Captain from Castile

by Samuel Shellabarger; Internet Archive

  Pedro shook his head. "It won't work. Father Iganacio's a man of God. People call him a saint, even though he has to be hard. He won't take a bride."

  "Call it a fine," put in Garcia. "It's the half of all I've earned in sixteen years."

  "He won't be influenced by money."

  A wan smile broke through Garcia's concern. "Boy, you've got a lot ot learn about men and money. But you'll do this for me, won't you? With your name, you aren't running any risk. I wouldn't ask you if you were."

  Though young, Pedro was by no means a complete fool. The Inquisition was a hot fire to meddle with. If Dorotea Romero had been proved a witch, she ought justly to be burned in expiation of so hideous a crime. What did he know about her, or about this brawny man from the Indies? Well, he knew one thing at least, that an absolute scoundrel would hardly be risking everything he had, his life included, to save somebody else, even if it was his mother. Of course, the devil might have something to do with it, but Pedro couldn't judge of that.

  As for witchcraft, he wondered whether he wouldn't confess to it himself under torture. He remembered de Silva's anecdotes.

  But above all, he was young. He felt no little flattered by Garcia's dependence on him. And he had not yet learned to stifle pity in the name of common sense.

  "Bien," he said.

  For a moment Garcia was silent. Then he got up and laid his hands on Pedro's shoulders.

  "Maybe God'll let me repay you some time."

  "When do you want me to see the Inquisitor?"

  Garcia's hands tightened a little. He drew one of them across his eyes.

  "Night's best for that kind of an offer. So tonight. We haven't much time. I had word that Madrecita's hardly alive after their handling of her."

  He drew out a small but heavy bag from the pocket of his cloak and gave it to Pedro.

  "Here's the money. I'll go with you and wait outside."

  XI

  The house of the Inquisitor of Jaen was situated on the open square of Santa Maria facing the cathedral, and therefore not far from the castle prison above it. Out of wholesome respect for the great man, people gave it a wide berth on summer evenings, all the more because of an armed servant of the Holy Office outside. Indeed, with the Bishop's palace not far off on the square, the entire plaza enjoyed a dour tranquillity. Its atmosphere chilled and sobered. Since the gothic outlines of the church shut off most of the moonlight, the place lay in a sort of ecclesiastical shadow.

  Having left Garcia beyond the corner of the nearest street, Pedro walked with increasing trepidation toward the guarded door of the Inquisitor. It was now well after ten and, though probably Father Ignacio had not yet retired, it was an unusual hour to call. Pedro was torn between hope that he would be refused admittance and desire to get the thing over with. More than ever, he cursed his ill-omened visit

  to the Rosario, which had got him into the pickle. Though he wanted to help Garcia, he vould have been glad at the moment if he had never met him.

  The retainer in front of the door turned out to be an acquaintance. It was Sebastian Reyes, owner of a famous fighting cock, upon whom Pedro had won ten reals the week before in the cockpit behind the Corona.

  "See His Reverence, sir?" the man answered with a stare. "Well, since it's you, I'll ask, though the hour's late, as Your Worship knows."

  "On business," Pedro added in a strained voice.

  "Ha?" said the man curiously and turned to communicate with another guard behind the lattice of the door.

  Several minutes passed. Reyes discussed the next cockfight day after tomorrow, while Pedro sweated nervously. Finally the door opened.

  "His Reverence will see Pedro de Vargas."

  Like all the better houses of Jaen, the residence of the Inquisitor was built around a small inner courtyard, which contained in most instances a fountain or at least some greeneiy. But here the patio looked as bare as a guardroom, and as a matter of fact it served that purpose, for several armed men were on dut\ Although any right-minded Christian appreciated the value of Father Ignacio's services, one could never tell when some heretic, as yet unarrested, might seek vengeance for the torture and death of a relative. It was prudent, therefore, to take no chances. Besides, in order to avoid scandal, the Holy Office conducted many of its activities at night, and the men were at hand for any sudden call.

  At the end of a corridor flanking the patio, de Vargas was ushered into a long, high, naked room, with a straight-backed chair or two and a table at one end. It was lighted by a couple of sconces and a candelabrum on the table, behind which Ignacio de Lora was writing. The scratching of his pen lasted a full minute after Pedro entered. Then, rising, he held out a negligent hand to his caller, who dropped to one knee and kissed it reverently.

  The Inquisitor wore the white robe and silver crucifix of the Dominicans. He was a tall, somewhat stooped man of middle age, though his short, square beard as yet contained no mingling of gray. On the other hand, partial baldness had overtaken him and left a high, domelike forehead, beneath which the low arch of his eyebrows stood out. He had a masterful nose, a severe mouth, and shrewd but unrevealing eyes. The impression he made was of cool efficiency and vigilant suspicion.

  In this dampening presence, Pedro felt more ill at ease than even

  It made it worse that for some reason Father Ignacio seemed to be inwardly amused. His grim mouth twitched in a secret, frosty smile. "Well, young man, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?" "If I am inconveniencing Your Reverence, I could put it off," Pedro faltered. It was hard to keep his teeth from chattering.

  "No, I have a moment of leisure." De Lora sanded the page he had been writing and folded it. "How can I serve you?"

  "Not me, Your Reverence. I mean, I didn't come on my own account. Matter of fact, I don't know much about it. It's somebody else I met at the Corona. His m—, his sister's a witch by the name of Dorotea Romero. He wanted me to ask Your Reverence—I mean his name is Juan Garcia, he says, from Malaga—no, I mean Valencia. He wanted me to ask Your Reverence—he's a merchant, you know—he wanted me to ask—"

  "Just a minute." De Lora raised his hand. He was doubtless used to stammering people. "Compose yourself, my son. What are you trying to say? I take it that you met a merchant from Malaga or Valencia—" "Valencia, Your Reverence."

  "Good. Valencia. Who is related to a Dorotea Romero, now detained by the Holy Office on certain charges. Is that it?" "Yes, Father." "Very well. Go on."

  Pedro tried again and this time was able to finish on a fairly even keel. He remembered to refer to the eight hundred ducats as a fine, because the Holy Office, whoever it arrested, was never wrong; and in justice to himself, he stressed the fact that he was serving merely as an intermediary for a stranger in Jaen, whose distress had touched him.

  When he had finished, the Inquisitor repressed another smile; but his eyes looked as sharp and impenetrable as before.

  "Does your worthy father know of this visit to me?" "No, Your Reverence. I have just come from the Corona." "Hm-m. Why did not this Juan Garcia come to me himself?" "He is a man of humble station, who has not the honor of being known to Your Reverence. He feared that he might not secure an audience."

  "Hm-m. Where is he now?"

  Pedro's heart sank. "He is staying at the Corona." "And of course you plan to meet him when you leave here?" "Yes, Father—to give him Your Reverence's answer." This contingency had been foreseen by Garcia. Upon leaving the Inquisitor's house, Pedro was to return to the Corona, where he would

  not find the merchant from Valencia. Indeed, the latter would not appear at that tavern again. Having waited a suitable time, Pedro was to leave a note with the landlord, stating briefly what Father Ignacio had decided. This note itself was a blind in case Pedro had been followed. It would serve as proof that he had carried out his mission and washed his hands of the affair. He was then to return home by a prearranged route through the blindest part of the town. Somewhere on the way, Garcia promised to meet him.
<
br />   The Dominican's hard eyes probed an instant.

  'Tt seems to m.e that you become intimate with strangers on short acquaintance, my son. How long have you known this man?"

  "I met him today while returning to Jaen from the hunt for the Sefior de Silva's slave. He was at the Corona this evening." "And these eight hundred ducats—he has them, I suppose?" "No, Father, he entrusted them to me, I have them here." This time de Lora almost laughed. Pedro caught a glint of white teeth behind the beard.

  "It's a tribute to your honest appearance, my son, and to your father's reputation, when a complete stranger entrusts you with eight hundred ducats."

  "He is much concerned for his sister, Your Reverence." Pedro by now had little hope for his mission; but the purpose of his visit no longer chiefly concerned him. More than anything else, he wanted to escape from this man and from his scornful amusement. He felt like a small mouse between the paws of an enormous cat. Though essentially true, his story, as reflected in the Inquisitor's manner, sounded like a childish lie.

  "So you were to offer me eight hundred ducats—for what?" "That it might please Your Reverence to dismiss the woman," Pedro faltered, "unless her crimes are too great. Of course I don't know—I'm only speaking for Senor Garcia."

  De Lora now actually laughed—a short bark of a laugh. It was natural, Pedro thought, that the idea of a bribe (for call it what you pleased, bribe it was) should amuse him. Bribe the drawn Sword of God! Bribe this holy man devoted to maintaining undefiled the Catholic faith! Bribe the saintly Ignacio de Lora with eight hundred ducats! More than ever, he saw how vain, how impudent the off"er was, and regretted bitterly that he had a part in it. All that he could expect now was to be blasted out of the room.

  But de Lora said amazingly, "Let me see the money."

  Somewhat puzzled, Pedro drew the heavy pouch from the inner

  pocket of his cloak and handed it to the Inquisitor, who poured a gush of gold coins out on the table in front of him. It was a great sum, greater, Pedro reflected, than Diego de Silva had offered for his father's vineyard and orchard. He had never seen so much money in his life. It was probably the reflection of the gold that lent a gleam to de Lora's eyes. Then the Inquisitor leaned back in thought, while his hand absently, perhaps scornfully, scooped up the coins, letting them trickle through his fingers.

  At last he straightened up again; but instead of returning the money to the pouch and rejecting it, as Pedro expected, he set about stacking it up with the speed and skill of a business man.

  "It is true that Dorotea Romero has been guilty of terrible crimes." (Ten, twenty, thirty. He examined one gold piece but found it good.) "She has confessed to witchcraft and to a compact with Satan." (Fifty. He crossed himself and Pedro did the same. Sixty, seventy . . .) "It is true, however, that she repents of these horrible sins . . ." (Eighty, ninety, one hundred. Father Ignacio swept the ten piles into a heap.) "And the Holy Office desires not the death of a sinner but rather that he should turn from his wickedness . . ." (thirty, forty, fifty) . . . "and live. Mercy must ever go hand in hand with justice."

  A queer change was taking place in young Pedro de Vargas. It was not only that a glimmering of hope with regard to his mission began to dawn; but beneath this, and almost in opposition to it, he felt a strange confusion. Could it be that Father Ignacio was accepting the money, that the Sword of God was for sale, that eight hundred ducats could free from the stake a woman who would otherwise have been burned? Without knowing it, Pedro was getting older second by second, while de Lora stacked up the coins—older, less innocent, aware of money's barefaced power.

  Two hundred. Another sweep of the hand. "It is only right that the Holy Office, having labored for the salvation of a sinner, should rejoice in it and release this same sinner into life." (Fifty, sixty.) "It is only just that the Holy Office should profit from the worldly possessions of evildoers, using them for pious works and thus . . ." (eighty, ninety) . . . "transferring them from the service of Mammon to the service of God. Repentance is thereby more clearly shown . . ."

  Father Ignacio now fell silent. Only the clicking and occasional ring of the coins could be heard. When the eighth heap had been formed, there were five gold pieces left over, but he added these carelessly to the last heap. Then he restored the whole amount to the pouch, opened a drawer of the table, and put it inside with a golden thud.

  "What can I tell Senor Garcia, Your Reverence?"

  "Ah, yes." The Inquisitor reflected. "Tell him I give my word that his sister will be released from prison day after tomorrow morning. There are certain formalities. He should be a happy man that Dorotea Romero is now in a state of grace."

  "Thank you, Father."

  The Dominican extended his hand. Pedro, kneeling, kissed it and prepared to leave.

  "One moment, my son. It would be well to keep this transaction secret. You would incur my displeasure if you spoke of it to anyone but the Senor Garcia. The clemency of the Holy Office might be misconstrued. I hope you understand."

  "Yes, Your Reverence."

  "You and I will discuss the matter sometime when I have greater leisure. It is not always wise for young men to be too obliging in the case of strangers. Meanwhile, go in peace."

  Once again Pedro read a cold amusement in the other's eyes. As the door closed, it seemed to him that he heard an abrupt laugh. But at least the ordeal was over, and he had good nevs for Juan Garcia. If he had lost something of his naive youth in the house of the Inquisitor, he did not notice it at the time.

  Faithful to the prearranged program, he now returned to the Corona, waited a suitable time for the merchant from Valencia, and left the prescribed note for him with the landlord. It was a ticklish business. If for any reason the Holy Office wished to lay hands on Dorotea Romero's rich relative, Pedro might be folloved. But so far as he could tell, this did not happen.

  Having left the tavern, he plunged into a maze of crooked streets and headed for home, keeping very much on the alert. At a dark corner, a beggar suddenly loomed up, asking for alms in the name of God and calling him companero. He stopped.

  "Juan Garcia?"

  "What happened?" came the whisper.

  "It's all right. He took the money and promised to free your mother day after tomorrow morning." Pedro gave a brief account of the interview.

  "God bless you, friend!"

  "What'll you do when she's released? How'll you get her out of Jaen and keep hidden yourself?"

  "I'll arrange it somehow. You forget me whatever happens. You've more than done your part." The deep voice shook with feeling. 'T'U always remember it. I'd give my life's blood for you. Hurry on now."

  There was a warm handclasp in the darkness; Garcia vanished, and Pedro, with a light heart, regained his house.

  XIJ

  Though to Luisa de Carvajal next day time seemed to stand still, she concealed her impatience. Even so shrewd an observer as the Senora Hernandez might have gathered that she was not especially excited by the prospect of the evening. Actually, however, she tingled with anticipation, and more than once in the course of the day she managed to slip out into the garden and follow a bypath, screened by oleanders, to a point where she could gaze speculatively at the grille of the side gate. Walls of laurel, forming a bay, half-concealed it from the rest of the garden. Here she would dream for a while before turning back to the palace.

  At long last, the obstinate shadows of the cypresses, which had seemed nailed to the ground, began to lengthen. The sundial, with its absurd motto about the flight of time, showed that at least time moved. And the two ladies, who had been observing it on the terrace, went indoors to dress for late afternoon supper.

  At the foot of the main stairway inside, they encountered the Marquis de Carvajal with a lackey bearing his cloak and sword. He was on the point of departure for an evening gathering at the Bishop's and wore his usual somberly rich dress, which set off the magnificent cross of the Knighthood of Santiago.

  He was a middle-aged
man with a square, gray beard that had the proper uptilt of distinction. His prominent dark eyes were languid with authority. Long ago, perhaps, he had been an individual; but as time passed he had become simply the Marquis de Carvajal, an incarnate title which had absorbed its owner. If he loved money and display, as people said, these were hardly characteristic traits: they went with his position.

  Antonia Hernandez and Luisa curtsied; they received his bow and Luisa, in addition, a kiss on the forehead.

  "Good night, my daughter. I am always chagrined at not seeing you

  of an evening—but there are social duties. Tomorrow night I shall ask you to attend me with your lute. Meanwhile, practise an Italian song or two, and you will not miss me."

  "I cannot help missing you, my lord," she answered with perfect modulation.

  "That is only natural. Be sure you pray for me. She is regular in her prayers, Doiia Antonia?"

  "Extremely devout, my lord."

  "Muy bien! Good night."

  He dismissed them with a graceful movement of the hand and passed on. Luisa continued upstairs, hardly conscious, because so used to it, of the empty feeling that her father left with her. Besides, it would be sunset in an hour; the thought eclipsed everything else.

  Dressing took a long time that evening. It did not matter that it would be night when she and Pedro de Vargas met and that the grille of the gate would separate them. She selected one gown, then changed to another, reflecting that silver brocade showed best in moonlight. She plucked a rebellious hair from the perfect arch of her eyebrow, applied a touch of rose water to her cheeks, throat, and hands: again consulted the mirror. Her mantilla looked most becoming this way, as if it had slipped by chance, revealing the fillet of gems in her hair. The approach of evening heightened the soft pallor of her face and brought out in contrast the darkness of her almond-shaped eyes.

  When she had finished, the sunset notes of birds sounded from the garden. She stood awhile at the window, half listening, gazing far off at the deepened sky. Then she rejoined Antonia.