We went into a building and the captain unwrapped the chain from his wrist and tied me to a rail on the ground floor. He patted my head. ‘I treat you well, don’t I, boy?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, Captain Cosimo,’ I replied.
‘So you’ll not run off?’
I shook my head.
‘If you did,’ the captain sighed, ‘Panipat would make it his business to find you, and he would punish you so severely that you’d wish for death. Whereas if you stay on my boat we might work together, for I think I could teach you proper seafaring skills; in time there might be some reward in it for you.’
He saw my expression change when he said this. For in truth I’d intended to run as soon as he turned his back. But now this was a different proposition. ‘I’d not become a slave rower?’ I asked him.
‘That would be a waste of your talents. Would you learn under my instruction? You might be able to calculate the course by yourself, although I’d always call the headings. What say you?’
I suspect he knew that if he made many more mistakes he’d no longer by able to deceive the crew about his failing eyesight. Now he hoped to mask his navigation faults by using me as the scapegoat for anything that went wrong. ‘I’d like to do that, yes,’ I agreed.
‘Good lad. We may have some trouble from Panipat, who has not taken to you as I have. But I’ll watch out for you. And you will do the same for me.’ He patted my head again. ‘Rest here for a bit. I’ll be back soon.’
When Captain Cosimo returned, he looked well pleased. It must have been the effect of alcohol, for when we got back to the boat and he took out his purse it was obviously much lighter than it had been earlier. He seemed unperturbed at losing his own profits. After distributing shares to the oarsmen and the rest of the crew, he was left with only a few coins to lock away in his money box.
We sailed out of that port in good humour, with a new cargo and fresh provisions. A few miles out we heaved to, for every month or so the slaves were unchained to wash and swim in the sea, where there was no chance of them escaping. None of them ever tried to swim off. Panipat, watching over them with a deadly pointed harpoon lying across his lap, was enough to deter even the most foolhardy. In any case, when the cook began to prepare a hot meal, the smell of the sizzling food and the prospect of a full belly with a mug or two of wine brought them clambering back aboard.
This was the time when the crew, both slaves and freemen, talked of the sea. And though they were in awe of its power, they had affection for this provider of their sustenance.
‘Better than the woman I was married to,’ said one.
‘Which woman would marry you?’ jibed another.
The first man only laughed. ‘I’ve seen yours, and I know why you signed on for seven years. If that was what I was going home to, I’d have aimed for double that term.’
Some of the oarsmen would tell stories of their former lives. The four Arab slaves, who were placed together on the starboard side of the boat, murmured quietly amongst themselves, but of the other four slaves, two admitted to being thieves, and one to having committed a murder. Jean-Luc, a Frenchman, had been a soldier and had killed his wife in a drunken rage; Sebastien, a very tall thin man, was a priest. ‘I was taken by the Inquisition,’ he told us, ‘for preaching heresy. I escaped. It was either spending my life on a galley or burning at the stake. I chose this. Some days when our crazy captain has us lost, I think I might have been better off toasting in the flames than slowly roasting here in the sun.’
They asked me about my former life but I hadn’t much to tell – except that we had always lived in fear. I think my father believed that we were being pursued by my mother’s family, intent on killing him for taking her away from them without permission. I don’t know why they had forbidden the match. Both my parents seemed educated and well spoken, neither one inferior to the other. Perhaps it was a difference in religion. They never discussed it, but we had constantly moved home. My father had a good knowledge of horses, and in my early youth he was able to find employment and began to teach me his work training them. But ever since I could recall, my mother had been sickly. And as I grew up, she became more and more ill, until most of our money went on her medicine. Not long after we arrived in Las Conchas a new sickness came upon her and she took to her bed. She was no longer fit to travel far, and neither my father nor I could find work. Our savings were soon gone and with no family to turn to for help, we became beggars. It was a sorry tale and I didn’t choose to share all of it, for when I thought of my mother and father, the hurt of losing them fed the canker of poison that was the vow of vengeance within me. I only told my companions that misfortune had robbed me of my parents.
Full of wine and drowsy, the men made jokes and laughed, and as I sat with them, I felt a part of their company. In the absence of my parents I was glad to be on this boat. I experienced a surge of loyalty for our crazy captain and thought that in future I would indeed try to watch out for him.
That day was to come sooner than I expected.
The day when I left my boyhood behind and killed a man.
Chapter Seventeen
Zarita
‘YOU HAVE ORDERED the arrest of my servant, Bartolomé.’
I could clearly hear Papa’s voice even though his study door was closed. Father Besian’s reply was lower but audible. ‘He has been disrespectful to the point of blasphemy.’
‘Bartolomé is not aware that his actions can be interpreted in that way.’
I gave Serafina a little push towards the kitchen. ‘You attend to your duties. I will go and add my voice to Papa’s pleas.’
‘I have the right to arrest anyone I think may be a heretic or who may be conspiring against Holy Mother Church.’
Father Besian and my father were standing facing each other as I entered the room. They were so intent on their argument that they took no note of my presence.
‘The boy you have arrested is a simpleton and has no idea what a heretic is.’
‘Yesterday my men asked him if he had ever entertained wicked thoughts against priests or the Church and he replied that he had.’
‘Bartolomé would agree with anything anyone said,’ Papa, never a patient man, snapped in return. ‘It’s in his nature to do so. He has no thoughts to call his own and seeks to please everyone he meets.’
‘Furthermore,’ the priest continued, ‘when asked if he had ever plotted to attack the priest during mass, he said that he did sometimes entertain these thoughts when he attended the holy service.’
My father laughed harshly. ‘The sermons of certain priests might warrant such a reaction.’
‘I caution you to be mindful of what you say.’ There was an edge to the priest’s voice.
‘I told you, the boy is a simpleton! He can barely dress himself unaided. He could no more conspire against the Church than he could count from one to one hundred. Surely you can see that?’
‘Even in the simplest person the evil one seeks to find a place.’
‘He’s only a boy!’ Papa exploded in exasperation.
‘Almost twenty years of age makes him a man, but I will bear in mind all you have said when he is put to the question.’
‘Put to the question!’ My father looked appalled. ‘You surely don’t intend to question the boy by trial?’
‘If I am dissatisfied with his initial answers, yes.’
‘But you know what his initial answers will be, so why proceed—’ Papa broke off as if he was beginning to work out the import of what he had just heard. He looked more closely at the priest. ‘What game do you play here that you use the boy as your pawn?’
Father Besian hesitated. Then he said, ‘It may be that our examination of this first person accused of wrongdoing will prompt the townsfolk to lead us to others.’
There was something happening within the room that I didn’t understand, but I was too young, foolish and headstrong to be prudent and wait and listen. I burst out, ‘There are no others!’ I cr
ied out. ‘The people of this town are good souls. You must release Bartolomé at once!’
Both men swung round to face me. The colour leeched from my father’s face. ‘Zarita! You shouldn’t be here.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Father Besian. ‘This is exactly where your daughter should be. She is old enough to appreciate right from wrong, and must learn what will and will not be tolerated by Church and State.’ He turned back to my father. ‘I give you this instruction now. No one may leave this town without first applying to me for permission. That order includes every member of your staff and family. Anyone who tries to do so will be arrested and held by the officers of the Inquisition.’
Chapter Eighteen
Zarita
THE NEXT MORNING I was awoken by a scream.
I came fully awake in an instant, thinking it was a bad dream where I was reaching out across a stormy sea to my mother, only to watch the boat she was in capsize and sink.
Another scream.
This time I knew it wasn’t part of my nightmare.
The scream came from the direction of our barn at the far end of the paddock. I sat up. My eyes opened wide as I heard another high-pitched cry, then another, and another, and after that a long moaning noise. It sounded like an animal in its death throes. I sprang from my bed, threw on a long wrap and went out of my room onto the upper landing.
Below me in the lower hall Lorena was arguing with Papa.
‘I want to go to my father’s house!’
‘Father Besian has given instructions in the name of the Inquisition,’ Papa told her. ‘No one must leave the town without his express permission.’
‘We’re not really part of the town.’ Lorena waved her arms in the air. ‘This house is almost outside the town. The grounds are part of the countryside. We cannot be included in the order governing the township.’
‘Father Besian has indicated that he holds the occupants of this house under the jurisdiction of the Inquisition.’
‘As magistrate, surely you have more power, more rights, than the ordinary people!’
I began to descend the stairs.
Lorena voice became shrill. ‘I must get away from here!’
‘I’m sorry.’ Papa spoke to her more gently. ‘You cannot leave.’
‘I will say I am pregnant.’
‘Would that you were,’ Papa replied with a tinge of bitterness in his voice.
Lorena’s mouth twisted down, but he didn’t notice.
‘You can say that I fainted and we feared for the life of the child, so I went into the hills to my father’s house where it’s cooler.’
‘No,’ Papa said. ‘It will not do.’
Lorena struck out with her fists against his chest. He stepped back under the onslaught and tried to grasp her hands. She pushed away from him and rushed to mount the stairs, screeching for her maid as she did so. She almost knocked me over in her haste.
Papa looked up after her and saw me standing there.
‘Zarita! Perhaps you should go to the convent for today and stay there with your aunt Beatriz. It might be . . . safer.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ I replied. ‘Father Besian doesn’t approve of my aunt’s community of sisters.’ I looked towards the outside door. ‘I heard screaming, as though one of the horses were suffering. Is there something wrong?’
Papa bent his head to avoid my gaze. ‘I must go back to the barn and see what’s happening. Stay here until I return.’ And he left me there and hurried from the house.
I went to the dining room. Breakfast was not yet set out so I made my way to the kitchen. It was early, but not so early that the staff shouldn’t be astir and preparing food. There was no one there.
The kitchen door was ajar. I walked over and looked out. Serafina and Ardelia stood by the vegetable garden, looking towards the barn. They were holding onto each other in a fearful manner.
‘What’s going on?’ I called to them. ‘Is one of the horses ill?’
As they didn’t reply, I continued, ‘Where’s Garci? Is he with my father?’
They turned their faces to me. Serafina’s eyes were red and her cheeks were blotched. Ardelia too was crying. Another scream sounded out.
‘Bartolomé!’ Serafina fell to her knees, stretching her hands to Heaven and crying out, ‘Blessed Mary, intercede for him!’
The truth slammed into me so violently that I doubled up with the force. I gasped and put my hands to my stomach.
The sounds I’d assumed came from an animal in pain were uttered by the boy, Bartolomé.
I straightened up, gathered my wrap about me and ran out of the house, past the stable block and down through the paddock towards the barn. Behind me I heard Ardelia calling me to come back.
The door was wide open. A rope had been put over the beam and two soldiers held one end. The other end was attached to Bartolomé’s wrists, which were tied behind him, and he was being hoisted up into the air. Outside the barn was a brazier of glowing coals. A poker, its tip white-hot, rested on the metal struts. The boy’s shirt was open and there were scorch marks on his skin. Father Besian, Papa, Garci and the other soldiers stood in a group by the door.
I took all of this in within an instant, and then I was in the barn screaming at the top my voice, ‘Release him! Let him down from there! Now!’
Father Besian nodded. The soldiers holding the rope let go. Bartolomé crashed onto the floor of the barn.
‘Zarita!’
I ignored my father’s shout and ran to where poor Bartolomé lay on the ground. I tore at his bonds with my fingernails but I couldn’t loosen them. He was sobbing like an inconsolable baby. I lifted his head and cradled it on my lap. My wrap was open: the onlookers could plainly see me in my night shift.
‘Zarita!’ My papa was shocked beyond speaking.
I looked up at him in scorn. ‘You might be able to stand and watch this injustice but I cannot!’
‘Cover yourself, child.’ He started forward.
Father Besian laid his hand upon his arm. ‘I will take my men from here and leave you with your daughter and your servants.’
I saw his face when he said this, and there was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
Garci came and took Bartolomé away from me. ‘I’ll take care of him,’ he said.
Papa pulled me to my feet. He took off his jacket, wrapped it around me and hurried me back to the house.
I expected his anger: I had made a spectacle of myself, behaved in a disgraceful manner. But it was as though the spirit had gone from him. He stood by the kitchen door watching Garci clean Bartolomé’s wounds at the water trough, helped by Ardelia and Serafina. He spoke only one sentence:
‘Now the flood gates will open.’
I could get no more out of my father, so I dressed and went to see my aunt to tell her what was happening.
She was furious. I’d never before seen Aunt Beatriz lose control of her emotions.
‘Does this insane man think God’s purpose is served by torturing a witless boy!’
I recalled what my papa had been saying to Father Besian when I’d entered his study the previous evening. ‘Papa said that Father Besian is using Bartolomé as his pawn.’
‘Ah!’ My aunt paused in her rant. ‘Ah. I see that cunning priest’s intention. So far the townspeople have stood firm against him. He means to slide a wedge of fear between their closed ranks.’
The questioning under torture of Bartolomé was like a tidal wave cascading through our streets. The reaction was immediate, and began within my own home.
‘I have heard,’ Lorena said at dinner that very night, ‘that there is a Jewish doctor in the town who attends the slum dwellers.’ She paused to glance at Father Besian. ‘He might have information that would be of use to you.’ Her hand wavered as she raised her wine glass to her lips.
My heart fluttered. Did she mean the doctor who had helped the beggar’s wife? Papa opened his mouth as if to speak but said nothing.
&nb
sp; Father Besian looked at Lorena in approval. ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, Jews who have never converted are tolerated in Spain. Although . . . that may change. In any case I am aware of this so-called doctor. Someone has already spoken of him to me.’
Father Besian knew about the Jewish doctor! Anxiety caused my stomach to heave. Who had told him? Could it have been Garci, trading information in an attempt to protect Bartolomé? Garci and his wife, Serafina, had no children of their own and had taken the boy in when Serafina’s sister died. They loved him as the son they never had, and perhaps Garci would not remain silent if he could help him in any way.
But what effect would this have on me? Thoughts frantically chased one after the other in my mind. I didn’t want Father Besian pursuing the doctor who had attended the beggar’s wife. He would find out that I had asked for his help. I could be suspected as a heretic for consorting with Jews! Maybe there was another guilty person he could occupy himself with? I stumbled over my words as I spoke. ‘There’s a place near the dockside where it’s said that women of low character consort.’
‘Why, thank you, Zarita.’ The priest smiled and nodded. I smiled in return, relief flooding through me.
Lorena flashed me a look of dislike. My father’s shoulders sagged, and he bent his head to his plate of food.
The next day the denouncements started in earnest.
Pieces of paper, some with only a name roughly written upon them, were slid under the gates of our compound or nailed to the wood outside. Others were tied to rocks and thrown over the wall. These were brought to Father Besian, who studied them. He had the manner of a cat crouching outside a mouse hole. ‘At last,’ he purred. ‘The truth pushes its way up through the mire.’
Prisoner of the Inquisition Page 8
