The Inquisitor

by David Penny

  “Isabel? No. It’s her priest I want to talk with.”

  “Then go, but do not take long. We need to discuss what we do once I have recovered enough to travel. Whether we all go, or only some of us. Father grows anxious, and bored. He likes the luxury of this house well enough, but he never has been one to choose luxury over excitement.”

  Thomas led her toward the makeshift bed, but Lubna shook her head. She wanted to sit at the table. Helena had returned from wherever she had been, and Thomas wondered if she had been visiting Martin de Alarcón, and if so exactly what that meant. But he knew, for Helena, sex often meant little at all. It was a means to an end, to gain influence and power. Also, she liked mischief. She might have bedded Martin just to annoy Thomas. Then he berated himself. Not everything she did was about him, more than likely very little at all. But he acknowledged she had changed over the past year, perhaps even before then. The bitterness that once tainted her was fading, but he could not yet tell what might replace it.

  He forgot about Helena as he strode toward the palace, working through what he wanted to ask Talavera. The priest had admitted he and Ramon were close at one time, almost father and son. He might be reluctant to give up someone so close, but Thomas could be persuasive.

  Chapter Forty

  Thomas sent a message and Friar Hernando de Talavera sent another in return. He would not admit Thomas to the palace but would meet him at the Cathedral, in the same chapel where only two days before he and Lubna had married. In the eyes of a Christian God, at least. There would have to be another ceremony when they returned home, if only to ease the feelings of those who had missed out on the celebrations. It would also give Jorge another chance to arrange a party.

  Thomas detoured via the killing chamber, but it lay empty, the table taken away, no sign that anything untoward had ever taken place here. Recalling a thought from when he first discovered the place Thomas descended the stone steps and squeezed past them, curious where the lower passageway led. It curved around as the upper did, but did not end in the same place. Instead it continued on. Narrow alcoves marked his progress, some with dust covered statuary, others containing wooden chests with stout locks. A curtained opening appeared on the inner side and Thomas peered through, found himself at the back of the huge nave. There was no barrier here and anyone who knew of this entrance would be able to enter and leave at will.

  Ahead candles burned. Thomas watched as an old woman shuffled forward to light another. The air smelled of incense, and from somewhere out of sight a voice intoned words in Latin. Thomas waited for the woman to say her prayers and leave, then slipped into the main body of the Cathedral. He found the old Moorish remnant where he and Lubna had been married and sat. He stared into space, and anyone watching would believe he was a fool with an empty head, but he was tracing the skeins of connection and logic, following trails that made more sense now, even if not quite sense enough.

  He looked up at the sound of soft footsteps to see Friar Talavera enter the chapel. The man dropped to one knee and crossed himself before rising and turning to Thomas, who remained seated, then thought better of it and rose to his feet.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “It is only because the Queen asked it of me. I have no love of infidels.”

  “I am an Englishman,” Thomas said.

  “No, you are an infidel. You married an infidel, and in God’s eyes that makes you no better than her. But I am here, and will answer your questions if I can.” He indicated one of the seats with a hand. “My bones ache less if I sit.”

  Thomas waited for him to be comfortable before sitting close and leaning forward.

  “You are a friend to Ramon Braso, I understand. How long have you known him?”

  Talavera’s mouth tightened and for a moment Thomas thought he was going to refuse to answer, but then his eyes sought a corner of the chapel and he said, “Since he was a boy of little more than eight years. He came to our monastery with no mention of who his parents might be or where he had come from. It was obvious he was in need, and that at some point in his recent past had been badly beaten. We mended him, both physically and spiritually, and when he expressed an interest in becoming a healer himself he was sent to learn.”

  “Sent to Malaka,” Thomas said. “Why there?”

  “Why not? I might dislike the heathen but I recognise the skills you possess, skills we in Spain can use to our advantage. If you are fool enough to admit an enemy and train him why should we not go?”

  “And Samuel was there as well?” Thomas continued to pull at one of the threads in his mind, not sure if it was attached to anything or not.

  “So I understand. I did not know it at the time, but when Samuel became a physician to the palace we talked a little. It pleased me that the two had studied side by side, two Spaniards in a foreign land. They would have been a comfort to each other.”

  “I trained at Malaka,” Thomas said, not sure why he was telling the man. “But it was a long time ago. It is a good school.”

  “So Ramon said.” Talavera leaned closer. “I cannot believe the claims you make, Thomas Berrington. They have no connection to the man I know, who is pious and humble. He does much good work among the poor. I tried to fashion a position for him in the palace but my influence only stretches so far. And now you come here with your accusations.”

  “I have witnessed the result of his acts with my own eyes, and he confessed them in front of me.”

  Talavera straightened. An old man but with the questioning mind of a younger one. Thomas knew he was Isabel’s closest spiritual advisor, never allowing her to accept easy doctrine. Despite being unbending in his devotion it was also rumoured that it was Talavera who drew the sting from the worst excesses of the Inquisition, though Thomas could barely comprehend what worse punishment could be inflicted.

  “He might have…” Talavera started, stopped. He stared ahead toward a statue of Christ in agony.

  All of Christianity seemed to consist of agony in one form or another, Thomas thought. He recalled the sense of otherness that had overtaken him during the wedding ceremony, that sense of something larger than himself, something gazing down, judging but not partaking in human life. Had that been God? Did He actually exist? And if so was Lubna’s God simply another prophet’s interpretation of the same being? Thomas didn’t know if he wanted to believe or not, knew it would require proof, not simply faith. For Lubna, for Talavera and Isabel, faith was enough, more than enough. Thomas was not made that way.

  “He might have what?”

  Talavera shook his head, wiped a hand across his face. “He is my friend. More than a friend. Ramon is like a son to me, and a father cannot give up a son no matter what he might have done.”

  “Even to save more innocent lives?”

  “We would sit in front of the fire on winter nights and discuss theology long after dark. A glass of wine, a little food – plain of course, nothing rich. Ramon would not accept even a hint of luxury. One of the topics we came back to again and again was how to separate those who truly believed from those who did not, those who only pretended to belief.” He glanced at Thomas. “It was, you see, the Inquisition we spoke of. The Inquisition and its crude methods.”

  “Did Ramon approve?” Thomas was willing to allow Talavera to tell his story, assuming it had a point. If not it was only time and he would get what he wanted eventually.

  “He approved of the end but not the means. He was convinced there had to be a better way to judge a man than torture. All torture achieves is to make a man confess to something he has not done to bring it to an end. You say he – no, we talk only of the man you seek, Ramon’s guilt is not proven yet – you say he has cut bodies?”

  “With great skill.”

  “Ramon is skilled, certainly.” Talavera wiped a hand across his face, his eyes seeking the suffering of Christ. For a long time Thomas thought the man would say no more, but a sense of rightness won out in the end. “He was a good child. A good m
an. But after he returned from Malaga something had changed in him. He had acquired a zeal that was not been present before. Oh, he was a good Christian, as good as any man I ever knew, but this was different. Bordering on… obsession.”

  “He came to you?”

  Talavera nodded, his eyes locked on the figure of Christ, arms spread, hands and feet nailed. Thomas had heard tales of such statues bleeding. Was that what Ramon saw when he looked at such a figure, creating pain in his imagination?

  “He told me he had become convinced only true Christians possess a soul,” said Talavera. “That non-believers, heathens, infidels, all the great mass of misguided humanity who live beyond God’s divine light do not possess a soul. That a new born baby does not possess a soul. That the act of baptism allows God’s glory to flood into a body and nestle within.” Talavera sighed. He had convinced himself, Thomas knew. It was the reason for what Ramon did. “He told me, over and over, that if he could find the seat of the human soul, God’s gift to righteous men, then the torture, the maiming, even the burnings would come to an end.”

  “Why would they end?” Thomas said. “Do you expect unbelievers to convert simply to avail themselves of this mythical soul? The Inquisition’s work would continue with even more zeal.”

  “Not if Ramon could prove who was a true believer and who was not. Inquisitors seek the truth in a man’s heart. Ramon would be able to reveal that directly.”

  “And kill the subject as a result.”

  “He claimed not. He claimed once found it would be a simple matter to show whether someone possessed a soul or not.”

  “He is mad,” Thomas said, and Talavera turned sharply.

  “Mad? Do you not believe you possess a soul? Does God not inhabit your very being? He is within me every moment of every day, and will be until I draw my final breath. These places you saw the bodies, were they dark?”

  “They had no windows. Without lamps, yes, they would be dark. But Ramon could not cut the bodies without light.”

  “No. But at the end he would extinguish them, so he could look for the spark of life as it left the body, to discover where it had lodged. Where did he cut?”

  Thomas touched his chest, to the left, to the centre. “These places I have seen, but there were others, many others. As if he needed to search everywhere he could.”

  Talavera nodded. “We discussed the seat of the soul. Ramon was sure it lay next to the heart. I argued it resides here, in our mind,” he tapped his skull, “and it is not a physical thing. How can it be when it is God’s gift?”

  “Where would he go?” Thomas asked. “Where would he feel safe?”

  “I–”

  “The Queen will want him taken.”

  “Yes, she will. I know she will. But it is hard, Thomas Berrington, to give up someone you love.”

  “Is there anyone else I can ask?”

  A shake of the head. “No. Ramon knows many people, thousands, but I am the only one truly close to him. Samuel too, perhaps, but not in the same way, and they are not as close as when they were in Malaga together.” Talavera rose and walked to the small altar where Thomas had stood with Lubna only days before. He knelt and crossed himself, muttered words, asking for forgiveness perhaps. More genuflections, then he rose once more and turned, spoke to a point beyond Thomas’s shoulder. “He will have gone to Castillo de Triana. There will be people there who regard his ideas with sympathy. And if he truly is guilty of the crimes you accuse him of,” Talavera’s voice caught, “you must know Ramon does not turn aside from a task, however hard it is.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Thomas did not know what to do so went to talk with Jorge, who could often offer no advice at all but the simple act of talking would clarify his thoughts. Except Jorge wasn’t at the house.

  “He’s gone looking for Belia,” said Helena. She sat cross-legged on the floor, playing with Will and seeming to enjoy the experience.

  “Why, where is Belia?”

  Helena looked up, a scowl on her face, and Thomas was almost relieved at the return of her usual bad temper. “That’s why they’ve gone looking. Because she didn’t come back.”

  “Who is they?”

  “Fa went too.”

  “How long has she been missing? She might have been distracted, a patient come calling.”

  “Since noon, and now it’s–” She frowned, shook her head, “–now it’s late.” Helena did not hold with too clear a notion of time. She pushed a wooden block toward Will, who scooped it up and added it to the wall of the structure he was building, and Helena smiled, a rare softness enhancing her beauty.

  “Will you stay and look after Will if I go after them?” Thomas said.

  “I will have to, will I not?”

  “Is Lubna sleeping?”

  “Upstairs. Belia gave her something before she left this morning. There is more I can give if she wakes, but she is better, much better.” She looked up at him again. “There will be more children, Thomas. Lubna is strong, and she loves you.”

  Thomas’s thoughts were still reeling at the change in Helena as he ascended the stairs and knelt beside the bed Lubna lay on. Her eyes opened and she smiled.

  Thomas took her hand. “Do you want another draft of whatever it is Belia has made for you?”

  Lubna shook her head. “No, I will sleep without.”

  “How are you?”

  “I feel like a horse has galloped over me. But better than I was, and my head is clearing.” A tear gathered in her left eye but refused to be released. “We will try again, Thomas, and if nothing happens then Will is more than enough.”

  He kissed her lips and stayed as long as he dared, but eventually duty dug its insidious claws into him and he rose and left on tiptoe. He walked fast through busy streets to where Belia’s house lay, knowing he should have asked when Jorge and Olaf left, for this was where they would also come, and if Belia was not in residence the pair would have started looking elsewhere by now. But he had not asked, and it was the obvious starting point, so Thomas kept going. The door to Belia’s house was closed but unlocked. No light showed inside. Still, Thomas entered and checked every room before leaving.

  He stood on the edge of the square, trying to think where Jorge and Olaf would be, but had no need to try hard because they entered the far side of the square and saw him. Jorge ran across, his normally benign features creased with concern.

  “Is she back?”

  Thomas shook his head. “Where have you been?”

  “Everywhere. We went to the riverside and asked at all the ships drawn up, but nobody has seen her or even knew who we spoke of. The Cathedral next. I tried the house of al-Haquim but there was nobody there other than the guards and servants. I even tried the palace. Theresa came out to talk with us, but she has not seen her either. She could be lying dead or dying in some alley and we cannot help!” Jorge swayed and Thomas reached out to steady him, turned to look at Olaf, who shook his head to show he knew no more but was also worried, about Jorge as well as Belia.

  “Have you questioned the houses here in the square?” Thomas asked.

  “No. Should we?” Jorge moved away and Thomas reached out to stop him.

  “Wait, you need to know what to ask. The hour grows late, people will be suspicious of strangers.”

  “We will ask have they seen her, won’t we?” said Jorge.

  “We also ask have they seen any strangers. Other than us, of course.” Thomas caught Olaf’s nod of agreement. “If we split up we can cover the houses more quickly. Olaf will go with you. He has no Spanish but his presence alone might loosen tongues.”

  “Who will loosen tongues for you?” asked Jorge, starting to pull away, impatient to start, and Thomas merely smiled.

  He started to the left, rapping on doors and waiting, moving on if there was no answer. He was hoping one of the houses close to Belia’s would know something, but he had reached the far side before he heard anything of use.

  At a narrow house of
three stories the door opened almost as soon as he knocked, and he knew the inhabitants of this small part of Sevilla had been watching through their windows as strangers questioned their neighbours. The man who answered was as elongated as his house, having to duck to exit the doorway.

  “We are looking for Belia Orovita, sir. I take it you know her?”

  A nod.

  “She has gone missing, and I would ask have you seen anything unusual today, likely early after noon.”

  “Only the plague carrier,” said the man. “I had not heard of a death in the square, but there is death everywhere these days. He went toward Belia’s house but was no doubt mistaken, for I saw her enter it myself not an hour before.”

  Thomas tried to quell a rising tide of panic. “Did they argue?”

  “Who?”

  “Belia and the plague carrier!”

  “I did not see them talking, and next time I looked the man had gone, his cart too. As I said, he must have come to the wrong house.”

  Thomas ran to where Jorge was talking with a woman, two children clinging to her skirts.

  “She saw something,” said Jorge as he heard Thomas’s arrival. “Belia talking to a man in grey robes.”

  Thomas started to speak, stopped himself. How could he tell Jorge that Belia had been taken by Ramon? It would destroy him. But how could he not tell him if they were to have any chance of rescuing her?

  “You know something, don’t you.” Jorge stepped close until his chest was almost touching Thomas’s.

  Thomas forced himself to meet Jorge’s glare. “He has taken her. Ramon has taken her.” He spoke Arabic so as to include Olaf.

  “Beyond the city walls?” said Jorge.

  “Not there. Talavera told me where Ramon still has friends. He believes he has gone to Triana.”

  “Aai! Then she is lost to us!” Jorge gripped Thomas’s arms to keep himself from collapsing.

  “Not yet. I need to find Samuel, he has access and might be able to get us inside.”

  “Yes, Samuel, a good idea, he will help,” said Jorge. “Let’s go.” He started across the square, and this time Thomas let him go.