by Matthew Carr
“I’ve lost my appetite,” he replied.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” The Countess of Cardona smiled benignly, and with a faint swishing of her velvet gown she walked out the door and shut it quietly behind her.
• • •
ON THE WAY BACK TO VALLADOLID, their mood was very different from that on the outward journey. This time there were no ribald anecdotes, no tales of old wars and battles, no cursing and laughter. All of them were conscious of the two companions whom they’d left in the mountains, though no one spoke about them. Conversation was sparse and mostly perfunctory. Even Gabriel, who had spoken to everyone and never stopped asking questions on the journey up from Castile, now spent much of the day riding alone, immersed in his own thoughts.
Ventura was also subdued, and Mendoza sensed that he was sinking into one of the brooding moods that often overcame him when there were no wars, adventures or affairs of the heart to distract and excite him. His cousin became noticeably more morose the closer they drew to Valladolid. On the final day, they reached the Esgueva River, and everybody’s spirits seemed to lift at the sight of the city walls except Ventura’s, who appeared even gloomier as Necker began talking almost animatedly about how much he was looking forward to seeing his wife and children again.
“And what will you do, cousin?” Mendoza asked.
“I don’t know. See how things are in Madrid. Perhaps I’ll go back to Flanders.”
“Why don’t you stay with us till you make up your mind?”
Gabriel urged him to accept the invitation, and Mendoza was pleased to observe that his page seemed almost cheerful. He waited until they reached the outskirts of the city before riding alongside the young man.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you,” Mendoza said awkwardly.
“Sir?”
“There are many men in Valladolid or Madrid who would like a page or a secretary. I could arrange it for you with an excellent recommendation, especially after what you’ve done.”
Gabriel looked at him in surprise. “Why would I want to do that, sir?”
“I thought perhaps you might feel different . . . after what I told you.”
“I thank you for the offer, sir. But I want to go home.”
“I’m glad to hear it—”
Mendoza was about to call him “boy,” but suddenly it seemed no longer appropriate. Gabriel smiled at him, and Mendoza smiled, too, and as they entered the familiar streets once again, he realized that in some way he did not fully understand, the little boy he’d saved at Galera had also rescued him and enabled him to preserve the humanity that the War of Granada had very nearly taken away from him. Without Gabriel he, too, might have lost his bearings, like his cousin, and spent his life chasing danger or ended up as bitter and resentful as the old friend who had once plucked him from the deck of an infidel ship.
“Bernardo,” his cousin asked him now, “do you remember when the abbot told me I should go into the world to do some good?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think we did some good in Aragon?”
Mendoza smiled. “I believe we did,” he said.
• • •
ONCE AGAIN THEY RODE into the Plaza Mayor, past the Royal Chancellery, and the lawyers swarming like black bees, and the notaries with their brown leather bags and sheaves of papers, along the cobbled streets until they saw his house, and Mendoza could not remember a time when he’d ever been so happy to see it. The three of them unloaded their bags and weapons, and Mendoza knocked loudly while Necker took the horses to the stables. A few minutes later, Magdalena appeared in the doorway and clapped her hands to her cheeks at the sight of them.
“¡Dios mío!” She made the sign of the cross and looked gratefully up toward the sky. “Thank you, Lord!”
Tears were rolling down her cheeks now as the little housekeeper embraced Gabriel and pressed her head against his chest and pulled his face down toward her to kiss him. Gabriel bit his lip and stared resolutely at the door behind her in an effort to contain his own tears.
“I told you I’d bring him back alive,” Mendoza said.
“I prayed every day for all of you! Every day!”
Mendoza told her that Ventura would be staying with them for a while, and she hugged him and Ventura, too. He had thought that he would give his report to Judge Saravia that day, but it was getting late and he was in no mood to see him. Nor was he ready yet to see Martín’s wife and Daniel’s fiancée and tell them what had happened. Magda gave him his letters, including one that she said had arrived only two days before from Aragon. He recognized Sástago’s handwriting and went to his bedroom and looked at his books, his pictures and the vihuela resting against the wall. It was still in tune, and he played a few notes and then laid it back down, because he was not yet ready for music.
Instead he sat at his table near the window and opened Sástago’s letter. It was only a short note, thanking him once again for his work in the investigation. The viceroy informed him that he had written to the king to praise Mendoza for his efforts in bringing peace and tranquillity to Aragon and uncovering the scandalous and unpleasant events that had threatened the royal wedding. The letter also brought surprising news from Cardona. In the week of his departure from Aragon, the countess had declared her intention to become a beata—a holy woman—and had pledged to build a new monastery and convent in the Cardona estates. The archbishop of Zaragoza had approved this decision, and her new status was to be publicly proclaimed in a ceremony at the church in Cardona attended by Archbishop Santos and leading members of the Aragonese clergy.
Though the countess would not go into a convent or lose her title, she had taken vows of celibacy and pledged to dedicate the rest of her life to pious works. The legal status of her estates was not yet clear, the viceroy said, but she was believed to be seeking a special dispensation from His Majesty to allow the Cardona inheritance to pass directly to her daughter, Carolina. Even more surprising, her father-in-law had signed documents renouncing the Espinosa family’s claims to her estates. All this was known even in Zaragoza, because the countess had made sure of it. A lot of men would be disappointed by this decision, the viceroy said, including some he knew, but what the world had lost, the church had certainly gained.
Mendoza smiled. He imagined the countess kneeling in front of the altar and the wounded blue eyes gazing up toward the cross as she pledged herself to Christ in front of a packed church. He had no doubt that the congregation would have been impressed by her piety, because the Countess of Cardona was a very pious and very convincing woman, who was cleverer than any of them thought, and she was willing to take great risks to protect those she loved. And whether or not her secrets were ever revealed, he promised himself that it would not be due to him.
• • •
THE MARQUIS OF VILLAREAL looked out the window as his carriage climbed up the hill from the Manzanares River alongside the old defensive walls toward the broad plateau where the great stone façade of the Royal Alcázar loomed over the capital. The road was busy, and some of the travelers paused to admire the gleaming silver-and-walnut carriage with its team of six horses and its fifteen-man escort. Villareal stared stoically past them toward the four conical towers and the rows of symmetrical windows, where his gaze rested anxiously on the Golden Tower that housed the royal apartments.
For years his life and career had revolved around the Royal Palace. Within its walls he had made love and money, friends, allies and enemies, and he had continued the inexorable ascent that would one day take him into the royal household. There had been times when things had not always gone as they should, but he’d never felt that his position within the court or the government was under any real threat. Even his rivals understood that he was one of the king’s most trusted ministers, and until very recently Villareal had believed that, too. But now he could not shake off the f
eeling that the world he had once belonged to was slowly and invisibly pulling away from him and that there was nothing he could do to prevent it.
It was six weeks since he’d last received a report from Alcalde Mendoza and a month since he’d received the letter announcing that all the judge’s future reports would be sent directly to the king. Since then his secretary had written four letters to Zaragoza demanding an explanation, without receiving an answer. He had even sent a letter and a messenger to the viceroy’s house, but Mendoza had refused to speak to him.
It was obvious that Mendoza had now become his enemy. As the carriage approached the central gate, he reminded himself that Calvo was dead, and so were Sánchez and the Catalan. Whatever Mendoza knew, or thought he knew, and whatever he’d told the king, there was no one left alive who was able to testify against Villareal. Yet he had written to the king two weeks ago to recommend a replacement for Corregidor Calvo and to demand Mendoza’s recall and still had not received a reply.
That silence was far more troubling than Mendoza’s, and he tried to suppress his anxiety as the carriage entered the courtyard and came to a halt alongside the patio where the Council of Aragon had its chambers. A servant opened the door, and he stepped down onto the cobblestones and glanced around at the familiar crowd of hawkers, food vendors, courtiers, lords and ladies, servants, pages, officials and petitioning soldiers who filled the vast space. He nodded at the courtiers and officials who required acknowledgment, and they nodded back or bowed and fluttered their fans. All this was how it should be, and it was not until he saw Secretary Vázquez standing outside the doorway of the Council of Aragon that his stomach tightened and the anxiety flared up once again.
“Good morning, Secretary Vázquez.”
“Excellency.” The secretary did not bow or return the smile. “His Majesty wishes to see you.”
“Of course,” Villareal replied. “Shall I attend His Majesty after the council meeting or later today?”
“The king wishes to see you now.”
Villareal nodded obediently and followed the secretary up to the first floor, past the rows of paintings and past more officials and courtiers, some of whom, he was now certain, were looking at him differently. The secretary left him in the reception room, and he glanced absently at the rows of paintings by Titian, Antonis Mor, Tintoretto and Bassano and other artists whose names he’d forgotten. Normally he liked to arrive early to his meetings with the king in order to admire them, but now he paced up and down until he came to a halt in front of the triptych by the Flemish painter Bosch, one of the king’s favorites.
The central panel showed a peaceful, bucolic scene of peasants enjoying themselves around a giant hay wagon while Jesus looked down from a cloud above them. Some were singing, dancing and playing musical instruments. Others were preparing and eating food against a background of green hills. In the third panel, an army of demons and half-men/half-animals were storming a town with siege ladders and burning, raping, killing and looting while the corpses of naked men and women littered the ground all around them.
The juxtaposition disturbed him, and he did not understand the painter’s intentions. He was still staring at the painting when Secretary Vázquez emerged through a door and summoned him inside. The king was in his study, dressed in his usual black, and did not look up as he entered the room.
“We have received an unusual request from the Countess of Cardona,” he said. “She wishes to change the status of the Cardona inheritance so that her estates can be passed on to her daughter. I am minded to do as she asks, given that it now appears she was not what she seemed to be. And this judge of yours speaks very highly of her.”
Villareal bowed slightly. “As Your Majesty wishes.”
“He speaks less highly of you, Counselor,” the king went on. “In fact, we have lately received a troubling letter from Zaragoza in which Alcalde Mendoza has made some very serious accusations.”
Villareal had the peculiar sensation that the floor was moving beneath his feet. He would have liked to sit down, but he received no such invitation as Secretary Vázquez read out the contents of Mendoza’s letter in an emotionless monotone.
“Your Majesty, I categorically deny these scurrilous and groundless accusations, and I defy Judge Mendoza to produce any evidence to support them,” he said emphatically when Vázquez had finished.
Philip nodded at his secretary, who presented him with the copy of Calvo’s confession, and the two men watched in silence while Villareal read it.
“Sire, this document has no legal value. It is the last testament of a man who is about to kill himself and has clearly lost his senses. I have never had the relationship with the corregidor that he describes.”
“And yet he insists that you did. And Judge Mendoza has also sent us letters that you sent to him in which you refer to ‘our business in Cardona’ and a man called Lupe?”
“I was referring to the corregidor’s investigation, sire. And the name refers to the bandit Lupercio Borrell, whom I wanted Calvo to arrest.”
“Señor Borrell was also in our employ at one time, was he not? When he assisted the Catholic cause in France?”
“That is correct, Your Majesty.”
“And he performed some valuable services on our behalf?”
“He did, Majesty. But he has since become a criminal and a bandit, and it was my understanding that he was working for Baron Vallcarca.”
“I see.” The gray eyes continued to look at him with the same terrifying disdain. “And what did you mean by ‘sparkle’?”
“’Sparkle,’ Your Majesty?”
“You asked the corregidor for more sparkle—on more than one occasion.”
“I wanted the corregidor to pursue his investigations with more vigor.” Villareal was conscious that his forehead was sweating, and he resisted the urge to wipe it. “I believe that Alcalde Mendoza has misinterpreted my language and my intentions.”
“Yet you yourself have told me that this judge is of good reputation. And now you say that he is incompetent and reckless and you have asked me to recall him.”
“I have since discovered that his reputation was inflated. It has been obvious for some time that he has been out of his depth in this investigation.”
The king nodded. “Perhaps,” he said icily. “But Grand Inquisitor Quiroga has written to us praising Judge Mendoza for his cooperation, and he has mentioned your name in connection with the murders of his officials.”
It seemed to Villareal that a howling, cold wind was blowing through the room. He felt dizzy and light-headed and wished that he could sink into the floor and vanish.
“Sire, this is a conspiracy to blacken my name. You know that I have always served you well.”
“Indeed. But now your services are no longer required. You are no longer my counselor, and you are no longer welcome at court. You may return to your estates, but you will no longer travel anywhere with more than four servants.”
“Your Majesty—”
Philip smiled. It was an odd, disturbing smile without a trace of warmth, humor or understanding, a smile that told Villareal the conversation was now over and so was his career. He bowed deeply and left the room, and as the door closed behind him, he knew that he would never be coming back.
• • •
ON SUNDAY, Mendoza went to church early and lit two candles, one for Daniel and one for Martín, and waited for the congregants to arrive. He was pleased to see Elena among them, and he was even happier to see that she was without her husband. After all this time, he was not confident that she might still have any interest in him, but as soon as he saw her lips part with pleasure beneath the veil, he knew that he had no need to worry. When the service was over, he went outside and waited for an opportunity to speak to her and suppressed his impatience when he saw Saravia waddling toward him.
“There you are, Mendoza,”
the judge said, looking at him suspiciously. “I heard you were back, but you didn’t come to see me.”
“I arrived late yesterday afternoon, Your Worship. I intended to report to you first thing tomorrow.”
“Did you? And did you know that the king was preparing to send three thousand troops to Cardona and he has now reversed his decision? Did you know the Marquis of Villareal has been dismissed from his post and expelled from the court? No one seems to know why, but they’re saying he will be lucky to escape criminal charges.”
“I was unaware of that, sir.”
“Well, you can give me a full report tomorrow.”
Mendoza promised that he would, and as the judge wandered off to speak to a group of lawyers, he saw Elena with the corner of his eye, gracefully maneuvering her way through the crowd toward him with her maidservant, like the figurehead of a ship.
“Licenciado Mendoza!” she said. “You have descended from the mountains. Have you brought the stone tablets with you?”
“Unfortunately, I was unable to find them, Doña Elena.” He bowed. “I returned yesterday.”
“But was your mission successful?”
“As much as could be expected.”
“Well, your return is fortuitous,” she said, fluttering her fan. “On Wednesday we are having some entertainment at my house. There will be music, poetry and dancing. Will you come and play the vihuela for us?”
“Duty permitting, madam,” he said with the faintest of smiles.
“I hope it does,” she said, lowering her voice. “Because my vihuela needs tuning, and no fingers have touched its strings in your absence.”
Mendoza nodded gravely and said that he would he happy to make them sing again. He watched her leave and then moved lightly across the vast square, tapping his stick, with his black cloak trailing behind, scanning the arches and nooks and crannies in search of vice and crime as the cathedral bells rang out in celebration and the fragment of an old poem flashed through his head—“Do not be late, for I am dying, jailer / Do not be late, for I am dying”—and another voice answered back, in time with the bells, Not yet, not yet.