The Inquisitor's Wife (17 page)

I broke free from the sensual spell and came to myself at the realization that Gabriel’s stare had become narrowed and fixed, his breathing ragged; he seemed about to lose control.

“On the night my mother died,” I whispered suddenly, “you were watching the house. Why, Gabriel? And why did you follow?”

The question caught him off guard, so much so that he blurted out an answer without thinking.

“I’ve always been watching you, Marisol. I’ve always hoped…”

The slurred words made me shudder, but they broke his trance. He became suddenly embarrassed by his confession and his nakedness and turned away, revealing dark stripes upon his otherwise white shoulders. In an instant, he disappeared back down the dark passageway. I waited a moment to make sure he was gone before stealing down the corridor to see what lay at the other end.

It led directly to his bedchamber. He’d left the door slightly ajar so that I could see one corner of his room, but not him. I didn’t press my luck, but stopped well before the threshold to linger, listening, in the dark passageway.

His breath came harshly enough to hear; I started as he let go a sharp whimper. The sound almost made me turn away in disgust, until I heard the whistling of a many-tailed whip, followed by Gabriel’s cry of genuine pain.

A moment of silence was followed by a prayer uttered so rapidly, it seemed all one word:
“Lordhavemercyuponme, a poormiserablesinner! Christhavemercyuponme…”

As the lash sung again, I tiptoed back down the passageway. The door could only be bolted from Gabriel’s side, but I shut it as tightly as I could and dragged a chair over to block it.

By then, Máriam was awake and standing by the hearth. She asked no questions, and I volunteered no answers, but crawled back into bed and pulled the covers over my head.

*   *   *

New Year’s Day passed uneventfully; I never saw Gabriel, who slept late. I went to Mass with Máriam at San Francisco and took my supper in my room. Several times that day I looked out the window at my family home, hoping to catch a glimpse of my father: As furious and hurt as I was, I still worried about him. On the previous New Year’s, his house had been filled with guests and song, but now it was dark and silent.

On the second of January, 1481, I awoke the hour before dawn to see Máriam sitting straight up in her cot. She slept between me and the hearth, and the glow of the dying fire behind her kept her features in shadow but provided a crisp silhouette, right down to the few downy, riotous hairs at her temple that had escaped her braids. Her body was motionless but tensed with dread, as if a great spider were crawling on her arm and she dared not move lest it bite her.

I sat up, too. “What is it?” I hissed.

Her face, invisible in the shadow, turned toward me. “Don’t you hear it?”

Even before she finished the question, I heard the progressively nearing drum of hoofbeats and the rumble of wooden wheels. Over this came the occasional drone of men’s voices.

“It’s an army,” she said. With that, she flung aside the covers, found her neatly folded clothes, and began to dress rapidly. When she had wound her scarf around her head, she looked over at me, still sitting in the bed.

“Up,” she said. “Let’s get you dressed.”

I was too exhausted to share her urgency—until I went to the window, pulled back the drape, and wiped the condensation from the cold pane.

In the street below, the men-at-arms who had once guarded my father were standing out in front of the Hojedas’ protective walls—but now there were more than twice as many, some armed with long sharp pikes, others with swords. Another dozen stragglers, pikes in hand, were still hurrying down the street toward the house, while three mounted men, their horses pawing the cobblestones nervously, shouted commands at them.

The sight made me catch my breath and step out onto the balcony, forgetting I wore only my nightgown. To the south—my left—at the intersection of our cul-de-sac with San Pablo Street, eight soldiers sat on horseback, two of them bearing torches whose light revealed red-and-white caparisons beneath their saddles.

One of the men down below hooted in amusement at the sight of me in my nightgown. I retreated back into the room.

“There
is
an army,” I said. “They’re wearing the royal Castilian colors. And my father’s guards are surrounding this house. I’m going to ask Gabriel what’s going on.”

“Ah, no!” Máriam called after me, grimacing. “Not
him
!”

It was too late; I was out the door and almost collided with young Blanca in the loggia. She was dressed and smiling, unfazed by the soldiers and weapons outside our walls.

“Good morning, doña Marisol,” she said cheerfully, with an awkward curtsy. “Don Gabriel sent me to tell you to stay inside today. He’s going downtown.”

“Did he say why? What are all the soldiers doing outside?”

“I believe it has to do with the Inquisition. They’re making an announcement in the public square,” Blanca replied.

Half an hour later, I watched from my window as Gabriel rode off in his carriage, surrounded by an escort of several mounted men-at-arms. I tried to obey his command to stay inside, but my curiosity was too great. And the tolling of the bell meant that tens of thousands would hurry to the square; my chance of being detected in such a huge crowd was slim. For my father’s sake, and my own, I wanted to hear what the Inquisition had to tell us—and I didn’t trust Gabriel to tell me the whole truth when he was clearly holding back some of the reasons he’d married me.

Lauro, it turned out, was easily bribed into harnessing horses to a wagon for us. Both Máriam and I covered ourselves in black shawls, hiding our faces; fortunately, she knew how to drive, and together we set out for the square.

At the bell’s summons, hundreds were swarming out of houses, churches, and shops into the street. The constant stream of pedestrians caused other carriages and wagons on the broad avenue to slow; before long, our way was blocked by a stalled mass of bodies and vehicles with cursing drivers, and our wheels creaked to a stop.

A good quarter hour passed before our carriage lurched and began to move again. At last we made it to the intersection of San Pablo Street and the broad thoroughfare leading to the great Plaza de San Francisco. With each creak of the carriage wheel, my dread increased, but I forced away all thoughts of the Inquisition and looked out at the city.

The day was cloudless, and the low risen sun was already casting off the chill and gilding the buildings, including the variegated clay brick walls and the tall crenellated watchtowers surrounding the Franciscans’ compound, larger than a city block and almost as sprawling as the magnificent royal residence, the Real Alcázar, which lay farther southeast. By the time we finally rolled into the monstrous brick plaza in front of the western entrance to the compound, at least ten thousand citizens had already gathered.

We navigated past monochrome flocks of Benedictine friars all in black, Carthusians in all white, Franciscans in gray or brown, and townsfolk in the full spectrum of color. Eventually we made our way close enough so that, standing on the wagon bed, we could see the front platform pressed against the compound wall, where public announcements were made. That day, a black-and-white Dominican banner—a fleur-de-lis cross above the motto
Laudare, Benedicere, Praedicare
(“Praise, Bless, Preach”)
—
hung behind the dais.

City soldiers with pikes ringed the platform two men deep in a large half circle, within whose guarded perimeter stood scores of black-clad priests and of Dominican friars sporting the white habits, black capes, and broad-brimmed black hats of their order. Their gazes kept returning to a spot near the base of the platform, where two other monks and an elderly judge stood talking.

After another quarter hour, the bell finally stopped tolling. A hush fell over the great plaza as several armed local police, swords unsheathed, mounted the stairs leading up to the platform. Behind them, two Dominican friars ascended. The first was a short, slight, elderly man wearing an engaging smile; his partner was a full head taller and too well fed. The smaller of the two set a large sheaf of papers down on the podium and gripped its wooden edges with the confidence of a practiced orator as he surveyed his audience. The taller friar, his clasped hands hidden from the chill by his long sleeves, waited motionless behind the speaker.

The podium faced east, so that the speaker squinted almost directly into the rays of the rising sun; he shaded his eyes with one hand and with the other gestured at the glare and quipped over his shoulder to his partner: “The light of God.”

He chuckled and the other monk laughed politely.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,”
the speaker intoned. Despite his small size, his ringing tenor filled the air. His manner was relaxed, even jovial, as if half the crowd listening to him were not
conversos
waiting to react angrily.

“Good morning,” he said pleasantly. “My name is Fray Miguel de Morillo; I am the vicar of the Dominican Order in Spain. I address you today at the behest of the monarchs, Her Royal Majesty Queen Isabel of Castile and León and His Royal Majesty King Fernando of Aragón. May God keep and bless them both. I will read to you first a letter from the monarchs appointing myself and my good brother in the faith here, Fray Juan de San Martín, prior of the Dominican monastery in Burgos”—he acknowledged the taller man with a quick smile—“as Inquisitors for the Holy Office in Castile. This letter will be posted on the plaza wall for those who are able to read it for themselves. I will also read a papal bull from His Most Blessed Holy Father, Pope Sixtus, as well as two edicts—one from the Inquisition and one from our royal monarchs. Afterward, the town magistrate, The Most Honorable Judge Diego de Merlo, will read a third edict dealing with civil matters.”

Fray Morillo checked to be certain the papers before him were in order and reached into his cloak to retrieve a pair of spectacles; the light glinted dazzlingly off the lenses as he put them on his face. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, it was with a stern authority that negated his earlier display of goodwill.

“From the hand of the Monarchs,” he said, glancing down at the pages on the podium, “Her Most Esteemed Royal Majesty Queen Isabel and His Most Exalted Majesty King Fernando, published this second day of January in the year of Our Lord Fourteen Hundred and Eighty-one. To the people of Castile and the city of Seville in particular.

“In order to stamp out the heresy that has been growing unchecked in Castile and León, and most noticeably in Seville, we, the Monarchs, being zealous for the faith, do hereby appoint the venerable fathers Fray Miguel de Morillo, Vicar of the Dominican Order in Spain, and Fray Juan de San Martín, Prior of the Dominican Cloister of San Pablo in the town of Burgos, as Inquisitors. We commend to them the task of combating a peculiar heresy promulgated by certain persons who are Christian in name and outward appearance only, but who, after being baptized of their own volition, chose to turn away from the true faith and cling to the Jewish superstition and its rituals.

“We have instructed the venerable fathers to proceed with an Inquisition against these infidels, and have full faith that Fray Miguel and Fray Juan will carry out their duties diligently until the heresy is banished.

“However”—Fray Morillo’s tone went dark—“should these men fail in their duty, we Monarchs have obtained permission from His Holiness Pope Sixtus to dismiss them and appoint others in their stead.”

At this, a rumble traveled through the crowd, from the front of the plaza to the back. Near us, an Old Christian peasant cried out: “Fuck you,
marrano
swine; your days are numbered!”

From a safe distance, another voice called back: “Fuck you, Dominican liars! May God send you straight to hell, where you belong!”

Stray shouts followed; the guards surrounding the dais lifted their pikes, ready to fend off attackers in case of a riot. In front of them, battalions of city soldiers had stationed themselves in case the crowd became unruly.

Fray Morillo miraculously raised his voice above the noise.

“Please!” he exhorted. “Anyone here today who raises his hand in violence against anyone else for any cause will be struck down by Christ Himself! Did not Jesus say, ‘Pray for your enemies, and bless those who persecute you’?”

What Fray Morillo did not address was the terror that had been born in the heart of every
converso
listening; no ruler in Christendom had ever been given the right to direct an Inquisition. That power had always rested in the hands of the pope, because of the obvious danger that a king might be swayed more by domestic politics than church law.

Fray Morillo finished reading the letter, which ended in a prayer that God would keep the Inquisitors of Spain steadfast and guide them in their holy task. Afterward, he set the letter at the bottom of his sheaf of papers and began to read a papal bull—one that had been signed by Pope Sixtus more than two years earlier.

The bull was in Latin. I knew enough Latin to follow the gist: In recognition of the Spanish monarchs’ sincere devotion to the faith, Pope Sixtus had granted Isabel and Fernando the power to appoint Inquisitors to quash the “Judaic deviation” that had infected Seville and other areas of Spain. Again, he reiterated that Seville was filled with so-called Christian converts who remained “practitioners of Hebrew traditions” and “emulators of Jewish ritual.”

Until that moment, the bull had been only a rumor and easily dismissed. The pope had always been our ally, as church law had specified for more than a millennium that every Christian—recent convert or not—was the same in the eyes of God. My father hadn’t taken fright when the Inquisition first arrived in Seville, because any Inquisitor was bound to report directly to His Holiness in Rome, who was obliged to uphold canon law to the letter. Sixtus had shown himself to be highly tolerant of Jews and befuddled by the distinction made in Spain between Old Christian and New. And we had counted on the pope’s support.