The Poetry of Secrets

by Cambria Gordon

  Though a part of her wanted to lie with him in his bedchamber, it was foolhardy. She pulled her hands away. “We mustn’t, Diego.”

  He stopped, sighing. “Tienes razón. You are right.”

  He had not yet mentioned the part in her poem about “seven days’ time.” Maybe he didn’t realize the ceremony was tomorrow. She needed to tell him, but she wanted to prolong this bliss for just a little while. So she asked him something trivial. “Tell me about your apprenticeship.”

  “My hell-ship, you mean.”

  “What happened? Did he change the rules of your arrangement?”

  He shook his head. “Worse. He painted the auto de fe for the Holy Office.”

  “So it was him I saw that day with his easel. How horrifying that he captured it for history when all we want to do is forget.”

  “He was commissioned to paint another tribunal, this time in Madrid. I’m to travel with him and have my own canvas, so we can combine our different angles and images later in the studio. Turn it into one large work. Though this is what I wished for, to have something of my own to show, I am sick about it.”

  “Surely, you can say no. Make an excuse. That as the count’s son, you can’t travel to Madrid for fear of plague or some such thing.”

  He laughed. “You are clever, my love. But at the moment, there is no plague or pestilence in the city, gracias a Dios.” Then he grew somber. “I thought Berruguete was a man of integrity, that he cared only for his craft. But he would sell his soul if he could. For the first time in my life, I am without hope.”

  She took his hand in hers. “I felt that same way after the auto de fe. Then Mamá and Papá were questioned and beaten and I lost all—”

  “Wait. Your parents were beaten? Are they alive?”

  “Broken, but alive.”

  “I’m so sorry, Isabel.”

  “You can’t see Mamá’s injuries. It’s her spirit that’s beyond repair, I’m afraid.” She sighed. “But what I’m trying to tell you is that after all that has happened, I found something else to inspire me.”

  Diego reached for her hair, winding a curl around his finger. He leaned in close to her mouth and whispered, “And who might that be?”

  She giggled and kissed him briefly, with her lips closed, lest they both get carried away with passion again. “Not who. What. I was speaking about a Jewish book. The Talmud. But it’s so much more than a book. It’s a very long discussion spanning thousands of years.”

  His eyebrows rose in delight. “I have not studied it, but Maimonides quotes from it. The Talmud is different from the Bible, yes?”

  She nodded. “It takes passages from the Bible and interprets them with commentary from many wise rabbis. They even contradict each other, just like a spoken argument.”

  “In school we studied the Socratic method, where asking and answering questions encourages one to think critically. Many times I went into a debate thinking one way, and left convinced of another idea entirely. I guess that’s why I try so hard to use reason and logic. I believe that people’s minds can change. But unfortunately, that’s not the case with the villagers here.”

  “Well, that’s precisely what the Talmud does! It disabuses you of your preconceived notions and makes you question everything. It has hidden poems and symbols, as well.”

  Diego’s eyes smoldered. “I have never known a woman like you.” He grabbed her shoulders. “Run away with me, Isabel. Let’s leave this place. We should be in Florence, where life is moving forward, not in Trujillo where our feet are mired in mud.”

  “L-leave?” she sputtered.

  “I didn’t know the solution until now.” His lips grazed hers. “I want to be with you forever. I have never been more certain of anything.”

  She inhaled his musk, felt his arms around her. She had to tell him. “I’m to be married tomorrow afternoon at Iglesia Santiago.”

  Diego pulled away and kicked the trunk of a nearby tree so hard that it rained leaves on them. “He’s leaving for Granada and wants to make you his wife before he leaves, does he not?”

  She blanched. “How do you know that?”

  “The scoundrel was in the studio and announced it like a cocksure braggart.” His face darkened. “Berruguete is doing his portrait. I’m not supposed to tell you. It’s to be your wedding gift.”

  “I’d burn it before I accepted it.” Isabel’s shoulders sagged. “What are we going to do?”

  “Let me think a minute.” He paced back and forth, deep in thought. At one point, he muttered to himself, and waved his arms in the air. She tried not to laugh even though the situation was so dire.

  After some minutes, he stood facing her. “We leave for Florence tonight.”

  It was loco. Yet she knew it was the only way to escape her life with Don Sancho.

  They discussed the meeting place and time, the carriage that would take them to Valencia, the boat that he would book passage on, what to bring, which was nothing but the clothes on her back.

  There was one thorn in the plan. Mamá and Papá. “I can’t abandon my parents, Diego. Poor Father. He is but half a man. Don Sancho was going to provide for them after we were married.”

  “We can send for them once we arrive in Florence.”

  “But what if they don’t want to leave? This is the only land they’ve known. And Abuela, she won’t be able to make the journey.”

  “You just said the Inquisition questioned and released them. They won’t get a second chance. I think that once you’re gone, they’ll realize it’s the only solution.”

  “Will they be in danger after I leave? Don Sancho will send an army after me.”

  “I’ll just have to turn around and go back to Trujillo as soon as we dock in Florence. Hopefully, no one will suspect you’ve actually left town, as all your dresses will still be at home. This will buy us some time.”

  He was risking everything for her. What about his own family? “What will your father say?”

  He sneered. “I don’t give a horse’s arse what he says. He covered up my mother’s history. My own birthright. I am through paying fealty to that man. We will practice the religion we want. There have been Jewish communities living in Italy since the Roman Empire. Lorenzo de’ Medici, besides being a patron of artists, protects the Jews of Florence. We’ll live under his rule.”

  She touched his cheek. “Te amo,” she whispered. “I love you.”

  He smiled in surprise at her declaration. “And I, you.”

  So this was it, then. A choice had been made. A life of risk and happiness over a life of ease and misery. In the deepest recess of her heart, there had never been any choice at all.

  Isabel retired to her pallet at the usual time. Her sister was already snoring. In just a few hours, Beatriz would wake herself up for midnight prayers and find the bed empty next to her. By then, Isabel should be far away. But the timing was delicate. Isabel had to make sure it was not too close to the hour of matins or Beatriz wouldn’t be in a deep enough sleep. Lying under the sheets, fully clothed, Isabel’s nerves were stretched tight like a bowstring.

  The only regret she had was not sharing a private goodbye with Abuela. With Mamá and Papá thinking she was leaving them to live with Don Sancho, it made sense to have those last moments—it was expected even. They were saying goodbye to their little girl and she to the life she had known in their care. But now, lying in wait, Isabel realized with dismay that it was too late for her and Abuela. She had never lied to Abuela before and couldn’t do it now. It was safer this way. If Abuela were questioned by Don Sancho, she could honestly say she knew nothing. The hardest part of this journey wasn’t the danger. It was the fact that Isabel was walking away from the one person who understood her, whose roots helped keep Isabel firmly on the ground.

  She heard the faint gong of the church bell ring eleven times. With one glance in Beatriz’s direction, she carefully slipped out of bed and put on her leather slippers. The loud chopines would be staying here.


  Isabel crept to Abuela’s room and kissed her on both cheeks. “Usted es mi heroína. I love you,” she whispered. Abuela did not stir. Isabel longed to wake her up, but she did not. She knew she would never see her grandmother again. She imagined the discussion her parents would have with Abuela when one of Diego’s compatriots contacted them regarding their move to Florence following Isabel’s escape. Though her mother would weep a thousand tears, Abuela would tell them she could not make the journey. She would remain in Trujillo, where she grew up. She would tend to Soli’s grave. Abuela would release Isabel’s parents from her grip.

  Beatriz was another story. Whether or not she would follow to Florence was a mystery.

  Isabel lingered at her grandmother’s pallet as long as she could. She touched her back one last time, feeling the even rise and fall of her breathing. Then she placed a note under the pillow. Abuela, Hasta vas. Until you go. In Castilian, it was just an unfinished message. Until you go to the mercado, to the plaza, wherever. But in Hebrew, it was something else. Part of an abbreviation. The first letters of each word were alef, hay, and vet, or the sounds a, ha, and va. Ahava. The Hebrew word for love.

  Once she was in the courtyard, she picked up as many rocks as she could find and threw them near the del Castillo’s dog, sleeping in the corner. He woke up, barking wildly. She heard the spy’s heavy footsteps scurry around the back of the house, trying to find entry into the patio.

  This was her chance. She opened the front door and retreated into the night.

  A quarter moon shone in the inky sky, giving her scant light to see by. She wished it were a fuller moon, as that would help her locate Diego and the carriage more easily if anything went wrong and he wasn’t in the agreed-upon location. Coyotes howled in the distance, joining the protest of the del Castillo dog, which she could still hear yelping as she walked briskly down the dirt road. A bat swooped near her, flapping its wings too close for comfort. She let out a small scream. Returning home from poetry readings late at night had never been this frightening. This time was different: She was breaking every law in Spain.

  She was supposed to meet Diego at the stone arch, the south gate to Trujillo, where they had started their ride up to Monfragüe. There had been no time to do a run-through today, but she remembered the arch was an eight-minute walk from her house. That is, if she took the shortcut through Plaza Santa Ana. During the day, the plaza was crowded with promenaders, pages, merchants. But at night, it was emptier, save for the pícaros and the ladies of ill-repute. The safer route by the hill avoided the plaza, but would add ten minutes to her journey. She knew it well because she sometimes took the hillside path when composing poetry.

  Concerned she’d stayed in Abuela’s room too long, Isabel cut through the plaza. She and Diego had a long ride to Valencia ahead of them.

  Sure enough, when she reached the open square, small groups of women stood huddled, waiting for customers. Even with the faint moonlight, Isabel could see their eyes peeking through their veils and their petticoats pinned up on one side, exposing pale thighs. She continued past, almost reaching the far end of the plaza, when a trio of pícaros emerged from behind a thick-trunked tree, the whites of their eyes shining in the dark. One beckoned her with crooked fingers.

  “I don’t see a purse,” said another. “Must be hidden.”

  They surrounded her.

  “Maybe it’s in her maidenhead?” said a third, making the other two degenerates laugh.

  “Spread your legs, lovely lady,” said the first man. “Let’s have a look.”

  The whores were within earshot, but they wouldn’t help her. They probably thought she was competition. “Leave me be and I won’t call for the alcalde,” she said to the men. She had no idea if the judge was about, but everyone knew he was not above paying a lady for a quick one.

  Undeterred by her threat, they tightened their circle, near enough that she could smell the wine on them. She took baby steps left and right, buying time.

  Then the more emboldened of the thieves lunged at her.

  Isabel jerked sideways and made a run for it, zigzagging through the three men. Another pícaro reached out, brushing her skirt, but he was drunk and missed. She was too fast. Grateful for her youth and her leather shoes, Isabel did not slow or turn around until she was two streets away. She hid behind a building and held her breath, listening. They had not followed. She allowed her breath to slowly seep out. Just to be safe, she counted from one to sixty, five more times. Only then did she walk on.

  The stone arch rose in her sightline, flanked by two watchtowers. There it was, about two hundred meters ahead: the outline of the enclosed Altamirano carriage. A lit oil lamp hung on a curved pole, suspended above the driver. Isabel could see him sitting on a riser in front, holding the reins in one hand, a pipe in the other. The orange glow of its tip floated in the air like a firefly. Below him, leaning against the carriage, stood Diego. In mere minutes, his arms would be around her. She almost called his name. But something made her hesitate. Gracias a Dios that she did, because a man approached him.

  She drew closer to hear what they were saying, obscuring herself by a shopkeeper’s shuttered stall that jutted out into the street.

  “… about yea high,” the man was saying. “Brown hair, fair of skin. Sixteen years of age.”

  Isabel gasped. He was describing her!

  “She sounds like someone I’d like to meet,” Diego replied. “But I’ve seen no one matching that description.”

  “I was guarding her house and got attacked by a cursed dog. By the time I made chase, she was gone.”

  It was their clay-chewing spy! She couldn’t see around the stall, but she was sure of it. Curse those pícaros. If they hadn’t delayed her, she would have beaten the spy here and she and Diego would be on their way by now.

  “Guarding her house?” asked Diego. “From whom?”

  “Special orders of the alguacil,” the man clarified. “She’s his betrothed. He wants to keep her safe until the nuptials.”

  A load of rotten posset, if she ever heard it. He wanted to keep her prisoner.

  “Some thieves pointed me in this direction,” continued the spy. “There aren’t many people about at this time of night. I thought you may have seen or heard something.”

  Isabel couldn’t remember if the man was armed or not. He was always in street clothes, trying to blend in. He was smaller than Diego. If he had no weapon, Diego could probably take him in a fistfight, but she hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  “Well, I’d best be on my way,” said Diego, making like he was entering the carriage. “Got a long journey ahead of me.”

  “Of course,” said the spy. “Buenas noches.”

  When he had gone, Isabel stepped out.

  “You were here the whole time?” Diego asked, embracing her.

  “Luckily, you didn’t have to fight him,” she said softly.

  The sound of crunching boots made them pull apart.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  Diego and Isabel turned in shock. The spy had returned!

  The man lifted something to his lips. Isabel saw a glint of silver in his hand. Something small and shiny. Not a knife, though. Before Diego could stop him, the officer managed to put the silver object to his lips. A high-pitched sound came out. Isabel covered her ears.

  Diego lunged at him, throwing a hard punch. The spy was knocked out. “It’s a boatswain’s pipe,” he told her. “Damned man was in the navy.”

  The pipe clattered to the ground. But it was too late. The warning had been sounded. Footfalls came at them from all sides.

  “Isabel, get into the carriage quickly.”

  She ran around the other side of the transport, where the door opening was, and lowered the folding steps. She threw herself inside. Why wasn’t the driver getting them out of here? Isabel stuck her head out and looked to the front of the carriage. Empty. The coward must have abandoned his post when he heard the whistle.

  �
��Take the reins, Diego!” yelled Isabel.

  But he was trapped. Four armed men were already upon him, swords drawn, forming a semicircle around Diego. He crouched, holding out his dagger, eyes darting left and right for whomever would strike first.

  “This is private business,” said Diego forcefully. “Be on your way.”

  “Our comrade is passed out on the ground. Now it’s our business,” said the leader.

  The men closed in on him.

  “I’m on my way out of the city on an urgent errand for my father, Count Altamirano.” Diego waved his blade in the air. “The Familiar,” he added. “He’ll have you all arrested by the Holy Office if you don’t let us go.”

  Two officers conferred privately. She couldn’t hear a word. Then one glanced toward the carriage. “It’s the Marrano we want.”

  How did they know who she was?

  Isabel watched anxiously through the window. Diego waved his hand behind him, signaling her to stay inside.

  She did not.

  If she could just get to the driver’s seat without being seen, she could commandeer the horses while Diego made a run for it on foot. She could then pick him up at the second location they had talked about, a well near the Romani camp.

  Isabel stepped out the door. Using the folding steps as purchase, she glued her upper body to the carriage and reached out until she felt the front edge. She gripped with all the strength in her hand and held it. Her pulse whirred like a hummingbird’s wings.

  Two horses were tied to a yoke on her left. One whinnied and stomped its foot, shaking the whole carriage. She nearly fell to the ground.

  Out of the side of her eye, she could see the corner of the riser. Carefully, she moved her left foot to a hinge on the harness. The iron was narrow and slippery and her foot slid.

  Behind the carriage, she could hear sounds of a fight. Metal scraping metal.

  She tried again to get a foothold with her left leg. The other horse swished its tail, again rocking the entire harness and yoke. Again, her foot fell. She was at such an awkward angle. Being right-handed, she had better balance on her right side. Her left hand was weakening. It was now or never. Isabel twisted to the left and threw herself toward the hitch. Miraculously, her right foot landed on solid iron and she grabbed one of the horse’s tails. She swung her other leg to an iron bar, and held on to a metal fastener with the other hand. Now all she needed to do was climb onto the seat. As she reached out her arm for the leather riser, the other horse bucked, kicking his leg back. The shoe did not hit her, but she lost her balance and fell backward.