The Inquisitor's Wife (37 page)

“Judge de Merlo is easily bribed. For a reasonable sum, your father could be rehabilitated by the church instead. It would spare him death at the stake.”

He trailed off, and we looked at each other for a long moment, my gaze penetrating, his, oddly self-conscious.

“Why are you telling me this?” I demanded. “Why would you suddenly tell me to go bribe Judge de Merlo after keeping my father’s arrest secret from me, after forcing my father to suffer what he did today?”

He blushed. “I am not suggesting you bribe the judge. Being who you are, he would spurn or even report you. But he has accepted ‘gifts’ from me in the past readily enough. Once de Merlo has publicly announced your father’s innocence, there is little my brother or Morillo could do to hurt your father.”

Incredulous, I stared at him. “You would do this for my father
now
?”

“For you, Marisol,” he said, with sudden heat. “Forgive me; my brother forced me to arrest your father. I did not want to, and I am sorry for it now. I truly care for you.”

I hid my revulsion. “And the price for my father’s life?”

He brightened; his pale eyes widened with hope.

“One encounter,” he whispered. “Only one. And we would keep it secret—both the bribe and the … encounter—from my brother. He would seek revenge on your father if he knew we’d broken our promise of chastity.”

His breathing quickened as he spoke. By the time he fell silent, he was trembling, but not with fear.

I maintained a neutral expression. “How certain are you of success?”

“Completely certain.” Gabriel didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch under my scrutiny.

“You swear upon your father’s soul?” I demanded.

“I swear upon my father’s soul,” he parroted, but it was not good enough for me.

“May his soul be damned to hell for eternity if you are lying,” I pressed.

Gabriel was expressionless. “May his soul be damned to hell for eternity if I am lying.”

He said it with such conviction that, for love of my father, I felt my self-respect slip all too easily from me, like silk from my shoulders.

“Come,” Gabriel said, holding out his large hand.

God forgive me, I took it—took it and let him lead me out of my quarters and down the loggia to his closed chamber door. He opened the latter onto gloomy quarters, more Spartan, if possible, than the rest of the crumbling estate. Black curtains were pulled shut over two different sets of windows, closing out the stars and moon, leaving the corners of the room swallowed by darkness.

An oil lamp—the only source of light—burned on a narrow ledge beside the surprisingly small straw bed, with no linens save a worn blanket. There was no night table, but instead, upon the wall, a hook from which hung a small multilashed whip. Above the hook and whip rested a large shelf, which held, in separate gabled shrines, fine ceramic statues that looked to have been painted by my mother. One was of the Virgin Mary exposing a crown of thorns encircling her heart, another a bold Santiago, perhaps one-third of the size of the one I’d painted, with his dark hair and his horse’s white mane stirred by an imaginary wind.

These—along with a small wardrobe—were all that stood in the room. There was no mirror, no chair, no table, not even a carpet on the cold stone floor. The hearth was unlit, adding to the chill and gloom.

The light glinted off the Virgin and Santiago as Gabriel took off his cloak, set it beside him on the bed, and sat down.

Thinking he had set the cloak down for me, I moved to sit down upon it.

“No,” Gabriel said. His voice quavered, but this time not from timidity. An arc of light from the lamp captured his face—lips parted, eyes wide and focused intently on me, just the way they had looked on me when I’d tried to stop him from beating the child Antonio.

“No, Marisol. Come stand here.”

Still sitting, he leaned forward and caught my arms gently but firmly and pulled me into the arc of yellow light.

“Take off your clothing.”

I tried not to shudder. “I can’t without help,” I said bluntly. “My bodice laces in back.”

Without reply, he got to his feet and guided me to stand sideways, then fumbled with the back laces until they were finally undone.

“Now,” he said, sitting back down on the edge of the bed, “undress yourself.”

I saw no choice but to obey, for my father’s sake, and I prayed for God and Antonio to forgive me.

My bodice hung loose, but I let the weight of my overdress hold it in place. First I slowly unlaced each heavy sleeve; when I let the first one slip to the floor, Gabriel gasped aloud at the sight of my bare arm.

“So beautiful,” he said. “So white.”

I doubted that my olive-colored arms, though long shielded from the sun, could ever be as pale as Gabriel’s skin and hair, now colored a garish yellow by the oil lamp.

Another sleeve hit the floor, and another gasp came from Gabriel. Soon I struggled to pull my black overdress over my head, then the unlaced kirtle, until I stood in front of him in my chemise, my arms and décolletage revealed. As it was winter, I wore not sheer white lawn but opaque ivory silk. The silk clung to the outline of my body—and since the room’s chill was pervasive, the tip of my breasts could clearly be seen.

Gabriel watched, still fully clothed in his black tunic and leggings; seated with a wide-legged stance on the edge of the bed, he lifted the tunic’s edge and began to run his hand over his swollen codpiece. As I slipped first one shoulder, then another, from my chemise, he fumbled madly with the codpiece laces and freed himself. I had never seen a man erect at such close distance and decided that Gabriel’s genitals must have been homelier than most: His penis was pinkish white, bent to the right, with a purplish foreskin gathered in tight folds beneath what appeared to be the cap of a rosy mushroom.

I wavered, holding the chemise over my breasts, bile rising in my throat.

“Drop it,” Gabriel commanded, his voice suddenly harsh. The strange light in his eyes was blazing now.

I let go of the slip; it fell with a sigh, and I stood perfectly naked before him.

He groaned again, this time louder. He was breathing hard, his mouth gaping, his brow furrowed in an intent scowl as he took in the sight of me. For a long moment, there was no sound save that of his labored breathing, and then he said:

“Come here.”

I took a step closer so that my legs were between his, pressed against the prickly straw of the bed. Entranced, he touched my breasts, cupping them clumsily at first, then pressed his palms flat against them, then examined the erect nipples with his fingers.

“You tremble,” he breathed.

I dared not open my mouth, lest I show my disgust. Gabriel was trembling, too, though not for the same reason as I.

“Touch it,” he whispered.

Forgive me,
I thought to everyone I loved, and reached for his genitals. The shaft of his penis was hard as oak.

He pulled me by the shoulders to him. “Sit,” he breathed into my ear, and tried to push me down. My shadow fell sharp over him, covering his face in darkness.

He pulled his knees together, and I half sat, clutching his penis between my thighs tightly, so that he almost, but could not quite, penetrate me; fooled, he thrust against my legs with bruising force, groaning with pleasure while I struggled to keep him from taking my virginity. Just when I thought I could hold him back no more, he roared the name of God. Hot liquid spurted on my legs as Gabriel bucked away from me, his eyes rolled back into his head.

I leapt off him quickly and used my chemise to wipe his seed from my thighs, then wadded up the chemise and slipped back into my kirtle and overdress as best I could, though the unlaced bodice hung loose.

Gabriel lay on his back upon his bed, gasping; when his breath slowed a bit and his eyes finally opened, I stood over him and said, “May your father’s soul be damned to hell for eternity if you are lying.”

With that, I hurried off to find Máriam and the basin.

Nineteen

I did not sleep that night. Gabriel’s brother had sent a coach for him hours before dawn, leaving the carriage for me and Máriam; my husband was insistent that I attend the auto-de-fé.

As Máriam dressed me, she begged: “Please, doña! It’s not necessary to force yourself to go through with this.”

I dismissed her. “This will be the only chance I have to set eyes on my father again.”

She pressed, clasping her hands as if praying to me. “Marisol, of all days, this is the safest one for you to escape. Do you see?”

“No, you don’t understand,” I countered sadly. “If there’s any hope—if there’s any chance my father might be spared—I
have
to know. Even if there’s not, I can’t desert him.

“Then I will go with you,” Máriam said. “But we should return before your husband and the guards do.” She looked about carefully, then peered through the chink in the wall that looked into Blanca’s bedroom. Satisfied, she said, “Antonio will have the Santiago and the wagon waiting for us. Today is the day we must leave everything behind. Are you ready?”

I nodded, reluctant.

*   *   *

The driver pulled us to the front of the crowd near the podium where Fray Morillo had first read the papal bull announcing the Inquisition, and Máriam and I climbed to the top of the carriage in order to get a better view.

After the encounter the night before with Gabriel, I had dared nurse some hope; now, as I watched the sun rise over the distant spires of the great cathedral, lightening the gray sky to rose and then blue, I grew more frightened. Those in the crowd were somber and spoke in hushed voices. Even those who earlier would have jeered at
conversos
and applauded their mistreatment held their tongues, silenced by the solemn atmosphere.

The procession from San Pablo Prison approached from a distance. The armed guards came first, cloaked in black, their long swords drawn to make the crowd give way. Behind them followed the civil magistrate, Judge de Merlo, and the civil prosecutors, including Gabriel and the mayor—a
converso
himself and friend of my father. This group was flanked by more guards. Then came the Dominicans: Fray Morillo and Fray Hojeda and a flock of black-caped monks in white habits.

Behind them came the prisoners—nine in all, including three females. They were shackled at the ankles, making their progress even more tedious combined with their invisible wounds. Each one’s broken body was covered by a garment known as the
sambenito.
For three of them, the loose tunic was bright yellow with red crosses and an appliqué of upside-down flames. The rest wore black
sambenitos
with regular flames and serpents, also red. All the accused wore the same pointed, conical hats and bore lighted candles; each was flanked by a guard, as if the prisoner had the strength to break free of the shackles and present a physical danger to the crowd.

My father was among those wearing black. Pain and despair showed in his hobbled movements, in the slump of his shoulders and cast-down face, just as they showed in every prisoner in the gruesome parade. Two guards supported him entirely, dragging his feet on the ground.

The magistrate and the Dominican Inquisitors took their places upon the platform, in a specially constructed box near a podium. Behind the podium, on a pedestal high enough to be seen by all in the crowd, stood a wooden cross the size of a man, painted bright green and draped with a black cloth.

The guards clustered around the platform’s base, facing the crowd and the prisoners, who were obliged to stand clutching their burning candles.

Most remarkable was the silence as the procession took place, such that the clanking of the shackles could be heard. As the last prisoner and last guard took their places, every eye in the crowd fell, expectant, on the podium.

Fray Hojeda, his step slow but his manner ebullient, if weary, lumbered to the podium, he so massive and tall that the structure looked undersized. He grasped its sides with his huge hands and beamed at the crowd.

“Fellow Christians,” he announced, his tone giddy with victory yet uncharacteristically weak, “this is a day of great rejoicing! For the Devil has been defeated, and those who have done his bidding will be purged from our flock. Thanks to our wise and pious monarchs, Her Majesty Queen Isabel and His Majesty King Fernando, the Holy Office of the Inquisition has ferreted out the heretics among us. Let all those who would betray the sacred tenets of our faith heed and take warning!”

And he grinned broadly, pausing to look out at his listeners to judge the effect of his words.

Immediately, a woman screamed with terror in the middle of his audience; her cries were instantly echoed by others nearby. A section of the crowd parted, leaving a widening circular gap. I stood up atop the carriage to get a better view and spied a child’s motionless body lying on the cobblestones at the circle’s center. A rumbling began and soon carried over to the place where I stood.

“Plague! It’s plague … from the Dominican monastery!”

“Here now,” Fray Hojeda ordered. “Silence! Get control of yourselves!” His voice cracked with the strain; he wiped his forehead wearily, and the sunlight caught his face, revealing its sheen of sweat.

The rumbling did not stop but grew louder and more hysterical until his voice was drowned out. Hojeda was forced to hold his tongue until the child—who appeared to be lifeless—was removed from the plaza by wagon. So great was the fear provoked by this incident that a third of those in attendance forced their way out of the square, causing a tide of bodies to swell out into the streets. Their flight caused wild disruption, impossible for Hojeda to contain. Máriam and I were forced to sit and hold tight to our carriage, which swayed as frantic pedestrians rushed past us.

After several minutes, the now-smaller crowd was silent once more, and Hojeda resumed his preaching, his mirth undimmed.