The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Well? Why did you not leave during the Expulsion?”

  “It is as I said. I am a sincere Christian. Why would I want to leave Castile?”

  Fray Alonso leans back, probing me with his eyes. “It is obvious you are not your sister. She was . . . soft, delicate, like the petal of a flower. While you are more like an almond.” He smiles as though pleased with his imagery. “Yes, you are like an almond, an unshelled almond. Perhaps next visit I will take you to the dungeon and let you see how we deal with the vain and the uncooperative. Perhaps next visit, we can begin peeling that shell.”

  Beatriz told me of her trip to the dungeon, where Fray Alonso took her just before her release so she could see what would happen “if she spread false rumors.” It was there that Fray Alonso told her any attack on him would be considered an attack on the Inquisition itself. And she described to me the woman she saw tied to a scaffold, her head lower than her body, her face covered with a cloth; then of the pitcher of water poured into her mouth, forcing the cloth into her throat and creating a sensation of drowning. But it was Doctor Hernando Diaz who told me long ago, after a young boy drowned in the Guadalquivir River, how sometimes the inquisitors try to extract a confession by making a person feel like he was drowning. Doctor Diaz ended by assuring me that before anyone could be tortured at the Holy House unanimous consent of the Inquisitorial Committee was required. It is only this knowledge that now keeps me from retching with fear.

  When I return home, Mama is as gray as the ashes in a brazier. And this time she does not enfold me in her arms, but pulls me, with trembling hand, to Papa’s study. And Papa does not sit behind his desk, but sits in a small cushioned chair. Two empty chairs surround his, and Mama points to one. I sit down while she closes the door. Then she takes her seat. Our chairs are so close we can talk in whispers, and surely that is the purpose, for plainly Mama and Papa do not wish to be overheard.

  Mama asks what happened at the Holy House, and when I tell her she seems distracted. I race through my story, and when finished, Papa is the first to speak. “It has been decided you must be sent away to safety.”

  I nod, for there is soundness in this. “I will pack and leave for the groves at once.” When Mama begins to cry, my heart jumps. “Where then? Where would you have me go?”

  “Fray Alonso will never stop.” Mama wipes her face with a handkerchief then covers my hand with hers. Blue worm-like veins bulge beneath her wrinkled skin. It is a large hand that has wiped tears, braided hair, and tended wounds. But it was not large enough to save Beatriz from Fray Alonso and the power of the Inquisition. Nor is it large enough to save me. “No, Fray Alonso will not rest until he gets what he wants. And he has the full power of the Inquisition to do it. Must I bury another daughter?”

  My heart beats like the wings of a tern as I think of where I will be sent. To my brothers in Hamburg? Or Kiev?

  “Señor Villarreal has learned Fray Alonso plans to arrest his son.” Papa wrings his hands. His head droops downward as though wishing to avoid my eyes. “Don Sebastian is in grave danger. Will two families be destroyed? Shall we be led like lambs to the slaughter and do nothing?” When he lifts his head, there are tears in his eyes. “I cannot allow it, Isabel. I cannot allow you to be shattered like your sister. Arrangements have been made. You will marry Don Sebastian, and the two of you will leave Spain.”

  Marry Don Sebastian? How can I marry him? It would be indecent to marry anyone before the full year of mourning Beatriz’s death was over. But Papa’s face is set, telling me he considers this tradition inconsequential in the face of our larger problems. “Is . . . there no other way, nothing else to be done?”

  Papa shakes his head, and Mama weeps softly into her hands.

  “Then, where will we go?”

  “You will go to the new Spanish settlement in the Indies, to La Navidad with Christopher Columbus. Señor Villarreal has learned from his son, Antonio, that though La Navidad is not large—since only thirty-nine men were left to build a fortress out of the wreckage of the Santa Maria—Columbus’s plans are much grander. It is said that the Admiral will pattern the Indies after the Spanish enterprises in the Canaries with large land grants going to influential families. There he will create trading houses to control all commerce between Spain and the Indies. And you and Don Sebastian, as Villarreals, will eventually have your share in it.

  “Even now, Columbus’s seventeen ships are nearly ready, and wait in the harbor at Cadiz. Everyday, volunteers are turned away, so eager are men of consequence and vision to go on this voyage. Señor Villarreal and I have paid a small fortune to secure both your passage and Sebastian’s. And you will be well protected. Antonio assures his father that hundreds of soldiers will accompany the ships, hidalgos among them, and at least twenty Lanzas from Granada. And it will not be as uncivilized as you might imagine. At least two physicians will go, as well as carpenters, potters, stonemasons, blacksmiths, and others necessary to build a fine settlement.”

  “But it is still Spanish territory, Papa.”

  “Yes, but with a vast Ocean Sea to separate it from the Inquisition, a vast Ocean Sea to separate Fray Alonso from you. And should he ever find out where you are, he will be powerless to hurt you, not without formal charges, and those he cannot issue unless two credible witnesses testify against you. There will be no time to erect Holy Houses and Tribunals in this new land. Everyone will be too busy building trade routes and plucking fistfuls of gold from the ground. You will be safe there. It will be a good place for you and Don Sebastian to begin a new life, free from the sorrows of this one.”

  “Would it not be easier for me to go to my brothers?”

  “You cannot travel alone. You must have the protection of a husband. You must marry. And as long as Don Sebastian can make his way back to Seville, neither one of you will be safe.”

  Mama dabs her eyes with a handkerchief. “Señor Villarreal believes if his son stays on the continent he will, sooner or later, return to Seville and make good his threat to kill Fray Alonso. You know how rash he is! Only the space of an Ocean Sea can prevent him from doing this. Only an Ocean Sea can keep him from his foolish notions of revenge.”

  “Then I must leave for Don Sebastian’s sake?”

  Papa sighs. “It is the plan Señor Villarreal and I think best, for both of you. Would I send you so far, otherwise?” He rises to his feet as though unable to sit any longer. Beads of perspiration dot his forehead. “These are difficult times. Trouble spreads everywhere. Jews are no longer welcome in many countries. And even conversos are treated badly. Who knows about Kiev or Hamburg, which way they will go? Already there are many in Hamburg who dislike our people. I do not want to pull you from one brazier only to put you into another. Your future lies in the Indies, Isabel. And so does Don Sebastian’s.”

  “You did not mention women, Papa.” My voice sounds small in my ears. “Will there be other women?”

  Papa wrings his hands. “I . . . believe not for the Sovereigns have failed to encourage women to go on this voyage.”

  My mouth drops, and in spite of myself my lip quivers.

  “It is not as bad as you imagine,” Mama adds. “Gonzalo Vivar and his entire household, including his wife, will go with you to help you build a new life. Maria will be a great comfort. Solicit her aid at every opportunity. I am sure . . . yes, quite sure that . . . all will be well with you.”

  But Mama’s face betrays her, for her eyes tear, and worry lines crease her forehead. I make no effort to hide my feelings, either. I am stunned and angry over these odious plans. I have seen the Indians Columbus paraded through the streets of Seville, their painted, half-naked bodies, the wood carvings and parrots and masks of gold—heathen, all. I take no comfort in knowing the Vivars will accompany me. And though Papa relies heavily on Gonzalo and will sorely miss him, and though this kindness to me has and will continue to cost him a great deal, I take no pity on my father.

  “How is that possible? How were you able to convi
nce Gonzalo to go?” I finally ask.

  “I convinced him by promising to pay him more than he could make in three lifetimes.” Papa’s breath comes out as a sigh, as if seeing, for the first time, his household and those he loves slowly disappearing like the southern marshes in summer.

  I sit in my chair, unable to say another word. And what is there to say, anyway? Deep down I know Mama and Papa are right. I must leave Seville. But these plans they have laid out for me like an embroidered rug, showing me where my feet must travel, is to me an awful penance for sins I did not commit.

  For now I must marry a man I do not love and move to a faraway land I have no wish to see. As I sit defeated, my head hanging, Mama rises and presses a sizable leather sack into my palms.

  “You must take this with you—a gift from Papa and me. It is not a wedding gift, or a gift for Sebastian, but only for you. You must keep it safely hidden.”

  Not bothering to glance at the sack, I let it fall to my lap, and feel it is heavy.

  “Look inside,” Mama says, her mouth pinched as though holding back a sob.

  I have no interest in looking, but out of a habit of obedience I comply and untie the string, then pull open the sack’s mouth. I expect to see it full of reales but see gold florins instead, and know that here sits a great fortune. When I try to protest, Mama puts a finger to my lips. “A woman must have some security.”

  The last wedding I attended was well before Eastertide when Blanca Nuñez’s older sister married a converso, a merchant of costly Cordovan leather. It was a most agreeable wedding, and I envisioned my own would be similar, perhaps because we are social equals, though Papa is wealthier.

  For the wedding, Señor Nuñez hired an army of servants, including a laundress to wash the linens, several turnspits—to tend the mutton, venison, beef, and chickens on spits—a small company of minstrels who played both the pear-shaped lute and five-stringed viol, and a man to cart away the refuse. An array of fruit—including the costly quince—cheeses, confections, wafers from the wafer maker, and an assortment of spices were paraded out by a regiment of servers, while acrobats and musicians and wine by the barrelful kept the guests cheerful.

  The bride, who rode into the courtyard on horseback with her maids trailing on foot, was showered with rose petals and then crowned with a wreath of olive branches—a gentile tradition. Beneath the wreath was a lace cap.

  She was dressed in gold brocade trimmed with ermine, and over that she wore a velvet surcoat. On her feet were velvet shoes embroidered with gold thread. She looked nothing short of regal.

  My white silk gown pulls tightly across my chest and strains along the shoulders. Mama had to sew an inch of lace to the fabric around my wrists to conceal the fact that the sleeves are too short. She has also added another inch of lace around the hem for the same reason. She has done all she can on such little notice, but the dress still looks ill-fitting, and bears witness to what everyone knows—I wear Beatriz’s gown. A short silk veil, held on my head by a thin gold chain, also belongs to Beatriz.

  We have assembled not in the great hall but in a small, dimly lit room tucked deep within the bowels of the keep—the most protected part of the Villarreal castle—in consequence of the danger that surrounds us all. Outside, two hundred armed men fortify the grounds.

  Though the stone walls of our room are whitewashed and draped with fine tapestries, it is an unpleasant, somber looking chamber. The one consolation is that in the dim light it is difficult to see Don Sebastian’s face, thus sparing me from viewing the sorrow and anger that is surely etched there. But even the dim light cannot hide the fact that Sebastian reels to and fro from too much wine. Obviously, he has not followed the custom of a groom fasting before his wedding. I am not offended. I can only imagine how difficult this is for him. Perhaps this explains why Señor Villarreal has allowed him wine, for he must imagine it too. As the bride, I have fasted, but more to please Mama and Papa than anything else.

  We are a small group. Only Sebastian and I, Mama and Papa, Señor Villarreal, a converso rabbi—the one who read the ninety-first Psalm at Beatriz’s grave—and two crypto-Jews unknown to me but who, Mama informed me earlier, will serve as witnesses.

  With a heart as heavy as the cannon protruding from Señor Villarreal’s redan, I put one velvet-covered foot in front of the other and begin the traditional walk around the groom. While the rabbi recites his blessings, I encircle Sebastian seven times, all the while trying to ignore that he smells like a wine barrel. And when I stop and give him my hand, he staggers and sways so much I consider pulling it away. But too late. He slips the ring on my finger and seals my fate.

  For better or worse, I am now Señora Villarreal.

  Earlier, Mama explained that after the ceremony we would depart from custom. Instead of my husband and me retiring briefly to our room and then joining everyone in a celebratory meal, we will eat a simple veal and venison stew with our family, the rabbi, and two witnesses, then retire early. The reason is that we must depart well before sunrise to avoid detection.

  So we sit at a small table, our solemn band of eight. The table is set with two large baskets of bread, and with a knife and spoon for everyone. A plain silver saltcellar, instead of an elaborate one of gold, sits in front of Señor Villarreal, revealing the low esteem in which he holds this proceeding.

  Bowls of stew have already been set out but only the rabbi and two witnesses appear to be eating. No one else seems hungry. Our bowl, Sebastian’s and mine, is still full, and sits between us. Carefully, I dip bread and take a bite. Sebastian takes no notice of it or me, but holds his goblet up for the wine steward to see. Within seconds, the steward sends a young servant girl to fill it.

  Though I have no appetite, I force myself to eat. Tomorrow, we will leave without breakfast and walk many hours before taking a meal. Perhaps it is a failing, this tendency to always look ahead, for it can create an excessively practical nature. Clearly, Sebastian does not look ahead. He guzzles wine and exhibits not the slightest inclination to eat, which means tomorrow he will be weak and hungry and sick, leaving others to shoulder the burden of his care. But I cannot fault him. This is not the wedding he envisioned, the wedding he has awaited for nine years.

  And I am not Beatriz.

  Up to now, there has been little conversation. But Papa breaks the silence by lifting his goblet and praying a blessing. The wine steward quickly sends another servant to refill Sebastian’s cup, and we all raise our voices in response as though we are the merriest of celebrants. But I catch Mama dabbing her eyes, and see Papa sag, ever so slightly. And even Señor Villarreal looks as though he sits on brass nails, with that pained expression lurking just beneath his smile.

  When it suddenly occurs to me that this may be the last meal I will ever have with Mama and Papa, I am overcome with the desire to fly into their arms and weep at their necks and beg them, in a loud voice, to let me stay in Seville. But the sight of Sebastian—slumped over the table barely able to hold his head—stops me. I am married now, and such behavior would be unseemly and bring shame on both my parents and me.

  With great effort, I rein myself in and sit quietly, taking small bites of stew with my sop. But from that moment on, my eyes and ears serve as nets to catch Mama and Papa’s every move, their every word. Just as Mama stores up vegetables and fruits in pickling jars after harvest, to be tucked away in the larder, so I put things into my memory jars: the sight of Mama’s sweet plump face; the way her forehead sinks low over the bridge of her nose when she worries; her generous laughter; her soft warm fingers; her arms that are ever ready to help carry a load or dispense hugs. And Papa: the way he pinches his thumb when he worries; the way he compresses his lips when he is proud of something I have done; the way his smile is crooked on his face but so pleasant it makes you smile too; the way his eyes tell me he loves me even when I have disappointed him.

  I watch Mama’s hand disappear beneath the table and know she has discreetly taken Papa’s, perhaps becau
se the same thought has just occurred to her. She straightens, as if drawing strength from the stout, loving man beside her. The muscles of both their faces tighten as they force a smile, all for my benefit, just as all their actions over the past month have been for my benefit. They sit straight and dignified in their chairs, trying hard to give me, as a gift, this last picture of themselves, a picture of love and courage and strength. I use all my senses to take it in until Papa rises, walks to my place, covers my hand with his, and says in an unsteady voice, “‘May the Lord make you like Sarah and Rebecca, like Rachel and Leah. May you be fruitful, favored by your husband, and be blessed with children.’”

  And when he is done, I know it is time to say good-bye. And while we— Papa, Mama and I, hug and kiss, Mama slips something around my neck. I look and see it is the emerald necklace that Grandpapa gave her. Before I can protest, she presses her finger to my lips. “The green stone of Zebulun. For success and goodwill.” Then I feel Sebastian’s unsteady hand tugging on my arm. Though everything within me longs to stay in the tender embrace of my parents, I pull away and reluctantly follow my husband into the gloom of the corridor.

  Mama has prepared our room, for it is well lit and clean, and smells of lavender. Sebastian enters first, and I closely behind. We have not spoken a word the entire walk down the corridor, though prayers filled my heart, for I feel in great need of the Holy One’s comfort. I can only guess how Sebastian feels.