That caused him to lift his head and return my stare with one colder and far more intimidating. “You ask the price of your father’s life. I’m telling you: Get to know Antonio’s secrets. And all you can about Torquemada’s infatuation with him.” Gabriel lifted his face again as anger rose in him, coloring his entire face. He looked right at me, but his focus was beyond me, on someone else. The taut skin around his eyes twitched with hatred, and I thought of the vicious youth with one arm wound around Antonio’s neck, pummeling his head.
“If you were to denounce him,” Gabriel said slowly, deliberately, “I swear to you on my father’s and mother’s souls, all your problems would be solved.”
“Denounce Antonio?” I whispered ingenuously. “He’s an Old Christian! He works for the head Inquisitor!”
“He loves you,” Gabriel said tightly. “You must use that.” He paused to give his words weight. “If you want to help your father.”
I stared hard into his clear green eyes and saw the depth of his hatred, of his icy resolve. When it came to Antonio Vargas, immortal souls were irrelevant. Truth did not matter. Gabriel might have married me out of lust and affection—but these weren’t the only reasons. He also wanted revenge.
Before I could answer, he turned away and strode from the room as if he didn’t trust himself to stay a moment longer.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” I called after him, not caring that it made my head hurt beyond bearing, not caring that it was a bald-faced lie. “Only free my father tonight!”
The only answer was the sound of his footsteps retreating out in the loggia.
“Bastards,” Máriam hissed. I started at the sound; she’d been so quiet that I’d forgotten she was there. She moved from the corner to where Fray Hojeda had stood, her dark face gleaming.
I pushed my palms hard against the lumpy feather-and-straw mattress in an effort to rise.
Máriam pushed me back against the bed. I cursed as I realized that I was too weak to fight her and fell back against the pillow.
“You have to go to Gabriel. Please—you know that the shame is killing don Diego,” I begged. I caught Máriam’s shoulder and attempted to dig my fingertips into it. “I can’t rest knowing that he’s in prison.”
“Hush,” she soothed. She gently took hold of my wrists and lowered them to the bed. Then, when I had stopped struggling, she lifted my right hand and pressed it to her heart in a stunning display of affection. “Sweet child, hush. There’s nothing for you to do right now except rest. Don Diego isn’t forsaken.” Her dark eyes glittered in the light. They’d always been difficult for me to read, but that night, I looked in them and saw hope, reassurance, and certainty. “Do you understand? And will you trust me?” Máriam asked quietly, her features softened by love and sorrow, just as they’d been on the day she’d told me how she’d rescued my mother as a child. “Your only task now is to rest until morning.”
Clasped over mine, her hand was warm and dry; I flattened my palm against the hollow of her chest, where her heart beat strong and slow beneath the breastbone, and trusted her rather than become insane.
Even then, the hours before dawn were long and torturous. Máriam insisted on remaining at my bedside rather than going back to sleep on her cot, although from time to time, her chin tucked itself, allowing her head to bow forward as she dozed. I was alone with the aftereffects of the wine and my memories.
I closed my eyes and remembered my father the night he had come to my room to announce that he’d given my hand to Gabriel.
I’m no longer your father, do you understand, Marisol?… You’re an Hojeda now.
I understood at last: Everything my father had done had been to protect me. Just like my mother, he’d known the arrest was coming. He’d rejected me and forced me to marry Gabriel Hojeda with a single purpose in mind, the same purpose my mother had hoped to accomplish by killing herself and leaving a note exonerating her family: to save my life. Their love for me had never wavered. They’d hidden their terror and grief, all for my sake. And I’d been selfish and angry in return.
I squeezed my eyelids together hard, glad that Máriam was sleeping and couldn’t see the tears sliding down my cheeks.
* * *
Dawn finally arrived, and an hour later, Gabriel, fully dressed, stopped by my room to confirm my promise that I would “get closer” to Antonio. I agreed, so long as he would find a way to free my father—to which he answered cryptically, “In time. First you must fulfill your part of the bargain.”
Somehow, I managed to keep from screaming at Gabriel; every minute my father spent in prison was another moment of torment for him, another moment closer to interrogation and torture, even though Máriam tried to keep me calm by telling me that nothing would happen until later that morning.
Soon after, my husband left for the courthouse. Despite nursing my first hangover—eased by some sips of the tart wine from the kitchen, which tasted vile after drinking from Her Majesty’s cup—I insisted that Máriam help me dress. I was determined to find a friendly high-ranking judge who could release my father; although we all feared the Inquisition, it relied solely on civil authorities to enforce its power. Gabriel had taken the carriage, but there was still a wagon. I would have walked if necessary.
Just as Máriam finished helping me with my hair—pulled forward along the sides of my face, with my veil, to cover the bruises left by last night’s encounter with Gabriel—Blanca rushed up to the half-open door opening onto the loggia. She paused on the threshold to wave a piece of paper sealed with black wax at me.
“Doña!” she gasped, her fresh young face flushed pink. “There’s a carriage downstairs! A royal one, with the queen’s banners! The driver asked me to give you this note and is waiting for your reply!”
I bolted from my chair in front of the mirror, hurried over to her, and snatched the letter from her. “Who was inside?”
“I don’t know,” she breathed, awestruck. “The windows were veiled. But the coach is so new and shiny, and the horses are so beautiful—” She broke off, suppressing a giggle; it must have been heady for a poor girl like Blanca to be this close to wealth and royalty.
I clenched my teeth so they wouldn’t chatter. My fingers shook so badly that I couldn’t open the note; I expected an interrogation summons from Torquemada. Fortunately, Máriam had followed close behind me; she took it, wormed a finger between the folds, broke the seal quickly, and handed it back to me.
Holding my breath, I opened it and read, holding it so that Blanca could not see.
To the esteemed doña Marisol,
Forgive me for the surprise, but I was saddened to hear of recent events. I know that time is of the essence. Will you come to see me now, as you promised yesterday evening? I will help.
P.S. Please forgive me for my unkind remarks about your husband and brother-in-law. I have since been made aware of your marriage.
The note was unsigned; the writing was large and rounded if unsteady in places, as if penned by an arthritic hand.
Careful to keep my expression unchanged, I looked back up at Blanca.
“Yes, it’s the Crown,” I lied. “Her Majesty has summoned me. I suppose she wants me to sing again.”
Thrilled, Blanca put her hand to her heart as if to keep it from leaping out of her chest. Cursing my aching head, I threw a shawl over my shoulders and—after sharing a cryptic glance with Máriam—hurried out the door, the note still in my hand.
* * *
The carriage was freshly lacquered, with appointments as fine as the one I’d ridden in the previous night; the only difference was that the royal tower and lion weren’t painted on the door. Instead, cloth banners sporting the tower and the lion had been carefully draped from the windows, which were open but covered by gauzy dark curtains. The well-groomed driver wore spotless black livery and bowed low before opening the door and helping me inside. The interior was empty—a shocking sight, as women in Spain never traveled unescorted.
But
the driver wasn’t about to wait for me to decide whether I trusted him or not. He slammed the door behind me and, before I’d fully settled, urged the horses on, causing me to fall back against butter-soft leather cushions.
We rolled to a stop at the intersection of our cul-de-sac with San Pablo Street. The Royal Palace lay to the southeast; so too did don Francisco’s estate, which I understood lay outside the city walls.
To my dread, the carriage turned west instead, toward the Dominican monastery and jail. The hairs on the back of my neck lifted as a thrill coursed through me: It had been a trap. Torquemada had tricked me.
Fourteen
I stared out at the darkly filmed street, forcing myself to remain calm enough to think. I had to convince Torquemada of my father’s innocence; I decided my best chances lay with begging the queen for mercy, or—by far the less desirable path—asking Antonio to lobby the Inquisitors to have my father released. By the time the coach drew near San Pablo Monastery, my ability to concentrate deserted me, and I still hadn’t settled on the proper strategy to ensure an audience with Isabel.
Just as quickly our carriage rumbled past the entrance to the monastery and jail. I stared back at it, stunned, then looked ahead at our destination, the River Guadalquivir. Just before we rolled onto the docks, the carriage took a sharp right turn, heading north, onto a dirt road running parallel to the shore.
I took the edge of my long bell sleeve and pressed it to my nose like a kerchief, recoiling at the dankness and the stench of open latrines. The poorest of the poor dwelled here, along with vermin, rabid dogs, and the plague; the sheriff and his men refused to patrol the neighborhood, making it a haven for thieves and murderers. I shrank from the windows, staring out through a film of dark gauze and dust as we flew down the narrow trail, past crowded miserable shacks made from river flotsam and rotting planks, past naked filthy children playing in the dirt, gangs of hard-bitten youths who yelled curses in our wake, and a young woman in ragged skirts with a basket of wet laundry, her face hauntingly worn and broken before her time.
The ride over the uneven trail was rough, and the stink never eased; my teeth rattled as I clutched the edge of my seat and fought the nausea brought on by the carriage’s rocking and the wine’s lingering effects. After several minutes, the tight cluster of shacks gave way to open land along the shore, dotted with clumps of grass and schools of ducks that flapped off into the blue sky as we approached. The land here flooded too often to farm and was still muddy from the winter rains. The smell eased, and because we were far from prying eyes, I lifted the gauze curtain and breathed in fresher air gratefully. Despite the mud, the trail was blessedly flatter here, and within minutes I spotted our destination: a solitary large storage shack of wood and metal, built on a mound of earth to protect it from floodwaters.
The driver brought the horses to a stop in front of the shed, jumped down, and slid open the wooden door. Soon, the carriage was inside the shed, and the driver pulled the door closed over us. In an instant, he pulled the royal banners free, revealing that the carriage was unmarked.
When we emerged from the shed again, we headed east back into the city. But instead of heading south toward the Alcázar Real, our carriage went north, toward the city quarter known as La Macarena, named for the daughter of Hercules. We were clearly headed outside the city walls toward the Sánchez family home. I calmed down enough to ask myself why a man like don Francisco would be interested in me or my father, and why he would still be friendly to Antonio, knowing that he was one of Torquemada’s favorites.
Antonio, who had betrayed me by not warning me last night of my father’s impending arrest. He was secretary to Fray Morillo, the head Inquisitor, and had access to every case file. He had to have known.
The carriage rolled through working-class neighborhoods of small churches and tiny stucco houses crowded together, the yards full of billowing laundry hung out to dry. Soon we passed by the northernmost city walls out into open country, most of it flat beneath a blindingly sunny sky. The street gave way to dusty trails and buildings to almond and orange groves, their leaves still bright after December’s heavy rains. A gentle promontory rose in front of us, home to a large stand of ancient olive trees, their trunks gnarled and plaited, their silvery leaves spread to the sun. I pushed aside the curtains and caught the window’s edge as the carriage’s wooden wheels met brick paving with a lurch. In front of us, a long driveway curved out of sight behind a green knoll.
The driver shouted encouragement at his horses, who pulled us up the mild incline without complaint. Soon I could see the high, bleached walls, so old that bushes had rooted themselves in chinks in the crumbling masonry and grew unchecked. The driver rode alongside the walls for a moment, revealing that the estate was completely encircled by an olive grove. Soon we reached a heavily reinforced wood and iron gate, where no fewer than two dozen men-at-arms stood guard. They stepped aside as they recognized the driver; one of them waved for us to pass.
We did. I counted four residences in addition to the stables, barn, and several other outbuildings. Our destination was the great house—twice as large as the other three, set on the highest part of the promontory—which was limned by the curving driveway. The house’s entrance looked onto a patio of stone inset with the occasional blue and yellow azulejo tile. A fountain featuring a large bronze dolphin stood at the patio’s center, flanked by pots of geraniums and a broad squat palm tree.
The carriage came to a stop near the fountain. By the time the driver hopped down and opened the coach door, two women had hurried out onto the patio to meet me.
I caught the driver’s proffered hand and stepped down to their level. Despite the cloudless sky, the strong breeze was cool; it caught the fountain’s spray and drove it into my face. Before I blinked, I caught a breathtaking view: From the swell where the main house lay, most of Seville was visible, including the delicate Giralda, the bell tower that flanked the great cathedral. I could see the merlons on the walls surrounding the Alcázar, and even glimpse the armory near the docks. The Sánchez family had situated the estate so that they could see attackers coming for miles in any direction.
I wiped the water away with the edge of my sleeve and curtsied to my hostesses.
“Marisol,” one breathed, as if it had been a prayer. Her brown eyes were wide with adoration and disbelief, as if she had just laid her eyes on an angel or saint. She was quite short—shorter even than me—and tiny waisted, despite the solitary streak of gray in her black hair. She was dressed like most proper Spanish matrons, in a high-necked black grown with a tiny crucifix at her heart; for some reason, she looked terribly familiar.
“Marisol,” she repeated, her slack expression transforming into a radiant smile. “My name is Alma. I’m don Francisco’s youngest daughter.” Not doña Alma, as would have been proper for a stranger, but the far more intimate Alma. “And this”—she moved aside to gesture at the woman next to her—“is my youngest daughter, Luz.”
Luz’s welcoming grin was unfeigned. She was roughly my height, with black hair and dark eyes and a nose like my mother’s; she might have been my sister had it not been for her tight natural curls, which formed a riot of ringlets around her face, and for the fact that she looked to be ready to give birth at any time. Her swollen belly strained so hard against her emerald brocade gown that it showed the outline of her out-turned navel.
“Marisol!” she exclaimed, as if meeting a long-lost friend. Shifting her weight, she leaned forward and reached out to take my hand. I stared down at hers uncertainly; it was spotted in places with faint layers of wet clay drying to dust, the hand of a potter, and she politely withdrew it at once.
“We’re sorry,” her mother Alma said. “We don’t mean to overwhelm you. I know this is a terrible time for you. Come.”
I followed her and Luz past delicate, decorative iron gates that led onto an inner patio planted with a dozen orange trees, where a white-haired woman wielding a broom displayed a gap-toothed genuine
grin. The house reminded me a great deal of the Hojeda’s massive estate, except that it was kept in far better repair. We passed by mudéjar archways balanced on slender marble columns, and went through the front double doors into an open sitting room large enough to accommodate hundreds of guests. It was high ceilinged and airy, with pale marble floors and many windows to let in the sun. A wide curving staircase inlaid with azulejo tiles bisected the room; dozens of padded brocade chairs and settees lined its walls, along with shelves of ceramic saints. My mother had painted some of them; I recognized her hand. Although it was early, the smell of roasting meat and onions wafted from the invisible kitchen. I drew in the smell and was immediately homesick for my parents and every meal we’d shared.
I wondered where my father was at that instant—what he’d had to eat since they’d taken him, whether he’d been able to sleep at all, what he was setting his eyes on right now. It didn’t seem fair that I was free, breathing sweet air, and looking on such beautiful things.
“Let me rouse don Francisco; I’m sure you have many questions for him,” Alma murmured, turning to leave.
“Oh, no,” I countered thoughtlessly, “don’t wake him on my account.”
“Nonsense,” Alma said. “He’s anxious to speak to you. I’ll be back shortly.”
She lifted her skirts and hurried up a broad spiraling staircase, while Luz led me over to a padded chair facing a huge rectangular mirror in a gilded frame over the marble mantelpiece and offered me food and drink. I was cotton-mouthed, so Luz rang for a servant, who brought me a sweating silver goblet of heavily watered wine. To my delight, it was the same I’d drunk the night before in the royal reception room. I took a few grateful sips as Luz settled her bulk into a chair opposite mine.
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