‘This will be the first time we have the moon with us.’
The words woke him with a start. Dressed only in her nightshift, Isabel was standing on the balcony. She looked beautiful and sensual, with the Alhambra outlined behind her.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Hernando, rising from his chair. ‘What about your husband?’
‘I could hear him snoring from my bedroom. And Doña Ángela retired hours ago.’
As she told him this, out on the balcony, Isabel let her shift slip down from her shoulders, until she stood naked before him. She stared straight at him, a proud look in her eyes, inviting him to enjoy her.
Hernando was amazed: it seemed as though even the moonlight was caressing her marvellous body.
‘Isabel . . .’ whispered Hernando, unable to take his eyes off her breasts, her hips, her thighs . . .
‘Ponce tells me you are leaving tomorrow,’ she said. ‘All we have left is tonight.’
Hernando went towards her and with outstretched hands pulled her into the room. He picked up her night-shift and closed the doors out on to the balcony. He turned back to her and was about to say something, but she laid a finger on his lips as if to tell him not to. Then she gave him a gentle kiss. He reached out to caress her, but Isabel caught hold of his hands and kept them away from her body.
‘Let me do it,’ she begged him.
She started to unbutton his shirt. They only had that night and she wanted to take charge! She was anxious to explore the pleasure Hernando had so often promised her. He was surprised at the sure way her hands caressed his shoulders as she slipped off his shirt. She kissed his chest and dropped her hands to his breeches. After hesitating a moment, she knelt in front of him.
Hernando sighed.
Isabel explored Hernando’s body, kissing and licking him, and then they went over to the bed. For a long while, the light from a single lantern cast the silhouettes of the sweating, shining bodies of a man and a woman who were whispering to each other as they kissed, caressed and gently bit one another to their hearts’ content. Finally it was Isabel who encouraged him to come inside her, as if at last she was ready, as if she now understood the meaning of all that Hernando had been telling her. They fused into one single body. Isabel’s quiet moaning became louder and louder until Hernando had to stifle it with a prolonged kiss, still thrusting inside her until he sensed, rising from deep inside her, a guttural cry that Isabel would never have imagined she was capable of, a cry that mingled with his own moment of ecstasy. For many minutes afterwards they lay quietly, sated, still joined as one.
‘I’m leaving tomorrow,’ Hernando finally said.
‘I know,’ was her only reply.
There was silence again between the two of them, until Isabel almost imperceptibly shook her head and rolled away from him.
‘Isabel . . .’
‘Don’t say anything,’ she told him. ‘I have to return to my own life. You have appeared in it twice, and twice you have saved me.’ Sitting up in bed, she stroked Hernando’s cheek with the back of her hand. ‘I have to go back.’
‘But—’
She again raised one of her fingers to his lips, urging him to be quiet. ‘God be with you,’ she whispered, fighting back her tears.
Unable to watch her leave, Hernando lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling. Eventually, when he could hear the night-time sounds of the city once more, he got up and went out on to the balcony. He lost himself again in contemplation of the Alhambra. Why had he not insisted? Why did he not run to her and promise her eternal happiness? Despite Don Sancho’s warnings, he had risked his life for her. Was the mere fact of enjoying such sensual pleasure with her enough? Was what he felt for her love? he wondered, confused and miserable. After a while, the wonderful red fortress on the far side of the Darro seemed to offer him the answer: he remembered how in his youth in the gardens of the Generalife he had dreamt of dancing with Fátima. Fátima! No! What he felt for Isabel was not love. Thoughts of his wife’s big black almond-shaped eyes brought back memories of the nights of love they had shared. Where was that sense of completeness, of absolute joy, of the thousands of silent promises with which those nights always ended?
Hernando used what little time there was left before dawn to finalize his preparations for departure. Then he went down to the stables, catching the stable lad by surprise before he had even had the chance to muck out the horses’ stalls.
‘Get Volador ready for me,’ he ordered the boy. ‘Then prepare Don Sancho’s mount and the mules. We are leaving.’
Next he headed for the kitchen, where the staff were still half asleep and having their breakfast. He took a piece of stale bread and bit into it.
‘Tell Don Sancho we are going back to Córdoba,’ he said to one of the servants. ‘Be ready by the time I return. I have to go to the cathedral.’
He rode from the Albaicín down to the cathedral. Granada was waking up, and people were beginning to leave their houses. Hernando rode on without looking to right or left. When he reached the cathedral he could not find the chapter clerk, only a priest who assisted him and who did not seem at all pleased to see the Morisco. If he was going back to Córdoba he would need a safe conduct allowing him to travel through the different regions, similar to the one he had been given by the Bishop of Córdoba to move freely around that city.
‘Kindly tell the clerk I have to return to Córdoba,’ he said to the priest after they had exchanged cold greetings that Hernando would have preferred to avoid altogether. ‘Tell him I find it hard to work here in Granada as it is a place so involved in the events I have to relate. I will personally bring him my report and anything else that might be of interest to the dean or archbishop. Tell him also that being a Morisco I will need a safe conduct from the bishop’s office, or whoever else grants such things, authorizing me to travel freely throughout the region. He should send it to me in Córdoba, to the Duke of Monterreal’s palace.’
‘But an authorization—’ the priest started to object.
‘Yes, that’s what I said. Without one there will be no reports. Do you understand? I’m not asking you to pay me for my work.’
‘But—’
‘Haven’t I been clear enough?’
Hernando had only one more piece of business to attend to. The streets of Granada were already full of people, and the silk market by the cathedral was teeming with those who had come to buy or sell silk or other fabrics. Hernando thought Don Pedro de Granada must surely be awake by now.
The noble received him on his own in the dining room as he made short work of a capon. ‘What brings you here at such an early hour? Sit down and join me,’ he said, waving towards all the other delicacies spread on the table.
‘Thank you, Pedro, I’m not hungry.’ Hernando sat down next to the nobleman anyway. ‘I’m leaving for Córdoba, but before I do I needed to talk to you.’ Hernando gestured towards the two servants who were waiting on them. Don Pedro told them to leave.
‘What is it then?’
‘I need you to do me a favour. I’ve had a falling out with the judge.’
Don Pedro stopped eating and nodded as if this was no great surprise. ‘Like all legal men, he’s a twisted sort.’
‘So much so that I’m afraid he will want revenge on me.’
‘Was it such a serious matter?’
Hernando nodded.
‘He’s a bad enemy to have,’ said Don Pedro.
‘I’d like you to find out what he does or says regarding me, and to keep me informed. He could try to influence the cathedral chapter against me. I thought you should know.’
The lord of Campotéjar leant his elbows on the table and cupped his chin in his hands. ‘I will be on the alert for any news. Don’t worry,’ he promised. ‘Am I allowed to know what the problem was?’
‘It’s not hard to imagine, when one has to live so close to such a beauty as the judge’s wife.’
Don Pedro’s fist pounded the table so hard the sou
nd echoed all round the hall and knocked over a couple of glasses. Smiting the table a second time, the noble guffawed. The servants came rushing back in, but Don Pedro dismissed them again, still laughing.
‘That woman was as impregnable as the Alhambra! So many men have tried and failed to conquer her. I myself—’
‘Please be discreet,’ Hernando said, trying to calm his companion down. He was wondering whether he had done the right thing in telling him of his conquest.
‘Of course. So someone has finally put the judge in his place,’ said Don Pedro, chortling again. ‘And hitting him where it hurts the most. Did you know that a large part of his fortune comes from the way the legal clerks robbed the Moriscos by digging out ancient documents and demanding legal titles to lands that had been theirs for centuries? In those days, his father worked in the chancery, and like many others took advantage of the situation. He already has the money, now he wants power through the Los Vélez family. He won’t want any scandal of this sort.’
‘I’m not putting you in a difficult position, am I?’
Don Pedro stopped laughing. ‘We all have difficulties, don’t we?’
‘Yes,’ Hernando agreed.
‘You’ll be in touch with us?’
‘Don’t doubt it.’
50
What more relics do you want than the ones in those hills? Pick up a handful of earth, squeeze it, and the blood of martyrs will pour out.
Letter from Pope Pius IV to the Archbishop of Granada, Pedro Guerrero,
who was asking him for relics for the city
IF HERNANDO had been hoping that on his return from Granada the Morisco community in Córdoba would have relented a little in its attitude towards him, he soon discovered this was not the case. Thanks to the letter the judge had given Don Alonso, news of his role in the study of the Christian martyrs of the Alpujarra had travelled ahead of him. The archbishop’s request was commented on in the duke’s court, and it was not long before Abbas came to hear of it through the palace’s Morisco slaves.
A few days after his return to the city, at Hernando’s insistence his mother agreed to talk to him. She looked old and stooped.
‘You are the man,’ she explained in a dull voice when Hernando arrived at the silk-weaver’s. ‘The law demands I obey you, whatever my wishes.’
They were standing out in the street a short distance from where Aisha worked.
‘Mother,’ Hernando almost begged her, ‘it’s not your obedience I wish for.’
‘You were the one who arranged for them to increase my daily wage, weren’t you? The master did not want to give me any explanation,’ said Aisha, motioning towards the workshop door. Hernando turned and saw the weaver, who waved from a distance and stayed in the doorway watching them, as if waiting to talk to Hernando.
‘Why can’t we return to our—?’
‘I’ve heard that now you’re working for the Archbishop of Granada,’ Aisha interrupted him. ‘Is that true?’ Hernando hesitated. How had they learnt that so quickly? ‘They say that you are devoting your efforts to betraying your brothers in the Alpujarra—’
‘No!’ he protested, his face flushed.
‘Are you working for the papists or not?’
‘Yes, but it’s not what it seems.’ Hernando fell silent. Don Pedro and the translators had demanded he keep their project a complete secret, and he had sworn by Allah to do so. ‘Trust me, Mother,’ he pleaded.
‘How can you expect me to do that? Nobody trusts you any more!’ With this they both fell silent. Hernando felt the urge to embrace her, and stretched out his hand towards Aisha, but she moved away from him. ‘Is there anything more you want from me, my son?’
Why not tell her everything?
‘Never tell a woman!’ Don Pedro had almost shouted when he raised the possibility of confiding in his mother. ‘They talk. All they do is gossip shamelessly. Even your mother.’ After that he had obliged Hernando to swear to it.
‘Peace be with you, Mother,’ he said, withdrawing his hand.
With a lump in his throat, he watched her walk off slowly down the street. He coughed, and headed towards the master weaver, who was still waiting for him. After the customary greetings, the weaver demanded he fulfil his promise: the duke’s household should buy goods from him.
‘I promised I would make sure the duke showed an interest in your wares,’ Hernando told him. ‘If he buys or not is not for me to say.’
‘If they come here, they will buy,’ said the weaver, pointing into his workshop.
Hernando glanced inside: it looked like a well-run establishment. As was stipulated, light came flooding in through open windows that were not covered in any way so that potential buyers could clearly see the weaver’s wares. The velvet, silks and damasks were displayed without any tricks to deceive the public.
‘I’m sure of that,’ said Hernando. ‘I thank you for what you have done for my mother. As soon as I see the duke—’
‘Your lord could take months to return to Córdoba,’ the weaver protested,
‘He is not my lord.’
‘Tell the duchess then.’ Hernando’s obvious reluctance caused the weaver to frown. ‘We made an agreement. I’ve kept my part of it. Now it’s your turn,’ he demanded.
‘I’ll keep mine,’ said Hernando.
Of course he would. That was what he told himself as soon as he had turned his back on the master weaver. His mother would never accept money from him, but he could not allow her to live in poverty while he was given such a generous allowance. She was all he had left, even if she rejected him. Some day he would be able to tell her the truth, he told himself to try to raise his spirits as he walked by the stone benches lined up along the blind wall of the San Pablo convent. A group of young boys were staring open-mouthed at the corpse of a young woman found out in the fields by the Brothers of Mercy. Hernando was reminded of the time when he used to come here day after day expecting to see the body of Fátima or one of his children on public display.
Fátima had come back into his thoughts and dreams with renewed intensity. A few days earlier as he rode out on to the fertile plains outside Granada, he had turned his horse round to stare at the city of the Nasrid dynasty. That was where Isabel lived. Yet the capricious clouds forming in the skies above the mountaintops, whose changing shapes the old men had once used to make prophecies, now showed him the face of Fátima.
Someone, probably Don Sancho, had made a noise at his back, as though to remind him that they should continue on their way. The hidalgo was cold and distant towards him now. Hernando did not turn round, but remained absorbed in the cloud that seemed to be smiling at him.
‘You carry on. I’ll catch you up.’
It had been three years since Ubaid had murdered Fátima and the children, thought Hernando. He had just met another woman with whom he had tried to reach the heaven he could now see stretching above the cloud, but it was with Fátima that he had been there. It was as if Isabel, in that Granada he could almost reach out and touch, had set him free and opened the doors to feelings he had kept hidden within him all that time. Three years. Hernando did not weep as he had done on hearing the news of his wife’s death. Neither tears nor pain distorted his memory of her laughter, Inés’s sweet words, or Francisco’s revealing blue eyes. He stared up at the cloud, and went on gazing at it until the shape gradually merged with another one. Then he patted the horse’s neck and made it turn round again. Don Sancho and the servants were some way ahead. Hernando thought about spurring Volador on to catch up with them, but then changed his mind and followed them at a walk.
The Duke of Monterreal’s valet was called José Caro. He was almost forty years old, ten years older than Hernando. Caro was a serious, haughty man who was extremely scrupulous in his dealings with others, as befitted someone who had started out as a page boy to Don Alfonso’s father at a very early age. The valet, who in the household hierarchy was second only to the chaplain and the personal secretary, was the man
responsible for the duke’s wardrobe and other personal effects, as well as everything to do with the decoration and maintenance of the palace. It was José Caro whom Hernando had to convince to go and see the master weaver’s silks, but in all the time that he had been living in the palace he had hardly exchanged a dozen words with him.
Hernando saw him one afternoon in one of the halls, impeccably dressed in his livery as he supervised the work of a carpenter repairing the hinges on a sideboard. Next to him a young maid was sweeping up the wood shavings even before they touched the floor.
Hernando paused in the doorway. ‘I need you to go to the master weaver Juan Marco’s workshop to buy . . .’ he rehearsed. ‘I need you to?’ ‘I would like you to . . . I beg you to . . .’ ‘Why?’ Caro was bound to ask. How would he answer a question like that? ‘Because I’m the duke’s friend,’ he could answer, ‘I once saved his life.’ He imagined having to repeat that argument to the duchess, and immediately rejected it. Don Sancho had taught him many things, but he had definitely never shown him how to behave towards the servants with the authority the others seemed to show so naturally. He also considered going directly to the hidalgo, but the old man had refused to speak to him since their dispute over Isabel.
All of a sudden Hernando felt himself being watched. The valet was staring straight at him. How long had he been standing there in the doorway?
‘Good afternoon, José,’ he said, twisting his lips in what he hoped looked like a smile.
The maid stopped sweeping and also gazed at him in surprise. The valet merely nodded briefly in his direction and turned back to oversee the carpenter’s work.
Seeing the young servant look at him in that way confused Hernando, and made him decide not to go ahead. He realized he had not established any personal relationship with the household servants in the three years he had been there. He turned round and dawdled in the palace courtyards until he saw the maid emerge.
The Hand of Fatima Page 66