Captain from Castile

by Samuel Shellabarger; Internet Archive

  The Inquisitor's eyes did not waver. "Be careful, my son. Impudence calls for physic which you may not like. I took no bribe and broke no promise as your pertness implies. The Church accepted a fine; it released the prisoner, Dorotea Romero. What your evil imagination conceives has no importance."

  An imperious wave of the hand cut off Pedro's answer. "Senorito mio, we are not here to discuss your opinions, but what, I take it, is of more value: your soul, which is black with evil and destined to hell. I shall be frank. Your hearty and humble repentance can alone save it— not to mention your body."

  "Repentance for what?"

  De Lora shook his head. "The stubbornness of sin! Well, you will learn soon enough, before the Holy Tribunal, of what things you stand accused. If you hope for mercy to yourself and your family, if you would save the souls and bodies of all of you, there is still a way of pardon left open. Take it; prove to me that your repentance is sincere; and I will do all I can for you. Otherwise—" The Inquisitor shrugged slightly and opened his hands.

  "A way?" Pedro repeated.

  "Yes. Tell me the whereabouts of the escaped murderer and matricide, Juan Romero, who calls himself Garcia."

  "I have no idea v.here he is."

  "A lie. You lied to me about him three nights ago. Reveal his hiding place. It will go hard with you and yours if you do not."

  "I can't tell what I don't know."

  De Lora grasped the arms of his chair. "Listen. You have committed two capital crimes: first, that you did not report an escaped criminal to justice; second, that you connived with him against the Holy Inquisition. For the last time, I ask you where he may be found."

  The damp air of the vault seemed to grow sultrier. The friar's lips, framed by his beard, showed a straight line; his eyes drilled into Pedro's. Then, after a silence, he got up and walked over to the small writing table.

  "So Pedro de Vargas will not speak," he murmured with angr)' gentleness. "He makes light of the Holy Office. Like father, like son."

  "My father knows nothing of this."

  "We shall endeavor to find out," said de Lora. Lifting a silver bell from the table, he rang it. And when the soldier appeared, "Inform the reverend friars that it is the hour of the tribunal. Summon the other de Vargas prisoners." And to Pedro, "We do not often examine mis-doers together, but in this case I think that more will be learned from a common confession."

  He drew back within himself. Harsh and inhuman enough before, he now seemed to lose his individuality, to become an incarnate s)Tnbol of office. When two other Dominican friars appeared, he ascended the tribunal with them and took his place in the center. An inferior of

  the same order stood at the table and began arranging various papers. A guard led Pedro to the proper place before the dais.

  Lastly, from outside came a confused sound of halting footsteps and clanking iron. The door opened.

  "Prisoners to the Holy Tribunal: Francisco, Maria, Mercedes de Vargas," announced the soldier.

  XIX

  Although he carried himself erect as always in spite of his irons, Francisco de Vargas showed the effect of twenty-four hours in prison. His face was gray, and his thin hair, uncurled, hung lank about his neck. Similarly, Dona Maria's usually neat appearance had suffered. Her plump person now looked oddly shrunken and faded. Upon seeing Pedro, her eyes filled, though she tried to smile. As for Mercedes, who was little more than a child, it was to be expected that the terror of the place would unnerve her. She kept pressing her face against her mother and twisting her hands. Fortunately neither she nor Dofia Maria had been put into chains.

  Don Francisco greeted his son in a voice which showed small reverence for the tribunal; and Pedro, taking heart from the sight of him, answered in kind.

  "Silence!" barked one of the guards.

  "Silence yourself, dog!" returned the old cavalier. "I'll have no prison cur ordering me."

  Before the flame in him, the man shrank back.

  De Lora's stern voice cut in. "This is no place for swagger, Francisco de Vargas. A gag may teach you what old age has not."

  But Don Francisco met the stare from the bench with his lower lip thrust out. "It would be wiser of you, Ignacio de Lora, to explain this outrage upon my family and person than to waste your threats on a man who does not fear them. I demand to know by what right you lay hands on me or mine."

  Unused to such boldness, the Inquisitor found nothing to say except, "Tou demand!" But the exchange reassured Pedro in one respect: his family had not yet been put to the question; this was their first appearance before the tribunal. Probably de Lora had waited for Pedro's capture.

  Without further delay, the indictment was now read by the clerk

  at the writing table, and immediately any need to impose silence ended. With growing stupefaction, Francisco de Vargas gazed at the clerk, while a dull red crept into his cheeks.

  The indictment, involved and wordy, took a long time to read. In substance, it charged that a great-grandmother of Francisco de Vargas had Moorish blood, although she belonged to the ducal family of Medina Sidonia. His claim to limpieza or pure Christian descent was, therefore, invalid. This taint manifested itself in him by an irreligious attitude, shown especially in scofHng and scurrilous remarks against the Holy Inquisition and its familiars. He had even threatened one of the latter with physical violence for upholding the Santa Casa against his attacks. He had indoctrinated his family in these blasphemous principles to such an extent that his wife and daughter showed horror at the very mention of the Holy Office; while his son, inflamed by such ill precepts, had been guilty of notable crimes.

  To wit: the said Pedro de Vargas on St. Peter's Day, June 29th, had fallen on two familiars of the Holy Office in the mountains; had broken the arm of one and cruelly whipped the other, all the while expressing himself in incredible obscenities against the Inquisition. That same day, in the presence of his father, he had shown an insolent and threatening attitude toward another highly respected familiar of the same reverend body. That night he had conspired with an escaped murderer, one calling himself Juan Romero or Juan Garcia, to defeat the ends of ecclesiastical justice. He had insinuated himself into the house of the Most Reverend Father Ignacio de Lora, Inquisitor of Jaen, with a subtle intent, which had been frustrated for the moment by the vigilance of the said Reverend Father, but which had since borne disastrous fruit. On the night of June 30th, Pedro de Vargas, being called to answer for such enormities, had resisted arrest and inflicted bodily hurt upon several soldiers of the Holy Tribunal.

  {''Bravo, Pedrito!" put in his father at this point.)

  In conclusion, the indictment recorded that since their incarceration the de Vargas family, far from showing the patience and humility of repentance, had in haughtiness of word and bearing substantiated the testimony against them.

  And to all these charges, credible witnesses had given oath.

  The clerk, having finished the reading, sat down and prepared to take notes.

  For a long minute, silence hung heavily under the vaults of the crypt, a silence both of amazement and of doom. The sting of the indictment consisted in the few strands of truth, all innocent, that it con-

  tained. Out of these, exaggerated and distorted, had been spun the whole web. But it was a web that allowed no escape.

  Finally Ignacio de Lora spoke. "You have heard the indictment, Francisco, Pedro, Maria, and Mercedes de Vargas. It remains for you to confess these sins and to seek reconciliation with the Church through penance. The tribunal awaits your confession."

  But again there was silence.

  "Do you confess these sins?" de Lora demanded. "Let Francisco de Vargas, the root and source of them, speak first."

  To Pedro's amazement, his father took a step forward and said, "Yes, I confess."

  Surprise was not confined to Pedro; even the schooled features of the Inquisitor sharpened.

  "Well?" he returned after a pause.

  "I confess one crime not mentioned in th
e bill. Why it was not included, I do not know—perhaps because it has the distinction of being true and would therefore ill agree with the others. I confess to the black sin of refusing to sell my property outside the walls to Diego de Silva."

  The words had a marked effect on the tribunal. Shocked groans escaped from de Lora's two colleagues, and the Inquisitor's eyelids drooped to a slit. The clerk's quill scratched hungrily. When it stopped, de Lora found his voice.

  "You have taken that down. Father Ambrosio?"

  "Yes, Your Reverence. It is unnecessary to point out that the prisoner's remarks are of a piece with the charges against him. In our hearing, he accuses the Holy Office of corruption and venality."

  "Not yet," Don Francisco put in. "That remains to be seen. For the moment, I accuse your 'highly respected familiar,' Diego de Silva, of bearing false witness, and of perjury from motives of cowardice and greed. Let him answer it if he can."

  "He will answer it." De Lora looked over the heads of the prisoners toward someone behind them. "You have heard this libel, Diego de Silva. Is it your pleasure to repeat your statement?"

  From the tail of his eye, Pedro was aware of a figure striding forward, the silken footstep hardly audible. Stopping at one side of the dais, toward which he bowed, de Silva scrutinized the prisoners. He was dressed as always in the extreme of fashion: black hose and doublet, with silver slashes on the trunks and sleeves. Bareheaded out of respect to the court, he carried his velvet cap and red plume in one hand. Though outwardly grave, his insolent black eyes danced.

  ''For Dios," said Don Francisco in a clear voice, "I thouglit there was a cursed bad smell in the place."

  But the newcomer paid no attention, except for the lift of an eyebrow. He spoke to de Lora.

  "Your Reverence has my testimony, given under oath. It was plainly set forth in the indictment. What need to repeat it? As for my motives, if I say that devotion to the Faith led me to prefer these charges, I hope Your Reverence will believe me. It is beneath the dignity of a Christian and a member of the Miliz Christi to defend himself against the slander of a desperate old man."

  The Inquisitor nodded. "True."

  Don Francisco gave a short laugh. "Notice, son Pedro, how convenient the dignity of a Christian is. 'Sblood! But he needn't worry. A gentleman does not stain his sword—your pardon, Doiia Maria— with a piece of dung."

  Perhaps de Silva's white face turned a shade paler; otherwise he seemed unconcerned. It was de Lora who took action. He gave orders to the burly, bare-armed man who had conducted Pedro from his cell and now stood with his mates at one side of the room.

  With the skill born of habit, they made preparations. A rope was lowered from a pulley in the vault above; two wooden horses were brought forward out of the shadow of the room, and a roller operated by handspikes was adjusted between them. The lackeys then attached one end of the rope to the roller, giving it several turns to secure purchase. Weights of various sizes, with staples in them, were set down in readiness. It was the celebrated garrucha or strappado, and everyone present knew the use of it. A bench, like a horizontal ladder, knotted cords of various sizes, strips of linen, a ewer, and several iron instruments, were set up at one side.

  This was part of the territio, the preface to torture, which consisted in displaying to victims the tools about to be used on them in default of a confession. It took strong nerves to look at these things. Dofia Maria did not look, but kept her eyes on the crucifix above the tribunal, while her lips moved silently. Mercedes clung to her mother's arm. Pedro remembered the scarecrows in that morning's procession, the vacant faces. They were the products of those tools. He braced himself, trying not to think. The dankness of the place clung like sweat. It seemed deadly quiet in spite of the movements of the men setting up their apparatus.

  Then Francisco de Vargas laughed again. "Clumsy stuff, Pedrito! The infidels are more ingenious. When I was prisoner to the Sultan

  of Tripoli, I saw a number of torments, compared with any one of which this flummery is a pastime. The Holy Office should travel for ideas."

  De Lora fixed his grim eyes on the railer; but at that moment de Silva stepped in front of the tribunal and spoke in a low voice, which the other leaned forward to hear.

  "You say well," de Lora nodded. "Francisco de Vargas, for the last time I ask whether you will confess the sins of which you stand charged."

  "Bah!" returned the old soldier. "Confess that I'm a Moor? My blood is as good as the King's and thrice better than yours—a fact known to every cavalier in both Castiles. Confess that I'm a renegade to the Faith? The lie stinks. Confess that I taught irreverence to my family? Nonsense! My son can speak for himself; but as to what you accuse him of, I don't believe it. A truce to this! I demand the release of my family and myself."

  In answer de Lora pointed to Mercedes de Vargas. "Begin with the girl. From the lips of children, we are apt sooner to hear the truth. Bring her closer before us."

  Overcome with terror, Mercedes sank down, clasping her mother's knees. While one of the lackeys held Dofia Maria's arms, another half-dragged, half-carried the child to a place directly in front of the Inquisitor, where he kept her on her feet with one arm around her waist.

  Meanwhile, the mother cried, "No, Your Reverence! Pity, Your Reverence! Take me! She's so young! She's innocent—you can see for yourself! Good Your Reverence, take me!"

  "Peace, wife!" Don Francisco commanded. "Would you give these dogs satisfaction?" But his face was as drawn as that of the image on the crucifix.

  Pedro, straining at his manacles, tried to shuffle forward; but a guard gripped him behind. Diego de Silva smiled. The friars on the tribunal fastened their intent, hard gaze on the drooping girl.

  "Mercedes de Vargas, do you confess that your father, Francisco de Vargas, by his evil precepts . . ." The Inquisitor's words fell distinct and separate like the clicking of a rosary. They came to an abrupt end.

  It is doubtful whether Mercedes heard them. She hung limp within the circle of the han2:man's arm.

  "Apply the cords," directed the cold voice. "You may save your daughter, Francisco de Vargas, if you choose to confess. On your head be it!"

  In a haze, Pedro heard his father's answer as if it were at some dis-

  tance. "I will not save her by a lie, Ignacio de Lora. If you do this thing, look to your own soul."

  Torture, when skillfully used, became a crescendo. It began with the flesh, passed to the muscles, ended with the bones. Its background was the helplessness of the victim. Mad with fear, the child screamed, struggled feebly, was dragged beneath the pulley.

  "The cords," repeated de Lora.

  The loop of the rope was passed under one arm; the girl's wrists were lashed behind her; the tightening wedge was inserted. Then they hoisted her slightly, the lackeys making a careful turn or two of the roller.

  Every nerve in Pedro's body writhed. He was vaguely conscious of his mother's weeping, of de Silva's smile, of his father's haggard face, of the judges leaning forward, of the clerk sitting with his poised quill. He looked here and there in spite of himself, his eyes trying to escape.

  Came a thin, sharp scream.

  "Do you confess? You will save yourself pain."

  Then silence.

  Pedro stared at the ground. He looked up at a confused muttering among the attendants.

  "Your Reverence," stammered one of them, "she has fainted."

  "Revive her. You know your business."

  The slender body was lowered. The bare-armed men clustered round, stooped over. "Give her air, curse you! Hand the water . . ."

  At last, uneasily, his face blank, the chief of them burst his way from the group, and stood in front of de Lora.

  "Your Reverence, at the first twist of the cords—Your Reverence, she's dead."

  A low cr)' came from Dona Maria.

  "Dead?" de Lora snapped. "Bungling fool! Have you no skill in your craft?"

  "It's never happened before," the. man muttered.
<
br />   In the tense stillness, a voice, so altered that Pedro did not at firsv recognize it, spoke. "Now God has shown His mercy, and upon you all rests His curse," said Don Francisco.

  The Inquisitor burst out, "Remove the body. We'll proceed." But the judges on either side of him leaned toward him, whispering. Finally he said, "Perhaps. We would get nowhere at the moment. Return them to their cells. Tomorrow night will be your turn, Maria de Vargas, then your son's. Think well until tomorrow night." He stared at Don Francisco. "Your turn will come last."

  "No." answered the other in the same remote voice, "your turn will come last."

  "By God," Diego de Silva drawled, "it seems to me that without being Moors we have got under the skin of the noble gentleman."

  XX

  "Think well." There was nothing else to do in the darkness under the corner tower—a heat of thinking in which memory and anticipation equally mingled. And in that furnace of thought, Pedro de Vargas's youth was consumed. Out of its ashes emerged only the metal of hatred and a savage kind of fortitude, the metal of the chained tiger.

  His eyes ached. It would have been a relief if he could have wept; but the death of Mercedes, the torment to which he and his parents were subjected, lay beyond tears. At times he had glimpses of the old days, that now seemed glimpses of heaven: Mercedes at her lute or facing him at table; the family together on that last night in the pavilion; his father's heartiness, his mother's smile; Mercedes again—

  At times every detail of what had just passed renewed itself. At times the dread of what impended shut out everything else—the tliought of his mother in the hands of the executioners and himself forced to watch. At times he writhed with self-reproach at having meddled in the affairs of the ill-omened Garcia. Would it have made a diflference if he had kept out of them? He told himself no. His father was right: the visit to the Inquisitor had merely reinforced de Silva's schemes.

  De Silva!

  Hatred took the form of prayer. If he might be permitted only once to close his hands around that white throat, he asked nothing more; he would be content with hell.