The Inquisitor's Wife (18 page)

Now it had just been withdrawn from us.

To all accounts, Isabel was not only extremely intelligent but a devout, compassionate ruler. It was said that she and her husband loved each other dearly. True, she was not saying all
conversos
were guilty of Judaistic heresy—but by allowing secret denunciations, she had taken away our strongest legal protection.

Morillo began to summarize the text in Castilian, which brought fresh reaction from those who had not understood the Latin.

“There is much more,” he said sternly, to quiet the Old Christians’ jubilation, as he retired the bull to the bottom of the stack of papers on the podium. “Hear now, city of Seville, the edict concerning those suspects who fled the Holy Office of the Inquisition and those who harbor them.”

Frowning at the sun’s glare, he began again to read: By order of the Spanish monarchs, the crypto-Jewish sympathizers the Duke of Medina Sidonia and the Marquis of Cádiz, rulers of Andalusian territories to our south—both of whom had provided refuge to “scores of thousands of heretics fleeing the Inquisition in Seville”—were hereby commanded to immediately eject these refugees from their lands and use all means to assist the Crown in returning them to the city. These
conversos
had confessed their guilt by leaving and were therefore subject to arrest and trial.

Should either the duke or the marquis fail to assist the Inquisition in this regard, they would themselves be subject to arrest, immediate excommunication, and seizure of their domains.

Old Christians greeted the announcement with cheers; this time, the
converso
faction was too stunned to respond. Never before had the queen threatened a noble in this way, nor had any large group of
conversos
been publicly denounced as heretics.

“Next,” Fray Morillo announced, straightening his round spectacles as he studied his audience, “let me speak of the Edict of Grace. Along with God’s judgment comes grace. In that spirit, we extend an invitation for the next thirty days: Those who come to us admitting freely that they have been guilty of such heresy are guaranteed that they will not face excommunication and execution for their crimes, but will be forgiven and, after a period of repentance, accepted back into the church.

“Those who confess their deviation from the faith must be prepared to testify against all other heretics of whom they are aware, as proof of their genuine repentance. Also, we exhort all true Christians who have any reason to suspect others of practicing Judaic rituals in secret to denounce them. Do not shirk this duty, as it is better to denounce your neighbor than to let him practice his heresy in secret and lose his soul to the Devil.

“But we also recognize that the threat of retribution might deter you from reporting what you have seen to the Inquisitors. The Holy Office has therefore decided to guarantee all witnesses complete and total anonymity. You will not be required to testify in person against the accused, nor will your name ever be made public. You are free to speak the truth without fear.”

Uneasy murmurs rippled through the crowd. Before now, the accused always had the right to confront his accuser face-to-face. It was simple common sense, intended to discourage a man’s enemies from lying against him. Suddenly this protection was gone, and there was nothing to stop bigots from accusing every
converso
they knew of crypto-Judaism.

“With that,” Fray Morillo said, turning his head and nodding to the old magistrate who had made his way up the stairs and now waited, parchment in hand, for his turn to speak, “I shall say God bless you and keep you, and make His light to shine upon you in these difficult times. These documents shall be published upon the plaza walls for all those who wish to read them for themselves. I now welcome Judge Diego de Merlo, who has an announcement.”

He made the sign of the cross over the assembly, gathered up his papers, and with his fellow Inquisitor, hurried off the platform and down the stairs to disappear into a Dominican sea of black and white.

Judge Merlo was white-haired and gaunt, a man whose age had conferred on him a dulled awareness of his surroundings and a complete lack of self-consciousness. For a moment he stared blankly out at the massive crowd and then he started and squinted at the parchment, as if surprised to see it in his hand, and began to read without preamble. His voice was wavering and much weaker than Fray Morillo’s.

“By order of the Monarchs Queen Isabel of Castile and León and King Fernando of Aragón
,
” he said without emotion, “all Jews remaining in the city of Seville and her surrounding territories are expelled until further notice, so that their wicked influence over those Christians weak in the faith is removed and the Inquisition may do its work without impediment. They must be gone no later than three days hence, and may take with them neither silver nor gold, but only such items as are required to keep body and soul together.

“Nor are they to sell their properties. They are to leave them in the capable hands of the Inquisition’s receivers, who will make an accurate record of such property and protect it until such time as the Monarchs give the owners leave to return.”

He let go a phlegm-filled cough, and after several seconds of sniffling, added, “Her Majesty says to the Jews: ‘I give you my protection as you leave. No one is to harm or obstruct you, or they shall answer to my wrath. The evacuation is to be peaceful and orderly.’” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “This is the edict of the Monarchs. It will be upheld by the police, the local militia, and Her Majesty’s army, and will be posted on the plaza wall shortly.”

He rolled up the parchment and shuffled away from the podium without a word of farewell. The square filled with noise as thousands of onlookers began to speak impassionedly to each other; at the same time, the Dominicans at the foot of the platform, including their head, Fray Morillo, headed swiftly inside the heavily guarded watchtowers of the Franciscan complex. Gabriel was no doubt among them. As they hurried to safety, Máriam and I retook our seats in the wagon and began—at a frustratingly slow pace, given the crowd—to make our way out of the plaza.

We were in motion when I spotted Antonio. He was in the group of Dominicans leaving the area in front of the podium and had turned to look at the crowd behind him. Something had prompted him to remove his broad-brimmed black hat, similar to those of the monks, but he wore a layperson’s garb; the morning sun made his bright hair incandescent.

I had convinced myself by then that I had seen him the night of my wedding only because I had wanted to see him so badly—just as I had “seen” my dead mother for the past fortnight in the faces of passersby who matched her height and build enough to make my heart skip a beat. But the sight of him today brought me no joy: All of his natural cheerfulness was gone, and the face that looked past the scores of milling bodies separating us was paler and sadder than I remembered. His lips had parted in surprise on seeing me, but they soon closed, and he turned away without any gesture of acknowledgment.

Shaking, I put my head into my hands. Every person with power over my life was infected by the madness that had overtaken the Dominican Order. And my dearest friend, whom I had loved my entire life, had now joined the Inquisitors against me.

Nine

When I returned home that day, I was desperate to see my father—so much so that I slipped from the Hojeda house and crossed the street. I entered the gate and, for the first time, knocked on my father’s door as if I were a stranger.

My father’s valet answered the door. Don Diego hadn’t responded to the city bell but had remained home. I waited on the threshold while the valet went back to fetch my father and was mortified when the valet returned to say that don Diego was indisposed and could not see me.

I told the valet about the Edict of Grace, the Jews’ supposedly temporary expulsion from the city, and the pope’s surrender of his power over the Inquisition to Isabel and her husband. I explained my concern over the Inquisition’s willingness to accept secret denunciations, and I urged the valet to explain all of this to my father and tell him that I wanted badly to see him.

Crushed again by rejection, I went home, but not without pausing to stare at the Vargases’ house. Antonio had probably been sleeping there for some time without my being aware.

I kept myself up most of the night wondering why Antonio had never contacted me, even after arriving back in Seville. He had been watching silently in the Chapel of the Fifth Anguish as I was married off to Gabriel, and he hadn’t uttered a sound. The thought gnawed at me until I rose from bed, careful not to wake Máriam, who slept as soundlessly as the dead.

I stepped over to the window and drew the curtain aside. Across the street, my father’s house stood next to Antonio’s, the windows of both dwellings dark and unrevealing.

I pressed a palm to the cool glass—hard, as if by doing so I could somehow break through the barriers that separated me from the two men I loved most—and let go silent tears. Physically, I was only steps from either, but I might as well have been a sea apart.

*   *   *

I was grateful that, for the next two days, Gabriel’s work preoccupied him; he left early before breakfast and didn’t return home until dark. We shared only one conversation at a late supper when he was clearly exhausted. Yet he was in good spirits, and after the meal, he asked me to sing for him, whatever I liked.

I was a bit taken aback. “How do you know I sing, don Gabriel?”

He dropped his gaze shyly, smiling. “You and your mother sang often out on the balcony. You have a very beautiful voice, Marisol.”

I drew in a breath and began to sing an old ditty my mother had taught me, one that gave humorous advice to newlyweds. I sang only one verse, then paused because the second mentioned the marriage bed, a subject I preferred to avoid.

Fortunately, Gabriel interrupted. “Do you play an instrument, Marisol?”

I shook my head.

My answer made him smile. “Oh, but a woman must learn an instrument! Then you can play for me when you sing.” His grin broadened. “You must learn to play the lute!”

“If you wish,” I answered automatically. I averted my gaze, as the question made me think of Antonio’s serenade.

“Then you will,” Gabriel vowed. There was an odd smirking playfulness in his tone and smile that I’d never seen before, but I thought no more about it.

*   *   *

Before the sun rose the next morning, Gabriel left for work, his carriage surrounded by mounted guards; he left word with Blanca that I was not to leave the house under any circumstances. By then, I’d been up for hours, unable to forget what day it was.

Máriam and I said not a word to each other but dressed in silence, grim and distracted. The morning was warm for January, and when the sun first peeped over the horizon, I threw a light shawl over my shoulders and went downstairs. Máriam went with me, and together we paced rapidly through the scraggly courtyard with its mildew-stained fountain capped by the statue of Santiago, patron of the Catholic monarchs, impaling a Moor on his sword. The sky lightened quickly; it was blue and cloudless, and the sun was strong.

We’d been striding aimlessly for almost an hour when we heard a shout coming from the cul-de-sac outside the house, from one of the guards keeping watch.

“They’re coming! They’re coming!”

Máriam and I shared a swift look and stole out the front gate. By then, the men-at-arms guarding the Hojeda house were all headed for the corner, where our little street intersected San Pablo’s broad thoroughfare. I followed them, but not without staring at my father’s house, where a coil of smoke coming from the kitchen chimney revealed the cook was already at work. Smoke rose from two of the chimneys at Antonio’s house; the sight brought fresh pain.

We were not the only two hurrying to the intersection. The hunchbacked Lauro lumbered behind us, and Rosalina, my father’s stout, square-jawed chambermaid, hurried out of Diego’s house. A half dozen servants and I joined the men-at-arms, who stood with swords sheathed at their hips, their heads turned eastward toward the heart of the city. A cool brackish breeze came off the river, lifting dust from the cobblestones.

Despite the guard’s calls, the eastern half of San Pablo Street was eerily empty on a weekday, but the rumble of wheels and clatter of horse’s hooves filled the air; the stones beneath my slippers began to vibrate.

The soldiers, five abreast on fine horses, led the procession. They wore breastplates that glinted blindingly in the sun, and helmets with fine red plumes; each bore Isabel’s shield of the red lion against a white background—for the legend of the Lion King, and León—alternating with the image of a yellow turret against a red background, the symbol of Castile. These were the queen’s troops, and their horses rode side by side in perfect alignment.

As they neared, I could see an apparently endless parade of open wagons behind them. A young rabbi in black, the red circle pinned to his breast, drove the first, his wife sitting beside him holding on to a squirming toddler. In the wagon bed behind them sat a pair of silent, frightened children amidst blankets, bedding, plain kitchenware, worn clothing, water and oil jars, and flour sacks, all bathed in bright sun. The wife’s face was lowered; she looked at no one but wept steadily onto the top of her impatient child’s head while her husband stared grimly ahead.

As the rabbi’s wagon rattled past us, the crippled Lauro shrieked, with such volume and ferocity that I started.

“Filthy Jews!” he screamed. “Child killers!”

“Go back to the Devil and never return!” one of the men-at-arms shouted. This caused a second guard to cup his hands around his mouth and call:

“Good riddance, Jewish scum!”

None of the Jews reacted at all, even though some of them walked alongside wagons that were too full to allow passengers. A youth my age—short and thin, his eyes wide with shock—marched past us on foot, flanking a wagon in whose center sat a very old hairless man, his skin gray from illness, his mouth open and drooling; I’d never seen eyes so frighteningly vacant.