‘Papa!’ The girl tugged at her father’s sleeve.
Her papa, the magistrate, shook her off. ‘Go you inside,’ he said. ‘You have disgraced our family.’
‘Papa!’ the girl wailed in anguish. ‘Listen to me. This man does not deserve to die.’
But it was too late.
They quickly noosed the rope and cast it around my father’s neck, and the soldiers hauled him high on the tree branch. And some of them grinned and joked as they did so, as if it were a sport to see a man kick out and frantically claw at his throat as he choked to death. But one soldier, a stocky red-haired man, went forward and pulled hard on my father’s legs to end his agony.
My father’s body jerked in a last spasm. His arms flailed sideways. To me it seemed he was reaching out to embrace me. I jumped down into the courtyard and ran to him, tears coursing down my face.
‘Father! Father!’ I cried. ‘Father!’
Don Vicente stopped at the threshold of his house. He surveyed me with disdain. ‘I should have known. Carrion like that always spawn more filth.’ The features of his face drew together in lines of deep disgust. ‘Better to wipe out the breed and the seed.’ He waved his hand in a command to the soldiers. ‘Let the beggar’s son dance the same jig.’
The lieutenant nodded to the groom.
‘Bring another rope,’ he said.
Chapter Five
Zarita
MY PAPA, DON Vicente Alonso Carbazón, was known in our town of Las Conchas for his strictness in dealing with criminals, but I had never seen cold hatred on his face until that dreadful summer’s day.
Alerted by the commotion, he came to the door of our house. Upon hearing Ramón’s garbled version of events, he hit the beggar so hard on his mouth that the man’s face burst open like a pomegranate. The sight of the poor man grovelling at his feet seemed to inflame rather than appease Papa. I didn’t know that he was maddened by grief and had lost control of his emotions.
‘Papa.’ I laid my hand on his arm, but he shook it off and dismissed me. And then: horror! They sent for a rope.
I looked to Ramón to stop this, but he was still furious at being humiliated in the church and having to call on the soldiers for help to capture an emaciated peasant. The grim satisfaction in his manner told me that there was no use in appealing to him to stay Papa’s hand.
I staggered back into the doorway of the house as the soldiers did their grisly business. Then a young lad leaped down from the wall of our compound and ran towards us, sobbing and crying for his father.
One of the soldiers grabbed him by the waistband of his breeches and swung him up into the air. ‘Another one for the crows to pick the eyes from!’ he laughed.
And I heard vile words spew from my papa’s mouth, and he gave an order for the lieutenant to hang the boy alongside his father.
‘Papa!’ This time my screech got Papa’s attention. ‘The boy wasn’t there in the church. He has nothing to do with this.’
‘These thieves and brigands work in gangs,’ Papa told me. He tried to usher me into the house. ‘You are too young and innocent, my daughter, to know such things.’
‘He is only a child.’ I pulled on my papa’s shirt sleeve. ‘Look at him. Think of your own newborn son.’
‘I have no son.’
I stared at Papa. And then I saw what I hadn’t noticed before. He was not properly dressed and the hair of his head and beard was unkempt.
‘Your baby brother died half an hour ago,’ he explained.
‘Oh, no!’ Hot tears flooded my eyes. Nine pregnancies my mother had endured since my own birth, with all but this one ending in miscarriage. And now the boy child was dead. No wonder Papa was beyond reasonable thought.
‘Father! Father!’ Outside, the boy was still fighting and reaching out to touch the dead body of his father swinging from the tree. But the noose of a second rope went around his neck and the lieutenant slung the long end over the same branch.
‘You’ll be with your father soon enough,’ one of the soldiers mocked the boy. He began to pull on the end of the rope and the boy rose into the air, his legs kicking as his father’s had done not five minutes since.
I went down on my knees before my papa. ‘Think of Mama,’ I pleaded. ‘She is a kind and gentle mother to me. She wouldn’t want this boy to die as well as her own son.’
My father’s face crumpled and he placed both his hands over his face. ‘Your mama—’ he began, but he could not continue. Sobs racked his body.
‘Mama?’ My breath froze in my lungs. ‘Mama! Tell me that nothing has happened to her. Please, Papa. Tell me that she lives.’
‘She lives,’ he said, ‘but it will not be for long.’ He hesitated, and then he motioned to the lieutenant. ‘There has been enough death in this house for one day. I will spare the boy’s life, but see to it that he is sent away where I will never see him again.’
In some disappointment the soldiers let go of the rope and the boy crashed to the ground, where he lay twitching, stunned but alive.
‘We are on our way by ship to join the armies of Queen Isabella of Castile and King Ferdinand of Aragon in siege against Granada,’ the lieutenant told my papa. ‘I’ll give this beggar rat to the first galley boat we meet at sea. He can be their slave until the end of his days.’
Papa nodded, but I barely heard this exchange. I pushed past him and ran upstairs to my mother’s bedroom. My aunt Beatriz knelt beside the bed holding my mother’s hand. And I knew then that my mother must be dying, for my aunt was an enclosed nun who did not leave the cloister except in extreme circumstances. She had set her nun’s veil aside and I could see how her features resembled my mother’s, except that she was much younger. She was talking to her sister in a soothing voice, telling her how her trials of this life would soon be over and she would find her rest and reward in Heaven.
‘No!’ I said in a loud voice. ‘Don’t say that! Mama cannot die.’ But I could see that my mother’s cheeks and eye-sockets had sunken in, and that every breath was a struggle for her.
The local priest, Father Andrés, who stood at the end of the bed, tried to offer words of solace, but I was not to be placated. I shouted at him, ‘I went to the shrine of Our Lady of Sorrows to pray and make an offering so that everything would be well. I lit a candle and asked that Mama recover after the birth. But there was no one in Heaven listening to me.’ I was angry with his God who could ignore my pleas for mercy. ‘What use was there in my doing that?’ I berated the priest. ‘It was all for nothing. Nothing!’
Father Andrés’ face registered shock at my words but he spoke to me kindly. ‘You mustn’t say things like that, Zarita. It’s wrong to question the Will of God.’
My aunt Beatriz said, ‘Zarita, child, compose yourself. Your mother is slipping away. Let her do so in peace with quiet words of love from you.’
But I could only think of my own need, my own sorrow. I cast myself across Mama’s body where she lay on the bed and wept tears and cried, ‘Do not leave me, Mama! Mama! Mama! Do not leave me!’
Chapter Six
Saulo
ON THAT DAY I swore revenge.
My dazed stupefaction at the stark and savage cruelty of the actions of this day was replaced by venomous hatred. Before the soldiers bound my hands and hauled me through the streets to the docks, I stared hard at the face of the man who had wronged me and vowed I would not forget him.
I, Saulo, of the town of Las Conchas, determined that I would bring ruin upon Don Vicente Alonso Carbazón. I would chop down the tree upon which he’d hung my father. I would scatter his livestock and poison his wells. I would burn his house to the ground with goods and furniture inside and trample them to dust. I would destroy him, his wife, and all his children.
Chapter Seven
TOWARDS MIDNIGHT, INSIDE the church of Our Lady of Sorrows, situated high on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, the candle lit that morning by Zarita del Vicente Alonso de Carbazón flickered and went out. T
wenty minutes later the life of her mama also ended.
Thus the simple lighting of a candle began a chain of events that would bring disaster to those involved that day.
PART TWO
THE ARRIVAL OF THE INQUISITION
1490–1491
Chapter Eight
Zarita
WHEREAS MY PAPA, the magistrate, was respected in the town of Las Conchas, my mother had been loved.
People came onto their balconies to watch her coffin-carriage, drawn by four black plumed horses, make its stately way through the streets, and they threw down flower petals as it passed below them. In addition to being known for her almsgiving, Mama had helped fund a hospital to care for the destitute; here her younger sister, my aunt Beatriz, had established a religious nursing order. Heavily veiled, with the cowled hoods of their habits drawn up, the nuns stood in front of the building to watch the funeral procession, and many of the poor lined either side of the dirt track leading to the cemetery on the hill above the town. My father’s business friends also attended, and a smattering of the local nobility. Although rich, my father was not of noble blood, but he was respected by the lords and dons, who knew that he enforced the laws that kept them safe.
The family tomb had been opened up and Father Andrés, robed in black, stood by the cemetery gate. He was attended by a dozen acolytes wearing white surplices over black cassocks and holding long thick candles of solid beeswax. I’d heard my father order our farm manager, Garci Díaz, to have these made up specially,
‘Spare no expense,’ he’d said. ‘I want the best for my wife and my son.’ Papa’s voice had broken on this last word, and Garci had reached out his hand to my father but then withdrawn it before touching him.
Now, the driver of the hearse pulled the horses to a halt and the priest came to meet us.
And suddenly it was real for me. I’d lived the last few days crying and sobbing through what seemed like some awful nightmare, but as I watched the men lift the wooden coffin that contained Mama’s body and that of my newborn brother, raw emotion wrenched through me. The blinding sun pierced the black lace of my mantilla and seared my vision. It was true; not a dream from which I would awaken. My mother was to be put in this cold dark place and she would not return home to us again.
The horses shifted, and their bridles and traces jingled. Father Andrés began to intone the prayers for the dead: ‘Out of the depths have I cried to thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice.’
He led the way. The men with their burden followed, and then family and friends. I could hardly move. My old nurse, Ardelia, put her arm around my waist to support me. She was weeping sorely, for she’d been my mother’s nurse too and had loved her, as did any who knew her. Her shuddering sobs reverberated through me. Tears began to fall again from my own eyes.
Years ago, when he’d first been appointed magistrate, my papa had our family vault erected with pillars and statues and the fancy embellishments that he deemed fitting for his new rank. At this moment he appeared to be carved from the same cold marble, and my heart chilled as I saw his face. He’d spoken less than a dozen words to me since the day my mother died.
Ardelia had tried to explain: ‘Don’t fret about your papa’s manner,’ she told me. ‘It’s understandable that he behaves in such a way. You resemble your mother so much that it must break his heart to look upon you.’
In my darkest thoughts I fretted about this. Had I been a boy, would Papa be so grief-stricken? Did he mourn his longed-for baby son more than he did my mother? He hadn’t made any sign of sympathy to me to help me bear my loss. That first evening after Mama had passed away I went to kneel by his chair, as I often did of an evening, when he would stroke my hair and talk to me. I’d intended to share my thoughts with him; we might speak of Mama and console each other. But as I knelt down before him to rest my head in his lap, he stood up abruptly and left the room.
‘Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return . . .’
We paused at the entrance to the tomb, and I noticed that there was another here who had not addressed me or given me any kind words since the day of my bereavement.
Ramón Salazar stood to one side. I tried to catch his attention but his gaze was moving among the group of women. I fancied he couldn’t look at me because it pained him to see me in distress. His face was composed in a suitably sombre expression. Yet I could not help noticing that he wore a brand-new braided doublet with pin-tuck stitching in the Italian style. It was velvet of deepest black and topped with a collar of crisp white lace, and I wondered if he’d had it specially made for the occasion and chose the style to set off the aristocratic angular lines of his cheekbones. All at once I needed the warmth of a man – this particular man who had so often professed his undying love for me. I desired his nearness and craved his strength to uphold me. Impulsively I stepped towards him. He glanced at me and then studied my appearance more closely, and I saw a glimmer of faint distaste on his face. I clutched at him and tried to lay my head upon his chest.
He took a tiny pace back.
Not one week before, Ramón would have sought any excuse to enfold me in his arms, but now he patted me and then let his arms fall down to his sides. Was I so ugly in my grief? I knew that my eyes were red from weeping, my cheeks blotched, my mantilla askew as I’d scratched and pulled at my hair.
Ardelia drew me gently to her.
‘May hosts of Angels lead you into Paradise . . .’
The time of committal had arrived. The immediate family entered the mausoleum. The smell of death came into my nostrils. The lights flickered on the walls.
‘Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord.’
Eternal rest.
Eternal.
For ever.
I would never ever see Mama again.
I felt my senses swim and a thundering rush in my head.
Then a strong arm was around my back and a hand supporting me under my elbow. For one giddy second I thought it was Ramón, come to my aid. But it was my aunt Beatriz who was beside me.
‘Zarita’ – she spoke firmly in my ear – ‘conduct yourself with dignity. Your mama would have wished it so.’
I bit down on my lip hard enough to taste blood in my mouth. I straightened up and raised my head high. On my other side Ardelia squeezed my hand in her large one and whispered words of encouragement in my ear.
They buried Mama with the baby boy she had borne; the boy my papa so desperately craved to follow in his footsteps, to manage the farm and be the proud landowner he was, and perpetuate his name.
Afterwards Papa was weary; he retired to his room as soon as we returned from the cemetery. I was left to tend to the mourners who had accepted the offer of food and drink at our house.
Ramón was there, but he did not stand by my side as he might have done to help me greet and then thank the guests for attending and offering their condolences.
My aunt Beatriz took her leave after an hour or so. She held me close as she kissed me. ‘To lose one’s mother is an overwhelming grief, Zarita. Know that I share your sorrow, and take comfort from that. I loved my sister, for she was beautiful both in looks and in nature. She is gone – we hope to a better place than this.’ Aunt Beatriz made the sign of the cross upon me, touching my forehead, my heart and across my breast. ‘Each person upon this Earth has their own hill of Calvary to climb, Zarita. I can give you but small advice. Do as your mother would have done. Continue her work. Be active in your almsgiving. Take an interest in those amongst us who have nothing. Think if there is anyone who might need your help. You may not even know who this might be. It is up to you to make time to seek them out.’
My aunt’s words were in my mind as I began to light the lamps against the darkness. Everyone had left apart from Ramón Salazar, who sat slumped a chair by the window, a goblet dangling from his hand. His handsome face was flushed with too much wine and I recalled how happy we’d been only two or three days since. A sudden memory of the beggar in the ch
urch came to me, and with it another thought. I went over and sat in the chair opposite Ramón and asked him if he recalled the words the man had uttered. But Ramón didn’t want to remember that day. He tried to brush aside my question and was reluctant to engage in conversation about the incident. Yet I persisted: the shame of my lack of charity to the beggar, which had caused the resulting horror of his execution, made me speak.
‘He mentioned a wife,’ I said.
‘What?’ Ramón drank more from his wine cup. His words were slurred. ‘Who has a wife?’
‘The beggar man,’ I repeated. ‘When he asked me for a coin in the church, he mentioned that his wife was ill, and that she could die.’
‘So?’ Ramón yawned.
‘I just wondered’ – I spoke very quietly – ‘what might have become of her?’
Chapter Nine
Zarita
AMONG THE PEOPLE who came to our house to pay their respects in the weeks and months after the death of my mother was the Countess Lorena de Braganza. She was twenty, barely five years older than me, and only a passing acquaintance of our family, yet she stroked my papa’s arm as if she were his closest friend, and purred sympathy into his ear.
At first I paid her little heed, for I was concentrating on business of my own. I had discovered a purpose, a special mission of charity to undertake. I thought that if I could find the beggar boy’s mother and rescue her from poverty, then I could be like my own mama and thus be near her even though we were parted. I saw myself now as an angel of mercy and hoped that it would expiate my wrongdoing and relieve some of the guilt I felt over the beggarman’s death.
Prisoner of the Inquisition Page 2