Act of Faith (18 page)

I knew what I had to do.

On the night of the auto de fé, we shoved our way through the crowd until we were right near the stage: me in my new Spanish dress, with a black lace mantilla to hide my cropped blonde hair; Willem in breeches far too tight for his Dutch sensibilities.

‘Don’t you ever tell my mother I wore these,’ he said.

‘She’d never believe you to be such a dandy.’

‘Promise me.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I won’t tell your mother anything at all, since you’re supposed to be safely in Venice at the moment. She’d split me from head to toe for getting her lovely boy into so much trouble.’

‘I wish we hadn’t come.’

‘We can’t leave him alone to face the trial,’ I said. ‘If nothing else, we have to be here to witness it.’

Willem sighed. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Besides,’ I said, ‘you never know what might happen.’

He grabbed the corners of my shawl and pulled me close so nobody could hear. ‘Isabella Hawkins, what madness are you planning now?’

‘Don’t you fret.’

‘I swear, if you so much as utter —’

‘Shhh. Here they come.’

We heard the drums and the thud of the soldiers’ boots long before the procession came into view. Guards with torches lit the way.

‘Mostly unarmed,’ I said.

‘So?’

‘That’s good.’

‘Signora Contarini will slit my throat if I let you do anything silly.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

He glared at me and I turned away to watch the macabre spectacle that now filled the street. It was just like Willem had said. Behind the guards walked priests carrying a banner. Willem peered at the words painted on it.

‘
Justitia et misericordia
. What’s that?’

‘Justice and mercy,’ I said. ‘Presumably that’s ironic.’

He snorted.

A few faces in the crowd turned and stared at us. ‘Shhh!’

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘um …
excusa
.’

Behind the banner came the doomed: three women and eight men; and there, walking in the centre of the road, was Master de Aquila. His hair was plastered down on his forehead by sweat and something dark that must have been blood. He wore a long
vest and baggy trousers, both black-and white-striped, and a shapeless grey robe over his shoulders. The robe was painted in vivid colours, as if by a madman, with images of an old man surrounded by flames and prancing devils. His feet were bare and he hobbled along slowly, no matter how hard the guards prodded him. He held a yellow candle in both hands; even from yards away, we could see how they trembled.

‘God in Heaven,’ I whispered.

‘Told you,’ said Willem.

The men of the Inquisition walked slowly and solemnly behind their victims. One of them held aloft a huge crucifix. The ordinary priests wore black, the Inquisitors and bishops were swathed in purple and gold, and at the head of the group was one man in a scarlet cloak. Fra Clement.

I felt as if I might be sick all over the woman next to me.

‘Of course he’d be here,’ Willem muttered. ‘Best moment of his life.’

‘We have to help them,’ I said.

‘What can we do?’ he whispered. ‘It’s too late.’

On our master’s left, barely recognisable, was our guest in the attic, Al-Qasim, dressed in similar clothes but with a calico bag tied over each of his broken hands. There was no disguising the damage to his face, though. It looked like his nose was broken, and one eye was bruised and swollen shut.

Master de Aquila didn’t see us. He stared straight ahead: at the other prisoners; at the execution stakes and the grand arena that had been built, seemingly overnight, in front of the cathedral.

The stage was draped in rich red and gold cloth and ringed with flaming torches. At its centre was an altar covered in black cloth, on which stood a simple silver cross. To one side, an orchestra
played a kind of triumphal march. On the other side was a dais. As the procession reached the stage, the officials from the Inquisition filed up to fill its empty seats behind dignitaries from the city and a gaggle of bishops and abbots. Above them all, on high silvery thrones, sat two young people in the most extravagant clothes I had ever seen, smiling at the crowd as if they were in a festival parade.

‘Who are they?’ I asked the woman beside me.

‘The noblest of all,’ she replied, smiling. ‘The young Duke and his new bride. Isn’t she the most beautiful woman in the world? And the most pious, I hear. We are blessed to have them here on this great night.’

A priest stood at a pulpit and read out a long list of charges in Latin that even Willem could understand. Next, he called on those of the accused who had not confessed their sins to do so before God and the faithful. Then he called on those assembled to profess their own faith, which everyone around us did, very loudly and very enthusiastically. Finally, he invited the accused to admit their heresies and take up the Catholic faith.

I wouldn’t have blamed any of the poor souls for raising a hand and offering to swear to anything at that stage. But nobody said a word. They all kept their heads bowed.

The priest looked furious at having missed out on gathering a few souls for the Lord, but he started the prayers, his voice droning on and on. The people around us murmured responses. We tried to keep up, but neither of us knew the right words and our voices were always a heartbeat slower than everyone else’s.

The torches sputtered in the breeze and cast flickering shadows on the gold cloth above the Duke’s head.

Fra Clement and another priest stood at the pulpit to read out
the reports of the trials and announce the charges and sentences. The prisoners’ arms were tied and, one by one, they were dragged forward to hear the words that would snuff out their lives.

The women were all accused of witchcraft. They were sentenced to be burned alive.

One man had been accused by a colleague of secretly being a follower of Islam, even though he was a leading merchant in Seville and had been to Mass several times a week for his entire life.

‘Lies!’ he cried, as the charges were read. ‘They’re just trying to steal my business!’

People in the crowd hissed at him. Fra Clement ignored him completely and kept reading a list of charges that all meant the same thing: the merchant was also sentenced to be burned alive.

Then it was Master de Aquila’s turn. Two guards shoved him forward so he sat alone on a low bench in front of the stage. For the first time he looked up, straight into Fra Clement’s eyes, and held his gaze for what felt like an hour.

Fra Clement flinched. He shuffled the papers in his hand, cleared his throat and began to read the charges.

‘Stop!’

For a moment it seemed as if that single word, shouted with all the power I had in me, had stopped the world.

The orchestra fell silent. Fra Clement’s mouth stayed open in mid-sentence. The Duke’s smile flickered and died.

I stopped breathing, for a heartbeat. Then I stepped into the open space in front of the stage.

The silence shattered and everyone started yelling at once.

‘Isabella! Come back here, you idiot.’

‘Arrest her!’

‘What’s happening?’

‘Get out of the way, girl.’

I stood still, staring right into the Duke’s face. He looked terrified, as if I might suddenly lunge at him, then I noticed something in his expression change. He held up one finger and all the shouting fell away. He swallowed, such a small thing, but I saw it clearly; saw the tiny drops of perspiration collecting in the creases of his throat, and the widening of his eyes. He is so young, I thought. He doesn’t know what to do.

But another flick of that finger could send me to the dungeons.

He stared at me. ‘Who are you?’

‘She’s a witch,’ Fra Clement yelled. ‘A heretic!’

The Duke’s gaze faltered.

‘I am neither of those things,’ I said quietly. ‘But nor is this man.’ I pointed at Master de Aquila, who stared at me, too, but there were tears on his face.

‘Don’t listen to her,’ Fra Clement shouted.

The Duke blinked. ‘Should I?’ The question was to me, not to Fra Clement.

‘I’m telling you the truth,’ I said.

I felt as if the whole world could see my soul. Truth is like that, I realised, deep in your belly, so deep there is nothing to do but speak it.

‘I once saw a man executed for being Catholic in England,’ I said. ‘Now you want to kill these people for not being Catholics. Somewhere, sometime, someone has to be courageous enough to stop the killing. Let that courageous man be you, Your Grace.’

There was silence.

‘Arrest her,’ said the Duke, and looked away.

I heard Fra Clement’s voice above all the others. ‘Praise God. Light the fires!’

Dozens of heavy boot-steps thundered behind and around me. Armed guards stormed onto the stage to protect the dignitaries. The priests with the flaming torches huddled together. I ignored them all and kept my gaze on the Duke, but he was looking beyond me now, his eyes even wider.

I spun around, expecting to find a whole troop of Inquisition guards. Instead, surrounding me were at least twenty fearsome-looking men with swords in their fists. At their head was the Crow.

He swept off his hat and bowed to me. ‘We are at your service, Signorina Hawkins.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘With Signora Contarini’s compliments,’ he whispered.

I wanted to laugh but this was not the time.

‘There is nowhere to run,’ Fra Clement said. His voice had returned to its normal chilling tone.

He was right, of course. We were completely at their mercy; except I knew there would be no mercy. There was only one way out.

‘Stay close,’ I said to the Crow.

‘I always do.’

I grabbed the torch closest to me and wrenched it out of the priest’s hand. I felt the grain of the wood, the solid reassurance of a weapon, the sweat on my palm.

All I had to do was —

‘Stop her!’

I moved fast, faster than the guards in their clanking armour, and raced across the empty space in front of the stage. The flaming torch was high above my head but I felt it scorch my hair.

‘No!’ Master de Aquila shouted.

But I kept going. It felt as if everyone else on earth was melted to the spot like spent candles. I was the only movement, charging through clouds of smoke and noise. I had only a few seconds before the guards realised my plan. I steadied myself, then flung my arm forward so hard I nearly fell. The torch flew in a flaming arc through the darkness, above everyone’s heads and high into the red and gold awning.

It took only a moment or two — a few breaths — then flames lit up the stage and the screaming started all over again.

‘Fire!’

Guards dragged the Duke and Duchessa unceremoniously from their thrones and bustled them away into the night. I paid no attention to anyone else.

The Crow and his men turned outwards as one and raised their swords, circling me in a fence of iron.

Willem darted between them and grabbed my arm. ‘You’re quite insane — you do know that, don’t you?’ But he was grinning at me.

‘Come on!’ We raced towards the prisoners.

Master de Aquila pushed himself slowly to his feet. ‘Leave me,’ he said. ‘Save yourselves.’

‘Too late for that, Master,’ said Willem.

‘Al-Qasim,’ said Master de Aquila. ‘You must help him.’

Willem’s dagger slashed the ropes that bound Al-Qasim. He slumped to the ground. Two of the Crow’s men stepped forward and lifted him up as if he were a child. Another sliced through the ropes of the other prisoners with his sword.

‘Run!’ shouted the Crow. ‘Save yourselves!’

‘Who are all our friends?’ Willem asked.

‘Enough talk,’ said the Crow. ‘This way.’

He gripped Master de Aquila’s elbow and led him away from the execution stakes, away from the stage, away from the vengeance of the Inquisition.

We shoved and stumbled through the crowd. It was madness: everyone ran from the burning stage, shouting; guards bellowed at people to stand aside as they tried to fight their way through; hands pushing and grabbing; a small child, lost — I wondered vaguely who would bring a child to watch people burn.

Swords clashed and clanged as the Crow’s men struggled to keep the troops at bay. I saw one of our men fall, then another. Blood spattered on the cobblestones. Other guards fought the fire with brooms, rugs, buckets of water.

I glanced at the stage. Fra Clement stood there still, ignoring the flames and screaming, ‘Grab the witch! Stop her!’

‘No!’ shouted the other priest. ‘Look to the fire! Seville will burn!’

The guards hesitated, confused, then rushed in all directions.

I waved at Fra Clement, tripped and nearly fell, but Willem grabbed my shoulders and steadied me.

The Crow and Master de Aquila were just ahead, within an arm’s reach. The Crow’s men helped carry Al-Qasim, and crowded in behind us to guard our retreat.

We ran through an archway, so fast up a flight of stone stairs I thought my lungs would burst. The Crow and Willem half-carried Master de Aquila. The narrow alleyways clanged with shouts and the terrifying noise of sword meeting sword — or sword meeting flesh and bone. A man screamed in agony. Another cried out. I couldn’t tell whose side they were on, or what had happened to them. I just kept running. Another lane, a gate in a wall, then I lost
count of the twists and turns until at last we came to a courtyard where a dozen horses waited restlessly.

‘Signorina Hawkins — you, the boy and my fastest riders will leave first,’ said the Crow. ‘We travel in groups of four. Less easily followed. Some of my men will travel west and north to confuse anyone who tries to track us. I will ride with the Saracen and your master. We will meet at dawn at Montellano.’

Willem grabbed the Crow’s arm. ‘Who are you?’

‘This is not the time. Go!’

Willem nodded. The Crow helped Master de Aquila onto the nearest horse and motioned for the rest of us to mount.

‘The other prisoners?’ I asked.

‘You cannot save them all,’ said the Crow.

‘But where will they go?’

‘With God’s help, they will run to freedom.’ He slapped my horse’s rump. ‘Now, be off. Go by the river gate. I have men there. They will let you pass.’