The Devils of Cardona

by Matthew Carr

  That same day Mendoza dictated a letter to Gabriel that was addressed for the first time directly to the king, in which he detailed his case against Villareal. Gabriel spent the rest of the afternoon copying out Calvo’s confession, and the following day Mendoza included the original in the letter that he sent to the king. He also went to the Aljafería and asked to see Mercader’s colleague Orellana, a dour-looking monk who was now the sole inquisitor for Aragon pending Mercader’s replacement. The conversation did not get off on a good footing, as Orellana informed Mendoza that the baker Romero was an employee of the Inquisition and as such could be tried only by the Holy Office.

  “I am aware of this, Your Excellency,” Mendoza replied. “And it was my intention to hand the prisoner over to your jurisdiction as soon as I arrived in Zaragoza. Unfortunately, the justiciar has now assumed responsibility for all my prisoners.”

  “Well, this is always the problem in this kingdom,” Orellana complained. “The Aragonese are intransigent.”

  Mendoza agreed that they were and said that such intransigence had not helped his own investigation. Orellana listened with more interest now as Mendoza explained the purpose of his visit. He did not presume to ask the Holy Office what the Moriscos had been accused of, he said, but he did know that they had originally been arrested on charges of rape and that these charges were false. His own investigation had revealed that the two sisters had been attacked not by the Moriscos but by men acting on the orders of the Baron of Vallcarca, as part of a criminal conspiracy against the Countess of Cardona in which Inquisitor Mercader had become unwittingly involved.

  Orellana had clearly not been aware of any of this. “So the baron ordered the murder of the priest?” he asked.

  “Indeed. It was carried out by the bailiff Sánchez, a bandit named Lupercio Borrell and Constable Franquelo. The bailiff was also an accomplice in the murder of the Count of Cardona two years ago.”

  “And the three brothers?”

  “They were also killed by Borrell and his band, as part of a criminal conspiracy undertaken by Corregidor Calvo under the direct orders of the Marquis of Villareal. The bailiff Sánchez was also part of the same conspiracy, and so was the Inquisition familiar Pachuca. Corregidor Calvo and the bandit Borrell were also responsible for the murders of Inquisitor Mercader and Commissioner Herrero.”

  Orellana was staring at him with a mixture of incomprehension and astonishment. “And you have proof of this?” he asked.

  “I do, Excellency. I have a full confession from the corregidor. I would be happy to pass on a copy to the Holy Office.”

  Orellana thanked him for his cooperation and sat back in his chair with a worried expression. It was not the purpose of the Inquisition, he said, to punish the innocent, and he promised to reconsider the verdicts against the Moriscos and take this information into account. Mendoza left feeling satisfied that this was the best he was likely to get and confident that Villareal’s name would now be passed on to Orellana’s superiors. The following week he gave evidence to the new investigating judge, Argensola, for the first time. His testimony lasted two days, and the judge’s questioning assuaged many of his doubts about the willingness of the Aragonese to carry the investigation to its conclusion. The next week Vallcarca was subjected to the torment, and after four days of torture Argensola informed Sástago that Vallcarca had confessed to all the charges against him.

  • • •

  MENDOZA WAS NOT REQUIRED to play any part in these proceedings, but he was unwilling to leave Zaragoza until justice had been served. He and his men stayed at Sástago’s palace. They slept in comfortable beds and ate fine meals every day. The ache in his leg had finally subsided now that he was no longer obliged to ride a horse each day, and he had time to visit churches, cathedrals and bookshops and make sketches of the city from the other side of the Ebro. Despite these pleasures he was eager to return to Valladolid, and he was anxious at the lack of any response to his letter to the king. Gabriel and Necker were equally keen to return to Castile, and Ventura was also becoming bored and restless.

  Over the next month, the judicial process moved surprisingly quickly. In two large trials the bandits received a range of sentences that included service in the galleys and in penal colonies and the amputation of hands and feet. Five weeks after their arrival, Vallcarca and his son were sentenced by Judge Argensola in the criminal court at the Audience of Aragon in the palace of the Counts of Luna. Mendoza, Gabriel, Ventura, and Necker were all present at the trial. Rodrigo Vallcarca received eight years on the king’s oars, and Vallcarca was given a death sentence. The baron looked older and less imposing than when Mendoza had last seen him, and his bull-like presence was notably reduced by the impact of the torture. He did not even make eye contact with his son. When the sentence was read out he merely smiled faintly and looked across the gallery at Mendoza.

  On the night of June 12, Mendoza visited Vallcarca in his cell to bring him wine, sweets and biscuits. The baron had just made his last confession, and Mendoza found him sitting on the edge of a cot that seemed too small for him, wearing a white shirt with a prison blanket wrapped around his broad shoulders. He exuded an air of gloomy resignation and sat at the table to share the food and drink.

  “So, Mendoza,” he said. “You’ve come to savor your triumph?”

  “To pay my respects, Baron.”

  “Baron!” Vallcarca pulled a sour expression. “Well, that doesn’t matter now, does it? But I have made my confession, and the priest says there is hope for me.”

  Mendoza doubted it, and he poured the wine in silence. Vallcarca raised his glass in one of his large hands and drank it down in a single gulp. “I thank you for bringing sweet wine to a dead man, Licenciado. Did you know that William of Orange has been assassinated?”

  “I did.”

  “And do you think His Most Catholic Majesty is responsible?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Vallcarca laughed. “You see, Licenciado. Even princes must sometimes behave like common highwaymen. What choice did I have?”

  “Everyone has a choice,” Mendoza said. “The warden says that Rodrigo wants to see you, to ask for forgiveness.”

  “He can go to hell.” Vallcarca poured himself another glass. “Maybe I’ll meet him there. Then we can talk. Let him ask the priest to forgive him.”

  “There’s one thing about this affair that I still don’t understand,” Mendoza said. “Why did Sánchez betray his mistress? Was it only for money?”

  The baron looked at him with a faintly amused smile. “No one does anything just for money, Licenciado. The bailiff was jealous.”

  “Jealous of whom? The countess has no plans to marry.”

  Vallcarca’s smile widened. “Who said anything about the countess? And I’m not talking about a man.”

  Mendoza looked at him uncomprehendingly, and then he remembered the hateful expression on the bailiff’s face when he spoke to Susana and the insult he’d directed at her, and he realized that what the countess had been concealing from him had been in front of his eyes the whole time.

  “Sánchez was in love with Segura’s daughter?” he asked.

  “Correct!” Vallcarca said. “And the countess was the reason he couldn’t have her. There was his wife, of course, but you don’t let things like that get in the way, do you? And you know what love can do when it turns rancid. Or maybe you don’t, Licenciado?”

  Mendoza felt momentarily angry with the countess for having deceived him, but the emotion quickly subsided as he looked at the smirk on Vallcarca’s face.

  “Does Segura know about this?” he asked.

  “That pious old Moor? How do you think he’d feel if he knew his daughter was a sodomite?”

  “But I suppose you used it against her?”

  Vallcarca shrugged. “I tried, Licenciado. And thanks to you I failed. And now I would like you to leav
e. I need a little more time to prepare to meet my Maker.”

  • • •

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Vallcarca was decapitated in the market square. Gabriel did not want to see the execution, and Mendoza, Ventura and Necker joined the procession of dignitaries as Judge Argensola led the prisoner from the prison to the place of execution, where a large crowd had gathered to watch. Vallcarca dispensed with his guards and walked slowly and deliberately toward the execution block with his arms tied behind him, in an open tunic with his chest puffed out and a calm, unruffled expression. He loudly repented his sins to the waiting monks, glanced up at the drifting clouds and then laid his head on the block.

  A moment later the ax came down and the bearded head fell to the ground. The executioner proceeded to carve the body into the four pieces that were to be displayed on the outskirts of the city. Finally the crowd began to disperse, and the Inquisitor Orellana came over to Mendoza and told him that the Morisco carpenter Navarro would not be burned but sentenced to the galleys instead. His apprentice would be set free, and their families would not lose their property. Vargas was also among the spectators and told him that the Catalan Lupercio Borrell had been found hanging from a tree near the Puerto de Somport with a sign around his neck that read BANDIT. Some said he’d been killed by montañeses who had heard Mendoza’s proclamation accusing him of the murders of the Quintana brothers. Others said he had been killed by his own men.

  Mendoza’s work was done, and he told the viceroy that he and his men would be returning to Castile the following morning. That night he and Ventura ate supper at the viceroy’s house for the last time, and the viceroy invited Necker and Gabriel to join them. The next morning Mendoza ate breakfast with the old viceroy and thanked him for his hospitality and assistance.

  “Not at all, Licenciado,” the viceroy replied. “Aragon and the king should thank you and your men for putting an end to this villainy. Now we can all look forward to the infanta’s marriage next year. And I have just been informed that a new corregidor has been appointed in Jaca and that he will shortly be passing through Zaragoza.”

  “And the king of Navarre is now heir to the French throne,” Mendoza said. “And he may have to become a Catholic. So perhaps the Béarnese will lose interest in Spain.”

  “Perhaps,” Sástago said. “But I must warn you, Mendoza. Villareal sent a messenger to me personally this morning. The marquis is furious that you don’t answer his letters. I would say he is also rather concerned.”

  “He has good reason to be,” Mendoza said.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Licenciado Mendoza,” the viceroy said. “There’s one other thing I wanted to ask you. I was talking to Judge Argensola after the execution, and he told me that during Vallcarca’s interrogation the baron said that the countess was a bujarrona. He said that she and her maidservant were having . . . intimate relations.” The viceroy pulled a face on uttering these words, as though he had just tasted a bitter lemon. “Did you ever have reason to suspect such a thing?”

  Mendoza showed no sign of surprise or emotion. “I did not, Your Grace. And this sounds to me like another attempt by a desperate man trying to escape judgment.”

  “That’s what I thought.” The viceroy looked pleased. “Well, maybe now that all these villains are out of the way, she’ll find herself a good man. She has to if she wants to preserve the House of Cardona.”

  “She does, Your Grace,” Mendoza agreed. “And I have no doubt that she will find one.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  he countess sat watching Carolina scatter bread crumbs along the edge of the patio while Susana walked along beside her. From the roof and the high wall and the branches of the lemon tree, a few sparrows fluttered down and began to peck at them as Susana raised her finger to her lips to indicate to Carolina that she should remain silent. The countess and Susana smiled at each other, in a way that they were able to do only when they were removed from the scrutiny of the outside world. One day that might change, the countess thought, when Carolina grew older and learned that certain forms of love were sinful and forbidden, but for now the immediate threat that had been hanging over them had been removed.

  She knew that this security was fragile and that the threat would never disappear completely. There was always the possibility that one day she or Susana would be discovered, that some other Sánchez or Vallcarca might emerge to denounce or blackmail her, that some new inquisitor would take the place of Mercader. But more than ever it seemed a risk worth taking, and now, at last, she had found a way to reduce it. She had the letters of approval from Sister Margarita and Bishop Santos. That same morning she had discussed with Father García the final arrangements for Sunday’s service and approved the message that was to be proclaimed by the pregonero over the coming days.

  She knew that what she proposed to do was sinful. To renounce the flesh in public when she had no intention of renouncing it in private was not an act that could please God. But there were so many things she would do to please him that she was convinced that God would forgive her, and there was no other way that she, Susana and Carolina could remain together in this world and preserve the House of Cardona. One day she would convince her Morisco vassals that the Son of God had been born of a virgin. She would convince them to believe in the Holy Trinity and the Resurrection. She would bring those souls to Christ one by one, through patience and persuasion, till there would no longer be any distinction between Old Christians and New Christians. And one day, if God willed it, she would make her last confession in her own bed and not in an inquisitorial jail, surrounded by her daughter, her grandchildren and the woman she loved most of all.

  She smiled at the thought as Tomás came out onto the patio and told her that the Count of Espinosa had arrived. For the first time in her life, she felt relieved to see her father-in-law. Because Espinosa was the one remaining issue she had not resolved, and since he had fled to Toledo, it had begun to seem increasingly unlikely that she could resolve it. She had sent two messengers in an attempt to coax him back, and now he had returned in search of the one thing that always attracted him. She promised herself that he would not leave unless she got exactly what she wanted.

  She waited a few more minutes before going out to the drawing room. The last time she’d seen him there, Espinosa had been unctuous, hypocritical and menacing. Now he oozed fake humility and fake repentance as he got up and tried to kiss her.

  “Isabel,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  She walked straight past him without offering her cheek and sat down in the same seat where she had greeted him less than two months before.

  “Of course you’re sorry,” she said, looking at him coldly. “Because your master is now dead and your plot has collapsed.”

  “I didn’t know anyone would be killed!” he protested. “I only wanted to protect Cardona.”

  “You wished to protect yourself, sir.”

  “You judge me too harshly. You were being stubborn. Marrying Vallcarca was our best option.”

  “Your best option. And please stop pretending that this had anything to do with my welfare. You demean yourself, sir. You would have seen me in the Aljafería!”

  “I thought that you’d agree to marry Rodrigo first.”

  “You lie to me as you lie to yourself. You are a villain, sir, and I could never judge you too harshly!”

  Espinosa stiffened, and the haughtiness returned, curdling his bony, cadaverous features into a contemptuous scowl. “And is that why you asked me here? So that you could tell me that? You could have said it in a letter.”

  “There are some things that cannot be said in letters. I summoned you here because you are fond of business propositions. Well, I have one to make to you. I will give you three thousand ducats toward your debts. In return you will renounce your family’s claims to Cardona. You will agree never to return to these estates or have any contact with
my daughter or any member of my family. You will agree to all this in the presence of a notary.”

  Espinosa looked unimpressed. “That’s a lot to ask for three thousand ducats. It won’t even cover half of what I owe.”

  “To guarantee this arrangement,” the countess went on, “you will sign a full confession in the presence of witnesses admitting that you and Vallcarca tried to blackmail me. You will state that any imputations of bad character or impious behavior attributed to me were inventions concocted by the two of you. In the event of any violation of this agreement, copies of this confession will be sent to the justiciar, to His Majesty and also to Licenciado Mendoza.”

  Espinosa looked incredulous now. “And what makes you think I would be stupid enough to agree to something like that?”

  “Because you are now in Cardona, and if you refuse, I shall have you arrested and placed in the seigneurial jail. My own courts will interrogate you and try you and find you guilty. And I assure you, you will hang.”

  “Hang the father of your own husband? Come now, Isabel. That’s not you at all.”

  The countess was sitting demurely with her hands folded on her lap. “You have no idea what I am capable of, sir. Licenciado Mendoza knows everything about you. It is only because of me that you have not been arrested already. You have no more choices. You will do as I say or you will die in Cardona.”

  Espinosa’s clawlike hands were wrestling with each other, and he stared back at her with a mixture of helpless anger and self-pity. “You would blackmail an old man?”

  The countess’s face was expressionless as she got to her feet.

  “I would, sir,” she said coldly. “You came back here for money. And I advise you to accept what I am offering. You may wait here while I summon the notary. If you even attempt to leave this room, you will be arrested. Would you like Esteban to bring you some lunch after your journey?”