The Inquisitor's Wife (16 page)

I listened, rapt. When Máriam drew back to study my reaction, I whispered a question, fearing the answer.

“What happened to doña Raquel and the boy? And Raquelita?”

She shook her head sadly. “The mother and son perished in the fire, if the men didn’t kill them first. And the next day, when I went back, their home had been burned to the ground. I don’t know what happened to their older sons; I pray they heard the news and fled to safety.

“I took Raquelita to the Orphanage of the Incarnation,” she said, suddenly scrutinizing my expression. “I didn’t tell the nuns where I found her, but I’m sure they knew. They were kind to her and gave her a new Christian name, and since I worked at the laundry nearby, I visited her whenever I could. To me, she was like a little sister. And I felt I owed it to her mother.

“And when Raquelita grew older and got married, I went with her to live in her household. With her and her husband, don Diego. Except that she wasn’t called Raquelita anymore.”

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. I saw clearly the source of my childish shame that made me loathe what I was: I had been foolish enough to listen to men whose God was too small, too humanly jealous and tyrannical. I stood up and opened my arms.

Máriam stepped into the embrace gratefully. We held each other tightly while tears and grief and love seeped from me like water from an underground spring.

When I could finally talk, I kissed her and drew back, my palm pressed to her soft, soft cheek. Surely Máriam’s pain was the worst of all: She had rescued Raquelita from her tormentors, only to see them claim her life after three decades. But I was still here, living proof of a lowly servant’s courage.

“Thank you, Máriam,” I told her. “Thank you.”

Eight

That night, with Máriam asleep in a cot at the foot of my bed, I dreamed of my mother. I had once seen a drowned neighbor girl fished from the river after two days; her once-agreeable countenance had become a grotesque death mask, her cheeks and neck so bloated that her face was no longer the shape of an oval, but a pear. Her skin was ghastly, waxen white save for a blush of blue-gray over the closed eyelids and the swollen, parted lips; a clinging rivulet of hair traced an uneven diagonal from her left brow, across one eye and her slightly open mouth, to her puffy jawline.

When I’d set eyes on her, I had been too shocked to scream or cry, but had rushed away, thinking I was going to be sick. Instead, a visceral panic overcame me, and I sank to my haunches, struggling to breathe.

In the dream, I saw that face again, close up—only it metamorphosed into my mother’s horrific yet beautiful face. But before I could become anxious, I realized that I was suddenly looking at it from very far away. I was on the eastern bank of the Guadalquivir near the docks, and my dead mother was standing, her hair and clothing twisted and bedraggled, on the opposite shore. I shouldn’t have been able to recognize her; the river was so broad that a person standing on the west bank should have appeared no larger than a fly, but in the dream I saw her clearly. Eerily, the wooden bridge spanning the water had disappeared, and there wasn’t a single sailing ship or fisherman’s boat in the river to block my view. The water was still as glass, reflecting the bright sun like quicksilver.

And then her corpse opened its eyes, and the blue-gray lips curved upward as it smiled at me.

For some reason, this didn’t frighten me—quite the opposite. As my mother waved to me, her frightfully tangled hair fanning out in the triangular space between her shoulder and lifted arm, I felt a rush of pure relief and joy, to the point of tears. I understood now why she had behaved as she did, and wanted only to ask her forgiveness and to apologize to God for thinking that He could ever be less compassionate than I was, that He could damn such a good-hearted woman to hell for all eternity.

Even asleep, my beliefs shifted away from those endorsed by the
converso
-hating preachers toward those of love and tolerance.

I began to laugh, and my mother laughed, too; it had all been a great mistake. We had thought she had died, but here she was, alive. My first impulse was to go get my father, who would be overjoyed at the sight of his wife, but then I realized that I should simply take doña Magdalena home instead. Yet with the bridge gone, I couldn’t reach her; the water was too deep and dangerous to swim all the way across.

As I puzzled over this, studying the river and the bizarrely empty docks, something on the opposite shore caught my eye. I glanced back again at my mother; she was looking more herself with each passing second, but now she wasn’t alone.

Antonio—his red-gold hair dazzling in the light—was standing next to her, smiling.

He was a hand’s span shorter than Gabriel, but the top of my mother’s head didn’t quite reach his shoulder; his presence restored her fully to life and beauty. I had forgotten how handsome Antonio was as a man, how brilliant his smile. At the realization that I saw him, he too lifted his arm and began to joyfully wave.

*   *   *

The next morning, alone on the lumpy feather-and-straw mattress, I opened my eyes to the gray light and saw Máriam in profile, kneeling on the carpet in front of the olive-wood dresser, where the bright ceramic Madonna rested. Somehow Máriam had dressed and rewound her black scarf without waking me.

From her reverent posture, it was clear she was praying, but her lips didn’t move and her hands were lifted in front of her face, shielding her eyes from the sight of the Madonna.

I rose quietly. She was startled when she heard me move and dropped her hands to regard me warily, as if I were a viper that had slithered into the room. I didn’t answer the question in her eyes with words, but, still in my nightgown, padded barefoot from the bed onto the worn carpet and stood beside her.

I didn’t reach for my rosary as usual, but knelt down next to her, crossed myself, and folded my hands in prayer. Except that after the first Hail Mary and Our Father, I began speaking silently to my mother.

What could I have done to save you? Why didn’t you trust Papá to take care of us? Why did you feel that you had to die?

I knew the answer to the last question: My mother had convinced herself that her death was the only thing that could save us from the Inquisition. I couldn’t blame her or Máriam or my father for it. I could only blame myself.

If I hadn’t stumbled that night … If I’d run a little faster …

If I hadn’t rejected you …

I thought of the jeering boys in the street crying
Marrana! Marrana!
And I understood that the pain I felt at their rejection—and at my father’s rejection of me—was no worse than the pain my mother had suffered for years when I had turned away from her.

If I hadn’t been so frightened of their judgment … If I hadn’t been so weak …

If I hadn’t, if I hadn’t, if I hadn’t.

Kneeling, I relived my mother’s death a thousand times. When I was done, I glanced at Máriam beside me and didn’t flinch at the sight of her hands still blatantly shielding her eyes from the Madonna’s face. Instead, I responded to her second challenge by crossing myself, rising, and leaving her to pray as she wished.

*   *   *

The days that followed between Christmas and New Year’s were dismal ones, even though the weather turned sunny and clear. I spent them walking the Hojedas’ huge courtyard, trying to outpace loss and rejection. In fresh daylight, the grounds looked even more rundown; the triple fountain with Saint James Matamoros, the patron saint of the Lion King, looked as though it had been drizzled with blackish green mildew, and the water in the basins was opaque with mud. No flowers bloomed on the property; only clumps of weeds and tangled, sickly boxwoods lined the paths, full of debris from the recent rains.

The walls in all the rooms were dingy and cracked, the floors dirty and uneven from wear. The grand dining chamber and hall were empty of all but the most immediately necessary furniture for the home’s inhabitants; obviously, no one had entertained here in years.

I’d been raised in a household with some thirty servants, and my father wasn’t considered as rich as the Hojedas, but when I learned that there were no other servants besides an old chambermaid named Miguela, Lauro, and the recently hired Blanca, I began to have doubts. We’d all assumed that don Jerónimo had held on to his wealth, but the estate clearly hadn’t been well cared for in decades.

At breakfast on the day after our wedding, my husband had looked wan and pained; I never mentioned the incident at our wedding dinner, and Gabriel answered my few questions about my household duties with meek, weary monosyllables. To my frustration, he refused my offer to be of use, saying that Lauro went to the market and did all the gardening, and that he, Gabriel, preferred to handle the finances. I had no allowance but was to depend on Gabriel to provide for me and was to make no decisions. Since I was in mourning, I was not expected to leave the house on errands unless it was to church or some necessary destination, in which case, Gabriel would take me.

I was, in essence, imprisoned on the estate and sentenced to boredom.

“Most of all,” Gabriel said, ducking his great head at the table to stare shyly down at his bread and hard cheese, his voice dropping to a whisper, “you aren’t to speak of last night. To anyone, especially my brother.”

I looked up at him, trying to keep my smile fixed and my gaze innocent-looking—even though I’d just learned where a possible source of power in my otherwise helpless position lay. “Of course, husband,” I answered sweetly. “Of course.”

*   *   *

Gabriel went off to be with his brother on New Year’s Eve Day. I was allowed to attend Mass with Máriam at my family’s Church of San Francisco, a spare but massive brick sanctuary built in the shape of a Latin cross and twice as large as San Pablo. My father was surely there among the throngs, but I kept my gaze fixed on the worshipper immediately in front of me, purposely avoiding an encounter.

I had few conversations with my husband, who preferred to keep his own company outside of breakfast and supper. Our meals tended to be mostly silent, with me occasionally asking questions about how things were done in the Hojeda household, and Gabriel providing shy if curt answers. He never again accosted me the way he had at our first supper.

But in the early dark hours of the New Year, Gabriel returned home from celebrating with his brother at Fray Hojeda’s fine quarters at the monastery. Asleep in bed, I woke to the sound of his tread, slow and heavy on the stairs and then shuffling out in the loggia as he made his way to his room. On the way, he passed mine, and his footsteps suddenly stopped as they reached my door. I froze, listening, and after an instant of breathlessness, released a sigh as he moved on to his own quarters, his unsteady footfalls betraying another night of overindulgence in wine.

I fell back to sleep. Sometime shortly afterward, I woke again, this time to a drawn-out hissing sound, which made me start, thinking at first in my drowsy stupor that a snake was in my bed. Almost immediately I realized that I hadn’t heard a snake at all, but sliding of the bolt on the other side of what I’d thought was a locked closet door.

I sat up quietly. Máriam lay in her cot at the foot of my bed, her faced turned away from me, toward the fire; I couldn’t tell whether she was awake and didn’t want to risk making noise by calling to her. Instead, I remained frozen, clutching my blanket, and in the ebbing hearth glow saw the door between the fireplace and the western wall open no more than a sliver, only to have its rectangular shape immediately outlined by an interior light. The wood groaned and let go a sharp snap; I sensed a presence on the other side of the door and drew in a breath, steeling myself.

But the door never opened farther. Instead, someone on the other side began moving stealthily away. The light emanating from the crack dimmed at the same time.

I slipped from the bed, dashed on tiptoe toward the door, and pressed my ear to the wood. I could hear treads receding into the distance; surprised, I wormed a finger into the crack, thinking to enlarge it so that I could peer in without being noticed.

My plan failed. Improperly hung, the door swung wide open into my room, forcing me to take a step forward and grab hold of the jamb to keep from falling.

In front of me, a narrow windowless passageway led from my wing to Gabriel’s. Halfway to other entrance, a retreating hulk held a lit candle.

As I recovered from stumbling, Gabriel turned toward me and lifted the candle, the better to see me; caught by his breath, the small flame flickered, causing his shadow to loom and writhe against the stucco walls. The corridor was cramped and the ceiling low, forcing him to crouch. Even so, his body, pale as a marble ruin, its edges fading into the dimness, reminded me of a Roman gladiator’s: naked and powerful, its torso a broad V that narrowed at the whittled waist and spread to its broadest point at the shoulders, which were so heavily muscled that he couldn’t turn his thick neck without his chin brushing against them. His legs were equally as sculpted.

As much as I disliked him, I was still young and aching from lurid dreams about my lost Antonio, and never having seen a fully naked man, I was curious. Gabriel’s body was beautifully sculptured. I stared frankly at the thatch of golden hair at his pubis, and the erection, straight as a white arrow, emerging from its center. I should have run away for modesty’s sake, but I was too entranced to move; the sight brought a giddy rush of warmth, a stirring between my legs.

I parted my lips, fascinated, and held my ground: Part of me wanted nothing to do with Gabriel, but another part of me longed to be touched by a man, to rut there, on the floor of the airless, musty corridor. For a long instant, Gabriel and I stared wide-eyed at each other, he panting so that the shadows on the cracked stucco jumped up and down with the candle in his hand, and I praying that he would take me then, while hoping just as fervently that he would not.