By Fire, By Water (19 page)

“As I said, we are very poor.”

Torquemada refilled his cup. “As you may know, Señor Gutiérrez, when a man sins against the Lord through perversity of belief, if his heresy is sufficiently evil, it’s sometimes necessary to confiscate his property. The purpose of such confiscations is to reduce the sinner’s worldly pride and to help reconcile him with God.”

“Father, I know I have sinned. But if I confess …?”

“I’m not referring to you, Señor Gutiérrez. I’m talking about men who betray Christ deliberately, who take malicious actions against His Church, who want to see His reign on this earth destroyed.”

Gutiérrez crossed himself, frightened. Although he could be a raucous drinker and reveler when the occasion presented itself, he felt like a boy in this place, in the presence of this man.

“For example,” continued Torquemada, gazing into the courtyard, “whoever was behind the murder of our sainted canon, Pedro de Arbués. Probably several people.” He looked back at the innkeeper. “I don’t believe it could have been the work of one man. Do you?”

“No, Father. No, I don’t.”

“All those involved will most certainly lose their property, at the very least. And those who help us find them will naturally be entitled to a share of whatever is confiscated. If there were a number of conspirators, that portion could be quite considerable.”

Gutiérrez swallowed. He had not come here with a hope of reward, but he appreciated the wisdom in the monk’s proposal. If Mother Church took away people’s goods when they sinned, it made sense she should reward them when they were virtuous. “I understand.”

“Please go ahead. I can hear your confession right here.”

Gutiérrez was not accustomed to receiving absolution face-to-face with his priest, in broad daylight; even less so, with the queen’s confessor. He steeled himself and began, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I lusted after a girl, and we … we …”

“Fornicated?”

“Yes.” The innkeeper was not sure what the word meant, but it sounded right enough.

“Are you married, Señor Gutiérrez?”

“Yes.”

“And I take it this girl, she was not married, at the time this was going on?”

“No. As I said, she was … she was young.”

“How young?”

“Thirteen.”

Leaning back into his chair, Torquemada examined his fingernails. “How many times did you fornicate with her?”

“I don’t know. Fifteen, twenty times. But she got, she became … heavy with child, and … and she died giving birth. She never told a soul.” Gutiérrez took a deep breath, avoiding Torquemada’s eyes.

“Not even her priest?”

The innkeeper shook his head.

“And the baby?”

“The baby?”

Torquemada nodded, urging him on. “The baby was born dead.”

“This girl whom you loved, she died without confessing her sins?”

“Yes.”

“And when did all this happen?”

“It started a little more than a year ago. She died, she passed away, a few days after Ash Wednesday.”

“And you? All this time, you haven’t sought absolution, either?”

“I was ashamed, Father.”

“And the eternal well-being of your soul, you weren’t worried about that?”

“I thought my soul was lost.” The innkeeper lowered his head into his hands. “When I heard she was dying, I wasn’t strong enough to visit her.”

“I see.”

Gutiérrez wiped his sweating palms on his knees and lifted his face, looking directly at his confessor. “Is her soul rotting in hell, Father? I hear her screams, sometimes, at night. Is that real, or is it a dream?”

“It’s too late for you to concern yourself with her soul, Señor Gutiérrez, or with that of the baby you helped conceive. You should be worried about your own. But this you could have confessed to any priest. Why are you here? Why did you want to speak with me?”

“There is something else.”

“What is it, my son? You have my full attention.”

“Some men. The morning after the canon’s assassination. Only, I didn’t know. I didn’t yet know.”

“Some men?”

“At the inn. The Bull’s Head.”

“How many?”

“Three. And a child. You don’t often see a mere boy wearing an expensive suede jerkin.”

“No, you don’t. What color was this jerkin?”

“Stripes of leather. Red, blue. With silver buttons.”

“There are many shades of red, Señor Gutiérrez. The color of wine? Of bricks?”

“More like wine. And blue like the sky here in Aragon on a warm day.”

“With silver buttons.”

The innkeeper nodded.

“How old was he?”

“Eleven, maybe twelve.”

“These men, do you know their names?”

The innkeeper shook his head. “You could tell they were educated. And wealthy.”

“What did they look like? Did they have accents? How did they get to the Bull’s Head?”

“They rode beautiful horses. Not together. Separately. One of them, yes, had an accent. A tall man. Thin. Straight hair, the color of wheat, down to his shoulders.”

“And the others? What did they look like?”

Gutiérrez did his best to describe them. The beauty of their horses, especially, had impressed him: a roan mare, a chestnut stallion, a dun stallion, all clothed in expensive blankets and silver fittings. He remembered, in particular, the black stripe on the back of the roan mare. The man who arrived on this horse, it seemed, was their leader. Another of the horses, white with large black spots, had run off.

“Did it come back?”

Gutiérrez shook his head.

“Did they come back for their horse?”

“No.”

Torquemada searched the innkeeper’s face.

“What aroused your suspicions, Señor Gutiérrez? Did these men refuse to eat or drink the food from your kitchen? Did they say something?”

“They didn’t say much.
Did you find it? No, it wasn’t there
. The exact words, I’m sorry, Father, I can’t remember.”

“They were looking for something?”

“Something, yes. At the time, I had no idea what to make of it.”

“At the time?”

“This was before I heard about Father Arbués.”

Torquemada pressed his fingertips together and applied them to his pursed lips. “And then you thought …”

“The whole thing was … What is the word, Father?”

“Unusual?”

“More than that, I’d say. They gave the foreigner two purses.”

Three men, wealthy men, reflected Torquemada, going out of their way to gather in an obscure, neglected tavern outside of town, the morning after the assassination. One of them foreign. A valuable horse that in the urgency of the moment they were willing to abandon. Two purses. What of the boy? Why was a child present?

“These men were not Jews, but Christian?”

“I didn’t see horns.”

Torquemada nodded understandingly. If only life were that simple. If only the acolytes of Satan were so easily identified.

“And you told no one?”

“I wanted to talk with someone. But as I said, Father, with … with all that was going on with
her
… and then, when she died …”

“Your conscience was overburdened.”

“Besides, I was thinking: If their business was so secret, why would they meet in the Bull’s Head? Why not in their homes?”

“They couldn’t risk that, Señor Gutiérrez. These are crafty, worldly men. They mustn’t be seen together, not immediately following their evil work. It could raise suspicions. The Bull’s Head is some distance from Zaragoza. No one knows them there. In their homes, they have servants. Their servants go to church. Unlike you, their servants confess.”

“I am confessing, Father.”

“Yes, but that won’t suffice. You’ll have to do penance.”

“Please,” Gutiérrez begged, leaning forward. “That is what my soul longs for.”

“For all the ruin engendered by your impure and sinful relations, eat nothing from dawn until dusk the first two days of every month, for one year. And if you can, try to ease the suffering of her family. The deceased girl’s family.”

“I shall, Father. Gladly.” Tears welled in the innkeeper’s eyes.

Tomás de Torquemada contemplated the fate of that innocent girl who would dwell for so long, at least until the Return, in unthinkable distress. The act of reparation he had assigned was not commensurate with the evil Miguel Gutiérrez had done. But in his effort to represent the will of the Eternal in this world, Torquemada had also considered the good that Gutiérrez was now accomplishing. The innkeeper had unburdened himself of what was most shameful. He had helped the Inquisition redeem other souls.

“You may leave now.”

“Thank you, Father.” The innkeeper rose clumsily, almost knocking over his chair, and stumbled across the room.

After Miguel Gutiérrez left, Torquemada searched for Juan Rodríguez in the cloisters, the garden, the cellar. He finally found him in a small chapel intended for individual prayer at the back of the monastery. The constable knelt naked before a carved wooden altar to the Holy Mother of God. A phallus as rigid as an oak branch rose from his lap.

Torquemada found Rodríguez’s posture as insulting to his faith as it was abhorrent to his eyes. He reminded himself, however, that all humans were victims of carnality. Besides, this man was not trained for the priesthood. To judge him by the standards of that calling would be unfair.

Rodríguez turned to see him, blushing, and reached for his tunic. Torquemada decided not to comment on what he had witnessed, feeling that his presence alone had shamed the man sufficiently. “We need to locate a roan courser with a bridle of black leather and silver, and a black stripe down its back. Is that feasible, constable?”

“Would that be … Would that be for your personal conveyance, Father?” Rodríguez clumsily tightened his belt.

“No. You might start by looking among the wealthy
conversos
in this area.”

“I’ll attend to that at once.” He stood up and straightened his tunic, avoiding the inquisitor’s eyes.

“And one other thing. A boy of twelve or so, wearing an expensive waistcoat, maroon and light blue, with silver buttons. Get word out to the Hermandad. Let’s keep an eye out for this boy.”

Torquemada went out, closing the door softly.

That night, as Tomás de Torquemada lay in the deceased canon’s chambers, Miguel Gutiérrez’s utterances echoed in his mind.
Did you find it? … It wasn’t there … Something, yes …

Affliction and sin filled his days, the confessions of corrupt men and, worse, their reluctance to confess. Nights, the inquisitor meditated upon timeless things: the sky, the earth, man’s humble efforts to bring the two together by raising stones from the ground and dedicating them to the service of God.

His architectural plans for the Avila monastery had progressed. He imagined buttresses supporting high walls, gargoyles spouting rainwater, gothic arched doorways carved with figures of saints and demons. He heard monks chanting in the chapel and smelled the fertile earth as they irrigated and planted the fields.

The voice of that coarse penitent broke in again and disturbed his reverie:
Did you find it?
…
It wasn’t there
…
Something, yes
…

The inquisitor’s eyes fluttered open. Nothing was moving. Torquemada’s gaze wandered to the gothic bookshelves where Pedro de Arbués had stored his logs.

    
CHAPTER NINE