Calling Crow

by Paul Clayton

  A loud knock came at the door. He waved over at the girl, and she got off the bed and went into the next chamber.

  “What is it?” he said through the door.

  “Come quickly, my lord.”

  Bishop Cavago felt a rush of annoyance. He opened the door and saw Pedro walking off. “What in heaven’s name is it, man? I asked not to be disturbed tonight!”

  Pedro Barrameda paused and nodded excitedly. “The Inquisitor waits for you in the parlor.”

  “What Inquisitor? Are you daft? There is no Inquisitor on this island.”

  “Yes, my lord. He came over with De Sole’s ships and he says he has business with you.”

  “Mother of God!” said Cavago with exasperation. “Go back out to him! Tell him I shall be there in a few moments.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Pedro turned and quickly hurried back down the corridor.

  Cavago went into the other chamber. “Go,” he said quietly to the girl. After she left, he pulled and tied his robe about him, rushing about to inspect the room. Satisfied, he stood before the mirror and brushed the gray wisps of his hair back along the sides of his head. Composing his face into an appropriate grave mask, he opened the door.

  Cavago had no trouble picking the Inquisitor out from among the three men in the parlor. Somber under his black hood, he remained seated as the soldier and the young priest got to their feet to kiss the back of the hand Cavago extended to them in turn.

  The Inquisitor remained silent as the younger priest said to Cavago, “Excellency, this is Father Toribio Mendoza, Assistant Special Inquisitor to the Court of King Charles. I am his assistant, Father Mariano Pacheco.” He nodded to the soldier. “This is Lieutenant Guzman, of De Sole’s army, who has graciously conducted us to your house.”

  Bishop Cavago looked at the Inquisitor, glancing quickly into the man’s watery eyes, hoping to read in them something of his mission here. They were large, commanding eyes that calmly saw all, but gave away nothing.

  Pedro brought a small wooden chair over and placed it behind Bishop Cavago. Cavago sat and faced the Inquisitor. “Holiness, welcome to my house. How may I help you?”

  The Inquisitor spoke with a deep powerful voice which added to his authority. “Are you familiar with a Father Luis from the Higuey Mission church?”

  Cavago nodded calmly. Inside, a foreboding tightened his stomach around the meal of beef and beans he had eaten earlier.

  “Well,” the Inquisitor went on gravely, “he has made several charges regarding the conduct of the local landowners and church officials toward the native peoples.”

  “I see,” said Cavago, as he assumed an air of concerned interest. Inside, he was enraged. Father Luis! This could be very bad. His stomach churned like a freshly poured cup of beer.

  The Inquisitor sighed deeply. “Father Luis related several specific instances of beatings by overseers and some more general charges of lapses in converting the natives and failure to give them proper religious instruction.”

  The Inquisitor regarded Cavago with his large eyes as he settled back into the couch. “What say you to all of that?”

  “Holiness,” Cavago began, smiling warmly, “I think I can explain all of this satisfactorily. I have personally looked into one specific charge of physical abuse and found it to be politically motivated. I am very sorry that these complaints had to go all the way to Seville. They really don’t amount to much, as you will see.”

  “I hope so. Father Luis stated that you were notified by letter on two different occasions about certain abuses, but that you never responded”

  Cavago’s brow furrowed with implied concern. Somehow he would have to turn the tables on Father Luis. He would get back at him for this treachery. “If he says that he sent me the letters… then I am sure that it is so. However, I never received them.”

  The Inquisitor frowned. “How is that possible?”

  “I will explain, Holiness, but first let me attend to your needs. You must be tired and in need of nourishment.” Cavago turned to Pedro, who was sitting in a chair in the darkened hallway. “Pedro, some hot tea for Father Toribio and the others.”

  Pedro nodded and left them.

  Cavago turned back to the Inquisitor. “Holiness, let me think of how I can best explain this? Here on this island, most of us rely heavily on the Indians as runners and messengers, among their other duties. However, they are very childlike. This quality can be endearing, but when work needs to be done, it can be frustrating. They are totally without self-discipline and have to be supervised in even the simplest tasks. Now, if Father Luis gave one of them some messages for me, perhaps the carrier simply threw them away and spent his time loitering in the marketplace with his fellows or else watching the construction of the cathedral. As far as conversations between Father Luis and myself on this subject, we have had only two that I recall, and both times I have thoroughly investigated his allegations.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “Well, there were beatings, yes. But the Indians were not treated any more harshly than would be a Christian peasant in Castile who has sullenly refused to do his work.”

  “I’m told there was one beaten to death.”

  “Yes, Holiness, it was over at-- ”

  Pedro returned with a silver tea service. He set it upon a small table before Cavago and the two priests. Pedro poured a cup and handed it to the Inquisitor, who nodded his thanks.

  Cavago went on as Pedro poured for the others. “The death was at the estate of Senor Manzano. An Indian was whipped there, and he did die later, but it was from one of the plagues which ravage the Indian tribes here and not from his whipping. I have a sworn affidavit from a physician on this.”

  The Inquisitor took a sip of tea and set his cup down on the saucer. “I see.”

  Cavago suddenly realized that their robes were damp and that they must be quite chilled. He saw an opportunity. “Holiness,” he said, “could I get you and Father Pacheco some dry things to wear?”

  “Excellency, you are most kind,” said Father Pacheco. The Inquisitor nodded his thanks.

  “Please follow me to my chambers,” said Cavago. “You can change there.” Cavago turned to Pedro. “Get a dry shawl for the lieutenant.”

  When they returned, the Inquisitor again took his seat on the couch. “I still have to talk to Father Luis about all of this,” the Inquisitor said. “I don’t understand how he could see so many problems where you saw none.”

  Cavago smiled with chagrin. “Father Luis is, how shall I put it? An extremely nervous type. He loves his Indians dearly, but he sometimes gets so involved in ministering to their wants that he forgets that Spaniards are Christian too, and that they have wants and rights also.

  There has to be a balance here if the colony is to continue to prosper. I have been trying to strike that balance, and so to him I suppose I am not sympathetic enough to some Indian demands.”

  Cavago watched the Inquisitor’s face for some sign that he had been able to deflect Father Luis’s attack. The Inquisitor seemed deep in thought. “Perhaps His Holiness would like something to eat?” said Cavago.

  The Inquisitor shook his head and appeared to relax a little. “More tea would be fine.”

  As Cavago poured the tea, a warm confidence began to suffuse him. He sensed he had done well and that the danger was passing. Still, he would not leave it at this. For good measure, he would take Father Toribio out to Senor Manzano’s estancia to talk to him. Yes, that was a good idea. And other landowners. But Father Luis-- A cold anger welled up in Cavago. For all of Luis’s assumed piety and sackcloth suffering, he was simply a schemer. Perhaps he desired the bishopric himself. That must be it. Well, he would meet Luis’s challenge and cut his schemes short.

  Father Toribio got to his feet to look at the paintings on the walls.

  Yes, thought Cavago, the danger was definitely passing. “How was your passage over, Holiness?” he said.

  “Please address me as, Father Toribio,
Bishop. The passage was uncomfortable.” Father Toribio shook his head sadly. “I could not accustom myself to the crowding and the movement of the ship. And the smells!”

  Cavago nodded.

  “But the Lord must have been with us, ” said Father Toribio, “because the captain told us it was the fastest, safest crossing he has made yet.”

  “Well, you shall stay here,” said Cavago. “I have already instructed Pedro to make up a room for you and Father Pacheco.”

  A knock came at the door. As Pedro went to answer it, Father Toribio turned to Cavago. “You are popular tonight.”

  Cavago smiled as Pedro showed two soldiers into the parlor.

  “Yes?” said Bishop Cavago to the two men, “how may I help you?”

  The older of the two soldiers spoke. “Holiness, I am Senor Alonso Roldan and this is Senor Manuel Ortiz. We have important business to discuss.”

  “What is it?” said Cavago. He noticed with mild interest that the little finger on the man’s left hand was missing.

  “Well, for one thing, we have a report to make to Lieutenant Guzman here concerning a criollo colonist named Francisco Mateo and his failure to obtain a license for a slaving venture so he could avoid paying his tax.”

  “I see,” said Cavago. “But avoidance of taxes is not my concern. That is a matter for the Governor.”

  Roldan smiled. “Yes, Holiness. We tried to tell Governor Toledo, but he was not interested.”

  Cavago shook his head in frustration. “Couldn’t all this have waited till the morning?”

  “Yes, Holiness," said Roldan. “But that is not the main reason I’m here.” Roldan indicated the Inquisitor. “I have a report for his Holiness, too, and I was told that I would find him here.”

  “What is it?” said Father Toribio.

  Roldan frowned. “Holiness, it concerns one Diego Vega, a friend of the same Senor Mateo’s, and a young ship’s boy, a Morisco named Miramor. It is about some things which happened while on a voyage on the ship, Guadalupe.”

  Cavago’s ears pricked up at the mention of Diego Vega. He was a good friend of Father Luis’s.

  “How do you know all of this?” said Father Toribio.

  “We were on the ship, too, Holiness.”

  “I see,” said Toribio. “Well, I agree with Bishop Cavago. I think you should come back in the morning.”

  Roldan nodded respectfully. “Yes, Holiness. I only rushed over because of the seriousness of these things.”

  Toribio frowned. “Serious, are they? Why are they so serious?”

  “Well, Holiness,” said Roldan, clearing his throat, “they are… how shall I put it? Most indelicate.”

  Father Toribio sighed tiredly. “I see. Well, go on, and be quick in the telling. I see I shall have to take my rest in the morning.”

  Chapter 30

  Senor Francisco Mateo sat before the great fireplace in his parlor and packed his pipe. It was early evening and he was tired. He had spent the day supervising the rounding up of half his herd of cows in preparation for slaughter, and there had been many strays and much hard work. Now it was time to enjoy a smoke. He dipped a straw into the lamp on the table beside him and held it to the pipe. Drawing hard, he filled his lungs with smoke. A heartbeat later, he felt his mind focus, and his worries and concerns loosened their grip on him. What a wonderful herb tobacco was! It was better than any tonic in the Old World for relieving pain and hunger. When Christopher Columbus first sailed into the Antilles, he had found the local Arawak Indians smoking rolled-up sticks of the herb. Mateo was one of the few colonists who smoked it on a regular basis now, but there were more trying it every day. One day, he thought warmly, every man, woman, and child in Castile would smoke. He hoped so anyway, for he had two fields planted and planned to send a consignment to Spain for sale.

  Mateo drew more smoke into his lungs. Things were going well now. His good friend, Diego Vega, had recovered and was growing stronger by the day. Mateo looked round the parlor contentedly, running his eyes past a tall chest of drawers made of polished hardwood with stylishly wrought ironwork. He was staring at his favorite painting of a vaquero on a horse herding a dozen or so cattle through a field of scrub trees and cactus when he heard a shout. Andres, the cook’s little mestizo boy, came running into the room.

  “Senor Mateo,” he cried excitedly, “there are soldiers in the courtyard!”

  Mateo got to his feet and tapped his pipe against the stones of the fireplace. Heavy steps sounded in the corridor. Three soldiers in breastplate, one of them carrying a loaded crossbow, entered the room.

  Mateo angrily confronted them. “Who let you into my house?”

  The man in the lead ignored his question. “Are you Senor Francisco Mateo?”

  Mateo nodded, too furious to speak.

  “You will come with us.”

  “Where? Why?” said Mateo.

  “You are to appear before De Sole,” snapped the soldier. “That is all you need to know.”

  An hour later, Mateo was escorted down the stone steps of the Cabildo by two burly soldiers. All the rage he had felt when they had led him away from his house had left him and now he felt tired and strangely empty. He thought of the charge against him-- tax evasion-- and almost laughed in disgust. There weren’t enough jail cells in all of Spain to hold those who kept back a little of their tax. It was simply the way business was done here in the colony.

  “Did you know that your friend, Senor Diego Vega, was charged with sodomy?” the older soldier said as their boots echoed down the marble corridor.

  Mateo stopped. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “They say that Diego Vega committed the crime with Miramor, the soldier’s boy.”

  Mateo’s face grew red. “That is crazy! Where did they get that idea?”

  “Four who were on your ship have signed affidavits which were given to the Inquisitor.”

  “Who were they?” demanded Mateo.

  “I don’t know,” said the man. “Soldiers, I’m told. Come on. De Sole is waiting.”

  Mateo boiled with rage as they continued down the corridor. It had to be Roldan’s doing, and all to get back at him. A black pall of grief came over him. Diego was all but lost. Sodomy was the most vile of heresies and ruthlessly punished with death by burning.

  They came to the entrance to De Sole’s chambers. Two soldiers in gleaming armor, with long halberds at their sides, stood on either side of the great opened doors. They seemed made of wax as Mateo and his two guards walked through the doors.

  At a desk in the rear of the room, De Sole sat stiffly upright in a high-backed, ornately carved wooden chair. Even though De Sole was sitting, Mateo could tell that he was a tall man, with a soldier’s thin, muscled frame. His mustache and goatee, along with his hair, were turning gray, but he still exuded strength. On the large walnut desk before him sat a stack of forms, a candelabra, and an inkwell. De Sole was writing, his white quill moving rapidly.

  Mateo bowed, and De Sole indicated a chair without looking up. The soldiers left the room, and De Sole put the quill in the inkwell and looked at Mateo. He stroked the point of his beard. “Yours is the case of the untaxed Indian captives.”

  Mateo nodded. “Excellency, the man who I am sure has brought these charges cares nothing about how many pesos of gold the Crown collects. He and I have a rivalry going back many years and he is simply seeking to revenge himself upon me.”

  “Revenge or no, you are still guilty of tax evasion.”

  Mateo looked into the other man’s eyes. There was something reptilian about them, the look of a tortoise perhaps, or a snake. All Mateo’s instincts told him it would be foolish to plead with this man.

  “Excellency, what is to be done to me?”

  De Sole silently studied him. “We will get to that in a moment. I am told you are an aficionado of the knightly games. Is that so?”

  “In my younger days,” said Mateo. “Why do you ask?”

  “There wi
ll soon be a fair in my honor, with archery shoots, wrestling, a feast, a ball, but most importantly, jousting.

  Fairs were held yearly on the island, usually at harvest time, and knightly games were popular throughout the Spanish kingdom due to the many novels on the subject, the most famous of which was Amadis of Gaul. On the island, Mateo had distinguished himself as an excellent horseman and swordsman and won many prizes.

  Mateo returned the De Sole’s stare steadily. “I still don’t understand.”

  De Sole folded his hands. “It is quite simple. I enjoy the joust, and on the whole island there is only one who would be a worthy opponent for me in the coming games ― you.”

  “And so you want to joust with me?”

  “Yes,” said De Sole. “Did you know that the ancient Romans allowed their slaves and convicts to fight their way to freedom?”

  Mateo nodded. “Yes, Excellency. I have heard that. And you are allowing me the same privilege?”

  A slight, icy smile broke the hard angles of De Sole’s face. “In a sense. You do not have to prevail in the joust, only participate, and in so doing you will be excused from the usual jail term for tax evasion. You must only pay what you owe. What do you say?”

  Mateo didn’t like the arrangement. If he won, he could incur the man’s enmity, and De Sole was now the governor and could make much trouble for him. But he couldn’t let De Sole win easily either. He thought of the slanderous charges against Diego and was struck with an idea. He could tell De Sole wanted this match very badly, and he couldn’t force him to joust, not really. Therefore he might be inclined to throw in something more to get what he desired. “Excellency,” he said, “I will do it on one condition.”