Prisoner of the Inquisition

by Theresa Breslin

  Although I was glad Lorena wasn’t in Mama’s place, she was in the chair that I’d once occupied, and I considered it an affront that she hadn’t consulted me before deciding where to sit. At mealtimes I felt left out, for she never included me in any of her conversation and frowned in a disagreeable manner whenever I attempted to join in.

  ‘Horsemen have arrived,’ I informed my father. ‘One is a monk and the others wear a very strange livery.’

  My father gave a tut of irritation that he hadn’t succeeded in calling me back to my place. Then he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and came to the window.

  ‘See . . .’ I pointed to where the men were dismounting.

  Six horsemen. A monk in a black habit accompanied by five soldiers in tunics with an unusual green cross emblazoned on them.

  I heard Papa’s intake of breath.

  I looked at him curiously. ‘Who are they?’

  There was a silence and then my father said tightly, ‘The soldiers wear the livery of the Holy Inquisition.’

  Behind me I heard Lorena gasp aloud. ‘I will retire to my room,’ she said quickly.

  ‘No, wait,’ Papa ordered her. ‘I’ve been told that it’s best to be completely open with these people. It will be obvious that they’ve disturbed us at our meal. Therefore my wife and my daughter would be seated at table. They may join us if they wish to eat.’

  There was an imperious knock on the front door. My father bade me sit down and then went himself to open it, intercepting Serafina on the way.

  ‘I will see to these visitors,’ he told her. ‘I believe them to be representatives of the Inquisition.’

  Serafina gave Papa a scared look and made the sign of the cross on her forehead.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he told her as she scurried back to the kitchen. ‘And tell the other servants that they have nothing to fear.’

  I’d followed him to the doorway of our dining room, looking out from there into the hallway.

  ‘You should sit back down,’ Leonora called out to me. ‘I think your father will be annoyed if you are not sitting at table when these men enter the house.’

  I flung her a scornful glance over my shoulder. ‘As if I would do anything that you advised me!’

  Lorena shrugged. ‘Very well,’ she said, and her voice held a note of amused satisfaction. ‘Go your own wilful way, Zarita.’ Then she added in a lower tone, ‘And suffer the consequences.’

  I was determined to stay where I was. And then I thought better of it. The arrival of these men had affected my father in a peculiar way. I wasn’t sure how he would react to my disobedience now, and perhaps Lorena had deliberately suggested I should obey him, knowing that I would do the opposite. I considered my stepmother sly enough to engineer a situation to get me into trouble. As I heard Papa open the front door, I fled back to the table and took my place.

  Lorena did indeed look disappointed as I sat down again. We heard voices in the hallway and then footsteps approaching. Before the men entered the room, Lorena lifted her shawl, which was draped over the back of her chair, and wrapped it close around her upper body, concealing her cleavage and exposed arms.

  ‘Father Besian, I am pleased to welcome you to my home and to meet my family.’ Papa was speaking to the monk who had entered the room ahead of him. And my father, always so in command of himself and others, made a nervous gesture.

  Father Besian surveyed us in turn. Lorena nodded her head and lowered her eyes, but when the priest’s gaze reached mine, I refused to meekly bow my head as she had done. He looked at me with dark, deep-set eyes. Having been so protected by my mama, I’d only heard vague stories of the trials of the Inquisition via the servants, and couldn’t see why we should fear everyone associated with it. It was true that this monk appeared stern, but to me the expression on his face was one of concern.

  ‘I am available for confession while I am here,’ he said, ‘and I would expect everyone within the household to confess. With honesty and clarity,’ he added.

  ‘You must excuse us if we are out of sorts, for this is a house of mourning,’ my father told him. ‘We still grieve for my wife, who died almost a year ago.’

  ‘I see.’ Father Besian thought for a moment and then said, ‘It can be that the loss of a loved one causes a person’s faith to falter. It benefits the soul to confess these doubts and failings to a priest.’

  My own heart fluttered then, for I recalled my sharp words to our local priest, Father Andrés, about the lack of mercy that God had shown when Mama passed away. And like my father and Lorena, a wariness came over me.

  Father Besian seemed to sense this. He looked at me again. ‘Who is this young woman?’ he asked.

  ‘That is my daughter, Zarita,’ said Papa.

  ‘And this other lady?’ The priest indicated Lorena.

  ‘Lorena.’ My father cleared his throat. ‘My wife.’

  ‘A second wife?’ The priest raised an eyebrow. ‘Yet you said it was not yet a twelvemonth since the girl’s mother passed away?’

  ‘Zarita is my only child . . . a daughter. You will appreciate, Father Besian’ – Papa spread his hands, palms upturned – ‘a man must have a son to inherit his land and goods.’

  I heard Lorena grind her teeth. Was this because my papa was saying that he had married her merely because of her breeding ability? I wondered. An unfamiliar sensation of sympathy for her came to me, but I dismissed it and would not entertain it in my mind.

  As quickly as possible Lorena excused herself and left the room. When she reappeared soon after, it was to go to Benediction at the local chapel. I was astounded. Not since May began had Lorena sallied forth late morning or early afternoon. She considered the rays of the summer sun too powerful, and worried they might spoil her complexion. She was dressed in black; not the stylish black of heavy lace and rustling taffeta that she sometimes wore, but plain dark materials, and her face was heavily veiled.

  Father Besian looked at her in approval and then addressed me. ‘Do you not attend Benediction?’ he enquired mildly.

  ‘Zarita works at her studies during the day,’ my papa interjected before I could say anything. He gave me a firm look. ‘And it would be best that you go and do so now, my daughter.’

  It had been so long since Papa had called me ‘daughter’ that I felt tears well up. He gazed at me steadily, and there was a plea in his eyes that made me get to my feet and obey him.

  I went to my room and took out some of the books that Papa had bought for me to read when he’d been more interested in my education. It was difficult to concentrate. The arrival of these men had changed the atmosphere in the household; an unnatural silence had settled everywhere. I went to the window. Usually the servants would sit and chat in a shady spot for an hour or so in the heat of the afternoon: Serafina and the maids preparing vegetables while Garci and the stablelad, Bartolomé, polished horse brasses or engaged in some other leisurely task. Now, the only people around were the soldiers accompanying Father Besian, who were sitting under a tree eating some food. As I watched, Bartolomé, who was Serafina’s nephew, came from the stables with a bucket in his hand and a happy smile on his face. He wandered over to the well and began to draw water from the tap. One of the men beckoned to him; immediately he dropped his bucket, spilling the water he’d collected, and trotted over to stand in front of him: Bartolomé was completely without guile and would do anything to please you. Although he was nearly twenty, his mind was as that of a child. My mama had told me that people like Bartolomé are God’s most precious beings. They are sent upon this Earth to remind us of how we must never lose our sense of wonderment. I smiled as I saw Bartolomé nodding furiously and waving his arms in the air. I thought, If these men seek to pry into our affairs, they’ll get no sense from him.

  Later my old nurse, Ardelia, brought me my evening meal. ‘Your father has asked that you remain in your room until bedtime.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked her.

  She lowered her voice. ‘Don
Vicente Alonso thinks it best that you and Lorena are not about while these men are visiting us.’ She glanced at the ceiling. ‘Father Besian will sleep in the attic above you. He requested the plainest room in the house. The others are in the servants’ quarters above the stables.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘No one there is speaking to them.’

  ‘Apart from Bartolomé,’ I said. ‘I saw him talking with them earlier.’

  ‘What!’ Ardelia looked alarmed. ‘I must tell Serafina and Garci.’ She hurried from the room.

  As I picked at my food, my sense of unease increased. Why was Ardelia so upset, and why would Papa want me to stay in my room? I didn’t mind so much, partly because he’d imposed the same restriction on Lorena, but also because I was glad that I wouldn’t have to encounter Father Besian. The thought of confessing to him was beginning to trouble me.

  Not long after I retired for the night I heard the creak of floorboards above my head. Father Besian must be preparing for bed. If I had to confess to him, what should I say? I hated Lorena. That was a sin against charity. I’d spoken of it in confession to our priest, Father Andrés, and he’d said it was to do with the great grief I still carried at losing my mother. These bad thoughts were natural feelings but I must try to overcome them. He assured me that they would go away, especially when Lorena produced a baby, as no doubt she would in time. Then I would love that child and would become more accepting of Lorena. I had told Serafina, Garci’s wife, that I disliked Lorena very much, and she, with her head bent over the oven, had muttered: ‘Not as much as I do.’ That had made me laugh, but I knew it wasn’t the response my mama would have liked, and I was trying to live as she would have wanted me to. When my spirits were low and these thoughts threatened to overcome me, I would go the convent hospital of my aunt Beatriz and seek balm for my soul.

  ‘Zarita,’ she told me, ‘you are not your mama. She was a very saintly woman, more holy than I could ever be, and I am a nun. Although this order I have founded is not recognized by any formal papal decree, I have made vows to myself and to God to uphold certain virtues. But know this: I was not the good child of my family. In my youth at court I led a wilder life than was deemed proper for a girl of those times. My sister, your mama, was the one who had true goodness within her. There are few people who can emulate her.’ Aunt Beatriz drew me to her and stroked my hair and reassured me. ‘You must be you, Zarita. You can be none other.’

  But in addition to this, weighing on my conscience was the other, greater sin, the one I had confessed to no one: the occasion when I had turned my face away from God because He had not spared the life of my mother and my baby brother. I’d buried that deep within me and never spoke of it. A sweat was upon me now. These thoughts came crowding into my mind as the footsteps of Father Besian paced above my head. I’d a strong conviction that if I held anything back from this priest in confession, then he would know. I resolved to avoid confessing to him. Faintly, I heard the chant of prayers as he recited his evening office, and I drifted into restless dreams.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Zarita

  THE NEXT MORNING Lorena and I were quietly eating breakfast in the company of Father Besian when Papa strode into the room.

  ‘I would speak with you!’ He addressed the priest sharply. ‘In private,’ he added.

  Father Besian regarded him calmly and said, ‘There is nothing that cannot be spoken of in front of your wife and daughter.’

  ‘Did you order these leaflets to be distributed and posted all over my town?’ Papa unfolded a piece of paper he had crushed in his hand and handed it to the priest.

  Father Besian took the paper from him, laid it on the table and smoothed it out carefully. ‘I did,’ he said.

  I tilted my head to try to read the words that were written on the paper.

  ‘You have no right to call upon the people of this town to inform upon each other in this way.’ Papa’s voice was tense with anger.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Father Besian replied, ‘the Chief Inquisitor, Tomás de Torquemada, grants me, as an appointed officer of the Holy Inquisition, the right to do this. It is vital that we root out heresy and discover if any so-called converts from Judaism still hold to their former religious practices. I have discovered that there are both Jews and Muslims living in this town. These are potentially corrupting influences. In my experience, good results are obtained when we call upon the local population to be vigilant and to bear witness for us.’

  ‘There are half a dozen Jewish families confined to the poorest area near the docks and a few Muslim fishermen who tie up their dhows at the furthest jetty. They have never given us any trouble. I am the magistrate of this town: you should have spoken to me before issuing proclamations that might incite unrest.’

  Father Besian drank from his cup of warm milk and then set it down before him. ‘The only unrest that will follow my announcements will be in the hearts of the unbelievers.’

  ‘What do you propose to do when these informants come forward?’ Papa demanded. ‘You’ll find that there are those who will take the opportunity to avenge an old score or to tell lies about a neighbour against whom they hold a grudge.’

  ‘I will question them very carefully. It will go hard for those who have no genuine reason for their denouncements.’

  ‘You intend to hold an Inquisition in the town?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Last night you told me that you were only passing through, and asked me to provide accommodation while you awaited passage on a ship to take you to Almería.’

  ‘I have changed my mind,’ Father Besian said.

  ‘And where do you propose to carry out your inquiries and trials?’ My father laughed. ‘This is not a large town. The gaol is the basement of a one-storeyed building, and my so-called magistrates’ court is the small room above.’

  Father Besian leaned back in his chair. He looked out of the window at our farm buildings and then about him within the room. He smiled. ‘You have a well-appointed house here, Don Alonso. I will use your premises to do this work of God.’

  ‘My house! My home!’ Papa reeled back in shock. ‘No! That is impossible! I won’t allow it.’

  ‘I would remind you, Don Vicente’ – the priest’s voice became icy – ‘that as the local magistrate you are bound under law to assist me in any way I see fit.’

  Father Besian stood up, and I was suddenly conscious that he was taller than Papa, and although much thinner, his presence seemed to make my father shrink.

  ‘The Holy Inquisition was set up by Queen Isabella of Castile and King Ferdinand of Aragon as part of their glorious mission to establish the Christian kingdom of Spain. These two monarchs of separate kingdoms within Spanish territory are united, both in marriage and in mind, to bring all other provinces and districts under their command. Even now they fight to take Granada from the Infidel and will replace the flag of the crescent moon with that of the cross on its ramparts. I, as an officer of the Inquisition, have the absolute authority of both Church and State. You should not try to hinder my work in any way. I have often found that those who do so usually have some wrong or . . . inconsistency . . . within their own family that they are trying to conceal.’ The priest stared at my father and then abruptly swivelled to encompass Lorena and myself in his gaze.

  The effect of these words on Papa was startling. The colour went from his face as the light does from the sky when a cloud passes across the sun. He staggered and gripped the back of a nearby chair to support himself.

  ‘In addition to posting notices in the town,’ Father Besian continued, ‘I now tell you that I intend to proclaim the same message to everyone from the pulpit when I preach at mass tomorrow. I expect to see you, your family, and every member of your household in the front pew of the church. An important person like the magistrate should set an example to the rest of the community.’

  And so we were there the next day – myself, Papa and Lorena – suitably and soberly dressed. Before the service began we w
ere joined by my aunt Beatriz. A veil was draped from just below her eyes, and the cowl of her habit covered her head and the sides of her face, as was the custom of her Sisters of Compassion whenever they appeared in public. Papa had distanced himself from his sister-in-law when he married Lorena. Although my aunt never made known her feelings about him taking a new wife so soon after her sister’s death, I believed this to be the cause of their estrangement. Now he bestowed upon her a look of gratitude for her presence with us this morning.

  While Father Besian railed against heretics, Jews, Muslims and all those he claimed threatened the Church and the safety of Spain, we composed ourselves to be quiet and attentive.

  ‘Our monarchs, the virtuous Queen Isabella of Castile, joined in matrimony with the equally righteous King Ferdinand of Aragon, have made it their intention to unite the kingdoms and provinces with a view to making Spain one unified country. This will be one Catholic, unified country. To do this they have waged a holy war, a crusade, against all unbelievers. Even now, they struggle in battle against the Infidel who holds the Kingdom of Granada and who will not yield it to the Christian rule of their majesties. For too long Muslims have sullied Spanish soil and they will be driven out. But there are others in our midst, here within our hearts and homes, whom we must also drive out. These are the ones who can be most deceptive. The ones we must uproot as you would a weed that chokes the good and fruitful plants.’

  Father Besian had come to the part in his sermon where he exhorted the congregation to be vigilant, and to inform him and his officers of the Inquisition of any perceived wrongdoing.

  ‘You must report any instance that might be an act of heresy. Even if the one you suspect is a brother, a sister, a parent or a child. Yea,’ he thundered, ‘be it a daughter who suspects a father, or a mother her own son! I charge you upon pain of mortal sin. You risk the eternal damnation of your immortal soul if you remain silent.’