Inquisitor Dreams

by Phyllis Ann Karr

  The secretary, ever his master’s loyal shadow, set his glass down beside Don Felipe’s: the level of liquid in both glasses was even more identical than when they had been poured. Esteban de Sotra set his mug down upon the board with a force that caused some of ale to slosh over. Ramon Armiento actually emptied his into the floor rushes—a gesture Don Felipe would not have suggested, but would not censure. Only Gubbio took another hasty swallow or two before relinquishing his mug and following the others from the hall, ignoring the threats and imprecations Don Gaspar hurled after them.

  Once safely out of the castle, the secretary leaned over and murmured to his master, “I fear that your Excellence has made an enemy.”

  Don Felipe sighed. “I fear, Don Martin, that the enmity began with my first visit to Agapida, and that Don Gaspar, not myself, began it. He is unworthy of his father, his family, and his rank. I fear he will prove both a scourge to his own country and a thorn in the side of the kingdom.”

  They arrived back at the vicar’s house half an hour before Fray Giuliano, who had spent his afternoon visiting a sick parishioner. After hearing Don Martin’s account of what had happened at the castle, the Franciscan said gravely, “Then your Excellence has learned very little of this new cause for complaint, not so much as the woman’s name?”

  “They will have aimed their shaft as high as they could,” Don Felipe replied. “I can scarcely believe they mentioned only one and not half a dozen.” But, he thought, who was that one? It could not conceivably be the count’s niece…could it?

  “And yet I wonder,” said Fray Giuliano, “if they know any names. As little commerce as I have observed between castle and Calé, Don Gaspar’s woman may have consulted only some gossip from which names had vanished before it reached her guileless ears.”

  That such a man as Fray Giuliano should call the young lord’s female companion “woman” rather than “lady,” and employ sarcasm when mentioning her ears, trumpeted his estimate of her character more clearly than if he had preached a sermon. Don Felipe nodded, and turned the conversation into another channel. Only, he wished he had not left before learning whether or not Violante de Barcelona had any name to offer him.

  The answer came shortly before supper. Two messengers from the castle appeared at the vicar’s door with a letter which they insisted on delivering directly into Don Felipe’s own hand.

  “Who has sent this?” he asked them, failing to recognize the signet impress in the sealing wax.

  “My lord Don Gaspar,” replied the less surly-looking of the two messengers.

  Don Felipe deliberately omitted touching the letter to his head in token of respect, but opened it at once. It read simply:

  “The Calé woman who tells fortunes with beans is Bonté Labaa, sister to that man they call their count.”

  It was unsigned, but he suspected it was from Violante’s hand, penned quite possibly at the insistence of her lover. Rejoicing that he had not placed it upon his head, and even more that the woman whom it named was Bonté and not Pilar Labaa, he refolded it, told the messengers, “Say to those who sent this that I shall act upon it or not, as seems to me fitting,” and sent them on their way the wealthier by a florin.

  “That seems overgenerous of your Excellence,” Don Martin protested mildly.

  “Perhaps,” Don Felipe answered his secretary. “But I wished to prove that my attitude toward their young master and his leman does not arise from mere stinginess.”

  Later that night, while putting him to bed, Gubbio grumbled, “I wish you might take it into your head to prove that your attitude toward your faithful servant had no stinginess at its root.”

  “Gubbio, Gubbio! Is not all I possess equally yours, by your own regard if not by mine? As you demonstrated so ably during my long absence.”

  “Yes, and as well for all of us that I stewarded your goods so ably and loyally, is it not?” the Italian answered without a blush.

  For long intervals that night Don Felipe lay wakeful, his body athrob with tingles of anticipation; and yet whenever he slept, it was deeply and sweetly.

  In the morning, he took only his secretary and his vicar with him to the Calé settlement, entrusting Gubbio with whatever marketing their cook might request—a secure way to occupy the Italian, since he shared whatever dishes that excellent New Christian man of the kitchen Diego Sos prepared—and leaving Ramon and Esteban at their own leisure. Let whoever served as Don Gaspar’s eyes and ears in the village report back to him that the priest of whom he would make a tool trusted the Calé enough to visit them without the personal guard he had brought when visiting the castle.

  The morning was beautiful—surely as splendid as that day on which God created Adam and, after seeing him labor at naming every animal, drew Eve from his side to be his fit and matching companion. Fifty-five years Don Felipe de Granada might have lived, yet his soul sang like that of a man less than half his age. Every birdsong, every breath of fresh breeze, sank into the fertile soil of his heart and caused fresh flowers of happiness to spring forth. It was as if only now, after all these months, was he truly and fully emerging from the long slumber of eleven years in the secret prison; and the need to maintain outward dignity added a spice of something like mischief to his secret joy.

  He found the Calé quarter echoing his own sense of rebirth. In the short time since his first visit to Agapida, they had already added two more dwelling houses to their isolated outgrowth of the village, and were at work upon replacing the tent before their count’s own caverns with antechambers and porticoed forecourt in wood and stone. Soon the entire colony would have real roofs to cover their heads.

  “My friend!” Sagesse Labaa welcomed the churchman and his party with a grave bow, but honest pleasure dancing in his dark eyes. “And our dear Fray Giuliano, and…I think we have not yet met this good man?” he added with another bow.

  “Don Martin de Villaréal, my personal secretary.” Allowing one of Labaa’s grandsons—Pablo, he thought—to help him off his mule Blanca, Don Felipe embraced the count. “My friend! And how have you found my new vicar? Can you speak as highly of him as he does of you?”

  “We could not desire a better shepherd for our souls. But come! Of course you will dine with us. Will you not? And enjoy my garden for a little while before we take our food!”

  Glancing beyond Don Sagesse, Felipe saw Pilar standing in the unfinished doorway. She flashed him one smile, half gracious and half bashful, before vanishing again into the new construction.

  Don Felipe and his companions followed their host through the same doorway, a large number of the welcoming party trailing at their heels. They emerged in a crude but enthusiastic little courtyard, alive with sun, flowers, and fresh beginning.

  The niece of Don Sagesse was even now reseating herself at an embroidery frame. Felipe crossed the courtyard to look respectfully over her shoulder. “What do you make, Doña Pilar?”

  “It is an altar cloth, Don Felipe,” she answered quietly. “I have no more shyness of going into the church, these days.” Lifting her head momentarily, she gave him another quick smile. “My soul rejoices to see you among us once again.”

  In that moment he made up his mind, in so far as it had not already been made up, that, whatever the accusation against this lady’s kinswoman might involve, it would never become a case for the Inquisition.

  Calixta Aranse, the young wife—if Don Felipe’s memory served—of Pilar’s brother Iago, picked up a spindle that lay nearby and held it toward the visitors like an offering. “And my wool will go into a set of fine new vestments, your Reverence…good Fray Giuliano.”

  There followed half an hour of being shown and admiring all these people’s work before they returned to it: Hernani, Fernando, and Iago Labaa, Sagesse’s son and two of his nephews, raising the last of the wooden columns into place; his brother-in-law Florello Montagnard—husband of the accused woman—painting bright designs upon those already in place; the count’s daughter Margarita watching ov
er the older children as they tended the little kitchen gardens and beds of flowers; the younger children running merrily about in pursuit of their small games; Calixta at her spinning; and Doña Pilar, like the calm eye of the happy bustle, at her embroidery. Felipe could not rid himself of the impression that even so must Mary often have sat in the heart of the blessed household of Nazareth.

  At last he was able to draw Don Sagesse apart, the two of them retiring into the cavern which only months ago had served the Holy Office as audience chamber. “Now that we are alone, Don Sagesse, I must ask whether you spoke truly concerning Fray Giuliano, or whether you spoke as prudence dictated in his presence.”

  The Calé looked puzzled. “But, my friend, I spoke truly. Why should you doubt? He is a young man, but good, kind, and earnest. And, I think, happy to be so, and to be here leading our souls.”

  Don Felipe nodded, well pleased to have his own belief confirmed. “You understand, my friend, it was my duty to ask. Don Fadrique, too, had been my choice to represent me here. I had to be sure that this time I had chosen a worthy vicar.”

  “Ah! This time you chose very well indeed.” Don Sagesse grinned happily. “That other one…I remember when first we came here…I think that he could show two faces, although to us he showed always the bad one.”

  “If it should ever happen—ever—that Fray Giuliano show a worse face, whether to you or, in so far as you can observe, to any of Agapida’s other people, you must send me word of it at once. I rely on you for this, Don Sagesse,” Don Felipe repeated.

  “I will not fail you, our best of friends. And now, should we not return to my garden?”

  Shaking his head, Don Felipe laid one hand on the count’s arm to restrain him. Deeply as he regretted this next step, it must be taken, if only because in order to counterattack, he must know more about Don Gaspar’s ammunition. “There is one other matter, my friend. An accusation of fortunetelling has been brought against Doña Bonté, your sister.”

  Don Sagesse stood still, his dark face suddenly haggard. “You cannot tell us who says this?”

  No Seal of Confession guarded the affair, and Don Felipe had warned the castle very clearly of his present position. “It was told to me, neither as father confessor nor as inquisitor, but as a simple guest. Promises of secrecy were neither asked nor given. It is young Don Gaspar and the lady whom I take to be his present mistress that made this accusation.”

  “That one again!” Don Sagesse’s shoulders relaxed with a shudder.

  “Is there anything in it?”

  Shaking his head, the count spread his hands helplessly. “My friend, we were like children. We had always told fortunes and thought no evil in it, until Holy Mother Church taught us better. If my sister has done so again since we learned it is sin, I had not known of it.”

  “The method they mentioned concerned casting beans into circles traced on the ground.”

  Don Sagesse nodded sadly. “That was my sister’s favorite way, before we were taught better.”

  “I had best speak with her. Not, you understand, as inquisitor, but merely as a friend come to warn her. Don Sagesse,” the priest went on, laying his hand gently on the count’s shoulder, “why should Don Gaspar hate you so much?”

  “Some years ago, when he was coming into his manhood, he tried and tried to have his way with our young women. But we are a strict people, my friend. You know that. We have always been a strict people, at least in that. We believe that such things are for husband and wife, and them alone. I am proud to say that none of our young women would listen to him. And, when he tried to force Maria Détangere—she who was to wed my son Hernani—she screamed, and so some of our men came and drove him away. I think that is why he is our enemy.”

  “It may become very serious, when your enemy is lord of this region.” Torn between honest concern and selfish temptation, Don Felipe added, “Perhaps you should take your people elsewhere.”

  “Where? We have been over there, in France. Before that, in my father’s time, and his father’s, we were in the empire of great King Sigismund, and he himself gave us safe-conduct. But wherever we try to live, we find enemies. I do not know why this should be. Perhaps we have indeed been cursed to wander forever, for some sin our ancestors committed. Here, at least the old lord has allowed us peace.”

  “I fear that Don Alfons cannot live much longer.”

  “True, but we have still the friendship of your Reverence, and of our good Fray Giuliano, and, I think, of some others in the village.”

  “May we be enough! Well, my friend, never fail in your prayers. Even in Old Testament times, God set limits to how many generations He would punish for the sins of their ancestors; and we are blessed to live under His merciful New Testament. But now, I had best see Doña Bonté.”

  “She is with her daughter and the wives of my sons, preparing our dinner,” Don Sagesse replied, heavily but not without hope.

  Don Felipe decided, “This afternoon will be soon enough.”

  They returned outside. Surrounded by sunlight and people, the count quickly shed all appearance of concern for anything beyond the new construction. But not, the priest thought, before Doña Pilar noticed the crease between her uncle’s eyebrows. Or perhaps it was in the priest’s face that she read something. Or it might have been that their simple departure for private conference touched her fears. Whatever the reason, Felipe found her gaze fixed anxiously upon him, but as soon as he met her eyes, she lowered them.

  Prudence should have made him ignore it, for both their sakes. For once in his life, he defied prudence. “Daughter,” he murmured to her—although another priest served her as confessor now, he had done so once, and he sensed it would be wholesome for both of them to remember it—“might I speak with you privately…at your convenience?”

  He was amazed how soon she found it convenient. In the hour when the men were already at their siesta while the women, who ate later, were still taking their food, she came to him where he reclined on brightly woven cushions in the shade of his host’s new colonnade.

  “Don Felipe,” she said, sitting smoothly on her knees before him.

  “Doña Pilar.” Now that she had come to him, he felt himself embarrassed, wondering what he had contemplated saying to her. “Have you finished your meal?”

  “I have. Sir, my uncle has told my Aunt Bonté that you must speak to her upon a grave matter. Must you speak to me, also?”

  “My lady…with you, there is no question of ‘must.’ I merely wished… I thought that you would wish to know at first hand of the matter.” He drew a deep breath, watching her anxiously. She sat intent and motionless save for the natural blinking of her eyes. Kindest to say it clearly and quickly. “Doña Bonté has been accused of telling fortunes with beans tossed into circles drawn on the ground.”

  “Accused by whom?” Pilar asked with that sort of quietude which often accompanies very deep feeling.

  “By Doña Violante de Barcelona, whom I take to be the current lover of Don Gaspar de Monsecors y Tequilador de la Castel de Agapida.”

  “You speak well to call her his ‘current’ lover,” Doña Pilar remarked with dry scorn. “This accusation—how serious is it?”

  “First, Doña, you must understand—” (you above all others, he added in his thoughts)—“I have not come this time as inquisitor. Whatever the simple priest and beneficiary of Nuestra Señora de Agapida may learn here this month need never come to the attention of the tribunal of Ainsa. Even if it does, fortunetelling is not in itself, unless accompanied with certain other beliefs and circumstances, the most serious type of heresy. Even if I were here as inquisitor, there would not be any danger to your aunt’s life.”

  “But, because we are who we are, any such threat to one of us throws all of us under suspicion.” She bowed her head briefly. When she looked up again, it was to speak as a practical woman rather than one complaining against fate or injustice. “What are these other beliefs and circumstances that can make it more
serious?”

  “Evidence that belief in false gods or wilful entanglement with the powers of evil is involved,” he answered frankly.

  She seemed to relax. “Long ago, when we were completely ignorant, we used to read fortunes and believe them. I do not think we ever understood what powers showed them to us. Since we learned to be better Christians, we have given it up. Only, sometimes, some of us may toss beans or look at the palms of hands for some gadje who wishes it. For us, it is like a game—like the tossing of dice, when if they roll to the right number for a man, his fortune is that he wins the money. When we toss beans for the gadje, our fortune is that we win a little of their money. The temptation is great, Don Felipe, and sometimes one or another of us still falls to it, even though we no longer completely remember how to read the beans. I do not think that any of us ever understood that the Evil One had any hand in it.”

  “And your aunt was one who fell to the temptation? You need not answer, Doña Pilar. I hope to learn it from herself.”

  “I prefer to tell you. Two young women came from the castle. It was a month ago or more, soon after Don Gaspar brought his Doña Violante here. They were scarcely more than girls. From what you say, I believe they must be her handmaids. They bedeviled all of us to read their fortunes and tell them how well they would marry. At last my poor Aunt Bonté did it. She promised them each a fine husband, took their maravedís, and thought that would end it.”

  He nodded reassuringly. “From what you tell me, Doña, there is neither heresy nor mortal sin in this. Venial sin, yes, for it smacks of some deceit and charlatanism. But that is easily absolved. If your aunt’s account agrees with yours, all that remains will be to see that none of you give them any such grounds for attacking you again.”