by Matthew Carr
CHAPTER FIVE
n the tenth day, they saw the boundary stones that divided Castile from Aragon and passed through the customs post at the walled city of Tarazona, some eighty leagues northeast of Valladolid. The next day they traveled over a flat desert plain that was even more barren and arid than Castile, where the surface of the land seemed to have been torn away and there was barely a tree or any sign of human habitation. The following day the land became more fertile as they took the ferry across the Ebro River and followed its course eastward toward Zaragoza.
In the early evening, they saw the Aragonese capital up ahead, and Ventura pointed out the four rounded towers of the Basilica-Cathedral of Our Lady of the Pillar among the mass of churches, palaces and great buildings that dominated the plain. With its ancient stone walls, its riverbank palaces, its churches and the imposing towers of the Basilica, it was easily the most splendid and most crowded city Gabriel had ever seen. At the massive stone bridge that led to the Puerta del Ángel, they stopped at the tollbooth to pay yet another fee and rode into the crowded central thoroughfare known as the Corso. Gabriel stared in admiration and amazement at the merchants and traders milling around the grand market building, at the rows of shops and craftsmen’s workshops, at the brick and stone palaces, some of them three or even four stories high, with curved wooden doors flanked by ornate pillars and statues.
He was still taking all this in when they heard a commotion coming from one of the adjoining streets, and a crowd came surging toward them. Three green-clad men on foot were accompanying a topless woman who was sitting tied to a mule with her head bowed in shame as the members of the crowd mocked her and shouted abuse. Gabriel was staring with guilty fascination at her breasts when suddenly one of the green-clad men brought a whip down across her back with such force that she sobbed.
Behind her a priest in a soutane was alternately praying in Latin and shouting out over and over again that the woman’s name was Juliana Maldonado and that she was guilty of adultery as the whip crashed down repeatedly on her back. With each blow the woman let out another cry or begged her tormentors to stop, and every time she did so, the crowd jeered with a relish and satisfaction that Gabriel found revolting.
“The dogs of God,” muttered Ventura contemptuously. “Aren’t they the pride of Spain? If every wife who committed adultery was flogged, the country would run out of whips.”
“Careful, cousin.” Mendoza had forgotten his cousin’s visceral loathing of the Inquisition. Ventura, unlike him, had seen his father paraded in his sanbenito in the act of faith with his penitent’s candle, and he had always blamed the Holy Office for his subsequent death. Mendoza imagined Elena on the back of the mule, and he was relieved when the crowd swept past them and the sobs and swish of the whip began to fade. The viceroy’s palace was located in the middle of the Corso, and they announced their presence to a servant who was waiting by the door. A few minutes later, Don Artal de Alagón, the third Count of Sástago and viceroy of Aragon, came out to meet them.
“Licenciado Mendoza! Welcome! We’ve been expecting you.” The count barely even looked at Mendoza’s companions as his servants now hurried around them to unload their animals and take them to the nearby stables. He ushered them into a wide courtyard, with pink walls and marble tiles, flanked by four floors of overlooking balconies. His servants took Necker, Gabriel and the two militiamen to their quarters on the first floor, while Mendoza and Ventura were taken to their rooms on the second, where his wife was waiting to receive them.
She was a dour and somewhat plain-looking woman, with her hair tied up in a bun above her forehead and a severe black dress in the austere Castilian style that was buttoned up to the neck and flattened out her bosom, but Ventura bowed with an elegance that would not have disgraced a courtier and kissed her outstretched hand. The count led them through an enormous reception room with a beautifully carved and painted wooden ceiling, past portraits of knights, soldiers and aristocrats, and showed them to two large and well-furnished paneled rooms that adjoined each other.
“His Majesty will be staying in these rooms during the wedding,” the count said proudly.
“His Majesty does you great honor,” Mendoza observed.
“He does Zaragoza great honor, Don Bernardo. For our city this will be the most momentous event since the emperor received the crown of Aragon. The entire court will be here. And princes, diplomats and other great men. You have no idea how much work and effort this requires to prepare. Hardly a day passes without some new demand or instruction from Madrid. We talk and think of nothing else. The only question is whether we can get everything done in time.”
“I’m sure you will,” Mendoza said reassuringly.
“We have to. But I shall let you rest. My servants will bring you hot water shortly.”
Mendoza thanked him, and he bowed and shut the door. Ventura lay down heavily on the mattress with his boots on as the viceroy’s footsteps echoed down the corridor.
“It’s not often I’ve lain down in a king’s bed.” He grinned.
“The king may not lie on it if we fail,” Mendoza said. “And I think you should take your boots off, cousin.”
Shortly afterward Gabriel came upstairs to assist Mendoza as he bathed and changed. After they had rested, a servant summoned them to the dining room for supper. They found the countess seated in the Moorish style on a large cushion in the dining room, sucking on a piece of glazed pottery, as many Castilian women did, because of its sweet taste and because they believed that it made their skin whiter and more attractive. Mendoza did not know whether sucking pottery really had this effect, but he found it simultaneously unappealing and vaguely erotic. Her husband and two other men were sitting in chairs. One of them was a white-bearded prelate in a purple soutane. The other was a younger man dressed in somber dark brown, with a crisp white collar and white sleeves protruding from his tunic and a large crucifix around his neck. He might have been in his early thirties, but his gaunt cheekbones, sallow complexion, hooded dark eyes and lack of hair made him look older. The count introduced Monseñor Andrés Santos, the bishop of Zaragoza, and Inquisitor Don Felipe Silesio de Mercader. Mendoza kissed the bishop’s ring and shook Mercader’s bony hand.
“A pleasure to meet you, Alcalde,” the inquisitor said. “We are all very curious about your mission here.”
“Inquisitor Mercader, please,” scolded the countess. “These poor men have been on the roads for two weeks now. Let them at least eat something before you discuss business.”
Mercader’s thin lips tightened in the vague approximation of a smile, a movement that clearly did not come easily to him. It soon became obvious that he had no interest in small talk, as the countess brought up the subject of the court’s visit to Aragon in the coming year and the marriage of the infanta Catalina to the Duke of Savoy.
Mendoza was always bored with talk of marriages, dynastic or otherwise, but the wine and food were excellent, and the main course of shredded partridge cooked in melted cheese and laid on tostadas tasted even better after the last two weeks. Mercader showed little interest in the food or the dinner table conversation and barely spoke at all. It was not until dinner was over and the countess had discreetly left the men to talk, that the inquisitor immediately returned to the subject that was clearly uppermost on his mind.
“Count Sástago tells me that you are here to investigate the murder of Father Panalles,” he said.
“That—and other matters,” Mendoza replied.
“What matters?”
Mendoza suppressed his irritation at the inquisitor’s sense of entitlement.
“His Majesty is concerned at the situation in the Morisco lands near the French frontier.”
“You are referring to the Redeemer?”
“Among other things.”
“His Majesty is right to be concerned,” Mercader agreed. “But it is still not clear to me why h
e chose to entrust this investigation to the secular justices rather than the Inquisition. This problem would not have become so deep-rooted had it not been for the complete impunity with which the enemies of God in Belamar are allowed to flaunt their heresy and treason. Our own officers tried to go there two weeks ago to read out the Edict of Grace, and they were turned away!”
“Turned away by whom?” Mendoza asked.
“By vassals of the Countess of Cardona, acting under her authority, bearing weapons! They said the Holy Office was not allowed to execute its duties in her territory.”
Mendoza had not been aware that the Inquisition had attempted to enact the Edict of Grace in Belamar. Had that taken place, its population would have been given a month to confess their crimes voluntarily or denounce their neighbors before the Inquisition began its investigation. This process inevitably resulted in arrests and denunciations, and those found guilty faced even more severe punishment because they had not come forward of their own free will. The evidence against them here, unlike that in civil courts, was always kept secret, and most of those who were arrested would not even know who had denounced them. If nothing else, such an investigation was not likely to do anything to facilitate his own, and he could not help feeling grateful to the militiamen who had turned Mercader’s officials back.
“Did the Holy Office receive any specific information that prompted an Edict of Grace?” he asked.
“As you know, the Inquisition does not share its sources with the secular justices.”
Mendoza did not tell Mercader that he was already familiar with many of the allegations against the Moriscos of Belamar from the documents that Villareal had given him, which included a copy of Mercader’s own report to the inquisitor-general. That report was more than a year old, and most of the accusations contained within it consisted of religious offenses that were not his concern. It was not his responsibility to arrest Moriscos because they failed to pay attention at Mass or comported themselves in a disrespectful and unchristian manner during Communion, because they made insulting remarks about the Virgin or questioned the existence of the Holy Ghost. Nor was he interested in whether they went to confession during Lent.
Moriscos who possessed Arabic books and texts or performed Moorish prayers and religious ablutions fell under the jurisdiction of the Inquisition. But there were also allegations where the boundaries were less clear, whether it was the reports of sedition or of the stockpiling of weapons and gunpowder, and if Belamar really was the heretic’s nest that Mercader had described, it might also explain why Father Juan Panalles had been murdered.
“How long ago was the edict prepared?” he asked.
“It was ready in February this year.” Mercader looked visibly impatient. “Father Panalles had been reporting for some time that the Moriscos of Belamar were continuing to worship as Moors, and we have received similar reports from some of the other Morisco villages in Cardona for many years. Neither the countess nor her late husband ever did anything about them.”
“Her late husband?” Mendoza asked.
“The count was murdered by bandits two years ago,” said Bishop Santos. “The perpetrators were never found. In Cardona they rarely are.”
“And was this Redeemer around then?”
“We hadn’t heard of him until this year,” Mercader replied. “If he was, he didn’t announce himself. In any case he would have had no reason to kill the Count of Cardona, because a better friend of the Moriscos would be hard to find. Unfortunately, Licenciado, the Christian lords in Aragon don’t always show the necessary zeal when it comes to dealing with these Moriscos. And the Count of Cardona was a very obliging master—like his wife. The Moriscos have more reason to love them than fear them.”
Mercader paused, and Mendoza sensed that the inquisitor was gauging his reaction to see which of the two options he preferred. “I saw the message that the Redeemer wrote to you,” he said. “Is there any reason he should write to you in particular?”
“These Moriscos know that I do not tolerate their heresies.” Mercader’s thin smile bore a hint of self-satisfaction. “They have good reason to regard me as their enemy.”
“And does the Holy Office have any information regarding the possible identity or provenance of this individual?” Mendoza asked.
“We believe he comes from Belamar,” Mercader said. “And have no doubt that we will discover who he is once we carry out a full investigation in the village. The Inquisition of Aragon already has more than sufficient grounds to take such action. And may I ask how you propose to enter Belamar when we could not?”
Mendoza felt irritated by the sarcasm, and by the inquisitor’s general demeanor, but he replied evenly. “I shall deal with that problem when I encounter it.”
“Someone needs to deal with it,” said Santos. “There has been no priest in Belamar for two months now. And one of the main roads to Santiago de Compostela runs through Cardona from the Somport Pass. Soon the first pilgrims of the season will begin to cross the mountains. There are shops and inns that cannot afford to lose the trade.”
“The roads will not be safe,” Mercader added, “until Cardona has been cleansed of heretics as well as bandits.”
• • •
THAT NIGHT MENDOZA SLEPT in a comfortable bed for the first time since leaving Valladolid. The next morning he and Ventura ate a fine breakfast of figs, raisins, bread, cheese, honey and hot chocolate with the viceroy, who apologized for the inquisitor’s rudeness the previous night.
“Mercader was only assigned to Aragon last year,” he said. “He just regards the post as a step toward a cardinal’s cap. He has no understanding of the way things are done here. He sees heresy everywhere, and he hates the Moriscos. I believe he’d burn them all if he could.”
“And you, Your Grace? Do you believe that the countess is obstructing the Inquisition?”
“Who knows?” Sástago popped a fig into his mouth. “She’s certainly very fond of her Moriscos. But then so are many of the Aragonese lords, and if they aren’t fond of them, they recognize their usefulness. The Moriscos work hard and they work well, and many lords are more concerned with revenue than faith. That doesn’t make them heretics. I met the countess once when she came to the parliament at Monzón with her husband.”
“And what was your impression of her?”
“A real beauty!” The viceroy smiled dreamily. “And a more devout Christian would be hard to find. But a woman such as that is more likely to be found in a convent than an artist’s studio—unfortunately.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The countess’s mother died when she was a child. Her father passed away six years ago. And then her husband was murdered by bandits. These misfortunes have tempered her faith. No woman is more pious or more anxious to do good works. She is one of the richest women in Aragon, yet she travels with almost no retinue. The demesne of Cardona has about a hundred and fifty towns, villages, hamlets and castles. It has toll bridges, lead and iron mines and flour mills. Its forests send timber to the carpenters of Zaragoza and Valencia. Her neighbor the Baron of Vallcarca doesn’t even have half that number.”
“Does Vallcarca have bandits in his señorio?”
“Some. But it’s worse in Cardona. Vallcarca is a very hard man. He treats his vassals like slaves and bandits like rebels. Some say that the bandits in Cardona fled his estates because they couldn’t stand to be his vassals. In any case the banditry has gotten a lot worse since the count died. Some roads, you take your life and property in your hands even by day.”
“Is the countess likely to marry again?”
Sástago blew on his chocolate to cool it. “In theory, yes. And a lot of men would like her to marry them. What woman wouldn’t have suitors, with an annual income of ninety thousand ducats? Vallcarca wants her to marry his son—a degenerate brute like his father, but without his cunning and intelligence.”<
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“Could that happen?”
“Who knows? It would suit Vallcarca very well if the two families could be united. He spends money too quickly and manages his estates badly. The countess doesn’t. She has an excellent bailiff, Jean Sánchez. He’s half French, and some say he’s the man who really runs Cardona. But if Rodrigo Vallcarca married the countess, then he would become one of the richest men in Aragon, and his father would be the one in charge. But they say the countess has no interest in such a match. And really, I can’t imagine her with a man like Rodrigo Vallcarca, not by choice anyway. There are stories about how he treats some of the female vassals, stories I hesitate to repeat. Of course, all these are just rumors, and every rumor in the mountains has a counter-rumor. You will have your work cut out up there, Licenciado, mark my words. Are you sure you don’t want a larger escort?”
“Thank you, Your Excellency. But I prefer to travel as unobtrusively as possible. And I want to get there quickly.”
“Well, I’ve brought you a map of Cardona and the surrounding area. It’s not much good—many of the roads and paths are not even marked—but it does tell you more or less where the main roads and towns are, and the location of the frontier and customs posts. You may take whatever food you need from my kitchen. Just tell the servants what you require, and they will get it for you.”