“Of course, of course,” don Francisco murmured politely. “We’ve met before.”
As I moved to sit, don Francisco took a step forward, blocking me, and suddenly took my hand in both of his. His flesh was surprisingly warm, the bones of his fingers warped by age, his touch light as a bird’s.
“Doña Marisol,” he said urgently, “I was so saddened to hear of your mother’s tragic passing. Please accept my heartfelt condolences and those of my family.” He squeezed my hand.
There was authentic emotion in don Francisco’s tone, in his touch, and I felt distantly angry with myself for the unwanted tears that welled up in my eyes.
“Thank you, don Francisco,” I managed, and glanced at him, at Antonio. “Please, gentlemen, sit down.”
Don Francisco sat while Antonio waved down a servant to bring the two of us food and drink. A plate was set in front of me, heaped with lamb kidneys sautéed in sherry, slices of cheese, and a smoky, garlicky sausage that smelled tempting. When it came time to take a bite, however, my stomach cramped and a faint wave of nausea overcame me. I addressed myself instead to the wine. Before the rim of the brass goblet met my lips, the intense aroma made my mouth water, and when I took the first sip, I knew I’d never again drink a wine so fine. It bore no resemblance to our tart local brew; it tasted of blackberries, earth, yeast, smoke, and a thousand other delicious things that lingered on my tongue long after I’d swallowed.
“It’s good, yes?” don Francisco said, smiling a bit smugly. “I procured it for Her Majesty from France.”
“Very good,” I answered, and spent the next hour making small talk with Antonio and the Sánchez patriarch and shifting in my seat several times because of the stiff, uncomfortable hoops in my gown. Don Francisco called my father “a very good man” and inquired after him with the same apparently genuine concern. We spoke of the weather, of don Francisco’s family, including his wife, Nelda, who had died a decade earlier and for whom he still wore mourning, and of his granddaughter, who had married the previous year and was now pregnant. Don Francisco kindly invited me to come visit his family—in fact, he insisted I do so soon, I suppose out of kindness because I’d lost my mother—and I responded politely in the affirmative, though I never thought for a moment that the old man was serious.
I let don Francisco and Antonio do most of the talking while I nursed my wine—which Antonio kept refilling from a flagon at the table—and proceeded to get intentionally tipsy for the first time in my life. The alternative was to choke and lose my composure while speaking of my father or my mother. And so I chose to drink—not, in the end, a very good idea, because it made the roiling jumble of emotions harder to contain. But at least it made my nose and feet tingle and relaxed my muscles.
Given the background din in the now-f reception hall as the pipers played and other guests chattered, I had to strain to hear the conversation. The men-at-arms watching don Francisco made sure that no one came near our end of the table, except for servants bringing or carrying away food and wine, and the discussion strayed toward more political topics. Don Francisco began to speculate—only after all servants were gone and then at a volume only Antonio and I could hear—as to why Isabel had felt obliged to make a secret visit to Seville.
“Her Majesty wouldn’t make such a long, arduous trip without good reason,” don Francisco murmured to Antonio. “Especially to a city as dangerously divided as ours.”
Antonio glanced casually over at the queen’s guards posted all around the room’s perimeter. “Hence the army,” he said, a faint smile on his lips, as if he were speaking of the pleasant weather.
“Hence the army.” Don Francisco nodded thoughtfully. “A very long way for her to come indeed.”
“Perhaps the royal treasury needs fattening,” Antonio suggested. I didn’t follow his logic, but don Francisco understood perfectly.
“I should know by the end of this evening,” the older man replied with a wink, and the two grinned knowingly at each other. “But if it’s not that, then…”
“Her Majesty attends carefully to details, does she not?” Antonio asked lightly.
Don Francisco laughed. “No greater understatement was ever made.” He sobered a bit. “She’s no doubt having everyone in charge of her Inquisition investigated and tested herself. Alonso Hojeda and his idiot brother must both be going wild with jealousy, to see you and that Dominican abbot from Segovia”—he referred to Fray Tomás de Torquemada—“so favored by the queen.”
Antonio had hardly touched his wine, but at those words, he gave a small, inscrutable grin and suddenly took a large swig from his goblet to avoid meeting my gaze. I took another swallow of wine, too; a tiny, insincere smile froze on my lips as I stared at don Francisco. Fortunately, Antonio said nothing about my marriage, as don Francisco leaned closer to me and said into my ear, “It’s always a matter of money, my dear. Like the Crown, the Inquisitors themselves get a percentage of the property and money seized.”
I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “Are you serious, don Francisco?”
He nodded. “Why do you think the abbot Alonso Hojeda is so mad with jealousy where Torquemada is concerned? Why he was so desperate for his younger brother to get even a temporary position with the Inquisition? He maintains a lavish lifestyle at the monastery—so lavish I fear he’s run up so much debt, he can’t keep up appearances much longer, unless his brother Gabriel is able to convince the queen to let him keep his job. But Her Majesty and Fray Tomás want Antonio to have it, as he’s clearly … how shall I put it kindly? More capable, more intelligent. There are rumors that Isabel brought Fray Tomás to Seville in order to evaluate all the locals involved in the Inquisition. The queen isn’t fond of the idea of the Inquisitors lining their pockets. Or paying bribes to get more denunciations. And she knows Hojeda is not only a spendthrift but the greediest of them all. So she has cut him out of all the money to be made by the Inquisition. And then there is the convenient excuse that he insulted King Fernando by the way he has spoken of
conversos
.”
I listened to this wide-eyed, thinking of the lack of servants at the Hojeda mansion, and the board on the ceiling in the dining hall, where a large chandelier had obviously been removed. I thought of the sour wine, the untended grounds, Gabriel’s miserliness, and Fray Hojeda’s desperation.
“If I were you, I’d take care around the Hojedas,” Sánchez said, turning to Antonio. “Especially Gabriel, who realizes that you will soon take his place unless he can prove himself more capable. You were always too trusting, don Antonio, too quick to think the best of others.”
“I’m not that way anymore,” Antonio answered, his tone and eyes suddenly hollow.
I looked down at the garnet liquid in my cup, trying to hide my disgust. Did don Francisco, the most respected
converso
in town, even know that Antonio was now working for the Inquisition? Was he aware that Antonio had cruelly jilted me? Most everyone in Seville knew that we had been sweethearts. Perhaps don Francisco thought we still were.
I lifted my chin, intending to announce that Antonio was now working as secretary to the head Inquisitor, Fray Morillo, just in case don Francisco hadn’t known, and that we were only here together because the queen had ordered us both to come. But as I turned to look at the head of the Sánchez clan, doña Berta came hurrying up behind him, her movements fast and deliberate, her gaze focused sharply on me.
“Come,” she ordered, her hand raised, the back of it toward us as she beckoned imperiously with a jeweled finger. Only then did I realize that the pipers had fallen silent and disappeared.
Both Antonio and I jerked to our feet. Don Francisco rose with us and suddenly clasped my hand as he put his lips to my ear.
“You will come see me?” he asked quickly, and when I nodded, added, “May I send a carriage tomorrow?”
I stared at him in disbelief—I’d thought his earlier invitation was polite banter, and that his sudden insistence on such an imminent visit odd—until Antonio plucked my sleeve. I nodded quickly, and with murmured apologies to don Francisco, hurried with Antonio to follow Berta out onto the Patio of the Maidens. Many guests had carried their goblets outside to enjoy the pleasant night air, now that all the warm bodies had overheated the reception hall. Berta took us to the spot near the pool and potted trees, where we were to play; an unlit torch, smelling of rancid oil, was positioned next to us.
“Don’t worry,” Berta said, just loud enough to be heard over the revelers, and pointed to the liveried servant standing beside a sconced lamp near one of the archways. “When I give the signal, he’ll light the torch. Once it catches, that’s when you’re to begin to sing.”
Antonio appeared, as I did, to listen carefully, calmly. I wondered if his heart was stuttering in his chest as hard as mine was, and I drew a breath as we got into position and fell still in the relative darkness.
Beneath the loggia, two servants in red and gold carefully climbed two different ladders and ceremoniously lit a huge chandelier hanging above the now-closed doors leading back to King Pedro’s Palace. Once convinced that the small area was lit up like a stage, they removed the ladders as gracefully as possible and flung open the doors.
At once, a dozen or so young women came spinning out of the doorway onto the patio in choreographed movements that couldn’t quite be called a dance. They were all young—all maidens, judging from the loose-flowing hair beneath their gossamer veils—and dressed in fine bright silks in shades more suited to spring than winter: rose, pale green, lavender, pale yellow, robin’s egg blue, cream. Fair flowers all, in scandalously low-cut bodices and simpering smiles. They twirled into position to form a wide V whose pivot was the well-lit threshold, and in unison, dropped into full curtsies and held the pose, heads bowed and gazes demurely lowered.
The crowd let go a sigh of approval and might have applauded the pretty ladies had four trumpeters not marched through the doorway onto the patio, horns blaring briefly before they too moved aside.
“Citizens of Seville,” a booming male voice announced dramatically, “Her Majesty doña Isabel of the House of Trastámara, Queen of Castile and León.”
Along with everyone else on the patio, I held my breath and focused my eyes on the spot beneath the chandelier, in front of the doorway.
Isabel sailed gracefully into the circle of light. She stood alone, dressed in the same black silk gown with velvet
verdugado
casings, this time with bell sleeves so wide and long their edges almost swept the ground. Her dark red hair was braided loosely in the back, wrapped in white silk—an informal look for a queen, but Her Majesty’s court was itinerant, ever on the move, and Isabel famously disapproved of unnecessary vanity. On her head rested an equally austere stiff band of plain black silk. Again, she wore no other jewelry save a small gold crucifix.
Her face was just as long and as equine as it had been earlier, the folds beneath her weak chin just as unflattering. Yet in the spotlight, Isabel exuded a charisma so magical, so compelling, that those gathered on the patio fell utterly silent. She was too skilled with an audience to be hasty, but remained soundless for several seconds, her posture and facial expression so noble, so poised, so magnificent that the crowd released a collective gasp of appreciation before bowing.
This was, after all, a woman who as a girl had twice refused her half brother’s, King Enrique’s, order to marry men not to her liking, a woman who had fought for her brother’s, Alfonso’s, right to the throne. A woman who, after her beloved brother died of plague, went against the king’s orders and escaped Segovia to secretly marry a man of her choosing—Fernando, now King of Aragón.
And she married Fernando in order to do the unthinkable: win enough followers to claim the throne of Castile and León for a woman, despite ancient laws that forbade it—and to unite Spain into one kingdom. This was a woman who’d thought nothing of jumping onto a horse when pregnant and riding to meet her husband in battle, a woman who knew war and privation and shrank from neither.
No one on the patio lifted his head until Isabel cajoled us.
“People of Seville,” she called, in the same ringing voice she must have used to rally her troops, “rise and hear my words!”
She waited until the rustling ceased and every eye was fixed on her before continuing. I could have sworn that she had grown taller and more physically imposing since I saw her in Antonio’s office, her features almost handsome. The candlelight caught the hair around her face and glinted bright auburn.
“These are difficult times for your city,” she proclaimed with fierce passion, “difficult times for Spain. But know that I care for each of you as I do my own children. My little Isabel, my babies Juan and Juana, they cried when I told them their mother had to leave them again. But I explained that I am also mother to my people. And when a city weeps, I come to dry its tears.
“I am here myself at the outset of this Inquisition to ensure all is done fairly and properly, in accordance with the laws of Mother Church and Spain. I will not permit even the lowliest citizen to suffer unjustly. That is my sacred vow to you, Seville. Know that you are in my prayers and that I beseech the Lord daily to protect all Christians of goodwill, and to reveal those few who debase our holy faith.
“With that aim, I have taken care to appoint only the humblest of men to inquisitorial posts, men whose only earthly goal is to glorify the name of God. Rest assured I hear your concerns, my people, and my thoughts are of you.” She suddenly beamed.
“Sevilla, no me ha dejado!”
We all roared.
No me ha dejado
—“You have not abandoned me”—was the city’s motto, created by King Alfonso after his son tried unsuccessfully to steal the throne. Alfonso lived in the Alcázar and was so grateful to the citizens of Seville for their loyal defense that he made the phrase official. Over time,
No me ha dejado
came to be written NO8DO; the number 8 represented a skein of wool, a
madeja
. When read aloud,
No madeja do
sounded the same as
No me ha dejado.