My aunt leaned forward and looked into my face. ‘How would you live, Zarita, cast out by your father, if you didn’t have a kindly aunt to take you in?’
I put my head in my hands. ‘I am so weak,’ I whispered.
‘You are young,’ said Sister Maddalena. ‘The getting of wisdom is not easy.’
‘I should not have denounced them. I am guilty of a sin against charity.’
‘We are all guilty in some way or other,’ my aunt replied. ‘I too have regrets over how I acted at the time of our Inquisition. I shouldn’t have spoken to the priest, Father Besian, in the manner I did. I almost taunted him. I said that he would be ridiculed if he used a nun drinking mint and a simple-minded boy as examples of heresy. Also, it was pride that led me to show him the script from Queen Isabella granting me the land and her approval for my order. I could have acted more humbly and remained silent when he chastized me. But I didn’t. I do believe that our interview annoyed him to such a degree that when he saw he could not catch me out, he decided that he would abuse poor Bartolomé instead. Remember, I had spoken up for Bartolomé earlier outside the church after the service.’
I shivered. I too had tried to intercede for Bartolomé.
‘It is not wise to cross so vengeful a man,’ my aunt said. ‘Father Besian is the type to bear a grudge, to wait and wait until he can be revenged on the person he thinks has offended him.’
Chapter Twenty-nine
Saulo
IT WAS REVENGE I wanted more than anything else.
More than the gold I’d discovered in Captain Cosimo’s jacket, more than to travel with Christopher Columbus to discover new lands, I sought to fulfil the vow I’d made to kill the magistrate. The nightmares that had abated somewhat during my time in the Canary Islands tormented me regularly on my return to Spain.
But the Spain I came back to in 1491 seemed different from the one I’d been forced to leave nearly eighteen months previously. As I travelled east from Cádiz to find the family of the oarsman, Lomas, I saw a people affected by the workings of the Inquisition. In the sea ports where Captain Cosimo had traded, the merchants had often been Jews, but now, inland, there was evidence that many Jewish businesses had closed up. Villagers and innkeepers were wary of strangers. Or had it always been thus and I’d simply been too young and protected by my parents to fully understand what was going on in the wider world?
When I stopped to eat, I noticed that landlords made a great show of informing customers that pork was offered on their menu. Presumably this was to let it be known that they had no connection or sympathy with non-Christian customs, as pork is forbidden to those of certain other faiths. Folk were guarded and suspicious in their remarks, and the talk was mainly of the case of the holy child of La Guardia. Some time before, a young boy of that town had disappeared and eventually, under questioning, a Jew confessed to crucifying the child. A few weeks ago, in November, he, along with two others, had been burned at the stake.
When I commented that anyone might confess to anything depending on the method of interrogation used by the questioner, I soon found myself sitting alone at the dining table. Minutes later the innkeeper came and told me that no room was available for me to rest there that night.
I moved on as quickly as I could, and eventually, north of Málaga, came to the hilltop town where Lomas’s wife and son and mother lived. I added some money from the peacock jacket to what Lomas had given me for them, but refused an offer of a meal and a bed for the night. Their grief was too much for me to bear, bringing as it did memories of the loss of my own father. I set out again, heading east, my soul burning afresh with the desire for vengeance.
When I reached the outskirts of Las Conchas and saw the streets near the dockside again, violent emotions began to rage within me.
I’d purchased a good horse and dark clothes so that I could travel easily and unnoticed, and I arrived in the town in mid-December as evening fell. I went immediately to the house where my father had paid rent on our squalid room. There was another family living there so I found the landlord and asked for information about his previous tenants. For fear of some informer I didn’t declare that I was any kin to the people I was enquiring about, but I was confident that no one would recognize me. I had grown; my skin was darker, my hair lighter. No longer an undernourished child, I guessed my age was over seventeen, and I was muscular where I’d been thin. I looked and spoke differently. Tall and broad shouldered, I had acquired the confidence that comes with wealth and life experience.
And I was bold, for I had murder in mind.
The landlord assessed my clothes, my bulk and my manner. He replied, telling me the man of that house had been executed, the boy sold as a slave, and the woman had died, and no doubt now lay in a pauper’s grave. He looked at me slyly, and said, ‘There was rent due.’
I put my hand to my belt, where I carried the long knife I’d pulled from Panipat’s body.
‘But no matter,’ the landlord said hurriedly, backing away. ‘No matter.’
Now, under the cover of dark, I stood outside the compound of the magistrate’s house in Las Conchas.
I went to the exact spot on the wall where, almost a year and a half ago, I’d climbed up to try to reach my father. The foothold was still there – the place where my frantic bare feet had dug out a hole in the plaster to scrabble my way to the top of the wall. Stronger and taller, I was astride the wall in seconds. As I’d anticipated, there were dogs in the yard. I lobbed the poisoned meat I’d brought with me towards them. There were some yelps and the sound of jaws tearing at the flesh, followed by snuffles and silence. Ten more minutes elapsed before I dropped down from the wall and crept towards the house, a shadow moving in the night.
I waited in the darkness.
Had I found my mother alive, I might have delayed my actions against these people. Although I knew it was a vain hope to imagine that she might still live, hearing my mother’s death confirmed had inflamed my anger so that I trembled with anticipation of what I was about to do.
I stood under the tree where they’d hanged my father. I felt the surface of its trunk under my fingers. It had scraped against my legs as I’d bounced and swung about when they hoisted me up. A dreadful image of my father’s face appeared before my eyes. The look of dumbfounded terror; the sound of choking. I pressed my fists over my ears.
I took my knife and scraped away a ring of bark right around the tree. Then, from a pouch at my belt, I took a substance I’d bought from the same alchemist who’d sold me the dog poison, and I rubbed this on the exposed flesh of the tree.
From the staff quarters above the stable block at the side of the house I could hear a murmur of voices. Despite the lateness of the hour some of the servants were awake. Their outside doors were closed over against the winter weather, and unless I was very unlucky, it was too cold for anyone to open a shutter to look out. I crept past the building and on towards the barn at the end of the paddock.
It was empty. I found the oil lanterns and poured their contents onto the floor. Before striking a flint to set the fire, I took water from the trough and dampened the straw in places to delay the flames taking hold. I didn’t want the blaze here attracting the attention of the occupants of the house before I had broken in to deal with them. I’d planned exactly what I was going to do.
There was light showing from a window on the ground floor. I flattened myself against the wall next to this window, tilted my head and looked in.
Don Vicente Alonso sat at his desk in his study. There were papers before him but he wasn’t reading them. Instead he stared off into space. His hair and beard were more grey than I remembered and his face had deeper lines around the eyes and mouth.
I went round to the back door. It was of solid oak. I couldn’t hope to split the panelling. Nor did I want to break a window as I might lose my advantage of surprise.
Tentatively I put my hand on the handle and turned it. The door opened with hardly a sound. Fate was with me.
They must be so confident of the protection afforded by the guard dogs that they didn’t bother to secure the outside door each evening. I slipped into the house and saw that there was a bolt on the inside of the back door. It was most likely Don Vicente’s responsibility to bolt it when his household staff retired to their quarters over the stables. He probably left this task until he himself was going to bed. I smiled grimly as I pushed the bolt across to bar the door. It was a mistake he would pay for with his life.
Quiet as a cat, I walked along the hall and opened the study door.
‘Good evening, Don Vicente Alonso de Carbazón, magistrate of Las Conchas.’
He leaped up with a cry of fright. I crossed the room and put my long knife to his neck.
‘Where is your family, Don Vicente Alonso?’
He gaped at me, but his natural defences instinctively made him answer. ‘I have no family. Get out of my house.’
‘You have at least a daughter. That I know for sure. And to have a daughter, a man like you would almost certainly have a wife.’
‘Who are you?’ he demanded imperiously. ‘What are you doing here? Why have you broken into my home?’
I gave a mocking laugh. ‘It’s too late for you to ask questions,’ I said. ‘You should have asked questions a year ago last August. Then you might have discovered the truth and not rushed to order the hanging of an innocent man.’
He started back. ‘You must be the son of that beggar. I should have hanged you alongside your father – you brigand, you thief, you cur, you – you—’
With my free hand I cuffed him across his mouth to silence him.
‘You will tell me where your family is, else I will remove your eyeballs, one by one.’
‘I will not,’ he said in defiance.
‘Very well,’ I replied. ‘I will blind you and then I will go through the house looking for them.’
When the don heard me say that, he hesitated. Then he spoke haughtily. ‘My daughter is at court. Safely away from filth like you.’
‘And your wife?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No. There is no wife. My wife died . . . was dying, that day . . .’ He collected himself. ‘The incident of which you speak took place on the day – indeed, in the very seconds when my wife was passing from this world to the next.’
I narrowed my eyes and studied his face. He’d spoken with confidence when he’d said that his daughter was not here, but he’d faltered at the mention of a wife. His eyes flicked to the ceiling.
‘Could it be that you took another wife?’ I speculated. And as soon as I’d said the words I knew I’d hit the mark. I pricked the skin of his throat with my knife.
‘Call on her,’ I told him.
‘She is not here.’
Somewhere upstairs a floorboard creaked.
‘We both know that your wife is within the house. Now call on her to come.’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I will not.’
‘I will kill you.’
‘You mean to kill me anyway. Do your worst. I will not obey you.’
His obstinacy frightened me, making me reckless. ‘So be it,’ I said. ‘We will burn her alive.’ I took the candelabra and set it to the curtains. Then I lifted an ornate glass lamp and smashed it on the floor. The oil ran along the tiles; the flames flowed rapidly after. They began to curl around the wooden table legs.
‘Let us wait,’ I said, pretending to be unconcerned, ‘until she begins to roast in her bed upstairs.’
Don Vicente became agitated. ‘I concede that I have a wife. But let us talk about this situation. I also have money. A great deal of money. How much do you want?’
‘You think you will pay for what you did to me with money!’ I spat the words at him.
He wiped my spittle from his face. ‘I will give you anything – anything. Name it.’
The room was becoming hot and filling with smoke. The fire had already leaped to the top of the curtains and was now moving across the ceiling.
‘You took away from me everything I ever owned or wanted,’ I said.
‘You can have everything of mine. Everything.’ He was panting and waving his hands desperately in the air. ‘All of this.’
‘I want your life,’ I told him, ‘and the life of everyone you hold dear. I will wipe out your breed and your seed.’ I quoted the words he had used when giving the order for me to be hanged alongside my father.
Now he was afraid. And I rejoiced at the expression in his eyes and on his face.
‘Mercy!’ he begged. He held out his hands to me in supplication and appeared to stumble. ‘Mercy!’
I leaned forward. Perhaps I would be merciful, but for now I would savour this exquisite moment of revenge.
However, this magistrate was clever and cunning and was playing a ruse to catch me off guard. He ducked under my elbow and ran for the door, shouting as he went, ‘Lorena! Barricade yourself in your room and call for help. Lorena! Lorena! Open the window and call for help!’
He appeared to trip as he reached the bottom of the stairs, and fell, clutching at his chest. I caught up with him and kicked him as he had done my father.
He didn’t stir.
I prodded him with my boot and told him to get up.
Still he did not move.
I bent down cautiously and turned him onto his back.
With eyes wide open he stared up at me.
He was dead.
Don Vicente Alonso, the magistrate, was dead.
His face was suffused with redness. He must have had a heart attack.
At the top of the stairs a woman appeared. She screamed when she saw me. She screamed again, pointing beyond me. I turned. The hall was ablaze. Behind and around me a roaring fire was devouring everything in its path.
The woman shrieked, ‘Help! Help! Save me! Save me!’
The flames were scorching us both. I went to the front door and wrenched it open.
Behind me came the woman. I turned. Her hair hung free on her shoulders. She had thrown a house coat around her nightclothes, but it gaped open and I could see that she was heavy with child.
His seed, I thought. I should destroy his child as he’d said he would destroy my father’s. I should raise my knife and murder her where she stands. There was red blood behind my eyes, and in my mouth the taste of vengeance. Yet I did not move.
The woman stopped and stared at me. I was blocking her exit from the house. Then she began to flail her arms like an insane person and I saw that the fire had got hold of her, and her hair and clothes were aflame. She rushed at me frenziedly.
I stepped aside and let her pass.
She ran away behind the house in the direction of the barn.
‘No!’ I shouted after her. ‘Not that way!’
Suddenly there was an almighty bang and the roof of the barn blew off. Pieces of wood hurtled high above my head and came crashing down beside me. There must have been gunpowder or some kind of explosive stored inside. The pregnant woman couldn’t have survived. The realization of her horrendous fate caused my knees to buckle.
There was a lull. Cinders and ash blew through the air. A babble of noise came from the rooms above the stable block on the far side of the house. I raced for the wall and leaped to the top. I didn’t stop to look back.
The magistrate, Don Vicente Alonso, was dead. His former wife was dead. His present wife and unborn child were dead.
I should have been glad, rejoicing that my enemies were gone. But the overriding feeling that surged through my mind and body was one of horror and self-disgust.
Chapter Thirty
Zarita
THE HOUSE WAS roofless.
Wind blew through the open beams and goats trotted off at my approach. A figure came from the stable block. Even though it was only a few months since I’d seen him, I almost didn’t recognize Garci, my father’s farm manager. He was a changed man, his dark hair now almost white, his brow furrowed.
He looked at me in my garb of convent grey with the cl
ose-fitting coif and wimple. ‘Zarita,’ he said sadly, ‘they have cut off your beautiful hair.’
I recalled what Sister Maddalena had told me regarding a woman’s hair, and I thought how much time it saved me not having to comb or dress long hair every day. Also . . . there were few mirrors in a convent.
I replied truthfully, ‘I did mind very much to begin with, but now I hardly think of it at all.’
Serafina and Ardelia, both looking wretched, stood at the door of the servants’ quarters. Behind them I caught sight of Bartolomé in a corner, mumbling to himself and rocking backwards and forwards. My heart contracted. This once perpetually happy boy had not smiled since the day of his arrest by the Inquisition.
Garci watched me as my gaze travelled around the compound. I frowned as I looked at the tree growing before our front door. Its bark had split apart and there was some kind of rot forming upon it. It would be dead before springtime. Garci looked from me to the tree and back again. We were both remembering the day my father hanged the beggar. The day my beloved mama died. I gazed at the tree with its mutilated trunk and I shivered.
I turned to look at the house. ‘Do we know who did this?’ I asked Garci.
He shrugged. ‘Who can say? There’s so much strife nowadays between Christians, Jews and Moors that criminals take advantage of the conflict and form outlaw bands who thieve and murder with no allegiance to any cause.’
‘Have other farmhouses or estates been attacked recently?’
‘Not that we’ve heard.’
‘Then they picked my father in particular.’
Garci was not a stupid man. ‘I wondered about that,’ he said. ‘For it would make better sense to choose a more remote estate to rob. This house is close to the town. There are other, richer pickings located further away from where help might come.’
‘Was it perhaps an act of vengeance?’
‘Anyone that your father sentenced might bear a grudge,’ Garci replied. ‘Although I don’t think they intended to blow up the barn. In case orders ever came from the government instructing him to raise a militia, your father kept gunpowder and some arms stored in an old cellar under the barn. But apart from your father and myself, no one knew of that. The heat from the fire must have caused it to ignite. The explosion rocked the town – people came with buckets of water. We managed to douse the flames in the house, but not before a great deal of damage was done.’
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