The Salt Covenants

by Sylvia Bambola

  Now you know the events responsible for bringing you your third husband.

  I know you have denied your faith. But need I remind you that Maimonides himself said a marriage between a converso and Jew was valid when contracted under Jewish law, and therefore subject to the law of levirate marriage. Since your marriage to Sebastian conformed to our law in every respect, this levirate marriage to Antonio is legal and binding. It is your duty to honor the contract. I only pray you will do so with the proper attitude.

  Papa and I miss you terribly. Words cannot express the emptiness we feel, for with you being so far from our arms it is as if we have lost two daughters.

  ‘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.’

  You are always in our thoughts. I love you.

  Mama

  I crumple the letter and throw it to the floor. “No! No, Lord. I will not do it!” I yank off my shawl, and stand as if readying myself for battle. “I cannot. I will not marry another man who grieves for a dead wife. Am I stone that You should ask it of me?”

  But no voice answers. My mind whirls as I pace the floor like a wild beast. Surely Mama’s reasoning is flawed. Though Sebastian was a cryptoJew, a secret Jew, he was a converso and so was I. Therefore the marriage was between two conversos, not a converso and a Jew as Mama stated. But in my mind I hear Mama’s rebuttal and her quoting Ibn Danan who said that the laws of levirate marriage should apply to all conversos. Still . . . I could quote Balan’s opposition, as well as the fact that most exiled Spanish rabbinical authorities considered all conversos—gentiles, rather than crypto-Jews, and therefore their marriages not subject to levirate laws. But what is the use? It is like spitting in the wind.

  I pull at my hair, and look up as though expecting to see the Merciful One peering down. “Do not ask this of me. It is too cruel! I cannot . . . do it!” Then I drop my head. “Yet . . . how can I refuse? Is not Your first command to ‘be fruitful and multiply’ and Your fifth command to obey our parents? But what of my feelings? Do I not matter to You at all?” Tears stream from my eyes. “Still . . . it is selfish to refuse to marry; sinful even. But have I no rights?” My body sags as I pace. “Yet . . . can I stay in Isabela without a husband to protect me? No. Not with Enrique as mad as a bull and determined to ruin me. But wouldn’t the Lanzas defend me? Or the town warden? If Juan Ponce de Leon had not sailed back to Cadiz with Torres, surely I would have found a protector in him. But if not him, then perhaps another. But who?”

  Back and forth, back and forth I walk until finally I know what I must do.

  With my finger, I absently stir the bowl of ashes—all that is left of Mama’s letter—until I hear voices, and stop. From my place at the table I see two men approach the open doorway. One is the servant who delivered Mama’s letter. The other is the young man I saw walking alongside Bartolome Columbus earlier. I wipe my hands on a rag, then go to the door.

  “Doña Isabel, allow me to introduce Don Antonio Villarreal,” the servant says, gesturing towards the young man.

  Don Antonio bows, straightens, then draws back his broad shoulders. Grace and elegance mark his movements. And self-assurance, too—certainly from so many years at court. Still, I am surprised by the absence of arrogance, and also surprised that Don Antonio does not resemble his brother in the least. Rather, he is darker of skin, taller, more muscular, and not as handsome.

  His apparel is fresh and scented, and of the finest brocade and silk. His short wavy hair glistens like polished onyx. He smiles, revealing one dimpled cheek, while a thin scar arcs across his other.

  I, on the other hand, wear the same coarse homespun I wore on the rocky promontory. My hair is tied back, but uncovered, and I am barefoot.

  Merriment flickers across Don Antonio’s eyes as he observes me. But he shows no disdain for my appearance, nor does he seem offended by my apparent lack of respect for his rank.

  “I would never have recognized you, Doña Isabel. When I saw you last you were a skinny little girl only this high.” Antonio’s hand is waist level.

  “Nor I you, for you were not much taller.” When he laughs I am reminded of all the stories Sebastian shared aboard the Tortoise. I tell myself to be wary, for he has seduced half the highborn ladies of Castile.

  I bid him enter, and note that he, with just a slight gesture of his head, indicates for his servant to remain behind. I lead Antonio to the table, and marvel that he shows no disdain for his surroundings. Surely our Sovereigns’ horses have better quarters.

  “I praise the Holy One for your safe voyage,” I say, working my courage like Pasculina’s husband worked his porous leather bag, trying to squeeze out the dross of cowardice. “It is no small thing to cross the Ocean Sea, for there are many dangers.”

  “Like anywhere, Señora, for we live in a time when the concept of safety is as untenable as some of Maimonides’s writings.”

  I bring my hand to my mouth, covering a smile. “And the food on board ship? Was it satisfactory?”

  “Yes. I am not a ‘gooser’ like most nobles at court, and do not crave rich, fatty foods. It was not a hardship to eat salt beef, though I would have preferred chicken.”

  “Then you have little to worry about. Here in Isabela we have no geese. But then we have no chickens either, except those belonging to our Admiral. I am afraid you will have to content yourself with fish.”

  Again, Antonio laughs. “Then I am undone. The only fish I have ever caught were the ones in my father’s large leather tank which he kept alive only until the cook needed them for the table. But perhaps you can teach me how.” He glances again at my clothes, and looks amused. But amusement, and nothing more, etches his face. When he straightens, I notice the large scar below his ear. “You read your mother’s letter?” His face becomes somber.

  “I have.”

  “And you are not pleased.”

  My gaze meets his. Though I am surprised by his insight and honesty, I see God’s hand here. I have made a bargain with the Holy One. I will reveal my true feelings, holding nothing back, and if, after my revelation, Antonio still wants me to honor the marriage contract, I will.

  “I am not pleased,” I finally say, “for I have no desire to marry again.” I look, but there is no expression on his face. “However . . . I will honor the contract if it pleases you. Though only after you hear what is on my heart. I am determined that there be no secrets between us.”

  Antonio fingers the scar on his cheek. “Then let there be no secrets.”

  “I did not love Sebastian. Nor did he love me. Perhaps for a man that is an unimportant matter. After all, many matches are made to advance a career or forge a new alliance or enterprise. But to a woman, to me, it is important. And I have learned it is a bitter thing to be an unloved wife.” Antonio’s face has become as white as goat’s milk. “Also, you must know this . . . I am a sincere Christian; a true follower of the Nazarene. I have broken Mama’s heart. Papa’s too. And I have made them ashamed. But none of that has deterred me from making a salt covenant with the Nazarene, with Jesus.”

  I know Antonio understands the significance of this, for salt covenants were permanent, irrevocable covenants going back to the time of Abraham. It was a covenant of loyalty and love. The Holy One made a covenant of salt with King David, also with Aaron the priest. People, too, made covenants of salt with each other—pledging their fidelity by removing a pinch of salt from their salt pouches and depositing it into the other’s pouch. Each would then shake his pouch, mixing the two salts and creating an unbreakable covenant, for how could one ever go into the other’s pouch and extract his grains to break it?

  “If we live as man and wife I will, for your sake, do what I can to observe our Jewish holy days. At least as much as safety permits.”

  Antonio’s hand covers his mouth, and for the first time I notice the many rings he wears. How ill-suited he is to this wild land. So perfumed and jeweled a
nd grandly dressed. He will tell me he cannot abide having an idolater under his roof when he expected a crypto-Jew. And unlike Doña Maria de Murcia with her vast Old Christian connections, what can I offer as inducement for him to change his mind? Surely, he will issue a bill of divorcement. Then he will sail away. And it will all be for the best.

  When Antonio removes his hand I am not prepared for what I see. He is smiling! And his dark eyes sweep over me with kindness and tender pity. “Oh, how great is our God! What a wonder He is!” Antonio says, springing to his feet, and walking the floor. “I have prayed for this, for a wife who is likeminded. But in my heart I scarcely believed it possible, so poor and inadequate was my faith.” He thumps his chest. “I am a sincere believer, though I have kept it secret from my family. Oh, Isabel, can you not see that God has wrought a miracle by bringing us together?”

  I am speechless for I do see it, and the sight overwhelms me.

  Antonio returns to the table and sits down, scarcely able to contain his joy.

  “It is the greatest possible blessing to find someone like-minded. It delights my heart. But . . . .”

  Antonio’s jaw tightens. “But?”

  “But can you ever forget Doña Maria, and make room for another in your heart? Sebastian could not. And had we been married a thousand years I doubt he ever would. It has been said Doña Maria was a woman not easily forgotten. I am not willing to live in another woman’s shadow or with a man who pines for his dead love.”

  Antonio rises and walks to the tall wooden case. “May I?” he asks, pointing to two goblets. I nod, and he removes them from the shelf, brings them to the table, and fills them with water from the calabash. He hands one to me and takes his seat. “What makes you think I loved Doña Maria?”

  “Well . . . I . . . that is . . . .” I am at a loss. “Mama’s letter,” I finally say. “She said your father was concerned over your deep grief caused by the loss of your wife and child.”

  Antonio sips from his goblet, and again I notice something new. His hands are large with knuckles the size of finch eggs. “I, too, understand what it is like to be in a loveless marriage.”

  “Impossible,” I blurt without thinking, and see amusement in his eyes. “What I mean is, according to Sebastian, your marriage was the envy of the court.”

  He laughs. It is musical, and soothing like honey coating a raw throat. “You must not believe everything you hear, Isabel, and certainly never when it pertains to court gossip.”

  “But she was the mother of your child; surely for that alone you loved her?”

  A long silence, then finally, “It was not my child. Doña Maria confessed this to me, though I already suspected it since she had many lovers.” Antonio fingers the scar on his cheek. “As the marks on my body will attest, for I have fought more duels than I care to remember in defense of my honor. And spilled far too much blood.”

  “Then why did you marry?”

  “Papa believes men should marry before turning twenty, as the Talmud instructs. Also, he convinced me an alliance with the Murcias would secure my future and insulate me, and perhaps my entire family, from the Inquisition. Why Doña Maria married me I can only guess. My wealth? My position at court? Whatever the reason, it was not love, though in the beginning I hoped love would come. I was told it often does. But for Doña Maria and me it never did.”

  “Then how do you account for your grief ?”

  “People grieve for different reasons, Isabel. I have long been at court, seen deception, intrigue, the breaking of vows. And my marriage mirrored it all. Doña Maria defiled our bed with men who flattered her vanity. And I killed those men to protect mine. It was impossible for me to remain at court. Even the thought sickened me. I am finished with lies and deceit. Since Doña Maria’s death I have prayed for a godly wife. And now the Merciful One has answered.”

  “But what of your many escapades at court?” I never meant to ask this, but suddenly it seemed important.

  “I suppose Sebastian told you that as well?”

  I nod.

  “I cannot fault him. Before my marriage there were a few indiscretions, yes, but very few. Since then, their number grows yearly among the court gossips.”

  “Then you are not a womanizer?”

  Antonio, who is in the middle of sipping from his goblet, nearly chokes. “Oh, Isabel, you are naïve. But it pleases me.”

  My cheeks flush as I seek to change the subject. “I often wonder if Mama would have come to love the Nazarene had she never read Profiat Duran’s, Do not be like thy fathers.”

  “She read that?”

  “Oh, yes, and what arguments we had! But no matter how persuasive my words, they were unable to erase the absurd image Duran painted of Christians.”

  “My father read Duran too, but we never argued. Unlike you, I lacked the courage to tell him I was a true convert.”

  “Perhaps you were wiser. Sometimes I wish I had never spoken. You should have seen Mama’s face . . . .” My throat catches when Antonio’s fingers touch mine. “Her face . . . was as white as an onion.”

  “I can picture it,” he says, slowly covering my hand with his, “for I remember well the time I incurred her wrath. I was young and oh, how she terrified me! It was at your estate by the groves when she caught me pulling oranges off a tree and . . . .”

  For the next three Sundays Fray Buil reads the banns announcing my engagement and pending marriage to Don Antonio Villarreal. And since it is not Advent or one of the twelve days of Christmas or Lent or any day between Ascension Sunday and Pentecost, when no weddings are allowed, our marriage will take place next Sunday, and all Isabela is stunned.

  My silk gown rustles as I slip it over my linen chemise and whalebone farthingale. It is my best gown; green shimmering silk trimmed in delicate lace. Over that I don a wine-colored cloak of velvet. At my throat hangs the stone of Zebulun. I wear it to ensure “success” today; so that all goes well, and because it helps me feel closer to Mama.

  Next, I slip my feet into green velvet shoes, then wooden pantofles. The fragrance of lavender swirls around me as I move.

  “How lovely you look,” Maria says. “Pasculina did a fine job.”

  I nod. Earlier, Pasculina came and fixed my hair in a style she claimed a great countess once wore. She made it sweep across my ears, then form a single braid—the length of two fingers—at the nape of my neck. At the end of the braid, my hair loosens and cascades down my back. Scattered throughout are pearls and jewels, and over all this I will wear a veil of shimmering green silk.

  Now Maria picks up the veil lying across the wooden table and carefully drapes it over my head, then anchors it with a wide gold chain. “Oh, how pleased Don Antonio will be when he sees you!”

  She pulls me to the mirror, but before I can glance at my reflection I hear the clomping of horse’s hooves, and rush to the door. Antonio approaches on a large grey Andalusian, and leads another by the bridle. The Lanzas have loaned us two horses for the occasion, surely a compliment to Antonio since they never allow anyone to use them. I step through the door and hear him gasp.

  “You look . . . beautiful.” His smiling eyes sweep over me.

  My cheeks flame for I think these same thoughts of him. He sits tall and broad, and bareheaded, his hair blowing in the breeze. Though his nose—which is slightly bent where it was broken during a long-ago fight—adds virility to his face, his eyes betray an inner tenderness. He wears a silver-colored silk doublet and breaches that are embroidered with gold thread. His stockings and shoes are silver. Draped across his broad shoulders is a short black-and-gold velvet cape. A thin, black leather belt straps a jewel-encrusted sword to his waist. When he dismounts, I smell the pleasing fragrance of scented soap.

  He takes my hand and helps me onto my horse. And then we begin the ride to the church. Men have left their huts and gathered along the streets smiling and waving and greeting us by name. And when we reach the church, we are welcomed by Fray Buil who stands outside. In his h
and he holds an open book and wedding ring. Clustered behind him are the dozen members of the clergy. The wedding will take place here, followed by a nuptial Mass inside the church.

  We dismount, and someone takes our horses. People crowd behind us, among them Pasculina and her husband, Maria and Gonzalo, and their two sons and their wives.

  Fray Buil smiles, then poses the first of five questions asked of all who seek to enter the holy state of matrimony. “Are you of age?” According to Church law a bride many not be younger than twelve; a bridegroom younger than fourteen.

  Antonio and I, each in turn, answer, “Yes.”

  “Do you swear before God you are not violating the Church’s law regarding consanguinity?” The Church forbids marriage between blood relatives up to and including third cousins.

  Again we answer, “Yes.”

  He asks the next three questions in rapid order. “Do you have the consent of your parents? Have the banns been read? Are you entering this marriage of your own free will?”

  To all three we answer, “Yes.”

  Following that, we say our vows, then Fray Buil delivers a brief sermon. When he is finished, he blesses the ring and gives it to Antonio.

  Antonio’s large knuckled fingers lift my left hand. Gently, he slips the ring first on one finger, then the next, saying as he does, “In the Name of the Father and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” Finally, he slips it on my third finger, and ends by uttering, “With this ring I thee wed.”

  It is done.

  We gather at my house or actually around its grounds. There are too many to fit inside. All the nobles and knights in Isabela have been invited. Antonio’s servant, Mateo, has made the preparations, with Maria and Pasculina assisting. And this causes me no small discomfort, for normally it is the wife’s family who provides the wedding food and entertainment. Still, I am grateful to Antonio for his foresight. Unbeknownst to me, ten barrels of fine wine accompanied him from Castile, and Mateo had them all delivered to my house where they form a triple line outside my northern wall.