“Since it was such a short visit, I was able to slip out, just before the hour.”
“But it’s nearly midnight. What have you been doing all night, then?”
“Sitting in the center courtyard, writing by the moonlight. I didn’t want to disturb Mamá and Papá and I thought it best if I waited until they bedded down.” Isabel removed her gloves. “Come now, Beatriz. Are you quite through interrogating me?”
Beatriz snorted. “I’m not sure.”
Isabel rustled around in a drawer. “Here. Take my fan. You always liked the jewels on the handle.”
Beatriz snatched it from Isabel, squinting up at her sister. “I think I believe you. But let’s just hope you have not sneaked out to meet a paramour. Don Sancho wouldn’t take kindly to that.”
Isabel’s stomach dropped. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“You’re flushed.”
“If you must know, it was a very romantic poem I was writing.” Isabel hoped that was the end of it.
“Well, next time Don Sancho comes calling, best not to mention this little writing hobby of yours.”
“I don’t plan to. He wouldn’t understand.”
“Though I do wonder what he’d say if he knew his betrothed attended readings of illicit Moorish poetry.”
“You wouldn’t dare say anything!”
“While I think it would behoove you to suffer, I will not say a word. For now.”
Isabel sat down on her sister’s pallet, confused. “I don’t understand. You want me to suffer?”
In the flickering light of the candle, Beatriz’s face looked contorted, evil almost. “You live in the clouds, dear sister, with your poetry and your romantic notions.”
“You think it’s only me who wants beauty and rainbows? You’re the one who can’t abide basic human bodily functions. I saw how you reacted in the judería.”
Beatriz rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I’m talking about. You have the gaze of any male you want. Perfect hair, perfect nose, perfect décolletage. You have no idea what real pain is.” She paused, raising her face to the ceiling. “We glory in our sufferings because we know that suffering produces perseverance. Romans 5:3–5.”
Isabel stood abruptly. “I’ve heard enough.”
“There’s still hope, though,” said Beatriz. “Your soul can be saved.” She touched the scab on her head. “Through pain.”
And all at once, Isabel knew what Beatriz was doing with that peineta. “You are like one of those horrible self-flagellants, aren’t you?”
Beatriz didn’t meet her sister’s eye.
“A penitent, hurting herself to show remorse. What sin have you committed?”
“Being born.”
Isabel shook her head. Who was this impostor who lived in their house? Were her friends following the same path? “Does Constanza know you do this?”
Beatriz did not answer.
Isabel persisted. “What about Juan Carlos?”
Something shifted in Beatriz’s eyes. Or maybe it was just the flicker of the candlelight. “He has nothing to do with this.”
Could it be that Beatriz’s internal conflict was too much to bear? That her attraction to Juan Carlos did not reconcile with her hope for a future as a chaste nun? Did imagining the pleasures of the flesh make her feel too guilty, so she drew blood from her scalp? Perhaps. Whatever the explanation, at this moment, Isabel chose not to exploit her sister’s weakness, but rather file it away for the future.
Beatriz thrust her shoulders back. “It isn’t me you should be concerned about. Look to your own backyard. Time is running out for you to pay for your sins.”
“I will keep your words in mind. Thank you for setting me straight.” Isabel gently took the orange remnant out of Beatriz’s hand. “Dear sister, what would I do without you?”
Thursday, the day after his evening stroll with Isabel, Diego stopped at an inn outside the walls of Trujillo. All morning and afternoon had been spent riding up and down the region of Extremadura, checking on various Altamirano tenant farmers. The paths were narrow and rocky, and it was slow going in places. His throat was parched and his bota bag had long run out of wine. He tied up his horse, took a swig of water from the well out front, washed his face and hands, then entered.
The inn was bustling. Underneath a low ceiling, groups of men, both young and old, sat on long tables, eating mutton, their voices loud from drink. The air was pungent with the smell of sweat and meat.
“Diego! Mi caballero.”
Diego turned to his left, following the voice. “Lord Varjas! What a surprise.”
His old friend waved him over. “Join me for a mug of wine.”
Diego took a seat, removing his hat. Though they were both nineteen years of age, the other man now had a small belly that protruded over his sash. “How long has it been?”
“Since before you left for University, no?” replied Varjas. “We used to spend quite a bit of time in places like this, didn’t we?”
“Indeed,” said Diego. “Any news from Madrid?”
“More of the same. The queen is talking about moving the capital to Madrid since the water supply is so plentiful. The Toledanos aren’t on her side, as you might imagine. Two autos de fe this week. Nasty business. But those deceitful conversos need to be put in their place.”
Though it was difficult for him, Diego nodded in agreement. How could it be that such enlightenment was happening in other parts of Europe, but Spain was stuck in the twelfth century?
“How are they ever going to extricate all the conversos from their spouses and children and punish the correct people?” Diego wondered aloud. “Marriages go back to after the mass conversions of 1391. It’s a mess of intermarriage and Jewish great-grandparents.”
“Then they’ll dig up the graves of the New Christians and burn their bones posthumously.”
Diego cleared his throat, unnerved. “And what are they saying about this Portuguese treasurer, Isaac Abravanel?”
Varjas laughed. “It’s true Her Majesty trusts only the Jews to handle the royal treasury. Plus, all his funnel-capped brethren are constantly filling the royal coffers to remain in her good stead. I have no doubt the king and queen will grab him for their own. He never took the baptism oath, so he is safe.” Varjas waved over a maid. “Bring another bottle of rioja for my friend here.”
The girl smiled devilishly at Diego, leaning over him to clear the dirty glasses. She was uncorseted, so her breasts practically fell out in front of his face. “My room is upstairs, second door on the left,” she whispered into his ear. Diego did not take the bait. He gave her no second glance.
Varjas stared at his friend with incredulity. “Since when do you pass up a chance at the pleasure of the flesh?”
Diego hesitated.
“Excuse me,” said a gentleman sitting at the table behind them. “I couldn’t help but overhear.” He turned to face Varjas. “Are you from Madrid?”
“What concern is it of yours?” said Varjas, resting his fingers on his pistol.
The man had a round, open face. His eyes were heavily lidded, and his blond hair spread out around his face like a furry dog. To Diego, he seemed harmless.
“I didn’t mean to alarm,” said the man. “I’m heading there myself. I’ve just returned to Spain, having been abroad.” His Castilian accent was flawless.
Diego’s attention piqued. “Abroad?”
The man nodded. “I was born in Paredes de Nava, but I’ve been in Italy the past four years.”
“May I ask where in Italy?” said Diego, leaning in.
“Urbino,” the man replied. “At the Ducal Palace. I’m a painter.”
Diego’s heart began to race. It couldn’t be. “You’re not, perchance, Pedro Berruguete?”
The man beamed, thrust his hand out. “The very same.” He put his arm around the shoulders of a young man, about Diego’s age, sitting beside him. “And this is my son, Alonso. He is studying sculpting.”
Diego was e
cstatic. He turned to Varjas. “This man is famous! We studied his La Virgen de la Leche at school.” Diego’s professor had obtained a study of La Virgen de la Leche, an artist’s sketch that had been discarded at some point in the process of creating the final work. That was how students usually studied the masters if they couldn’t sail to Italy or the Netherlands to see paintings in person. He addressed Berruguete again. “The patterns on the woodwork surrounding la Virgen’s head, even in one of your earlier versions, were so varied and intricate. I could never achieve that level of variation.”
Berruguete was clearly flattered.
“Tell me, did you apprentice with a Flemish artist?” continued Diego. “Because I see some similarities from that school in your work—the details in the faces, the brilliant colors and rich textures of the brocateado …”
“You are correct, young man,” said Berruguete, delighted. “I studied with van Gent. He taught me the gilding process and the depth it can bring to textiles. Take his famous men series, the one of Ptolemy, for example; the sphere and the jewels on his robe were both painted with his unique process of bringing gold to life. I personally worked on that sphere.”
“I can’t believe it,” said Diego. “Providence brought us to this moment.” He listened intently as Berruguete spoke about an upcoming commission for the altar at the Church of Santa Eulalia. It was to be a series depicting several scenes from the life of la Virgen. Diego kept his face neutral, but inside, his heart leapt. He’d give anything to be able to apprentice with this man the way Berruguete had done with van Gent. But that could never be. His father would never abide it. Besides, it was not as if an offer were forthcoming. Berruguete probably had many eager students more qualified than Diego.
As Berruguete described how he planned to bridge the Flemish school of thought with the humanistic techniques coming out of Italy for this new Virgen series, a different thought entered Diego’s mind. The reason why Isabel’s face was so familiar was because she looked like the Virgin Mary in Berruguete’s painting! She had the same auburn hair tumbling down her back, the same wide-set eyes and pale skin. A vision.
He knew he had to see her again. No matter who she may be betrothed to, no matter which type of blood ran through her veins.
The buxom maid came by to refill all of their cups. Berruguete and Alonso turned back to their own table to order olla podrida, a popular dish of pork, chicken, bone marrow, blood sausage, ham, and chickpeas. An older gentleman teetered by, too much drink in his belly. Diego recognized him as Zuniga, duque de Bejar, an old friend of his father’s. Well-bred Spaniards did not get drunk and Diego did not relish conversing with the man.
Zuniga spotted him anyway. “Is that you, Master Diego?”
Diego nodded. “Duque.” He put on his felt hat. “I’m just on my way out. Sorry I can’t tarry and have a drink with you.”
“Pity. You must give my best to the count,” said Zuniga, accidentally spitting on Diego’s cloak.
With annoyance, Diego brushed off his cape. As he went sideways between the two benches, Berruguete spun around again. “You’re leaving?”
“I’m afraid so,” replied Diego.
“Which count was that man speaking of, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Count Altamirano,” piped in Varjas, who had remained silent until now. “Diego’s father.” Varjas was boasting about his friend, attempting to impress their new acquaintances. Diego did not like it, using names of important people that way. Varjas hadn’t labored a day in his life and enjoyed reminding the working class of his status at every opportunity.
Berruguete’s eyes twinkled. “You know, I could be persuaded to stay in Trujillo a bit longer,” he began. “Instead of going to Madrid, I was also weighing the idea of setting up a studio right here.”
“What a coincidence,” said Diego, evenly. He knew the reason for the sudden friendliness. Now that Berruguete had heard his father was a count, he saw maravedis in front of his eyes. Competition was fierce for coveted church commissions. Eventually, all artists turned to the private sector to support themselves, servicing wealthy patrons with egos who wanted their own devotionals hanging among their tapestries in the dining room.
“I could use someone like you,” continued Berruguete. “A young, eager student, willing to work hard and learn.” He paused. “And one who doesn’t use his father’s position to advance himself.”
That was a surprise.
“Unless, of course, you are already committed elsewhere?” asked Berruguete. “It does an older man’s soul good to be appreciated. Alonso here wants nothing to do with his old papá. He prefers Donatello. Right, Son?”
Alonso turned red. “I don’t prefer him to you, Papá, I just prefer a different medium.”
All sons want to break free of the yokes of their fathers, thought Diego.
“So what do you think?” asked the artist.
Berruguete did seem to be a man of integrity. “I’m extremely flattered,” Diego began. “I’ll need to speak with my father—that is, not for permission.” He chuckled. “I mean, he certainly lets me go about my days freely, but to make sure he has no plans for me over the next few months. I only just returned from university.” Stop blabbering, you blaffard.
Berruguete nodded and Diego bade him farewell.
As Diego rode home that night, he let his heart run free with prospects for the future. One filled with art, and hopefully Isabel. Why shouldn’t he have a rebirth in his own life like the one happening in Florence? Diego the apprentice, courting Isabel, in secret of course—with Don Sancho and his newly appointed Familiar father, it was simply too dangerous for them to be seen publicly. And eventually, Diego the painter, married to Isabel the poet.
Of course, there were difficult steps in between. Extricating her from her betrothal and then persuading his father that marrying a New Christian would not taint the Altamirano bloodline.
But first, he must convince the count to allow his precious progeny to become a working man.
One challenge at a time.
A banner flew outside the iglesia, adorned with an escudo, or coat of arms. The design was a circle with Latin words from Psalm 73: Arise, O God and Plead Your Cause. Inside the circle was a thick wooden cross, surrounded by a leafy tree branch and a sword. It was nearly impossible for Isabel to accept. The Inquisition was actually here, in her little town, waving its flag unabashedly.
The inside of the church was packed to the vaults. Friar Francisco’s warning had worked. Isabel’s fan did no good. The air stood stagnant no matter how many women’s wrists moved back and forth. Before Mass began, she allowed herself one glance around. Maybe Diego was here with his parents. But the crowd was so thick, she couldn’t see past the tenth row from the front. She did spot Don Sancho’s distinctive shape, sitting in a middle pew. Thankfully, he was packed in there like a sardine. He wasn’t going anywhere for the moment.
The members of the Dominican order stood flanking the pulpit in their dramatic white habits and black cloaks, reveling in their positions of power.
“I’ve never seen this many holy men in our church before,” exclaimed Beatriz, giddy with excitement.
One of the friars held the silver cross of the Inquisition firmly in his hand. Little bells dangled from the horizontal bar, while the shiny vertical part of the cross caught the sunlight streaming in from the colored leaded-glass windows above. An altar boy swung a censer, spreading smoke. Normally, Isabel enjoyed the fragrant spice held inside, but today her stomach churned, and the smell made her feel queasy.
As there were no seats available, Papá led Beatriz, Isabel, Mamá, and Abuela to stand together on the right, behind the last pew. Others without seats crowded around them, so that the space quickly became thick with the smell of unwashed bodies.
A hush silenced the crowd. A tall man, gaunt and thin as a wheat stalk, emerged from the smoke and approached the main altar. He had a long, hooked nose and cheekbones so sharp they threatened to slice through h
is face. Though he was dressed like the other friars in a white robe and black cloak, his face was whiter than theirs, ghostly. “I am Tomás de Torquemada, the First Inquisitor General under His and Her Majesties’ Holy Order of the Inquisition Against Heretical Depravity. Pope Sixtus the fourth has given us his blessing for this edict.”
The congregation gave a collective gasp. It truly was him, in the flesh. Isabel startled at the volume of his booming voice. It belied the fragility of his body.
“Look around you,” said Torquemada. “You think you know your neighbors? I promise you, you do not. You do not!”
The Dominican friar pounded the silver cross on the ground, echoing Torquemada’s words.
“There are false Christians among us who are corrupting the Church,” continued Torquemada. “They claim to worship our Lord, but they lie.
“We must weed them out, like a poisonous mushroom. These so-called conversos are really just swine. Pigs who are infecting us, soiling our clean, holy way of life. It is time to rid our beloved Spain of their tainted blood. To rid our villages of social anarchy. To rid our families of the disintegration that comes from mixed marriages. To rid our souls of moral dissoluteness.”
The entire Perez family focused on Friar Torquemada.
“How do we recognize these Judaizers if they look just like us? If they sit among us?”
No one responded.
“Let me enlighten you. Who among us has witnessed a neighbor, a friend, a family member utter that he is awaiting the Messiah?”
The crowd buzzed with chatter.
“This is blasphemy!” boomed Torquemada. “The Messiah has already come, in the form of Jesús Cristo, the anointed One.”
Isabel heard many in the congregation utter, “Eso es,” that’s it. She tried to remember, had Papá, Mamá, or Abuela ever spoken of the Messiah before?
Torquemada’s tirade got louder. “Have you witnessed any father placing his hand on the heads of his children for a blessing without making the sign of the cross? As if he, a mere mortal, had the power of the Almighty?”
Isabel covered her mouth with her hand.
The Poetry of Secrets Page 10