so you were born a Muslim. Or worse…”

“I was born a Gentile,” Máriam said with stubborn cheer, “just as you were. And the Apostle Paul wrote that Christ came to save all Gentiles.” Her smile widened. “My name is Máriam, after the Holy Mother. I waited on doña Marisol’s mother before my mistress was born.”

“You must treat Máriam with respect,” I added fiercely. “You can keep my chambers clean and come when I call you; otherwise, Máriam will wait on me. You must always do as she says.” To Máriam, by way of explanation, I said, “Blanca was raised at the Dominican convent.”

The girl looked at Máriam with dismay and took another glance at my scowling face before forcing a wary smile. “Hello,” she said, without conviction.

“Are there other servants?” I asked the girl.

“For you? Or for the household?”

“For me.”

Blanca shook her head. “I’m the only one.” She directed a faintly resentful look at Máriam. “It’s true that I have little experience, doña Marisol. I came from the convent only yesterday. But I’m a hard worker and very honest. I can bring a cot in here to sleep with you, if you like, or out in the antechamber. Or next door.”