By Fire, By Water by Mitchell James Kaplan
“No, Father. No, I don’t.”
“All those involved will most certainly lose their property, at the very least. And those who help us find them will naturally be entitled to a share of whatever is confiscated. If there were a number of conspirators, that portion could be quite considerable.”
Gutiérrez swallowed. He had not come here with a hope of reward, but he appreciated the wisdom in the monk’s proposal. If Mother Church took away people’s goods when they sinned, it made sense she should reward them when they were virtuous. “I understand.”
“Please go ahead. I can hear your confession right here.”
Gutiérrez was not accustomed to receiving absolution face-to-face with his priest, in broad daylight; even less so, with the queen’s confessor. He steeled himself and began, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I lusted after a girl, and we … we …”
“Fornicated?”
“Yes.” The innkeeper was not sure what the word meant, but it sounded right enough.
“Are you married, Señor Gutiérrez?”
“Yes.”
“And I take it this girl, she was not married, at the time this was going on?”
“No. As I said, she was … she was young.”
“How young?”
“Thirteen.”
Leaning back into his chair, Torquemada examined his fingernails. “How many times did you fornicate with her?”
“I don’t know. Fifteen, twenty times. But she got, she became … heavy with child, and … and she died giving birth. She never told a soul.” Gutiérrez took a deep breath, avoiding Torquemada’s eyes.
“Not even her priest?”
The innkeeper shook his head.
“And the baby?”
“The baby?”
Torquemada nodded, urging him on. “The baby was born dead.”
“This girl whom you loved, she died without confessing her sins?”
“Yes.”
“And when did all this happen?”
“It started a little more than a year ago. She died, she passed away, a few days after Ash Wednesday.”
“And you? All this time, you haven’t sought absolution, either?”
“I was ashamed, Father.”
“And the eternal well-being of your soul, you weren’t worried about that?”
“I thought my soul was lost.” The innkeeper lowered his head into his hands. “When I heard she was dying, I wasn’t strong enough to visit her.”
“I see.”
Gutiérrez wiped his sweating palms on his knees and lifted his face, looking directly at his confessor. “Is her soul rotting in hell, Father? I hear her screams, sometimes, at night. Is that real, or is it a dream?”
“It’s too late for you to concern yourself with her soul, Señor Gutiérrez, or with that of the baby you helped conceive. You should be worried about your own. But this you could have confessed to any priest. Why are you here? Why did you want to speak with me?”
“There is something else.”
“What is it, my son? You have my full attention.”
“Some men. The morning after the canon’s assassination. Only, I didn’t know. I didn’t yet know.”
“Some men?”
“At the inn. The Bull’s Head.”
“How many?”
“Three. And a child. You don’t often see a mere boy wearing an expensive suede jerkin.”
“No, you don’t. What color was this jerkin?”
“Stripes of leather. Red, blue. With silver buttons.”
“There are many shades of red, Señor Gutiérrez. The color of wine? Of bricks?”
“More like wine. And blue like the sky here in Aragon on a warm day.”
“With silver buttons.”
The innkeeper nodded.
“How old was he?”
“Eleven, maybe twelve.”
“These men, do you know their names?”
The innkeeper shook his head. “You could tell they were educated. And wealthy.”
“What did they look like? Did they have accents? How did they get to the Bull’s Head?”
“They rode beautiful horses. Not together. Separately. One of them, yes, had an accent. A tall man. Thin. Straight hair, the color of wheat, down to his shoulders.”
“And the others? What did they look like?”
Gutiérrez did his best to describe them. The beauty of their horses, especially, had impressed him: a roan mare, a chestnut stallion, a dun stallion, all clothed in expensive blankets and silver fittings. He remembered, in particular, the black stripe on the back of the roan mare. The man who arrived on this horse, it seemed, was their leader. Another of the horses, white with large black spots, had run off.
“Did it come back?”
Gutiérrez shook his head.
“Did they come back for their horse?”
“No.”
Torquemada searched the innkeeper’s face.
“What aroused your suspicions, Señor Gutiérrez? Did these men refuse to eat or drink the food from your kitchen? Did they say something?”
“They didn’t say much. Did you find it? No, it wasn’t there. The exact words, I’m sorry, Father, I can’t remember.”
“They were looking for something?”
“Something, yes. At the time, I had no idea what to make of it.”
“At the time?”
“This was before I heard about Father Arbués.”
Torquemada pressed his fingertips together and applied them to his pursed lips. “And then you thought …”
“The whole thing was … What is the word, Father?”
“Unusual?”
“More than that, I’d say. They gave the foreigner two purses.”
Three men, wealthy men, reflected Torquemada, going out of their way to gather in an obscure, neglected tavern outside of town, the morning after the assassination. One of them foreign. A valuable horse that in the urgency of the moment they were willing to abandon. Two purses. What of the boy? Why was a child present?
“These men were not Jews, but Christian?”
“I didn’t see horns.”
Torquemada nodded understandingly. If only life were that simple. If only the acolytes of Satan were so easily identified.
“And you told no one?”
“I wanted to talk with someone. But as I said, Father, with … with all that was going on with her … and then, when she died …”
“Your conscience was overburdened.”
“Besides, I was thinking: If their business was so secret, why would they meet in the Bull’s Head? Why not in their homes?”
“They couldn’t risk that, Señor Gutiérrez. These are crafty, worldly men. They mustn’t be seen together, not immediately following their evil work. It could raise suspicions. The Bull’s Head is some distance from Zaragoza. No one knows them there. In their homes, they have servants. Their servants go to church. Unlike you, their servants confess.”
“I am confessing, Father.”
“Yes, but that won’t suffice. You’ll have to do penance.”
“Please,” Gutiérrez begged, leaning forward. “That is what my soul longs for.”
“For all the ruin engendered by your impure and sinful relations, eat nothing from dawn until dusk the first two days of every month, for one year. And if you can, try to ease the suffering of her family. The deceased girl’s family.”
“I shall, Father. Gladly.” Tears welled in the innkeeper’s eyes.
Tomás de Torquemada contemplated the fate of that innocent girl who would dwell for so long, at least until the Return, in unthinkable distress. The act of reparation he had assigned was not commensurate with the evil Miguel Gutiérrez had done. But in his effort to represent the will of the Eternal in this world, Torquemada had also considered the good that Gutiérrez was now accomplishing. The innkeeper had unburdened himself of what was most shameful. He had helped the Inquisition redeem other souls.
“You may leave now.”
“Thank you, Father.” The innkeeper rose clumsily, almost knocking over his chair, and stumbled across the room.
After Miguel Gutiérrez left, Torquemada searched for Juan Rodríguez in the cloisters, the garden, the cellar. He finally found him in a small chapel intended for individual prayer at the back of the monastery. The constable knelt naked before a carved wooden altar to the Holy Mother of God. A phallus as rigid as an oak branch rose from his lap.
Torquemada found Rodríguez’s posture as insulting to his faith as it was abhorrent to his eyes. He reminded himself, however, that all humans were victims of carnality. Besides, this man was not trained for the priesthood. To judge him by the standards of that calling would be unfair.
Rodríguez turned to see him, blushing, and reached for his tunic. Torquemada decided not to comment on what he had witnessed, feeling that his presence alone had shamed the man sufficiently. “We need to locate a roan courser with a bridle of black leather and silver, and a black stripe down its back. Is that feasible, constable?”
“Would that be … Would that be for your personal conveyance, Father?” Rodríguez clumsily tightened his belt.
“No. You might start by looking among the wealthy conversos in this area.”
“I’ll attend to that at once.” He stood up and straightened his tunic, avoiding the inquisitor’s eyes.
“And one other thing. A boy of twelve or so, wearing an expensive waistcoat, maroon and light blue, with silver buttons. Get word out to the Hermandad. Let’s keep an eye out for this boy.”
Torquemada went out, closing the door softly.
That night, as Tomás de Torquemada lay in the deceased canon’s chambers, Miguel Gutiérrez’s utterances echoed in his mind. Did you find it? … It wasn’t there … Something, yes …
Affliction and sin filled his days, the confessions of corrupt men and, worse, their reluctance to confess. Nights, the inquisitor meditated upon timeless things: the sky, the earth, man’s humble efforts to bring the two together by raising stones from the ground and dedicating them to the service of God.
His architectural plans for the Avila monastery had progressed. He imagined buttresses supporting high walls, gargoyles spouting rainwater, gothic arched doorways carved with figures of saints and demons. He heard monks chanting in the chapel and smelled the fertile earth as they irrigated and planted the fields.
The voice of that coarse penitent broke in again and disturbed his reverie: Did you find it? … It wasn’t there … Something, yes …
The inquisitor’s eyes fluttered open. Nothing was moving. Torquemada’s gaze wandered to the gothic bookshelves where Pedro de Arbués had stored his logs.
CHAPTER NINE
WALKING HIS BAY STALLION, King Fernando surveyed a sea of canvas lodgings, festooned with yellow and red ribbons, coats of arms, and banners in vermilion, emerald, and royal blue. Twenty-five thousand troops had gathered from all over Iberia, and others from as far as England and Helvetia. Scents of charred suckling pigs, goats, and rosemary filled the air. Quails and apples roasted over firepots. In a clearing, a bearded lutenist sang of love and war.
A man of average height with a high forehead and slanted eyes, Fernando wore breeches of yellow satin, a crimson doublet, and a mantle of rich brocade. Behind him rode a half-dozen equestrian heroes with their brightly liveried pages. Wherever Fernando passed, wealthy barons and their servants cheered. When the king and his attendants came to a stop in the center of the encampment, a trumpet blasted. The lutenist ceased singing. The tent-builders stopped hammering.
“Brave knights of Christ,” shouted Fernando, “our most hearty thanks to you for assisting in this holy endeavor.” The soldiers cheered. “The battle in which we shall soon be engaged will bring to an end, once and for all, the presence of an infidel nation on this continent.” Again, the crowd roared. Halberds and shields clanged. “It will be grueling. It may take years. Many of you will spill blood for God and your land.” The clamor grew deafening. King Fernando held up his palm. “But in the end,” he bellowed, “we will prevail!” He continued over the din, “Europe will be united, once again, under the banner of Christ!”
While the king rallied his troops, Luis de Santángel walked his horse to the royal tents. He introduced himself to the queen’s guards and produced a letter of summons. Her majesty’s sentries, though illiterate, recognized the official stamp. One of them ushered him inside.
Fine silk-and-wool rugs from Tabriz covered the dirt floor. Sumptuous tapestries from Bruges enlivened the walls, keeping the noise and, at night, the cool autumn air outside. Rosewood partitions separated the large volume into distinct spaces. A servant showed Santángel into the tight, dignified receiving chamber. The room smelled musty, as if the stale air inside had been transported along with the heavy fabrics of the shelter.
When Queen Ysabel finally entered, she smiled to Santángel as if offering him a precious gift, her friendship. He knew it was not truly a gift at all but a loan to be paid back with usurious interest. Like the debtor with a pocket of gold coins, Santángel enjoyed the illusion of possessing the queen’s affection.
Despite the contrary opinion of courtiers and the citizenry, she was not beautiful. Small in stature, with round arms, puffy cheeks, small eyes, and lazy lips, she could have passed for a peasant working in the onion fields near Sevilla. What she lacked in pulchritude, she made up for in mystique. Her gold-flecked eyes and thick, rust-blond hair infused her artful demeanor with a touch of wildness.
She greeted him not in an elegant robe but in an ornate dressing gown, its high collar half-concealing a goiter the size of a mouse. Like her smile, the choice of attire was meant to convey that she considered Santángel an intimate acquaintance rather than merely an administrative counselor.
“Señor de Santángel, you must have some hot mulled wine. You’ve been riding for days.” With a wave of her hand, she commanded a lady-in-waiting to serve him.
“Thank you, Your Highness. What a sight, the army you and King Fernando have raised.”
“We’ve set up a tent for you nearby,” the queen replied. “I hope you find it to your liking.”
“I have no doubt but that I shall, Your Highness. Your consideration in such matters has never disappointed me.” He sipped his beverage, a precious melange of local wine with spices imported on the backs of camels and on trading ships from the Indias. “But tell me, how may I be of service to you?”
“You have relations in Granada, do you not?” The queen drank from a silver goblet filled with sweetened orange blossom water.
“Would the emir, or his vizier, remember me? I suspect they would.” Santángel had visited Granada more than once on diplomatic missions, but wished to dispel any suggestion that he casually consorted with the infidel.
“You do speak their tongue, do you not?”
“My father tax-farmed the Arabic-speaking community of Valencia. He made sure I was thoroughly trained to take up his mantle.”
“But your brother, as I understand, took up the mantle instead. Estefan.” The queen took pride in her ability to call to mind such details about her highest-ranking attendants, and her husband’s.
“Absolutely correct, as always, my lady,” replied the courtier between sips of wine.
“We want you to travel to Granada. Warn him that his nephew, Abu Abdullah, is fomenting rebellion in Malaga. In the interest of stability, we would like to help protect the emir and his kingdom.”
“How?”
The queen smiled, fingering her dress. “That ship you procured for us. The Giustizia. It could be quite useful against a rebellious coastal city.”
Santángel smiled—a forced, ironic, bitter smile. He knew the emir’s nephew had raised an army in Malaga. He doubted, however, that the emir would allow a Christian battleship into his waters.
“He has no choice,” said Ysabel. “He is vulnerable. We’re offering protection.”
Santángel felt he understood Ysabel’s true intent
“Can you accomplish that, señor?”
“I would be honored, Your Majesty.”
Ysabel turned to a maidservant. “Elena, please show our guest to his quarters.” To Santángel, she added, “You’ll need rest if you’re going to join us in the parade this evening.”
Luis de Santángel bowed and followed the pretty, young attendant out of the royal tent.
Watching him leave, Ysabel found the converso’s dignified manner vaguely discomfiting. True, as an advocate of the Crown, the man was redoubtable. True, her husband Fernando greatly appreciated him. Santángel had helped smooth the way financially and politically for his ascension to the throne of Aragon. Was not that, paradoxically, the problem with people like Luis de Santángel? Was it right that a king should depend so openly on the support of families that, two or three generations earlier, had dwelt among the moral and social dregs of society, families that had built their fortunes through the base occupations of trading, tax collecting, and usury? Had Luis de Santángel not himself added the “de” between his first and last names to suggest a patrician lineage? To the queen’s aristocratic mind, where noble blood carried with it an imponderable measure of responsibility and purpose, the very existence of powerful upstart families like that of Luis de Santángel was menacing. What propelled such men through life was neither love of their land nor personal conviction, but an inordinate lust for self-promotion. Such men delighted in shattering the social barriers that had held her society together for uncounted generations.
Ysabel withdrew to her private quarters to prepare for public appearances with her husband. She loathed dressing up in jeweled gowns and fancy boots, but her soldiers believed they were fighting on behalf of a beautiful, benevolent, imperiously remote queen. One of her royal duties was to nourish those convictions.