The Devils of Cardona

by Matthew Carr

  At eight o’clock the chamberlain returned with his servants to dress him for Mass, but he was still in too much pain to attend, and he told them to open the door on the other side of the bed so that he could listen to the service. Once again they shut him in the semidarkness, and he lay on his side looking up at the marble stairs and pillars and listening to the monks and congregants entering the church. From this position he was able to follow the whole service, murmuring the prayers and responses aloud till the army of pain gradually began to withdraw its forces. By the time the doors opened once again and his servants drifted noiselessly back into the room, he was already sitting up in bed. The King of All the Spains got to his feet and stood passively with his arms raised as they swarmed around him in silence, dressing him entirely in black except for his white collar, first the hose and shirt, then the black tunic with gold threads, the leather shoes with the black bow ties, lastly the medallion of the Order of the Golden Fleece, which they hung around his neck. Afterward they brushed his hair and his white beard and wiped the sleep from his eyes and dabbed him with the scent of lavender.

  As was his custom, he ate no breakfast, but the infanta Catalina came to sit with him briefly, as she had done almost every day since the queen and the children had come to join him for the summer. As always, the girlish chatter of his younger daughter softened and delighted him, but now it was impossible to look upon her shining dark eyes and jet-black hair without a sense of imminent loss at the prospect of the wedding next spring. That was not such a bad way to lose a child after the many that death had taken from him, but it was no less conclusive and complete because once she left Spain with Savoy, there was very little possibility that he would ever see her again.

  He knew that Catalina was conscious of this, too, and that she, too, was keen to share the precious moments that remained to them, whether helping him with state papers or simply sitting with him to pass on the latest gossip. Her dark beauty never failed to lift his spirits, and even though her elder sister, Isabella, would remain at court until a husband could finally be found for her, every meeting with Catalina was a painful reminder that he would soon be forced to say good-bye to her for the last time. This morning she made him laugh by describing the latest temper tantrum of Magdalena, their favorite dwarf, and the laughter revived and revitalized him.

  At 10:25 precisely, Vázquez came to take him to the reception room, and Catalina kissed him on the cheek and promised to see him later. The king took up his position behind the ornate German console table with its carved panels of leaves and animals, directly in front of the doorway, with his hand resting on the silver statuette of Jesus on the cross at Golgotha that resided on the lower desk. Once again he resisted the urge to sit and forced himself to stand tall and present an appropriate image of power and magnificence to his visitors and petitioners.

  • • •

  AT 10:30 VÁZQUEZ USHERED IN the mayor of Madrid. As always, Philip said nothing and waited for him to speak first, but the mayor was so unnerved at being in the royal presence that he tried to shut the door—an unpardonable breach of etiquette that obliged the king to remind him curtly that it must be kept open. The mayor was sweating now and looked as though he might faint as he apologized profusely and launched into a tedious and repetitive description of the hunger and misery and the shortage of bread in the capital. Finally Philip put him out of his own misery by informing him that the previous day he had authorized a grain shipment from Sicily.

  The mayor thanked him and apologized again, then bowed and apologized once more before finally leaving the room with obvious relief. He was followed by the Marquis of Villareal, who was experienced enough to leave the door open. Unlike the mayor, the marquis was a grandee who was not obliged to take off his hat in the royal presence, and the counselor for Aragon had attended too many meetings with the king and his ministers to be overawed by being in the royal presence. He bowed and got straight to the point.

  “Your Majesty, I have received the second report from Licenciado Mendoza in Cardona. The news is not good.”

  The king’s gray eyes were expressionless as he listened to the counselor’s summary. In the month since Mendoza’s departure, three Christian boys had been crucified, two nuns had been violated, two tailors bringing cloth from Paris to Monzón to make dresses for the royal wedding had been robbed, and one of them had been killed. Now a family of eleven Moriscos had been massacred. Mendoza had not identified the perpetrators, and the only arrests had been those made by the Inquisition, who were preparing to put two of the Morisco rapists on trial.

  “And may I ask why you thought it necessary to bring this matter to me in person?” Philip inquired.

  “Your Majesty, there are reports that Moriscos and Old Christians in Cardona are arming themselves for war. If this disorder should spread, then it may have consequences for the happy event that we all anticipate next spring.”

  “And where do these reports come from?”

  “From the corregidor at Jaca, Majesty. And also from the Holy Office.”

  Philip nodded gloomily. He was already tired of the Moriscos. They had caused him enough problems in Granada, and now Archbishop Ribera of Valencia and other clerics were badgering him to expel them all from Spain. It was only two years since he had agreed to do this in principle, though how he was supposed to accomplish it in practice no one seemed able to explain.

  Aragon had also been a problem for the Crown for some time. His father had been obliged to promise the Aragonese in person that he would recognize their precious fueros before they agreed to recognize his authority. That was nearly seventy-five years ago, and still the lords of Aragon seemed to forget that they owed the king obedience, so that he was obliged to go there next year to remind them and undertake a journey that he knew would be both painful and injurious to his health. And even though he did not agree with his more pessimistic ministers that Aragon might one day become another Flanders, Moriscos and the Aragonese were a bad combination from which no one could draw any comfort.

  “Assuming that these reports are correct,” he said, “what action do you propose we take?”

  “It seems to me that there are three options at this stage, Majesty. We can allow Judge Mendoza’s investigation to run its course and wait to hear his conclusions and recommendations. Or we can suspend the investigation and send troops to pacify Cardona immediately, including troops from Castile if necessary.”

  “Has Judge Mendoza asked for this?”

  Villareal admitted that he had not.

  “And the third possibility?” asked Philip.

  “That the Crown take formal possession of Cardona and incorporate it into the royal domain.”

  The king’s sphinxlike inscrutability momentarily gave way to an expression of mild surprise. “On what grounds?”

  “That Cardona has become a danger to the realm.”

  “And you expect the parliament of Aragon to accept this?”

  “There is a legal basis for the Crown’s claims, Majesty. Your father the emperor ratified the seigneurial rights of Cardona on condition that the estates be passed down through the male line. The Countess of Cardona is a widow. Her parents are dead, and her only child is a girl.”

  Villareal paused to allow this to sink in before proceeding to list the number of towns, vassals and villages in Cardona and the annual income that would accrue to the Crown at a time when the king’s regiments in Flanders had not received their wages for months, when there was grain in Sicily to be paid for, and the treasure fleet from the Indies was under threat from English ships.

  Philip still did not look convinced. “Even if what you say is true, I fail to see how provoking conflict with the Aragonese the year before the infanta’s wedding can serve our interests.”

  “I believe that if we act quickly and firmly, then this affair can be resolved and concluded long before then. His Majesty now has a real opport
unity to demonstrate his power and authority in a way that the Aragonese will have no choice but to accept.”

  “And the countess? She is still young. She can marry again.”

  “She can. But the Zaragoza Inquisition intends to bring charges of heresy and sedition against a number of prominent individuals from the town of Belamar de la Sierra shortly, Your Majesty. These charges will directly implicate the countess herself. If—when—that happens, there will be no master or mistress of Cardona.”

  At the mention of the word “heresy,” the king’s full, sensual lips tightened, as if he had just experienced a sharp jab of physical pain, before his face resumed its expression of frosty magnificence. As always, the number of conflicting options oppressed him, and he glanced toward the window at the thick cluster of low-lying black clouds drifting beyond the forested plain and remembered the advice that his father had written to him in his abdication testament: “Support the Inquisition and never do anything to harm it.”

  “This judge of yours is a capable man, is he not?” he said finally.

  “He comes highly recommended.”

  “Well, we agreed to your suggestion to carry out an investigation in Cardona in order to make ourselves acquainted with all the facts. That objective has not yet been achieved, and I think it best if we wait for his reports, as well as the Inquisition’s. For now you must impress upon this alcalde the urgent need for this matter to be resolved quickly. Should the situation continue to deteriorate, then we may reconsider our options. But on no account will we ourselves undertake any precipitous action.”

  “As you wish, Majesty.”

  The king looked down at his desk to signify that the audience was over, and Villareal bowed once more and left the room to make way for the next visitor.

  • • •

  “SO, DOCTOR, am I going to die?”

  Ventura sat up shirtless on the priest’s bed as Segura tightened the bandage around his shoulder while Mendoza and Gabriel watched from the other side of the room.

  “Not this time, Sergeant,” Segura said, “but you’ve lost a lot of blood. And your wound could become infected despite the poultice. That donkey did you a great favor.”

  “I thought a little bleeding was supposed to be good for you. And believe me, Doctor, I’ve lost more blood than this. Isn’t that true, Bernardo?”

  Mendoza nodded. He did not speak to Segura, and the doctor did not look at him as Juana gathered up Ventura’s bloodstained shirt and the cloths and the bowl of water that he had used to clean the wound.

  “Well, cousin,” he said when they had left the room, “first you come back on a stolen horse, then you come with a stolen donkey. What animal will you bring back next?”

  Ventura laughed weakly. “Those inbreds nearly took my life. The least they could do was get me to a doctor.”

  “I can send Necker to arrest them.”

  “Don’t bother. You couldn’t make things much worse for them than they already are. And Luis de Ventura is not going to have it said that he was nearly killed by two damned goatherds. Besides, you have more important things to worry about.”

  In his usual deadpan manner, Ventura described his fight in the forest, his entry into the camp and his subsequent escape. Gabriel looked awestruck with admiration, but Mendoza shook his head in exasperation.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to take any unnecessary risks?” he said wearily.

  “They were necessary!” Ventura indignantly insisted. “If I hadn’t gone to the camp, you wouldn’t have known what kind of people you’re dealing with. And it isn’t rebels or Moriscos. Those were Old Christians up there. Shepherds and bandits looking for Morisco blood.”

  Mendoza listened with growing incredulity and amazement as Ventura described the Catalan’s call to exterminate the Moriscos, and his cousin looked equally astonished when Mendoza told him about the massacre at the del Río farm.

  “I shit on my hands!” Ventura exclaimed. “That’s where those villains were headed. So one day this Catalan is preaching holy war against Christians and the next he’s sending his army of shepherds to wage holy war on the Moriscos? It makes no sense.”

  “It doesn’t,” Mendoza agreed. “But there is nothing holy about any of this. And whether he is Morisco or Christian, this Catalan is not avenging anybody. This Redeemer has other purposes.”

  “There was a man up there in the camp,” Ventura said. “He seemed to be watching when the Catalan was speaking. I didn’t get a chance to see his face. Maybe we should get Calvo to call out the militia and go up into the mountains?”

  Mendoza shook his head. “Even if we sent an army up there, they’d be gone before we reached the camp. These bandits are only part of the problem.”

  He told his cousin what he’d seen in Las Palomas the previous night and about his conversation with the countess that morning. Gabriel had not heard this before and looked increasingly dismayed when he told them what he expected of Segura.

  “Sir, you’re not going to report Dr. Segura to the Inquisition, are you?” he asked anxiously.

  Mendoza knew that his page’s concern was not unconnected to the mayor’s daughter. “That depends on Segura,” he replied.

  “What about Franquelo?” Ventura asked. “Isn’t it time to bring him in?”

  “He hasn’t been in the village all day. Necker will arrest him when he returns. Come, Gabriel, we must eat and allow my cousin some rest.” Mendoza paused in the doorway. “I’m glad you made it back alive, Luis,” he said. “Next time please obey my orders. You won’t always be so lucky.”

  Ventura gave a mock salute with his unbandaged arm. They shut the door behind them and returned to the village hall, where they found Segura waiting outside with the resigned and gloomy expression of a condemned man.

  “Go back to the dispensary, boy,” Mendoza said grimly.

  Gabriel smiled reassuringly at Segura, but the mayor’s expression did not change as Mendoza ushered him into his office and sat down behind his desk.

  “The countess said you wanted to see me,” Segura said, sitting down in front of him.

  “I did,” Mendoza said, “but first I have a question for you. What do you think Inquisitor Mercader would do if he knew that you were burying your dead as Moors while pretending to bury them as Christians? I tell you what I think he would do,” he went on without waiting for an answer. “I think that he or Commissioner Herrero would go to Las Palomas and dig those bodies up. And then they would take you and your sons to the Aljafería. And then your sons would denounce you, and you would denounce the countess and all the heretics in Belamar. Am I not correct?”

  Segura said nothing.

  “So let me tell you something else. I don’t care how you bury your dead or whether you worship Jesus or Muhammad, but you better have something to tell me, or so help me God I will tell Mercader what I know.”

  Segura seemed to be weighing his options as Mendoza’s fierce, dark eyes bored into him. Mendoza felt a twinge of remorse at the sight of his white hair and beard and the thought of what had already happened to his family, but he repressed it, because the law was the law and justice was not always compatible with kindness.

  Finally Segura let out a sigh that expressed both surrender and resignation.

  “I can tell you where you can find Vicente Péris,” he said.

  • • •

  PEPE FRANQUELO was afraid of many things. He was afraid of the murdered men and women whom he now saw in his dreams almost every night. He was afraid of the magistrate Mendoza. He was afraid of being tortured. But most of all he was afraid of the Catalan and Vallcarca. There had been a time, not very long ago, when there’d been no reason to be afraid of anything, when he, Panalles and Romero had milked the Moriscos without fuss, when all he had to do was collect his percentages from the fines or the horses and the payments from La Moraga’s brothel. />
  These were little ways of making small amounts of money, not enough to make a man rich but enough to supplement the salary of an alguacil that even a single man would struggle to live on, let alone a man with a wife and children. But now that life was gone forever, and the fear and dread had become a permanent part of him, lodged in his stomach like bad meat, dampening his clothes and twisting his guts till he was obliged to head for the privy or into the bushes to relieve himself.

  And it was all his own fault, because the Catalan had promised him more money than a man such as Franquelo had any right to expect, and he had reached out like a fool and taken it, without noticing that he was sinking deeper and deeper into shit. It had been fine in the beginning, when all they wanted was information about travelers on the roads who were worth robbing. Whenever they profited from the information he gave them, he got paid something for it, and if people sometimes were killed in the course of these robberies, it was usually because they had resisted and was nothing to do with him.

  But now people were dying all around him, and he did not even know why they were being killed, and he knew that Mendoza suspected him. That was why he had stayed away from the del Ríos’ funeral, because he could not stand to think of those black eyes staring at him, and because he could not stand to attend the funeral of eleven people whose deaths he had helped to bring about. Instead he spent the afternoon at La Moraga’s place, drinking, whoring and playing naipe and dice, trying to pretend that everything was the way it used to be.