My aunt took a deep breath. I risked a glance at Papa, and saw his jaw tighten and his face become grim. To one side were our household staff. They sat up in their pew, straight-backed in an attitude of apprehension. All except Bartolomé, who was doing what he always did in church: smiling, playing with his fingers and singing softly to himself. But when the sermon went on much longer than usual, to everyone’s consternation he began to make popping noises with his mouth.
Father Besian raised his voice to cover the interruption.
Bartolomé was equal to the challenge. He filled his cheeks with air, and before Serafina could prevent him, smacked both hands against them, causing the loudest farting sound heard in the church for quite some time. A giggle rose in my throat. I pretended to cough. Beside me I felt my aunt’s body shaking and realized that she too was suppressing laughter. Father Besian’s features suffused with anger. He paused and glared down from the pulpit at Bartolomé, who cheerfully waved up at him. Bartolomé often waved to Father Andrés as he preached, and Father Andrés would wave back. Bartolomé saw no reason why this priest should be any different from the other. Father Besian cut short his speech and swept down the pulpit stairs.
After the service had ended we went outside in the fresh air, where we breathed more easily. Serafina grabbed Bartolomé by the hand and, followed by the rest of our servants, walked off quickly. I noticed the rest of the townspeople did too; after church services they normally lingered to chat with relatives and friends and catch up with news, but this time they hurried away.
‘Who was that idiot who interrupted my sermon?’ Father Besian approached us, obviously still outraged by the affront to his dignity.
Papa opened his mouth to reply but my aunt Beatriz interrupted smoothly, ‘He is indeed a true idiot, most reverend father. A simple-minded soul. You are so wise to have realized that. There are those, less perceptive, who would have been discomfited by such bad manners.’
Father Besian turned shrewd eyes on my aunt. ‘You are . . .?’
My aunt bowed her head. ‘Beatriz de Marzena, of the convent hospital run by the Sisters of Compassion.’
‘As a nun, should you not be within your monastery walls?’
‘I am sister to Don Vicente Alonso’s first wife and, as such, part of his family. He informed me that you wished all his family members to attend your preaching this morning.’
Father Besian surveyed my aunt and then said, ‘The Sisters of Compassion? I’ve travelled through many parts of Spain doing the work of the Holy Inquisition and I’ve never heard of such an order of nuns.’
‘I myself founded the order,’ my aunt informed him. ‘We have not yet been formally recognized by our Holy Father the Pope.’
Father Besian gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Indeed?’ he said.
It was my papa’s turn to interrupt. ‘I have business to attend to.’ He addressed himself to the priest. ‘If you have no need of me at the moment . . .’
Father Besian waved his hand in dismissal. My aunt took the opportunity to step aside. She spoke to my papa: ‘Perhaps Zarita could accompany me to the convent and visit for a while?’
Papa nodded – in some relief, I thought.
Within days the town of Las Conchas changed utterly.
The shops and market stalls became much quieter. There were fewer people on the streets, and those that were about looked suspiciously at each other. Strangers, previously welcomed as bringers of commerce, were now shunned. The Arab fishermen left quietly in their dhows and did not return. It was said that the Jews had shuttered their houses and remained inside all night and for most of the hours of daylight. We’d been a sleepy town with a moderately busy harbour. Now we were a closed community where neighbours scarcely greeted each other as they passed in the street. My own home was a place of silence. To my annoyance I was prevented from taking my daily ride. Garci told me that Papa had given instructions that neither Lorena nor I must leave the compound without his permission. To avoid meeting Father Besian I usually went to the convent hospital after mass each morning and spent most of the day there in the company of my aunt and her nuns.
‘Apart from any moral consideration about whether one religion has the right to impose its rules upon another, the actions of this Inquisition are ruining business in our town,’ my aunt’s deputy in the convent, Sister Maddalena, commented as we sat one day in the parlour making bandages and chatting together.
‘Hush’ – my aunt glanced towards the door – ‘good Sister Maddalena – one never knows who is listening.’
Sister Maddalena, a large and bustling woman who had raised a family of ten children and buried three husbands before deciding to dedicate her life to God, tossed her head. ‘Our sisters here would never betray each other, but anyway, I don’t care who hears when I speak the truth. People are afraid to go out, to trade, to do anything that might be construed as against the Church. They fear that some busybody will report them.’
I lowered my voice and said, ‘Do you believe that one religion has no right to impose its rules upon another? Surely it’s our duty as good Christians to evangelize.’
‘The king and queen would have it so,’ my aunt replied carefully. ‘Queen Isabella, in particular, believes that she does the Will of God in her mission to bring all Spain together under the banner of the Cross.’
‘And what would gentle Jesus say to her actions in setting up an Inquisition that can use torture when questioning the accused?’ Sister Maddalena snorted in derision.
‘She thinks it better to suffer on Earth and attain a lasting peace in Heaven.’
Sister Maddalena leaned closer. ‘My cousin in Saragossa said that she had six criminals castrated, then hung, drawn and quartered in public in front of the cathedral.’
‘She is a monstrous queen,’ I said with passion, ‘who could allow so many to be condemned to such a terrible death.’
‘Not so monstrous,’ my aunt mused. ‘She is intelligent and has a kindness in her, especially for her family and friends, but when she sets her mind to do a thing, it will be done. You have to appreciate that when she inherited the throne of Castile from her half-brother, Henry, she took over a ruined kingdom. During his reign Henry had granted favours to wicked and venous men and women. The court was solely a pleasure-seeking institution with scant order or justice dispensed. Bandits roamed the land. There was no rule of law. Isabella changed that, but such was the level of corruption, even amongst the nobles, that she had to be ruthless to do it. She’s been criticized for her lack of mercy, but now the peasants can till their land and reap their harvests, and travellers can move about the highways unmolested.’
‘You are acquainted with her!’ I exclaimed.
My aunt nodded. ‘I was. Years ago I spent time at court and I know that her life has not been easy. As a young child she was held in a grim castle, guarded and guided only by an austere and, some say, deranged mother. She was influenced by her confessor, a zealot, and I think this is still the case.’
‘And do you believe in this mission of the queen and king?’ I asked curiously.
My aunt opened her mouth to reply, but paused and tilted her head in an attitude of listening. She raised her hand and put her finger to her lips. Then, rising swiftly, she went and opened the door.
Father Besian stood there.
‘I was about to knock,’ he said without hesitation.
My aunt deliberately looked beyond him into the corridor. ‘How rude of the sister who is portress for today not to see that you were conducted personally to my rooms.’
‘I dismissed your sister portress,’ the priest said, ‘and told her that I would find my own way to your parlour. I hope you don’t mind?’
‘Not at all,’ my aunt replied pleasantly. ‘Do come in.’
Sister Maddalena stood up. ‘I’ll bring an infusion of mint to refresh you.’
The priest settled himself in a chair. ‘You have spent a comfortable day . . . talking?’ he enquired of me.
‘Ah, yes, Zarita is the daughter of your sister, isn’t she? I can see the likeness between you, especially in the eyes.’
‘Zarita resembles her mother, and we were said to be so like as to be twins. But tell me, Father’ – my aunt drew her veil across her face – ‘how are your investigations progressing?’
Father Besian frowned. ‘The Muslims have fled and the Jews are sequestered. As they should be,’ he added. ‘We have been asked to arbitrate in petty squabbles, but as yet no one has given us any serious information regarding heretical practices.’
‘I am glad to hear that.’
‘I am not.’
‘No?’
‘No. It merely means that there are things deeply concealed.’
‘Might it not mean that there is nothing amiss here?’
‘I have noted lax practices.’
Sister Maddalena returned with the glasses filled with hot water which had been sweetened and infused with leaves of mint.
Father Besian took the glass proffered to him. ‘See, here is an example of which I speak. The tray upon which you serve these drinks is of Arabic origin with writing in their language. Do you know what it means?’
There was a heartbeat of a pause.
‘I could not say.’
My aunt had spoken an untruth – if not a direct lie, then certainly a statement made with the intention to deceive the hearer – and I wondered how she would justify it to her confessor. I knew that my aunt had taught herself Arabic in order to read certain texts so that her patients might profit from the superior knowledge she claimed the Moors had of medicine.
‘So it could be some blasphemous saying written down within the walls of a monastery and you are ignorant of it.’ As my aunt said nothing, the priest held up his glass. ‘Also this drink is of Moorish origin.’
My aunt blinked. ‘I think you will find that the queen herself drinks an infusion made from mint leaves.’
Father Besian waved his hand. ‘It is not for someone like you to know what the queen does or does not do. These are instances of irregularities in this town that cause me disquiet. Your order has no standing within the Church – that in itself could constitute heresy, combined with the lack of respect shown at Holy Mass by the servant of your brother-in-law.’
My aunt got up and went to a cupboard in the corner of the room. From there she took out a box, which she unlocked. She handed Father Besian the scroll it contained. ‘This is the deed of the grounds of this convent hospital, the land having been granted to me by Queen Isabella that I might found a hospital and a group of sisters to nurse the needy. The founding of my order was done with her approval. Our petition for recognition, supported by the queen, lies in the Vatican awaiting the attention of the Holy
Father.’
Father Besian’s face tightened as he read the parchment.
My aunt returned it to the box and closed the lid with a hard snap. ‘If this is all you can find wrong in our town,’ she said crisply, ‘an adult with the mind of a child and a nun drinking a glass of mint tea, I fear that you might make a mockery of the work of the Inquisition.’
The priest’s body vibrated with suppressed anger as he stood up to leave. ‘I see these transgressions as indications of deeper wrongs. But I am a patient and determined man and will uncover that which people wish to hide.’
There was silence between my aunt and me as Sister Maddalena showed Father Besian out of the convent. I was afraid and I did not understand why.
My aunt came up to me and put her lips close to my ear. ‘Ensure that your housekeeper, Serafina, serves pork for dinner tomorrow.’
I smiled in puzzlement. ‘My father has no liking for pig meat. It’s never served in our house. You know this.’
My aunt did not smile at me in return. Instead she looked very grave and continued in the lowest of voices, ‘Listen, Zarita. Do as I tell you in this matter. Tell your father privately that I said that this is what must happen. He will understand and comply.
‘Now’ – she relaxed her face and took my arm – ‘let us walk in the garden for a while and you can put flowers on the grave of the beggar’s wife. I know that you like to do this.’
Strolling along the neat pathways of the walled garden soothed me, and I spent some time praying at the graveside I tended. But on my way home my peace was shattered. I was met by Serafina, who came running up to me as I approached our compound. She was weeping and wringing her hands.
‘Whatever is the matter?’ I asked her.
‘They have arrested him! The soldiers of the Inquisition have taken him away to be questioned.’
‘Who?’ I asked her. ‘Who has been taken to be questioned?’
‘My nephew,’ she cried, and burst out weeping afresh. ‘They have arrested Bartolomé.’
Chapter Fifteen
Saulo
‘PIRATES!’
The sail-maker who acted as lookout swung round from his position on the prow of our boat to face the captain. ‘Pirates!’ he yelled again.
‘Could we parley with them?’ Captain Cosimo demanded. ‘What flag do they fly?’
‘None,’ came the reply. ‘That’s how I know she’s a brigand. And by the size of her, she has more guns and men than us.’
I stopped with my ladle half in the water barrel and gazed out to where the lookout was pointing. The sail of a larger galley was now visible on a southerly heading.
The captain swore and banged his fist on the table in front of him, causing his jug of water to tumble over and roll down to the lower deck.
I leaped forward, picked it up and refilled it from the barrel. I glanced at Panipat, and the oarsmaster nodded for me to return it to the captain.
A conversation rose amongst the men.
‘Have they noticed us?’
‘Have they changed direction?’
‘Why would they bother? Can’t they see we’re a trading vessel?’
We could see the other boat more clearly now, a long low craft with double-banked oars. And we also saw that they were altering course to intercept us.
‘Perhaps they think we carry gold instead of almond oil and salted fish.’
‘They’ll be looking for good rowing men to sell as slaves,’ I heard Lomas say. He called out to Panipat in a louder voice, ‘Get us out of their way, oarsmaster! I want to see my boy again, not be taken for a slave or done to death in a fight we cannot win!’
The rest of the freeman rowers joined in with shouts of agreement:
‘Go on, Panipat! Use the whip if you must!’
‘Set us a pace and let us row away from here!’
The pirates were lowering their sail to prepare to give chase using their superior oar power.
Captain Cosimo chewed his lip. He studied the map before him. I followed his gaze and saw a wooden disc placed to the left of a large island with the letter M inscribed on it – Mallorca? He glanced up again. ‘How is she gunned?’ ‘Three,’ shouted the lookout. ‘A full cannon and two
culverins, with perhaps another piece in the stern.’
‘Outmanned and outgunned,’ the captain muttered.
As if to confirm his observation, there was a dull roar as the enemy fired off a warning shot to tell us to heave to.
The ball landed well short, but caused an outcry from the crew. They began to curse the captain for his incompetence in setting a course that had brought us into the path of a predator. They blamed the lookout, saying it was his fault, as if by noticing the pirate galley he was responsible for conjuring up this enemy out of thin air. And when they had vented their initial anger, in fear some turned to prayer, imploring God and other supernatural powers – even the spirits of the sea – to come to their aid.
The captain peered at the map in agitation. ‘We need an island – somewhere, anywhere we can run aground.’ He raised his magnifying glass to his eye and brought his face down close to the map.
&n
bsp; ‘There,’ I said, and pointed to the drawing of a tiny island west of the wooden disc that I guessed represented our boat.
‘Well spotted, boy,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve found an island!’ he said more loudly. Then he called a heading to Panipat.
The crew had crossed dangerous waters before. Our sail was already stowed, the men in position, and Panipat was alert, waiting for the captain’s order. The oarsmaster roared out his instructions and our boat turned round. The oarsmen set to, and we sped away across the sea. The men laughed as the gap immediately widened between the two boats.
But the island was further than it had looked on the map, and when I glanced back, the pirate boat was in hot pursuit. The sight of this boat travelling at such a pace behind us, the oars flashing back and forth, fascinated me. I couldn’t tear my gaze away. There was no time to give the men water, and anyway, I had enough difficulty in keeping my balance, for our boat had never travelled at this speed before. As I watched, I could see that the pirate ship was closing.
The oarsmen couldn’t afford to glance up or break their concentration. The wellbeing of everyone on board depended on their skill and effort now. Panipat, stalking along the wooden boardwalk, was aware of the danger. He cracked his whip above their heads, growling and snarling as he sought to lengthen their strokes, to maximize their energy. The muscles rippled on their torsos. With each backward pull they half stood, and on the return movement bent their knees to almost a sitting position, using the cushion or padding under their haunches to slide their bodies forwards swiftly.
‘Pull!’ the oarsmaster bawled. ‘Pull! Pull! Pull away, you dogs! You misbegotten sons of Adam! You vile carcasses of rotten meat!’ Panipat appeared to grow in stature, and flecks of white spit sprayed from his mouth, along with the abuse he poured onto the heads of his men. ‘You scum!’ he berated them. ‘You driftwood! You flea-ridden vermin! You rat-infested corpses of decaying mould! You pieces of useless flotsam! You worthless, good-for-nothing woman-defilers. You blasphemous, rabid snakes that crawl on your bellies and eat the dirt of the Earth! Pull! Pull, I say!’
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