That made Diego de Susan feel vaguely uncomfortable; and when he recalled that it was added that those who did not report such suspicious conduct would themselves be considered guilty, his fear took on a more definite shape.
Were neighbours being asked to spy on each other? Were they being told: ‘Report heretics, for if you do not you in your turn will be considered guilty!’
Diego tried to shrug aside such uneasy thoughts. This was Seville – this beautiful and prosperous town which had been made prosperous by men such as himself and his fellow merchants. Many of them were New Christians, for it was the Jewish community who by their industry and financial genius had brought prosperity to the town.
No, these priests could do no harm in Seville.
He looked at his daughter. Automatically the white hand worked the vivid fan back and forth. Her long lashes drooped. Did she look a little secretive? Was all well with La Susanna?
La Susanna was thinking: What will he say when he knows? What will he do? He will never forgive me. It is what he feared would happen to me.
She grew suddenly angry. She had a fiery temper which could rise within her and madden her temporarily. It is his own fault, she told herself. He should not have shut me away. I am not the kind to be shut away. Perhaps I take after my mother. I must be free. If I wish for a lover, a lover I must have.
Her expression did not change as she went on moving the fan.
She adored Diego, but her emotions were too strong to be
controlled. She hated herself because she had deceived him, and because she hated herself she hated him.
It is his fault, all his fault, she told herself. He has no one to blame but himself.
Soon, she thought, I shall be unable to hide the fact from him that I am pregnant. What then?
She had been well guarded, but, with the help of her sympathetic maid, it had not been impossible to have her lover smuggled into the house. He was young and handsome, a member of a noble Castilian family, and she had been unable to repress her desire for him. She had not thought of the consequences. She had never thought of the consequences of her actions. She had been impulsive. Thus must her mother have been.
Now she sat on the balcony, only vaguely hearing the shouts in the streets, unaware of the new tension which was creeping over the city. She was thinking of her father, who had loved her so tenderly during the years of her childhood, who was so proud of the daughter known throughout Seville as la hermosa hembra. Oh, yes, she was indeed beautiful, but she was no longer a child; now she was a woman who must live her life as she wished to, who must escape from the rule of a father who, out of his very love for her, treated her with a strictness which, to one of her wild nature, was intolerable.
And what will he say, she asked herself again and again, when I present myself to him and say, ‘Father, I am with child’?
And where was her lover? She did not know. She had tired of him, and he had no longer been smuggled into her room. There was only the child within her to remind herself how much she had loved him.
A procession was now coming through the street, and the sight of it sent a shiver through the most thoughtless of the spectators. It was as though a warning cloud hung over the sunny streets.
On it came, headed by the Dominican monk who carried the white cross. There were the Inquisitors in their white robes and black hoods. With them walked their familiars, the alguazils, who would assist them in their work, and the Dominican friars, in their coarse habits, their feet bare.
It was a mournful procession, funereal and depressing. On it went to the Convent of St Paul, where the Prior, Alonso de Ojeda, was ready to instruct these men in the duties which lay before them, to whip them to fierce enthusiasm by his fiery denunciation of those who did not accept the rigid tenets of his own faith.
Even La Susanna, her mind full of her own impending tragedy, sensed the foreboding inspired by that grim band of men. She looked at her father and saw that he was sitting tense, watching.
Crowds of gipsies, beggars and children followed the procession to the convent, but they, who previously had been chattering, shouting and dancing as they went, had fallen silent.
A visitor had stepped onto the balcony. It was a fellow merchant and friend of Diego de Susan.
He was looking grave. He said: ‘I do not like the look of that, my friend.’
Diego de Susan seemed to rouse himself and throw off his depression. ‘Why, they are trying to bring the Inquisition to Seville. They will not succeed.’
‘Who will prevent them?’
Diego had risen and laid his hand on the shoulder of his friend. ‘Men like you and myself. Seville prospers. Why? Because we have brought trade to it. Men such as ourselves rule Seville. We have only to stand together, and we shall soon make it clear that we will have no Inquisitors inquiring into our private lives.’
‘You think this possible?’
‘I am sure of it.’
Diego de Susan spoke in strong ringing tones; and one of the musicians on the balcony began to strum his lute.
La Susanna forgot the procession. She was saying to herself: How shall I tell him? How shall I dare?
* * *
In a back room of Diego de Susan’s house many of the most important citizens of Seville were gathered together. Among them were Juan Abolafio, who was the Captain of Justice and Farmer of the Royal Customs, and his brother Fernandez Abolafio, the licentiate. There were other wealthy men, such as Manuel Sauli and Bartolomé Torralba.
Diego had all the doors closed and had posted servants whom he could trust outside, that none might overhear what was said.
Then he addressed the gathering. ‘My friends,’ he said soberly, ‘you know why I have asked you to assemble here this day. We have seen the procession on its way to the Convent of St Paul, and we know what this means. Hitherto we have lived happily in this town. We have enjoyed prosperity and security. If we allow the Inquisitors to achieve the power for which they are clearly aiming that will be the end of our security, the end of our prosperity.
‘At any hour of the night we may hear the knock on the door. We may be hurried away from our families before we even have time to dress. Who can say what will happen to us in the dark dungeons of the Inquisition? It may be that, once taken, we should never see our friends and families again. My friends, it need not be. I am convinced it need not be.’
‘Pray tell us, friend Diego, how you propose to foil these plots against us?’ asked Juan Abolafio.
‘Are they plots against us?’ interrupted his brother.
Diego shook his head sadly. ‘I fear they may well be directed against us. We are the New Christians; we have wealth. It will be easy to bring a charge against us. Yes, my friends, I am certain that these plots are directed against ourselves. The Inquisitors have been shown great respect by the people of Seville; but their invitation to come forward and expose those whom they call heretic has not been taken up. Therefore they themselves will begin to look for victims.’
‘It has been announced that it is a sin for the people not to pass on any information that comes their way . . . in other words, the citizens are being subtly threatened that they must become spies, or themselves be suspected,’ said Bartolomé Torralba.
‘You are right, Bartolomé,’ Diego replied. ‘We must consider the fate of those New Christians who fled from Seville and took refuge with the Marquis of Cadiz, the Duke of Medina Sidonia and the Count of Arcos.’
‘It is because you are considering these people,’ put in Sauli, ‘that you have asked us to come here this day, is it not, Diego?’
Diego nodded sadly. ‘You know, my friends, that these noblemen, who gave the fugitives refuge on their estates, have been ordered to hand them over to the Inquisitors of our town.’
All the men looked grave.
He went on: ‘They have been threatened with ecclesiastical displeasure if they do not obey. More than that . . . they themselves will incur the displeasure of the Queen, and
we know what this could mean. But do not let us be downhearted. Seville is our town. We will fight to preserve our rights and dignities.’
‘Can we do this?’
‘I think we can. Once we show our determination to be strong, the people of Seville will be with us. We have their high regard. They know that we have brought prosperity to the town, and they ask that they may go on in that prosperity. Yes, if we show that we are strong and ready to fight for our liberty – and the liberty of conscience for all – they will be on our side. We are not poor men. I have brought you here to ask you how much money, how many men and arms you can put into this enterprise.’
Diego drew papers towards him, and the conspirators watched him tensely.
* * *
From then on the conspirators met in the house of Diego de Susan.
There was great need, Diego impressed upon them, to preserve secrecy. Since the Inquisitors were continually reminding the people that it was their duty to spy, how could they be sure who, even among those servants whom they considered loyal, might not be on the alert?
It was a few days later when Diego came into his daughter’s room without warning; he saw her sitting with her embroidery in her hand, staring before her with an expression on her face which Diego could only construe as fearful apprehension.
His mind was full of the conspiracy which was coming to its climax, and he thought: My dearest child, she has sensed what is about to happen and she is terrified of what will become of me.
‘My darling,’ he cried, and he went to her and embraced her.
She threw herself into his arms and began to sob passionately.
He stroked her hair. ‘All will be well, my daughter,’ he murmured. ‘You should have no fear. No harm will come to your father. They frightened you, did they not . . . with their black hoods and their mournful chanting voices! I grant you they are enough to strike terror in any heart. But they shall not harm us. Your father is safe.’
‘Safe?’ she murmured, in a bewildered voice. ‘You, safe . . . Father?’
‘Yes, yes, daughter. This is our secret . . . not to be spoken of outside these walls. But you, who know me so well, have sensed what is happening. You know why the Captain of Justice and his friends come to the house. You have heard the injunctions from the Convent of St Paul. Yes, my child, we are going to rise against them. We are going to turn them out of Seville.’
La Susanna had been so occupied with her personal tragedy that she had not given much thought to the new laws which had been brought to Seville. The conspiracy, of which her father was the head, seemed to her, in her ignorance – for she had always lived in the utmost comfort and luxury, sheltered in her father’s house – a trivial affair. She could not conceive that her father, the rich and influential Diego de Susan, could ever fail in his dealings with the authorities; and this conspiracy seemed to her a childish game compared with her own dilemma.
She had never been able to restrain her feelings. Her wild and passionate nature broke forth at that moment, and she burst into loud laughter.
‘Your conspiracy!’ she cried. ‘You are obsessed with that and give no thought to me and what may be happening to me. I am in dire trouble . . . and you are concerned only with your conspiracy!’
‘My dearest, what is this?’
She stood up, drew herself to her full height and, as he looked at her body, in which the first signs of pregnancy were beginning to be apparent, he understood.
She saw him turn pale; he was stunned with horror; she realised with triumph that for a moment she had made him forget his conspiracy.
‘It is impossible,’ he cried out, angry and pathetic at the same time. He was refusing to believe what he saw; he was imploring her to tell him he was mistaken.
La Susanna’s uncontrolled emotions broke out. She loved him so much that she could not bear to hurt him; and because she was self-willed, defiant and illogical she now hated herself for having brought this tragedy on him; and since she could not continue to hate herself, she must hate him because his pain made her suffer so.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘It is not impossible. It is true. I am with child. My lover visited me at night. You thought you had me guarded so well. I deceived you. And now he has gone and I am to have a child.’
Diego groaned and buried his face in his hands.
She stood watching him defiantly. He dropped his hands and looked at her; and his face, she saw, was distorted with rage and grief.
‘I have loved you,’ he said. ‘I could not have loved you more if you had been my legitimate daughter. I have cared for you . . . I have watched over you all these years, and this is how you repay me.’
La Susanna thought: I cannot endure this. I am going mad. Is it not enough that I must bear my child in shame? How can he look at me like that? It is as though he no longer loves me. He thinks to rule me . . . to rule Seville . . . me with his strict rules; Seville with his conspiracy. I cannot endure this.
‘So you regret taking me into your house! Have no fear. I shall ask nothing of you that you do not want to give.’
She was laughing and crying as she ran from the room and out of the house. She heard his voice as he called her: ‘Daughter, daughter, come back.’
But she went on running; she ran through the streets of Seville, her beautiful black hair escaping from its combs and flying out behind her.
She was thinking of her father whom she had loved so dearly. She could not forget the expression of rage and sorrow on his face.
‘I love him no longer . . . I hate him. I hate him. I shall punish him for what he has made me suffer.’
And, when she stopped running, she found herself outside the Convent of St Paul.
* * *
It was dusk, and still La Susanna had not returned to the house.
Diego was frantic. He had searched for her in the streets of Seville and beyond; he had wandered along the banks of the Guadalquivir calling her name, imploring her to come home.
But he could not find her.
He thought of her wandering in the country in the darkness of the night, at the mercy of robbers and bold adventurers who would have no respect for her womanhood. It was more than Diego could bear. His anxiety for her had made him forget temporarily the plan which was about to come to fruition to oust the Inquisitors from Seville.
He returned to the house, and when he heard that she had not come home he wandered out into the streets again, calling her name.
And at last he found her.
She was quiet now, and she walked through the streets as though she were unaware of everything, even herself.
He ran to her and embraced her; she was trembling and she could not find words to speak to him. But she was coming home.
He put his arm about her. ‘My little one,’ he said, ‘what anxiety you have caused me! Never run away from me. This has happened, but we will weather it together, my darling. Never run away from me again.’
She shook her head and her lips framed the words: ‘Never . . . never . . .’
Yet she seemed distrait, as though her mind wandered; and Diego, who knew the wild impetuosity of her nature, feared that some harm had been done to her mind by the shock she had suffered.
He murmured tenderly as they came towards the house: ‘All is well now, my little one. Here we are at home. Now I shall nurse you back to health. We will overcome this trouble. Have no fear. Whatever happens, you are my own dear daughter.’
They entered the house. It seemed unusually quiet. One of the servants appeared. He did not speak, but at the sight of his master and La Susanna he turned and hurried away.
Diego was astonished. He strode into the small parlour, and there he found that they had visitors, for several men rose silently as he entered.
They were the alguazils of the Inquisition.
‘Diego de Susan,’ said one of them, ‘you are the prisoner of the Inquisition. You will accompany us to the Convent of St Paul for questioning.’
‘I!�
�� cried Diego, his eyes flashing. ‘I am one of the leading citizens of Seville. You cannot. . .’
The alguazil made a sign to two guards, who came forward and seized Diego.
As they dragged him out of the house, Diego saw that La Susanna had fainted.
* * *
The news spread through Seville. Its leading citizens were lodged in the cells of St Paul’s. What was happening to them there could be guessed. The Inquisitors were determined to show the citizens of Seville that a mistake had been made if it was thought they did not mean to carry out their threats.
Others were arrested. Did this mean that the cells of St Paul’s had been turned into torture chambers?
La Susanna, who had collapsed at the sight of the alguazils who had come to arrest her father, had been lying on her bed in a dazed condition. When at length she arose, her grief was terrible. It was the grief of remorse.
It was she who had brought the alguazils to the house; it was she who, in a sudden uncontrollable rage, had run to the Convent of St Paul’s and told the eager Inquisitors of the conspiracy which was brewing in her father’s house and of which her father was the leader.
What were they doing to him and his friends now in the Convent of St Paul? There were terrible hints of torture, and if these were true, she and she alone was responsible.
There was only one way to cling to her sanity. She would refuse to believe these stories of the methods of Inquisitors. There would merely be gentle questionings; the plot would be unmasked; and then her father would return home.
She went out and stood in the shadow of the Convent of St Paul looking up at those stone walls.
‘Father,’ she sobbed, ‘Idid not mean to doit. I did not know. I did not think . . .’
Then she went to the gate and asked to be admitted.
‘Let my father be freed,’ she implored. ‘Let me take his place.’
‘This girl is mad,’ was the answer. ‘Tell her to go away. There is nothing we can do for her here.’
Spain for the Sovereigns Page 15