“Before I dedicated my life to the service of the Church,” replied Rodríguez, “I was not a good man, Father.”
Torquemada nodded compassionately. “Come in, Señor Rodríguez. What’s all this fuss?” He closed the door.
“It’s Maestre Arbués, Father. He’s dead.”
“Pedro de Arbués? Dead? What happened?”
“Murder. A deed too evil to contemplate.”
Was the constable lying? The inquisitor general had seen too much of the blackness in men’s hearts to take anyone at his word, especially someone who had just admitted to his dark past. He asked himself what a constable of the Inquisition could have to gain by dissembling about such a matter. “Murder? And the perpetrators, were they apprehended?”
“Not yet. But soon after Father Arbués died, the cathedral bells started ringing on their own. They haven’t stopped since.”
Torquemada did not believe in such pint-sized miracles, but he was convinced most people needed them as anchors for their faith. He noticed the constable eyeing the cauldron of lamb broth that hung from a wrought-iron stand in the fireplace. “Are you hungry, Rodríguez?”
“Yes, Father.”
He rolled up the plans for the monastery at Avila, reflecting that unlike the buildings in Madrid or Barcelona, those in Zaragoza were constructed not of stone but of adobe, crumbling, impermanent clay mixed with straw and held in place with beams of wood. Clay, the very substance from which God had fashioned man, his fickle, rebellious child.
He fetched a bowl and filled it with the steaming broth. “Our earthly lives are fleeting,” he comforted the constable. He placed the bowl on the table and pulled out a chair for him. “Father Arbués has gone to a better place. And to those followers of Satan who perpetrated this evil act, Jesus will make his wrath known. I can assure you of that.”
The Jesus of compassion and love mattered greatly to the faithful, who knew they could depend on His affection and support. At present, however, they desperately needed the help of the other Jesus, the messiah of righteous anger, the incarnate God who commanded obedience and instilled terror, the Jesus who promised eternal fire and wailing for sinners and for those who refused to recognize His divinity.
Torquemada would demonstrate his fealty to that Jesus. By murdering an officer of His Church, the perpetrators of this crime had pounded yet another nail into Christ’s wrists and ankles. The pain thus inflicted upon the Lord was not His alone to carry. Mankind’s duty, and especially the duty of Christ’s servants, was to undergo the torment with Him.
“Jesus will make his wrath known,” echoed the constable, “in the next world, yes. But in this one?”
“Those who committed this unspeakable act will be found, I assure you.”
Finding comfort in the words of this wise potentate of the Church, Juan Rodríguez sipped the steaming brew.
Torquemada took the chair across from him and lowered his head into his hands. In his mind’s eye he saw the powerful face and large, commanding body of Pedro de Arbués, clothed in the finery of his station, leading Mass. The man Torquemada had chosen to be Inquisitor of Zaragoza had never been a friend. Torquemada did not approve of his carnal appetites, but the canon of La Seo had been a tireless servant of the Lord, struggling as all righteous men must to better himself and extirpate sin and temptation from the world. What more could God’s Church require of its frail, hidebound servants? For no matter what his enemies imagined, Torquemada was not a man who lacked compassion. Not to feel pity for a sinner who sincerely repented, he felt, was not to be Christian.
As he watched Pedro de Arbués officiating in his mind, tears came to the inquisitor’s eyes—tears not only for the man whose murder was an affront to God, but for all mankind, who knew not from one moment to the next what destiny awaited them.
Torquemada rode hard for two days to the city where Pedro de Arbués had resided and died. He set up quarters in the rooms formerly occupied by the canon of La Seo.
The cierzo, a brusque southeasterly, blew over Zaragoza. The inquisitor general found the chambers drafty. Small echoing sounds, unfamiliar and occasionally disturbing, leaked from the nave at night. Doors and windows creaked, sometimes so loudly the Dominican could hardly keep his eyes closed.
He read all of Arbués’s logs and journals. He noticed that not all the confessions and depositions from his inquisitorial proceedings were among them. Had the canon misplaced one or more volumes? Was there some meaning to their absence?
Four nights after he arrived, a repetitive whine and clap awoke him. Unable to fall back to sleep, he rose. In his rough woolen habit, holding a small candle, he clomped down a narrow corridor to locate the door or window that was blowing open, then slapping closed.
As he peered into each room, he found only latched doors, until he came at last to the dark nave. The main entrance was wide open and a terrible wind was howling through. It blew so strong the inquisitor had to struggle to push the heavy door closed and latch it. When he turned around again, what he saw startled him. The candle fell from his hands.
Kneeling in front of the cross was the canon himself. Torquemada knelt to pick up the candle, which was still burning, and moved closer. “Make me as a branch of the willow, Lord,” he prayed, “bending before the gale of your volition, that I may better serve you. If this be a demon that ye have placed here to test me, give me the strength to wrestle with it and banish it from Your house.”
When he approached close enough to observe Arbués’s skin and vestments in the candlelight, he saw the bloodstains. The canon rose and turned to him. His plump face showed no horrific traces of martyrdom. What Torquemada saw in that face was an image of serenity, the kind of serenity Torquemada himself had been striving for over the years, through fasting and meditation. Drained of color, reflecting the candlelight, Arbués’s countenance glowed. As if touched by celestial radiance, Torquemada felt his fears slip away.
“Fray Pedro! Why have you returned?”
The canon smiled in death precisely as he had so many times in life, an expression that blended condescension with love. Now, however, his air of superiority seemed justified. In it, Torquemada saw the patronizing affection of one who knew firsthand the inexpressible comforts of Elysium.
“Let me tell you something about our Lord Jesus Christ, the sacrificial lamb,” Arbués pontificated. “His torment didn’t cease when they hauled his body from the cross. It is ongoing, Fray Tomás, and it will continue. It will continue for as long as the Jews keep denying Him.”
Torquemada stood before him unflinching. “But how can we change the Jews? You know as well as I, they are stiff-necked. You know how they despise our Lord.”
“You cannot save those who serve Satan,” the ghostly messenger concurred. “But those who have turned toward the Light, only to be frightened by its brilliance, and who wish to crawl back into the shadows, those weak, indecisive souls can and must be helped.”
“Are we not doing all we can?”
Arbués responded in a commandeering tone he would never have dared employ with Torquemada during his life. “Eliminate the darkness from their world, and they will have nowhere else to turn. Then, and only then, will their eyes fully open to the divine effulgence, which is love.”
Before Torquemada had a chance to question the canon further, the door of the cathedral, though firmly latched, blew open again. The wind extinguished the candle in his hand. The monk from Segovia reached out to grasp Pedro de Arbués’s bloodstained robes, as if to clutch one last, precious fragment of a missive from heaven. He fell to his knees, sweating and dizzy.
CHAPTER SEVEN
EACH NIGHT, Luis de Santángel and his son Gabriel slept in a different bed, in a different town: Teruel, Castellón de la Plana, Sagunto. Each night, as the chancellor closed his eyes to sleep, Pedro de Arbués’s last cold stare greeted him, reminding him that wherever he traveled, his deeds traveled with him.
He took comfort in his distance from Zaragoza, but distance was no substitute
for peace of mind. The eyes and ears of the Inquisition were as plentiful as the marigolds, periwinkles, and peonies that bloomed in the fields of La Mancha. Tomás de Torquemada and his cohorts would soon be seeking every accomplice in the murder of Pedro de Arbués, finding some and inventing others, if they were not doing so already.
Estefan Santángel’s house in Valencia, tall, built of stone, with a sloping tile roof and small windows, stood behind walls and wooden gates on the outskirts of town. His son following, Luis de Santángel walked Ynés into the courtyard.
Alerted by his guard, holding his hand behind his back, Estefan came out to greet them. “Still tempting the devil, eh?” he asked his brother cryptically. “But, thank God, still with us.” He swung around to his nephew. “And you, Gabriel, how quickly you shoot up—an indubitable weed! Still fencing like a madman?”
Gabriel reached into his saddlebag and whipped out the stick he had fashioned for this purpose. “See for yourself, scalawag!” he shouted. He swung the stick and lunged.
Estefan was prepared. In the hand behind his back, he held a similar stick, whittled into the rough shape of a fencing iron. He expertly parried Gabriel’s thrusts. He roared with laughter as he ducked and darted to evade the boy’s reckless coups lancés and launched deft counterattacks. Luis stood to the side, watching patiently, vaguely smiling. Estefan’s servants carried in the visitors’ bags.
Finally, Gabriel pinned his uncle to the wall, his “sword” across Estefan’s chest.
“Have mercy on me, worthy Christian,” begged the portly tax farmer.
“I shall allow you to live, infidel,” his nephew warned him, “but only this once. If I should catch you praying to your heathen gods again, within my realms, I shall scatter your guts like fertilizer across my fields.”
Estefan and Luis exchanged a glance. “You are indeed the valorous knight they say you are, sir.” Estefan bowed floridly as Gabriel removed his sword.
“Gabriel,” the chancellor directed his son as this game wound to a conclusion, “take Ynés back to the stables.”
Panting, Gabriel led his horse away.
“He’s too smart by half for a twelve-year-old.” Estefan led his brother toward the door. “Let’s talk inside.”
He ushered Luis upstairs to a small room lined with benches and bookshelves, closed the door, and addressed his brother quietly. “Tongues are wagging. Pedro de Arbués …”
“The canon of La Seo? What about him?”
“But surely you know. He’s been killed. Right in the cathedral. While praying.”
“I’ve been traveling,” answered Luis. “I’m sorry to hear about it. But I must admit, I felt little fondness for the man, as you well know.”
“They say the crime was perpetrated by a ‘cabal’ of New Christians.”
“Who is making outlandish statements like that?”
“Oh, just … everybody.”
“And how would they know, this ‘everybody’ that has no name and no face, but whose authority is absolute?”
“Brother, let us be calm.”
“I am calm.”
Estefan leaned backward and peered at Luis. He changed the subject. “For how long will you be entrusting me with your offspring? I promise not to dance on the tables or otherwise corrupt the poor, impressionable thing.”
“The queen has summoned me to Cordoba. A two-week ride each way. Beyond that, I have no idea what she wants, or how long it will take. While I’m in the south, I also intend to pay a visit to my associate, the duke of Medina-Celi.”
“Two months, then? Three? I only hope Gabriel isn’t bored.”
“Perhaps more.”
“You know, when I’m here at home, I actually work.”
The two brothers did not again broach the subject of the murder or the Inquisition.
That night, Luis de Santángel lay beside his son on their bed, a heavy wooden frame with leather latticework supporting a bag of feathers. They talked quietly, listening to the falling rain and occasional claps of thunder.
“Papa, is it true there’s going to be a war against the kingdom of Granada?”
“Who told you that?”
“García, my tutor. He said King Fernando and Queen Ysabel are finally going to rid our land of the infidels.”
“It is true, Gabriel. But it may not happen quickly.”
“So there will still be war when I’m old enough to fight?”
“Perhaps. But you’re not a knight, and you’re not a knight’s page either. You’re going to serve your king in other ways, like your father.”
“Counting money?”
“Counting money is the least of it. Deciding how the kingdom should use its revenues—that is important. And because your function will be so important, you’ll have the king’s ear. You’ll even negotiate with foreign powers on his behalf.”
“And who will be the king? Prince Juan?” The prince, Ysabel and Fernando’s only male child, was seven years old.
“Yes. Juan will rule over Castile and Aragon—and Granada, too, after the war. That will make you a very powerful man, if you prove your loyalty to him.”
“He’s so annoying.”
“How so?”
“When we fence, I’m not allowed to score any points. He makes me say I lost, even if I didn’t.”
Luis chuckled. “You have time.”
“Time for what?”
“To learn to like him.” The chancellor kissed his son.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A CATHEDRAL, by virtue of its dimensions, was meant to inspire awe, but awe was only the means to an end. The end was the complete, unconditional, limitless subservience of the individual will to God, as conveyed to man through His Savior and His Church.
When awe alone did not suffice, the purveyors of God’s graces in this world occasionally had to use a different instrument: fear. Mortification of the flesh was in itself beneficial, for how else was man, sullied by temptation and corruption, to aspire to purity? The Inquisition’s machines of torture, though, were not primarily intended to cause suffering. They were meant to arouse in the sinner an awareness of his powerlessness, to lead him to repent and be reconciled with the divine will.
For certain purposes, a third set of tools, compassion and the profound intimacy of confession, were more effective than awe or fear. When meeting with a good-willed informant, it seemed fitting to Torquemada that they should sit together not within a vast, echoing hall or a dismal, fetid dungeon, but in the cool, commodious confines of La Seo’s rectory.
The tonsured Dominican sat at a table, studying Tomás Aquinas’s Summa Theologica and jotting notes in the book’s margins. Torquemada greatly admired the subtle, probing intellect of the hallowed saint, who had proven to the world that reason and faith, both emanations from God, not only were compatible but also fulfilled each other. His own mission, Torquemada believed, while infinitely less meritorious than that of the great theologian, would also demonstrate that reason, the patient exploration of sinners’ minds and the effort to turn them toward Truth, would always prevail over ignorance, superstition, and heresy, except when impeded by Satan.
Rodríguez ushered in the innkeeper Miguel Gutiérrez, who glanced by turns at the inquisitor, at the leaded windows, and at the wooden chandeliers. It did not take long for the prior to evaluate him. Gutiérrez was a large, uncouth man with a wild beard and rotten teeth. Sweaty and malodorous, he seemed ill at ease even in the relative comfort of the rectory. Did he have something to hide? Surely something, but probably nothing too heinous. Those whose consciences were burdened with the most terrible sins were usually far more practiced at concealing their discomfort.
“Please, Señor Gutiérrez, have a seat. Would you like some water? Rodríguez, you may leave us.”
The innkeeper sat down heavily while Torquemada filled a cup. The constable closed the door behind himself. “Father,” Gutiérrez spluttered, “I am not a man who’s used to talking, face-to-face, with the great and powerful of
this world. I am but a humble innkeeper.”
“And what is the name of your inn?” Torquemada smiled, hoping to put him at ease.
Gutiérrez drank half his cup of water, practically in one gulp, and wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. “The Bull’s Head.”
“The Bull’s Head,” repeated the inquisitor.
The innkeeper wondered whether this was a question. “A mad bull got loose …”
“When was this?”
“Fifty years ago. Maybe forty. I’m not sure, exactly.”
“A mad bull got loose, and …?”
“It was my grandfather who trapped him, and … and chopped off his head. Ever since then …” Rather than finish the thought, Gutiérrez finished his water.
“Many Spaniards,” remarked the friar, “dwell in the shadows of their grandfathers. You’re fortunate yours was a hero.”
The innkeeper had no idea what he meant. “He was no hero, Father. But he was a good wrestler of bulls. And when he was angry enough, he knew how to hack them to bits and simmer their brains into a tasty stew.”
“Do you still serve that stew?”
“As I said, we are very poor.”
Torquemada refilled his cup. “As you may know, Señor Gutiérrez, when a man sins against the Lord through perversity of belief, if his heresy is sufficiently evil, it’s sometimes necessary to confiscate his property. The purpose of such confiscations is to reduce the sinner’s worldly pride and to help reconcile him with God.”
“Father, I know I have sinned. But if I confess …?”
“I’m not referring to you, Señor Gutiérrez. I’m talking about men who betray Christ deliberately, who take malicious actions against His Church, who want to see His reign on this earth destroyed.”
Gutiérrez crossed himself, frightened. Although he could be a raucous drinker and reveler when the occasion presented itself, he felt like a boy in this place, in the presence of this man.
“For example,” continued Torquemada, gazing into the courtyard, “whoever was behind the murder of our sainted canon, Pedro de Arbués. Probably several people.” He looked back at the innkeeper. “I don’t believe it could have been the work of one man. Do you?”
By Fire, By Water Page 11
