The Poetry of Secrets

by Cambria Gordon

  “But …” Diego began, running his hands through his hair. It was preposterous. This entire conversation. “Never mind.”

  Her eyes darted to the chapel door, shut firmly. “You have more questions,” said his mother. “Please, go on.”

  He stood up, pacing in the small room. “According to Mosaic Law, every child born from a Jewish mother is …”

  “Jewish. I’m aware of that. But you, m’hijo, are no more Jewish than our very own King Ferdinand. Our papers are stamped by the Order of Chivalry of King Henry III, grandfather to Queen Isabella. No one has ever questioned it. And no one ever will.” She rose, giving him an imperious stare. “Understood? This conversation ends here. And we will not mention this to your father.”

  He gave her the briefest of nods. A wind was blowing through his mind, clearing the clouds of confusion away. He now knew the reason why he never felt accepted by the other children at court. Why he did not fit in with the young men at grammar school. Why he stayed up until dawn at university debating Maimonides, one of the greatest Jewish philosophers of all time. Why his Hebrew language class was so fascinating to him.

  He was Most Illustrious Lord Diego Altamirano, next in line to the countship. And he was a Jew.

  For the first time Isabel could remember, her family did not have Shabbat dinner in the cellar. After the auto de fe, no one could stomach food, even Beatriz, who offered a ritual sacrifice to el Dios by abstaining from eating for twelve hours.

  Isabel wondered if she herself would ever be able to eat again after the horror of yesterday. But when she opened her eyes to the sunlight on Saturday morning, there was a rumbling in her belly, the body belying the mind. Along with her hunger, she remembered the Talmud, hidden in the cellar, forgotten in the rush to get to the auto de fe. She felt certain that showing it to Abuela would lift both their spirits tremendously.

  Isabel kicked off the linens and sat up. Beatriz was not abed. The house was silent. Maybe Mamá, Papá, and Abuela were taking their warm milk outdoors? She placed her feet on the cool stone floor and walked to her window to peer down into the courtyard. It was empty. She thought of two of the prisoners yesterday, Maria and Fernando, their last days of life spent hemmed in, sleeping in a cell in the basement of the Holy Office. What were their thoughts? How did they not rip out their fingernails digging in the dirt, trying to escape? In some ways, Maria’s premature death by torture was merciful. She did not see it coming. Fernando had to be paraded in front of the entire town and then hear his death sentence pronounced. His last few minutes of life were spent in full awareness of his doom. Isabel breathed in the sweet air from outside and thanked Dios she was safe in her own home.

  It was there, stuck atop one of the iron bars of her window, that Isabel found the second note from Diego.

  I need to see you. Meet me outside the south gate of the city wall at half past noon.

  Her pulse raced. Had he heard talk at the auto de fe? Was there another warning for her family he needed to convey? Or … did she dare dream it? Maybe he had been thinking about her as much as she had been missing him?

  Isabel wandered into the sala in her floor-length white nightdress. She shivered in the thin cotton fabric and pulled the ribbon tighter at her neck. Silence. Where was everybody? “Mamá, Papá, Abuela?” She opened the front door, looking up at the sky. The sun was not directly overhead but approaching it. It was likely between the tenth and eleventh hour. God’s navel, how would she slip out to meet Diego in such a short time?

  Beatriz and Abuela entered the house from the rear door in the kitchen, carrying their chamber pots. They were both dressed for the day in street clothes. Abuela looked practical, as always, in a simple green skirt, sleeveless tunic, and chemise. Beatriz stood out in her color-coordinated veil and gown of red satin.

  “Where are Mamá and Papá?” asked Isabel.

  “Visiting Señora Cohen,” said Beatriz with contempt.

  “No puedo creerlo!” exclaimed Isabel. “I don’t believe it! What made Papá change his mind?”

  Abuela smiled. “I convinced your father. Don’t ask me to do it again, though. It was a singular success.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “That we mustn’t hold grudges in our hearts. Maimonides commands us that if someone apologizes to us, we must forgive.”

  Diego had said something to that effect during their walk. Where could he have possibly gotten that idea?

  “Besides,” added Abuela, “visiting a sick person is performing a mitzvah.” A good deed.

  And after the auto de fe, we don’t know what the future brings, thought Isabel, offering her own silent reason for why her parents should visit Hannah Cohen. We must seize opportunities for forgiveness now so we don’t die with regret. “I’m glad,” said Isabel. “The Cohens will be home for the Sabbath. It’s good timing.”

  Beatriz yawned, bored with the conversation. She turned to Abuela. “Shall we go?”

  “Go where?” asked Isabel.

  “Promenading,” said Beatriz. “Abuela will be my duenna.”

  “Is that wise?” asked Isabel. Ever since her grandmother’s fainting spell, she had been walking unsteadily. “Are you well enough, Abuela?”

  “I’m fine,” Abuela assured her. She looked pointedly at Beatriz. “Don’t you have something to ask your sister?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” said Beatriz innocently.

  “Come now,” said Abuela.

  “I suppose you could join us on our walk.” Beatriz shrugged as if she didn’t care whether Isabel said yes or no.

  Isabel smiled most sincerely. “How lovely of you to offer. But I think I’ll stroll by the river and compose my thoughts.” The Talmud would have to wait.

  “Your thoughts from yesterday out by the shed?” asked Beatriz, her voice going higher at the end in hope.

  Isabel could read her sister’s mind as easily as the alphabet. Beatriz wished Isabel would amend the errors of her ways, specifically her choice to possess a Jewish book and to choose the wrong side, as Beatriz had accused her of doing. Although Isabel had not yet decided to choose any religion at all.

  “I meant, take a walk and compose some poems,” said Isabel, correcting herself.

  Beatriz stiffened and left the house without saying goodbye.

  Qué suerte! What luck! She’d be able to meet Diego today after all. Atika had told her she should have a passionate tryst before she became trapped in an arranged marriage forever. But it was more than that. After witnessing the auto de fe, she knew she would never be completely safe, even as Doña Isabel Aguila. She would always be labeled a converso. She would never not be prey to the Inquisition. In case the worst happened and she was captured, she wanted to experience the truest, purest love she could. The kind they rhapsodized about at the poetry readings. The kind where, when you’ve met your equal, he looks you in the eye with the same ardor that you feel toward him. What if Diego was that person? She would never know if she didn’t take the risk.

  Once Abuela and Beatriz left the house, Isabel chose one of her prettiest gowns, made of a rose brocade fabric with red fleur-de-lis patterning. It was cut at the elbows so that her white chemise puffed through the opening like a small cloud. Without Mamá’s help lacing up the back, it took some time to put each layer on and secure the stays herself. As she painstakingly hooked and tied, she blushed, imagining Diego’s hands unhooking and untying all her hard work.

  Using the looking glass, Isabel wrapped her hair in a knot at the back. She left a tail of hair hanging down from the knot, then crisscrossed it with a rose ribbon that matched her dress. She then removed some strands from her left temple and braided them, softly draping the braid over the knot so it hung on the right. Inside each intersection of braid, she stuck straight pins, studded at the ends with pearls, pilfered from Mamá’s sewing basket. The style was so fancy, she wished Beatriz could see her now and appreciate it. When they were younger, Beatriz used to let Isabel fuss over her hair, coiffing
it into elaborate designs. And she in turn would fuss over Isabel. Sadly, those moments almost never happened anymore.

  Isabel splashed rose water on her neck and wrists. On her way out of the house, she stopped by the kitchen and took a pinch of cardamom seeds between her fingers. Chewing them would freshen her breath. Just in case.

  When she got to the south gate, Diego had not yet arrived. She was relieved, wanting to observe him approach as opposed to him seeing her first. A four-horse carriage passed through the archway heading into town. A glimpse inside the cabin revealed a veiled rich matron, traveling alone. In less than two years’ time, that could be Isabel.

  She would not be sidetracked with dark thoughts. Diego was coming. They had the whole day ahead of them if they chose to spend it together.

  After the carriage passed, it was quiet. Not many people were about in this part of their village, save a vagabond or two. Isabel felt suddenly exposed and wished she had a mantle to pull tightly around her. It appeared as if Diego had chosen this spot purposely, so the two of them would not be seen together in the bright daylight. Isabel did not know whether to be encouraged or frightened by this prospect.

  The clip-clop of a single horse’s hooves compelled her to look up. Diego was approaching on a steed. He cut a fine figure in his beautifully made clothes. He wore a white jerkin with black edging over a linen chemise trimmed with gold lace at the top, and gray kid gloves. His hose-covered legs disappeared into high boots of soft leather. His attire was a positive sign. He would not have dressed so handsomely if he had bad news to bear.

  As he approached, he tipped his felt hat, revealing his untied hair.

  “Señorita Perez,” he said, dismounting.

  “Count Altamirano.”

  “The count is my father. I’m just Diego.” He pulled the reins over the horse’s head, using it as a lead. Then with his free arm, he reached for one of her gloved hands and brought it to his lips. “And may I say how beautiful you look today?”

  Her toes tingled. All her efforts on her hair and clothes had been worth it. “Gracias.” Then she added, “Diego.” How could calling someone by their name for the first time make her feel both anxious and exhilarated at the same time?

  “I see you received my note,” he said.

  “Next time, you should write it in sal ammoniac moistened with a little water. It makes the words disappear until heated. My nosy sister can’t read, but she would have given me a devilish time with her questions if she’d seen an inked message stuck in my window iron.”

  He grinned. “Don’t tell me I’m in the presence of a sorceress!”

  Isabel explained the sal ammoniac. “Practical magic is all. My abuela and I discovered the trick while she was giving me writing lessons, not wanting Papá to find the remnants of our studies and grow cross. He said learning to read and write was a waste of time, that my skills were better put to use with activities like grape-pressing.” She sighed. “Messy business, that.”

  “But that’s precisely what’s unique about you. That you are lettered.”

  “I never told you I was. What made you presume I could read your note at all?”

  “Girls who can’t read or write don’t visit bookbinderies. Or attend poetry readings, for that matter.”

  She reddened, flattered and impressed at his attention to detail. Her details.

  “Your note sounded urgent,” said Isabel, praying he was not a messenger of bad news today, but rather merely wanted to enjoy her company.

  His eyes darted around them. “Not here. Let’s ride somewhere where we can speak privately.”

  “On a horse?”

  He laughed. “It would take hours to walk anywhere outside the town center. And that would not allow us very much time together.”

  So he did want to spend the day with her! She smiled, then her expression changed when she eyed the sitting apparatus on the horse. She had not ridden much, save for the occasional rounds in the neighboring vineyard, and was not entirely at ease atop these once-wild beasts.

  “Don’t fret,” he assured her, following her gaze. “I removed the saddle and set the horse for bareback riding. That way it will be more comfortable when you sit sideways.” A sheepskin pad lay over the horse’s middle section, cinched underneath its belly with a tight belt.

  “You thought of everything.”

  “If I brought you your own horse with a sidesaddle, the whole town would know I was bringing it for a lady. Best not to give the gossips something to wag their tongues about.”

  Or something to tell Don Sancho. “I appreciate your discretion.”

  “Allow me to introduce the two of you,” said Diego. “This is my horse, Pepe.”

  Isabel removed her glove and put her hand on the side of Pepe’s face. She knew enough from her father’s grape deliveries by their own mule that horses needed to establish trust with their rider. Pepe’s coat, white with black spots, reminded her of an inked page.

  The horse brought his long lashes down over his eyes.

  “He likes you,” said Diego, putting his own hand on Pepe’s face to pet him.

  Their hands met briefly. The touch of his gloved hand on her bare one nearly made her gasp. She stopped stroking the horse and quickly put her glove on, lest she throw herself at Diego.

  “Have you been to Monfragüe?” asked Diego.

  She nodded. It was a wild area of forest, mountains, and streams about five kilometers outside town. “It’s beautiful. I played there as a child.”

  “I thought we’d head over there.” Diego put one knee on the ground and propped up his other knee as a ledge. “Easy now, Pepe,” he said in a soothing voice. With the reins still in one hand, he reached out his other hand. “Step up, please.”

  “On your leg?”

  “I can withstand it.” Though he tried not to smile, she caught a glimpse of his mouth turning upward.

  “I’m glad I’m providing amusement for you.” She stepped both feet onto his leg, feeling wobbly.

  “Now lift yourself atop the horse.”

  Isabel did this part easily, though she giggled when she found herself lying on her stomach over the moist sheepskin, wet from the sweat of the horse underneath. She did not know quite how to sit up.

  “Well done. Now use your hands to right yourself.”

  By scooting her bottom onto the front of the padding, she was able to get upright. After she was settled, her legs dangled down one side of the horse’s body.

  “Fit your left knee into this groove created by Pepe’s withers.” He did not touch her leg, though she wished he would. Instead he pointed to a V shape between her and the horse’s neck.

  Her leg rested there perfectly. This side-bareback riding might not be not so bad after all.

  He brought the reins back over the horse’s head and to the left of Isabel. Then he mounted astride the horse, sitting behind her. The nearness of his body startled her. “Hold on to the mane,” he told her.

  She gripped Pepe’s coarse neck hair tightly.

  With a cluck of his tongue and a gentle kick to the side of the horse, they were off. He walked the horse quietly for a few minutes, but when they reached the river, Diego cued the horse with a kissing sound and a strong kick. Pepe accelerated into a canter and Isabel squealed in both delight and fear. She concentrated on sitting up straight and not falling. Every few beats of the hooves, she would shift position unwittingly and feel Diego’s chest, strong and protective against her shoulder. Soon, her breathing matched his, moving into rhythm with the horse’s four-count stride.

  She knew from Papá’s map that the Tagus River was long, flowing all the way from Trujillo to Lisbon, where it emptied into the Atlantic. They passed patches of farmland with peasants in the fields. Smoke drifted lazily out of the chimneys of mud-bricked homes. Perhaps some of this land even belonged to the Altamiranos. She did not inquire, realizing with a small smile that it didn’t matter. She would be just as intrigued by him if she had met him in a taberna and kn
ew nothing of his family.

  A stone bridge, made of bricks that formed dramatic arches, stretched over the river. Diego slowed the horse back to a walk as they crossed. He leaned into her ear. “We can thank Juan de Carvajal for this puente. It’s sturdy as an ox.” His voice vibrated right through her, reaching her chest.

  “I’m happy to know we have no risk of falling in the river, then.”

  “Unfortunately, this bridge has become the preferred route for gold and drug smugglers,” he told her. “Do not come here at night. Ever.”

  “I don’t plan to,” said Isabel.

  Once across the river, they continued inland, the horse picking its way over shrubs and bushes. Presently, they came to a meadow lined with oak trees. “Ho,” he told Pepe, scooting back from her and dismounting. She felt the absence of Diego’s body behind her, like a sudden rush of cold wind when a door is opened. She wanted him to return to the sheepskin and warm her. He helped her slide down off the horse, then led Pepe to a nearby stream.

  “How was that ride?” he asked her.

  “I rather enjoyed myself,” she said, grinning.

  While the horse drank his fill, Diego handed her his bota bag. She hesitated, having never before sipped from one. Her throat was so dry, she quickly tilted the nozzle into her mouth. But she couldn’t gulp fast enough to stem the flow. Mortified, she felt a thin line of liquid dripping down her chin.

  Diego reached out his thumb to wipe her face but stopped and gave her his kerchief instead. The tiny piece of white linen smelled of him, musky and freshly washed at the same time. She did not want to relinquish it and tucked it under her sleeve at the wrist.

  Isabel looked around her. “It’s so quiet here.”

  “I used to come here all the time to paint,” said Diego. “This is the first time I’ve returned since I left for school.” His eyes suddenly clouded.

  “If you enjoy it here so much, why the concern on your face?”