The Inquisitor's Wife (22 page)

Out in the corridor, Blanca let go an ear-shattering squeal. “The
queen
? Queen Isabel?” She peppered us with questions: How did Isabel look? What did she say? What was she wearing? Did she have a gold crown, or, as the simple and pious rumored, a halo like the Madonna? Was she as saintly as everyone said? Who was with her?

Blanca leaned forward in the doorway, watching as Máriam pulled out a long strand of my loose hair, holding it at the ends in order to gently brush the tangles out. Reflected in the mirror above Máriam’s shoulder, Blanca’s pale face was flushed, her features animated with excitement. For some reason, the sight made me break from sheer strain: Pampered and primped, my hair black tentacles in Máriam’s fingers, I dissolved into wracking sobs, unsure precisely which emotion—heartbreak, rage, grief, anxiety—had pushed me over the edge.

I remember Blanca’s eyes in the mirror, round and blue and thoroughly puzzled, as she recoiled quietly back into the hall. I was far from the joyful creature she expected, and she disappeared as I dropped my chin and let my tears drip onto the breast of my fine silk chemise.

Even then, Máriam was undeterred in her preparations. Once my damp emotional storm quieted, she put a cloth soaked in cold water on my face and made me lie quietly for several minutes. In the end, I saw myself transformed from a red-eyed, hiccuping girl into the same sort of gorgeous dark-haired, velvet-clad creature my mother had become the night of her death.

*   *   *

Gabriel was late coming home that evening. Half an hour after he was due, wheels rumbled against the cobblestones outside my bedroom window. I parted the curtains with my fingers and peered down at the black coach riding in through the gate. At first I worried that Isabel’s carriage had arrived early for me, but before it passed out of sight, I glimpsed the crest painted on the door: the black-and-white fleur-de-lis formed into a cross above the motto
Laudare, Benedicere, Praedicare.
Dressed in the dark blue velvet gown with seed pearls lining the stiff matching cap and a few pearls woven into my uncovered braid, I stepped from my bedroom through the antechamber and peered from the covered loggia across the courtyard. Fray Hojeda—a great, thick blur of white topped by a black cape—hurried along the covered loggia from the driveway to the dining hall at a rate of speed admirable for his size. Even at that distance, the slam of the heavy dining-room door betrayed his mood. Gabriel wasn’t with him.

I let Máriam put a matching blue cloak around my shoulders—it wasn’t particularly cold, but the sky was overcast and a few halfhearted raindrops splattered against the dust—and hurried off across the desolate courtyard to the halls. I left Fray Hojeda undisturbed in the dining chamber, choosing to linger in a nearby sitting room with the door open so that I could watch my husband pass by when he returned home. The sitting room was off the kitchen; with the door pulled one-quarter ajar, I was hidden in shadows, able to see only the dining-hall entrance and hear those inside. I listened as Fray Hojeda called impatiently for wine; Lauro’s lumbering steps in the kitchen followed, along with the tinkling of glass and liquid, and finally his shuffling progress into the dining hall.

“When will Gabriel be home?” Fray Hojeda demanded, and Lauro gave an inaudible reply. This was followed by Hojeda’s insistence that Gabriel come immediately to the dining chamber upon his return and not stop to wash his face and hands for supper.

Lauro shuffled back to the kitchen.

By then the sun was beginning to set, taking the heat with it. My tiny sitting room lacked a fireplace, and I jiggled my legs to keep them warm, unwilling to close the door and block my ability to hear what transpired between the brothers. A quarter hour later, a second carriage rumbled onto the brick driveway. Soon Gabriel emerged onto the covered loggia, his head down, his mood dark and distracted. He would have turned toward the courtyard to head for his chambers first, but Lauro came out of the back kitchen entrance to intercept him.

Lauro stood a dozen strides away with his back to me. His stooped spine made him the shorter, allowing me full view of my husband’s pallid, scowling face set atop a gladiator’s too-thick neck and shoulders. Lauro’s words caused Gabriel’s scowl to deepen; he let go a hiss of frustration before turning and entering the dining hall.

Within an instant of Gabriel disappearing behind the door, Fray Hojeda began to speak earnestly, in a low, steady tone.

Not another sound came from Gabriel, however, until he rang for Lauro a few minutes later and asked him to summon me. Rather than wait for Lauro, I hurried to the dining-hall door and knocked timidly before entering and bowing to my husband and his brother.

Gabriel was standing staring into the fire, still in his cloak. Hojeda stood an arm’s length away facing his brother’s shoulder. At the sound of my approach, Gabriel turned; when he saw me, he let go a soft gasp. I was beautiful and knew it. I lifted my skirts and twirled slowly around so that he could enjoy Máriam’s handiwork, thinking of how my mother had so often done the same for my appreciative father.

I smiled at my husband and greeted him cheerfully.

Carnal appreciation glimmered in Gabriel’s eyes. “You look lovely, Marisol.”

As the friar turned toward me, Gabriel went to the long dining table and sat down. Hojeda pulled a chair from the table across from Gabriel and gestured for me to sit as well. I did, and forced myself not to flinch or recoil as the friar put a hand on the back of my chair and lowered his round, massive head to the level of mine.

“You do look quite nice my dear,” Hojeda said, but there was little sincerity in his tone; it galled him to treat me kindly. His breath smelled of raw garlic and the sour wine resting in his goblet on the mantel. “It’s modest enough to suit the queen. But have you decided yet on what you’ll perform for her?”

I nodded and explained that Antonio and I had taken advantage of our lesson period to rehearse what we would sing at court. I even mentioned the songs.

Hojeda listened carefully and gave a grudging nod. “You must understand,” he said, “you’ll be going alone. Not even a chaperone from your household.” Squeezing the wooden edge of my chair, his fingers twitched at the notion.

I understood, all right. Fray Hojeda, who was most responsible for convincing Queen Isabel of the need for an Inquisition in Seville, wasn’t invited to court tonight, even though his
conversa
sister-in-law was. His clouded gray-green eyes, the whites yellowed from years of excess, were narrowed with frustration at not being able to control my every move in front of the queen.

“That’s why it’s important that you remember everything,” Hojeda said. It took all of my resolve not to turn away from his sour breath. “This Fray Tomás, this Torquemada…” He spat out the name, then forced his tone to become more pleasant, though his words were anything but. “He’s an interloper, trying to steal power that doesn’t belong to him. He was abbot of the Dominican monastery in Segovia, and quite by luck became the queen’s confessor. He had nothing to do with the Inquisition—but now he’s trying to steal everything, to become Grand Inquisitor, by manipulating Her Majesty’s sincerity for the faith. Do you understand?”

I nodded; I knew raw jealousy when I saw it.

“For Isabel’s sake, for the sake of Holy Mother Church,” Hojeda said, “Torquemada must be stopped.” He smiled unconvincingly at me. “But you can help us all, Marisol. Tonight, when you go to court, watch all the interactions between Queen Isabel and Torquemada that you can. Listen when you can and report back to me. If possible, you can put in a good word for me as your brother-in-law.” He stressed the last three words. “After all, who understands Seville’s problems better than I do? I called for an Inquisition before anyone else!” He paused to scrutinize me a long moment.

“You’ll be playing with Antonio, of course,” Hojeda added finally. “And it was clear today that he and Torquemada are well acquainted. Anything you can learn about that relationship would be very helpful.” He paused. “Regardless of what happens tonight, remember that we protect and support you; remember that you are Gabriel’s wife.”

The friar’s great round face was still only inches from mine. I looked down at the dining table’s dark, pitted surface, caught in an arc of candlelight. “I’ll do my best,” I answered softly, although I had no intention of speaking to Antonio if I could avoid it.

Hojeda sensed my reluctance; he crooked his fat forefinger and used the knuckle to lift my chin so that I was forced to look into his murky eyes.

“Yes, you will, Marisol,” he said, his smile hardening. “And you’ll be sure that the queen comes to love us. Because”—he shoved his face closer until our noses were a mere finger’s span apart—“your father is still under investigation by the Inquisition, and I know you’ll do whatever’s necessary to spare him imprisonment and torture.”

Eleven

Two hours later, with an opal moon shining full in the night sky, the royal carriage arrived—ordered, as the queen had requested, by Hojeda himself. The coat of arms of Castile and León—the golden castle against a red background, the crimson lion against white—was painted on the carriage’s lacquered black doors. As Lauro caught my elbow to help me climb inside, I saw my chaperone sitting inside on new leather cushions.

In the light of the carriage’s lamps, I could see that she was matronly, her flesh hanging slack at the jawline, the swell of her ample belly visible beneath her bodice. Her hair, medium ash blond divided into two braids coiled over her ears, was more than half white, draped by a pale mauve veil held in place by large silver combs. Had she not been so old, one might have thought she was pregnant instead of overfed. Yet traces of faded beauty were still visible in her now-jowly face, in the upward slanting pale eyes hidden in folds of flesh, in the freshly pinched lips that smiled coolly at me. Her gown was far more magnificent than the simple black silk the queen had worn. It was made of gray brocade, its raised pattern of twining vines and leaves shot through with a glittery mauve sheen that flashed deep purple when the torchlight caught it right. Blue-gray velvet lined the edges of the full bell sleeves with the gossamer “butterfly wings,” and the low, square collar of the bodice, which revealed pale aged breasts lifted as high and pushed together as hard as possible beneath her chin. The sight shocked me. I would have expected such immodesty of the French or Italians, but not from anyone at the pious Isabel’s court.

“I am the Marquesa of Valladolid, but you may call me doña Berta,” she said, her full cheeks dimpling. Her tone was so oiled and languidly aristocratic that at first I thought she was making fun of herself, and I let go a short, nervous laugh, only to realize in the next instant that her posh accent was no joke. She patted the cushion beside her with a hand that was impossibly white, small, and weighed down by jewels. “Come sit next to me, dear.”

I slid in and settled beside her, fighting not to cough at her overpowering perfume, a mix of rose, jasmine, and sweet orange blossom. I felt suddenly uncertain as to whether a marquesa merited a curtsy and whether I should attempt one now that I was already in the carriage. My decision was made as our vehicle took off and we were thrown back against the cushions.

“I’ll be your chaperone tonight,” doña Berta said in her unctuous Castilian accent, and she launched into a summary of royal protocol, most of which Antonio had explained earlier. I was to stand when the queen entered the room, to curtsy, to speak only if spoken to, to address her as “Your Royal Majesty.” I was never to touch her person. I was to keep my gaze downcast in her presence.

I listened to it all—including instructions as to what I should do with myself when the queen had had enough of my singing—as we rode through town, headed away from San Pablo Street, past the Franciscan complex and the town square, toward the southeast corner of the city where the Real Alcázar, the Royal Palace, lay. The streets were empty after nightfall, save for one or two carriages of the wealthy and a few drunken soldiers singing on their way back from the brothels and taverns near the river docks.

As we made our way toward the richest neighborhood in Seville, the crowd of now-closed shops, hovels, and modest houses lining the streets thinned, giving way to orchards, private gardens, and the occasional well-lit mansion owned by nobles or wealthy clerics. Soon we passed by the cathedral—the largest in the world, built atop a ruined mosque, its fortresslike walls thick, unrevealing save for a few high square windows that flickered with faint internal light. Flanking its eastern side stood the Giralda, the tall, ethereal minaret that now served as a bell tower.

By then, I could make out the tall, thick walls enclosing the back of the sprawling palace grounds, over which rose slender ancient palms, black against the indigo sky and swaying with the slightest breeze. The wheels of our carriage rumbled off the uneven cobblestones, growing muted as they met the polished flagstone surrounding the Alcázar. We soon made it to the palace’s eastern side, lit by sconced torches and guarded by soldiers in bright new armor, standing at attention beneath freshly unfurled banners of Castile and León, red and gold and white.

A turn west, and we arrived at the front gate—a broad archway situated between two towers. The wall joining the towers was painted the eye-popping red of my mother’s geraniums. Just above the arch itself was a crowned golden lion with a serpent’s forked tongue, the Lion King. It held up a Christian cross in its forepaw, a reminder that the monarchs of Spain were ordained by God to fight the infidel. No matter that the bricks beneath the paint had been laid three centuries earlier by Muslim hands, just as Muslim hands had planted the slender palm trees, now taller than the towers.

Beneath it, a score of carriages waited in line as the guards ascertained who was in each one.

I stared in awe. I’d seen the front of the Alcázar only twice before in my life—once when I was so small, my mother held me up in her arms so that I could see my father, along with other Seville notables, bow to King Enrique on a podium as he confirmed their appointments as city councillors. The second time, a few years ago, I’d stood cheering beside both parents to watch as litters carried Queen Isabel and King Fernando toward the Lion’s Gate.