The Poetry of Secrets

by Cambria Gordon

  “Ah!” she cried out in pain.

  “Isabel!” yelled Diego.

  “Grab her!”

  Boots clomped to her side of the carriage. Rough, calloused hands yanked her neck, then gripped her hair. Another pair of hands took her legs, lifting her up.

  “Let her go!” said Diego.

  Then she heard the splooshy liquid sound of something moving through soft flesh, followed by deathly silence.

  “Diego!” she screamed.

  The next thing she knew she was being dragged backward, her heels scraping the cobblestones. Someone’s hands were under her arms, pulling her away from the carriage, away from Diego.

  “To the cart. Hurry!” said one of the men.

  “What about the lord?” said another.

  “Leave him.”

  She was thrown onto a hard wood surface. It smelled of urine and rotten vegetables.

  “Ya!” commanded the driver.

  With the crack of a whip, the cart moved forward, bumping and tossing her side to side. Her ankle was twisted and her hip bone throbbed. She didn’t care. The man she loved could be dead. And God only knew what awaited her on the other end.

  “Hola?” Isabel yelled. “Anybody here?”

  Nothing.

  She was in a frigid square-shaped space. The only way out was through a thick door, which had been locked from the outside. Despite hearing the metal slide into position after she was dumped there, Isabel banged on the door anyway. She hammered again and again until her knuckles were raw.

  She sank down onto the dirt floor to think. A faint sound came from the left. Was that clanking man-made? She scooted over and put her ear to the wall. Silence. She knocked. Her rapping barely made a sound against the stone. She took off a shoe and hit the wall as hard as she could. If only she had her hard wooden chopines, she thought grimly. At least the rapid movement of her arm warmed her up a little.

  The knocking returned in response. She wasn’t alone!

  “Hello!” she yelled. She put her lips to the cold stone, willing her voice to seep through to the other side, like smoke. “Can you hear me?”

  A thin, reedy voice penetrated through the wall.

  She strained to hear what they were saying.

  “… ggrzzz am fwwzz Renato.”

  “What?” she yelled.

  “I am Renato,” said a male voice, slightly stronger now.

  “Isabel,” she called back. “How long have you been here?”

  “Weeks. Months. I’ve lost track.”

  Did she hear correctly? Madre mía, would they keep her here for that long? “What is this place?”

  “… wzrrrjjj Office.”

  “What?”

  “The puta Holy Office.”

  There was no mistaking that curse word. But it was impossible! Don Sancho would never allow this. There had been a grave mistake. She would explain everything to him and get this straightened out at once.

  “Guard!”

  Her words bounced off the walls, mocking her.

  “GUARD!”

  After what seemed like hours, someone slid the lock. The door opened and a sliver of light crept in, giving her a momentary glimpse of the world outside. A bailiff, wearing military breeches and a jerkin, stood before her, smelling like the unwashed. She didn’t recognize him as any of the men who had attacked her and Diego by the carriage.

  Diego. Was he even alive?

  She mustered all the bravado in her slender body. “Let me speak to the alguacil at once!”

  “Don Sancho?” The bailiff laughed derisively. “He can’t help you now.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Once the local municipality transfers a prisoner over, our jurisdiction overrides anything else. By orders of Her Majesty the queen.”

  “What am I being charged with?”

  “I wouldn’t know, señorita.”

  “Who has accused me?” she demanded.

  He retreated and closed the door.

  “Who has accused me?” she yelled, desperate. But the lock slid back into place, imprisoning her once again.

  Had she been a target all along? Did someone find out about her and Diego and tell Don Sancho? Goose skin pimpled on her arms.

  If it were true, then she did not know how she would get out of this alive.

  Diego’s eyes shot open. His midsection was afire. He touched his belly and inspected his fingers. Even in the waning moon, he could see they were soaked red. He tried sitting up. More blood gushed from the wound. He moaned and lay back down. Poking a finger through an opening in his shirt, he ripped the soft cloth from shoulder to wrist. He nearly fainted from the effort. He then put the material between his teeth and tore it into two strips. He knotted one strip to the other so it was long enough to encircle his torso. He tied it as tight as he could around his ribs. The burning was so intense, he saw sparks before his eyes and passed out.

  When he woke again, he immediately felt his wound. The wetness had caked. With the bleeding stanched, he was able to stand.

  Slowly, he walked to the carriage. It took some minutes, but finally, he climbed onto the riser and sat. Wincing, he reached down and found the loose reins.

  “Ya!” he commanded the horses.

  Though he wanted to go after Isabel, he knew he’d be no good to anyone unless he got fixed up. The knife had sliced him deep. Provided it hadn’t hit any vital organs, he had little time before infection would set in. He guided the horses back to the alcazarejo.

  Hands bound tightly behind her, a wooden stick at her back, Isabel was forced to walk down a hallway. There were rooms on both sides of her, but unlike her first cell, all these doors had small openings covered in bars.

  A head of matted hair appeared in one opening, his fingers outstretched. “Ayudáme.” Help me, he murmured. Could that be Renato? She dared not call his name.

  Another pair of bloodshot eyes made a desperate plea in Hebrew.

  At one door, a man simply moaned continuously. She kept her eyes on the floor in front of her, praying she wasn’t passing her future self.

  She was brought into a large room. This time there were windows, though they were covered in black cloth. The only light came from six candles resting on two small tables on either side of a painting. She gazed at the painting, transfixed. Two wooden posts engulfed in flames. Two bodies tied upright. A mouth agape in anguish. The audience rapt, entertained. She recognized the scene. The auto de fe! This must be one of Berruguete’s. There was nowhere to place her eyes that didn’t terrify her.

  Two men, dressed in long, hooded black robes and the tonsured hairstyle of friars sat before her. One towered above the back of his chair; the other was tiny, wizened, and wrinkled, like a dead tree. A third sat at a desk with parchment, a quill, and ink.

  She looked left and right, searching for instruments of torture. The room had none. Was it foolish to hope?

  “State your name for the record,” said the taller friar. His face was obscured in the recess of his hood. Only the bony outline of his knuckles, hooked together beneath an unseen chin, were discernible in the candlelight.

  “Isabel Perez.”

  “You are Eva, the converso, are you not?”

  She blinked twice. They knew her Hebrew name?

  “Answer the question!” he roared.

  She stumbled back. “I was baptized Isabel Perez, Father,” she said. Try to be agreeable, she thought. Make them like you. “At Iglesia de Santiago. We’ve been attending every Sunday for sixteen years.”

  “You are the daughter of Bitya and Moshe, the granddaughter of Fortuna,” continued the friar.

  How did they know these facts?

  “My parents are Benita and Manolo. My grandmother is Francesca,” she said, giving their converso names.

  The friar riffled through some papers. “Ah yes. The same pair we questioned last month.”

  Papá’s blood-caked ear and Mamá’s bald spot flashed before her, threatening to make her cry. She forced a b
lank expression on her face and genuflected. “We are good Christians.”

  His eyes seared through her. “I believe your sister, Beatriz, is the only one who can make that claim.”

  Isabel’s mouth went dry. Could Beatriz be the one who turned her in? No time to think about that now. She had to convince these people she was just as noble as her sister. “I taught my younger sister everything. The sext prayer and matins. Scripture and the Bible stories.”

  Not a twinge of reaction from him.

  “ ‘And many false prophets will arise and lead many astray,’ ” she said. “Matthew 24.” She racked her brain for the Latin her sister used to recite. “Media nocte surgebam—”

  “I advise you to confess now, for the sake of your immortal soul,” interrupted the tall friar. “For the sake of your mortal, Marrano flesh.”

  “But I know not what I have done,” she said.

  The friar tapped his white fingers on the side of his black robe. “Are you a Jew?”

  “What?”

  “Are you a Jew?”

  “No!” she cried. She feared God’s lightning would strike her down for rejecting Moses. But the room did not shake. The notary kept scratching. The two friars watched her absently, almost bored.

  “Do you believe that the Messiah has already arrived?” continued the tall one.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you own or have you ever owned any Jewish books?”

  “Never.”

  “You blasphemous heretic,” hissed the friar. “You have already been denounced.”

  He shifted and his hood opened wider, revealing his face. An ugly scar ran from his eyebrow to his temple.

  “By whom?” she asked in a thin voice.

  “Never mind. Admit your Judaizing and walk away. You will wear the sanbenito, but surely it is better than facing the fire.” The wizened friar leaned over and whispered something to him. He nodded. “Or you can name other Judaizers. Your choice.”

  Isabel would not throw anyone she loved to these beasts. Nor could she trust their word if she did. Admitting Judaizing would just make them assume her parents had led her to it. Then they’d go after them again. Abuela, too. She realized she was back at the beginning. She hadn’t wanted to marry Don Sancho because she resented bearing the burden of protecting her family. And here she was protecting them anyway.

  “Well?” asked the friar.

  Isabel cast her eyes down.

  The priests rose.

  “Bailiff!” called the one with the scar. “Bring her to the place of relaxation.”

  Isabel stumbled down some stairs and into a much larger space. She was naked, but too terrified to care. A woman was slumped in the corner, her mouth ripped on both sides from cheek to ear. She stared into nothingness, her thumb twitching.

  Hideous devices lay everywhere. A wooden-framed rack with movable bars on each end. Hanging loosely from it were white bindings, still bloodied from where the last prisoner had been tied. A flat board stretched lengthwise over a stone basin. Ropes hanging from a pulley attached to the ceiling.

  Isabel’s teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. The bailiff laid her down on the board. The thin wood vibrated from her shivering body.

  “No, por favor!” She tried to sit up, but her wrists were still bound behind her. She kicked the air, hoping to land on something, anything.

  He pushed her back down and quickly tied her legs to the board with hemp cords. They were wrapped so tight, the rope sliced into her flesh. An iron clamp secured her head. Wooden pegs were stuffed into her nostrils. A linen cloth dropped down, covering her whole face. The fabric moved in and out with her breath. Then water. So much water. Poured over the cloth. Her eyes widened in panic. She tried to turn her head from side to side but the clamp prevented any movement. The linen sank down, down, down into her gullet. She gagged and coughed.

  Abruptly, it was yanked out. It felt like her throat came out with it. Someone placed his ear to her mouth. She could not see his face from her prone position. Couldn’t smell him, because of the plugs. But she saw the sweat pouring down in rivulets above his tonsure.

  “Anything?” called a voice behind her.

  The bald, sweaty pate retreated. “No. No confession.”

  The cloth went back over her face. More water was poured into her. Her air was running out. She thought of that time she had held her breath as a little girl to see how long she could go.

  The body acts of its own accord. It’s the law of nature.

  She swallowed the water and the linen until she could breathe no more.

  Diego managed to guide the horses and cart into the family carriage house. Then he toppled over from the high seat and tumbled to the ground. The footman, a skinny boy of fifteen, ran to get the countess.

  “Por Dios, m’hijo,” his mother exclaimed when she saw him. “What happened?”

  Diego couldn’t speak.

  Kneeling down beside him, she felt his pulse. “You’ve lost much blood.” She raised her head. “Send Martín out for the doctor.”

  The footman stared at her, his jaw open.

  “Now!”

  The boy scurried away.

  His mother made the sign of the cross, then cradled his head in her lap. “Just hold on, m’hijo. Hold on.”

  “Mother …” he rasped. His tongue felt like parchment.

  “Shhh, save your strength.”

  Diego tried to sit up. “I must go …”

  His mother gently pressed his chest. “You are not going anywhere. This wound needs suturing and then you will convalesce here until there is no more risk of sepsis.”

  “But I must …”

  The footman returned. “If you’ll allow me, m’lady. I can dress the wound while we wait.”

  “How would you know how to do something like that?” she asked haughtily. Even through his haze, Diego knew her attitude was merely a defense against panic.

  “My cousin had a similar injury recently. I took care of him.”

  She hesitated, stroking Diego’s forehead. “Very well.”

  From a flat angle, Diego watched the boy bow. Within minutes he was back, wringing long strips of clean linens from a tub of boiling water.

  He had to reach her. He had to save Isabel. Diego lifted his arm. It dropped down again. Everything felt heavy, so heavy.

  “How did your cousin get injured?” he heard his mother ask the footman.

  “A scuffle at the Holy Office.”

  “He was imprisoned there?”

  “No, m’lady. He’s a guard.”

  Diego knew this was important information he could use somehow, but his eyes would not stay open. He needed to get to someone. Who? If only he could wake up. Then he would know.

  Isabel coiled herself into a ball on the floor. Her breathing was ragged. Someone had put her clothes back on, yet she still shivered.

  “There is no God,” cried a hoarse voice.

  Who said that? The woman in the corner? Was she even real? Renato? Isabel tried to make her lips form his name. But her throat hurt too much to emit any sound.

  Faces floated around her. Abuela. Diego. Then a sinister smile. The friar? No. Beatriz. I hate you, Isabel told the face. I hate you. Then she drifted off.

  She had no idea if it was day or night, how long she had lain there. Her hunger was a dull ache in her middle. Her urine had ceased flowing. She had no fluid in her body to make tears, but that was fine. She preferred anger.

  Footsteps approached her. Isabel struggled to sit up. The tall friar with the scar loomed there, smelling of wine that had turned. “Are you ready to admit your Judaizing?”

  She should just confess something. Then maybe they’d leave her alone. I lit the Shabbat candles. I sat in a suca. I read Hebrew. I looked longingly at the mikveh. Her raw throat couldn’t form the sounds. Her mouth was that of a hooked fish, moving in vain.

  “What was that? I can’t hear you?”

  She moved her hands, mimicking the act of writing. If s
he could just have a piece of paper and a quill …

  The friar tapped his foot, impatient. “The Church condemns taking a life,” he said. “It would be unfortunate if you expired before your confession. Then again, if you die, it will be your own doing.”

  He left as swiftly as he came.

  A different bailiff made her stand up. This time they used the ropes and the ceiling pulley.

  The pain seared through her. Everything turned to black.

  Diego spent the night on the floor of the carriage house—doctor’s orders until the sutures had settled. But the next morning, when the physic returned, he was so pleased with Diego’s progress, he not only moved him into his own bedchamber, he encouraged him to take a walk.

  A walk? Diego didn’t need a walk! Clearheaded now, he remembered everything. He had to rescue Isabel. Diego flailed and thrashed at his parents, at the doctor, when they tried to force him into bed, but he was too weak, and they easily held him down.

  The count was in a rotten mood, demanding to know what had happened to his son. His mother was left with the job of disabusing her husband of any foul play. Diego heard bits and snatches of their conversation. The countess seemed to be making up a story to appease him. “… pícaros … attacked in Plaza Santa Ana.”

  When the physic and his father left the room to confer on his condition, she accused Diego of getting into a knife fight over being Jewish.

  “Are you that full of self-loathing that you attacked another Jew as a substitute for your anger toward yourself?” hissed his mother.

  “That’s preposterous.” Now that her secret was out, she was delusional.

  “You know I speak the truth.”

  Diego tried to muster the strength to protest some more. Then stopped. Best to let her think it was true. Knowing the real reason, that he had been about to run to Florence with the converso girl he loved, and live a Jewish life, would be much worse for his mother. “You’re right. I did pick a fight. I hate that I have Jewish blood in my veins.”