Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  Don Rodrigo sipped his wine, and his dark, hungry eyes followed her as she moved about him with vaguely voluptuous, almost feline grace. The wine, the heavy perfume of the lamp, and the beauty of her played havoc among them with his senses, so that he forgot for the moment his Castilian lineage and clean Christian blood, forgot that she derived from the accursed race of the Crucifiers. All that he remembered was that she was the loveliest woman in Seville, daughter to the wealthiest man, and in that hour of weakness he decided to convert into reality that which had hitherto been no more than an infamous presence. He would loyally fulfil the false, disloyal promises he had made. He would take her to wife. It was a sacrifice which her beauty and her wealth should make worth while. Upon that impulse he spoke now, abruptly:

  “Isabella, when will you marry me?”

  She stood before him, looking down into his weak, handsome face, her fingers interlacing his own. She merely smiled. The question did not greatly move her. Not knowing him for the scoundrel that he was, guessing nothing of the present perturbation of his senses, she found it very natural that he should ask her to appoint the day.

  “It is a question you must ask my father,” she answered him.

  “I will,” said he, “to-morrow, on his return.” And he drew her down beside him.

  But that father was nearer than either of them dreamed. At that very moment the soft thud of the closing housedoor sounded through the house. It brought her sharply to her feet, and loose from his coiling arms, with quickened breath and blanching face. A moment she hung there, tense, then sped to the door of the room, set it ajar and listened.

  Up the stairs came the sound of footsteps and of muttering voices. It was her father, and others with him.

  With ever-mounting fear she turned to Don Rodrigo, and breathed the question: “If they should come here?”

  The Castilian stood where he had risen by the divan, his face paler now than its pale, aristocratic wont, his eyes reflecting the fear that glittered in her own. He had no delusion as to what action Diego de Susan would take upon discovering him. These Jewish dogs were quickly stirred to passion, and as jealous as their betters of the honour of their womenfolk. Already Don Rodrigo in imagination saw his clean red Christian blood bespattering that Hebrew floor, for he had no weapon save the heavy Toledo dagger at his girdle, and Diego de Susan was not alone.

  It was, he felt, a ridiculous position for a Hidalgo of Spain. But his dignity was to suffer still greater damage. In another moment she had bundled him into an alcove behind the arras at the chamber’s end, a tiny closet that was no better than a cupboard contrived for the storing of household linen. She had-moved with a swift precision which at another time might have provoked his admiration, snatching up his cloak and hat, and other evidences of his presence, quenching the lamp, and dragging him to that place of cramped concealment, which she remained to share with him.

  Came presently movements in the room beyond, and the voice of her father:

  “We shall be securest from intrusion here. It is my daughter’s room. If you will give me leave, I will go down again to admit our other friends.”

  Those other friends, as Don Rodrigo gathered, continued to arrive for the next half-hour, until in the end there must have been some twenty of them assembled in that chamber. The mutter of voices had steadily increased, but so confused that no more than odd words, affording no clue to the reason of this gathering, had reached the hidden couple.

  And then quite suddenly a silence fell, and on that silence beat the sharp, clear voice of Diego de Susan addressing them.

  “My friends,” he said, “I have called you hither that we may concert measures for the protection of ourselves and all New-Christians in Seville from the fresh peril by which we are menaced. The edict of the inquisitors reveals how much we have to fear. You may gather from it that the court of the Holy Office is hardly likely to deal in justice, and that the most innocent may find himself at any moment exposed to its cruel mercies. Therefore it is for us now to consider how to protect ourselves and our property from the unscrupulous activities of this tribunal. You are the principal New Christian citizens of Seville; you are wealthy, not only in property, but also in the goodwill of the people, who trust and respect, and at need will follow, you. If nothing less will serve, we must have recourse to arms; and so that we are resolute and united, my friends, we shall prevail against the inquisitors.”

  Within the alcove, Don Rodrigo felt his skin roughening with horror at this speech, which breathed sedition not only against the Sovereigns, but against the very Church. And with his horror was blent a certain increase of fear. If his situation had been perilous before, it was tenfold more dangerous now. Discovery, since he had overheard this treason, must mean his certain death. And Isabella, realizing the same to the exclusion of all else, clutched his arm and cowered against him in the dark.

  There was worse to follow. Susan’s address was received with a murmur of applause, and then others spoke, and several were named, and their presence thus disclosed. There was the influential Manuel Sauli, who next to Susan was the wealthiest man in Seville; there was Torralba, the Governor of Triana; Juan Abolafio, the farmer of the royal customs, and his brother Fernandez, the licentiate, and there were others — all of them men of substance, some even holding office under the Crown. Not one was there who dissented from anything that Susan had said; rather did each contribute some spur to the general resolve. In the end it was concerted that each of those present should engage himself to raise a proportion of the men, arms and money that would be needed for their enterprise. And upon that the meeting was dissolved, and they departed. Susan himself went with them. He had work to do in the common cause, he announced, and he would do it that very night in which it was supposed that he was absent at Palacios.

  At last, when all had gone, and the house was still again, Isabella and her lover crept forth from their concealment, and in the light of the lamp which Susan had left burning each looked into the other’s white, startled face. So shaken was Don Rodrigo with horror of what he had overheard, and with the terror of discovery, that it was with difficulty he kept his teeth from chattering.

  “Heaven protect us!” he gasped. “What Judaizing was this?”

  “Judaizing!” she echoed. It was the term applied to apostacy, to the relapse of New-Christians to Judaism, an offense to be expiated at the stake. “Here was no Judaizing. Are you mad, Rodrigo? You heard no single word that sinned against the Faith.”

  “Did I not? I heard treason enough to.”

  “No, nor treason either. You heard honourable, upright men considering measures of defence against oppression, injustice, and evil acquisitiveness masquerading in the holy garments of religion.”

  He stared askance at her for a moment, then his full lips curled into a sneer. “Of course you would seek to justify them,” he said. “You are of that foul brood yourself. But you cannot think to cozen me, who am of clean Old-christian blood and a true son of Mother Church. These men plot evil against the Holy Inquisition. Is that not Judaizing when it is done by Jews?”

  She was white to the lips, and a new horror stared at him from her great dark eyes; her lovely bosom rose and fell in tumult. Yet still she sought to reason with him.

  “They are not Jews — not one of them. Why, Perez is himself in holy orders. All of them are Christians, and...”

  “Newly-baptized!” he broke in, sneering viciously. “A defilement of that holy sacrament to gain them worldly advantages. That is revealed by what passed here just now. Jews they were born, the sons of Jews, and Jews they remain under their cloak of mock Christianity, to be damned as Jews in the end.” He was panting now with fiery indignation; a holy zeal inflamed this profligate defiler. “God forgive me that ever I entered here. Yet I do believe that it was His will that I should come to overhear what is being plotted. Let me depart from hence.”

  With a passionate gesture of abhorrence he swung towards the door. Her clutch upon his arm arres
ted him.

  “Whither do you go?” she asked him sharply. He looked now into her eyes, and of all that they contained he saw only fear; he saw nothing of the hatred into which her love had been transmuted in that moment by his unsparing insults to herself, her race and her home, by the purpose which she clearly read in him.

  “Whither?” he echoed, and sought to shake her off.

  “Whither my Christian duty bids me.”

  It was enough for her. Before he could prevent or suspect her purpose, she had snatched the heavy Toledo blade from his girdle, and armed with it stood between the door and him.

  “A moment, Don Rodrigo. Do not attempt to advance, or, as Heaven watches us, I strike, and it maybe that I shall kill you. We must talk awhile before you go.”

  Amazed, chapfallen, half-palsied, he stood before her, his fine religious zeal wiped out by fear of that knife in her weak woman’s hand. Rapidly to-night was she coming into real knowledge of this Castilian gentleman, whom with pride she had taken for her lover. It was a knowledge that was to sear her presently with self-loathing and self-contempt. But for the moment her only consideration was that, as a direct result of her own wantonness, her father stood in mortal peril. If he should perish through the deletion of this creature, she would account herself his slayer.

  “You have not considered that the deletion you intend will destroy my father,” she said quietly.

  “There is my Christian duty to consider,” answered he, but without boldness now.

  “Perhaps. But there is something you must set against it. Have you no duty as a lover — no duty to me?”

  “No earthly duty can weigh against a spiritual obligation....”

  “Ah, wait! Have patience. You have not well considered, that is plain. In coming here in secret you wronged my father. You will not trouble to deny it.

  “Jointly we wronged him, you and I. Will you then take advantage of something learnt whilst you were hiding there like a thief from the consequences of what you did, and so do him yet this further wrong?”

  “Must I wrong my conscience?” he asked her sullenly.

  “Indeed, I fear you must.”

  “Imperil my immortal soul?” He almost laughed.

  “You talk in vain.”

  “But I have something more than words for you.” With her left hand she drew upon the fine gold chain about her neck, and brought forth a tiny jewelled cross. Passing the chain over her head, she held it out.

  “Take this,” she bade him. “Take it, I say. Now, with that sacred symbol in your hand, make solemn oath to divulge no word of what you have learnt here tonight, or else resign yourself to an unshriven death. For either you take that oath, or I rouse the servants and have you dealt with as one who has intruded here unbidden for an evil end.” She backed away from him as she spoke, and threw wide the door. Then, confronting him from the threshold, she admonished him again, her voice no louder than a whisper. “Quick now! Resolve yourself. Will you die here with all your sins upon you, and so destroy for all eternity the immortal soul that urges you to this betrayal, or will you take the oath that I require?”

  He began an argument that was like a sermon of the Faith. But she cut him short. “For the last time!” she bade him. “Will you decide?”

  He chose the coward’s part, of course, and did violence tomb fine conscience. With the cross in his hand he repeated after her the words of the formidable oath that she administered, an oath which it must damn his immortal soul to break. Because of that, because she imagined that she had taken the measure of his faith, she returned him his dagger, and let him go at last. She imagined that she had bound him fast in irrefragable spiritual bonds.

  And even on the morrow, when her father and all those who had been present at that meeting at Susan’s house were arrested by order of the Holy Office of the Inquisition, she still clung to that belief. Yet presently a doubt crept in, a doubt that she must at all costs resolve. And so presently she called for her litter, and had herself carried to the Convent of St. Paul, where she asked to see Frey Alonso de Ojeda, the Prior of the Dominicans of Seville.

  She was left to wait in a square, cheerless, dimly-lighted room pervaded by a musty smell, that had for only furniture a couple of chairs and a praying-stool, and for only ornament a great, gaunt crucifix hanging upon one of its whitewashed walls.

  Thither came presently two Dominican friars. One of these was a harsh-featured man of middle height and square build, the uncompromising zealot Ojeda. The other was tall and lean, stooping slightly at the shoulders, haggard and pale of countenance, with deep-set, luminous dark eyes, and a tender, wistful mouth. This was the Queen’s confessor, Frey Tomas de Torquemada, Grand Inquisitor of Castile. He approached her, leaving Ojeda in the background, and stood a moment regarding her with eyes of infinite kindliness and compassion.

  “You are the daughter of that misguided man, Diego de Susan,” he said, in a gentle voice. “God help and strengthen you, my child, against the trials that may be in store for you. What do you seek at our poor hands? Speak, child, without fear.”

  “Father,” she faltered, “I come to implore your pity.”

  “No need to implore it, child. Should I withhold pity who stand myself in need of pity, being a sinner — as are we all.”

  “It is for my father that I come to beg your mercy.”

  “So I supposed.” A shade crossed the gentle, wistful face; the tender melancholy deepened in the eyes that regarded her. “If your father is innocent of what has been alleged against him, the benign tribunal of the Holy Office will bring his innocence to light, and rejoice therein; if he is guilty, if he has strayed — as we may all stray unless fortified by heavenly grace — he shall be given the means of expiation, that his salvation may be assured him.”

  She shivered at the words. She knew the mercy in which the inquisitors dealt, a mercy so spiritual that it took no account of the temporal agonies inflicted to ensure it.

  “My father is innocent of any sin against the Faith,” said she.

  “Are you so sure?” croaked the harsh voice of Ojeda, breaking in. “Consider well. Remember that your duty as a Christian is above your duty as a daughter.”

  Almost had she bluntly demanded the name of her father’s accuser, that thus she might reach the object of her visit. Betimes she checked the rash impulse, perceiving that subtlety was here required; that a direct question would close the door to all information. Skilfully, then, she chose her line of attack.

  “I am sure,” she exclaimed, “that he is a more fervent and pious Christian — New-Christian though he be — than his accuser.”

  The wistfulness faded from Torquemada’s eyes. They grew keen, as became the eyes of an inquisitor, the eyes of a sleuth, quick to fasten on a spoor. But he shook his head.

  Ojeda advanced. “That I cannot believe,” said he. “The deletion was made from a sense of duty so pure that the delator did not hesitate to confess the sin of his own commission through which he had discovered the treachery of Don Diego and his associates.”

  She could have cried out in anguish at this answer to her unspoken question. Yet she controlled herself, and that no single doubt should linger, she thrust boldly home.

  “He confessed it?” she cried, seemingly aghast. The friar slowly nodded. “Don Rodrigo confessed?” she insisted, as will the incredulous.

  Abruptly the friar nodded again; and as abruptly checked, recollecting himself.

  “Don Rodrigo?” he echoed, and asked: “Who mentioned Don Rodrigo?”

  But it was too late. His assenting nod had betrayed the truth, had confirmed her worst fear. She swayed a little; the room swam round her, she felt as she would swoon. Then blind indignation against that forsworn betrayer surged to revive her. If it was through her weakness and undutifulness that her father had been destroyed, through her strength should he be avenged, though in doing so she pulled down and destroyed herself.

  “And he confessed to his own sin?” she was repeating s
lowly, ever on that musing, incredulous note. “He dared confess himself a Judaizer?”

  “A Judaizer!” Sheer horror now overspread the friar’s grim countenance. “A Judaizer! Don Rodrigo? Oh, impossible!”

  “But I thought you said he had confessed.”

  “Why, yes, but... but not to that.” Her pale lips smiled, sadly contemptuous.

  “I see. He set limits of prudence upon his confession. He left out his Judatting practices. He did not tell you, for instance, that this deletion was an act of revenge against me who refused to marry him, having discovered his unfaith, and fearing its consequences in this world and the next.”

  Ojeda stared at her in sheer, incredulous amazement.

  And then Torquemada spoke: “Do you say that Don Rodrigo de Cardona is a Judaizer? Oh, it is unbelievable.”

  “Yet I could give you evidence that should convince you.”

  “Then so you shall. It is your sacred duty, lest you become an abettor of heresy, and yourself liable to the extreme penalty.”

  It would be a half-hour later, perhaps, when she quitted the Convent of St. Paul to return home, with Hell in her heart, knowing in life no purpose but that of avenging the parent her folly had destroyed. As she was being carried past the Alcazar, she espied across the open space a tall, slim figure in black, in whom she recognized her lover, and straightway she sent the page who paced beside her litter to call him to her side. The summons surprised him after what had passed between them; moreover, considering her father’s present condition, he was reluctant to be seen in attendance upon the beautiful, wealthy Isabella de Susan. Nevertheless, urged on by curiosity, he went.

  Her greeting increased his surprise.

  “I am in deep distress, Rodrigo, as you may judge,” she told him sadly. “You will have heard what has befallen my father?”

  He looked at her sharply, yet saw nothing but loveliness rendered more appealing by sorrow. Clearly she did not suspect him of betrayal; did not realize that an oath extorted by violence — and an oath, moreover, to be false to a sacred duty — could not be accounted binding.