Captain from Castile (17 page)

But he had no time to realize that now. Dorotea, exhausted as she was, had understood the meaning of her sentence and burst into a wail of entreaty. Not the stake! If what she had already suffered could but be taken into account! She didn't beg to live, but if His Blessed Reverence would grant her a quick death—

De Lora shook his head. Then Pedro saw Garcia step forward.

"By your leave, comrade," he said, thrusting past one of the pikemen.

His uniform and casual manner made way for him. The soldier gaped, but did not try to hold him back. He strode forward, one hand on his sword, to the platform.

"A boon!" he called up to the Inquisitor. "A boon, Your Reverence!"

De Lora raised his eyebrows. "What boon, my son?"

"I am Juan Gomez, in the service of Captain de Lora in Seville. I had leave to come to Jaen for this occasion."

"Well?"

"This woman, Dorotea Romero, caused the death of my wife, Ines, by poison. She was hired to it by an enemv. I crave the boon of carrying her myself to the stake and of thrusting the 'pear' between her jaws. Grant me this, Your Reverence, for the love of God. It is a vow I have taken."

The heavy rumble of his voice filled the square. In the silence people craned their necks for a glimpse of him. Pedro's heart stood still.

Perhaps de Lora was pleased to have this unexpected testimonial to the justice of his sentence; perhaps, too, understanding mass psychology, he perceived that the crowd sided with this bluff soldier and bereaved husband. In any case, he nodded.

"So be it, Juan Gomez. But I counsel you to beware of hatred. Cleanse your heart of rancor. The woman has repented of her sins, and in her death she will be reconciled with the Church."

He had hardly spoken before Garcia was on the platform and had caught up the shrinking woman in his arms. Then, carrying her as if she had been a child, he stepped down to the level of the square and set off toward one of the posts half concealed by faggots. A hangman's assistant joined him.

"Pray you, brother, stand back. I need no help. It is part of my vow."

All of what happened then, Pedro could not see, for Garcia's back was towards him. But the woman's cries suddenly stopped. Garcia walked more slowly. To the crowd's amazement, the victim's thin arms circled his neck. Those facing him on the other side of the square, however, had seen more.

"Look out!" yelled a voice, half joking, half in earnest. "The witch is putting a spell on him. Have a care!"

De Lora, at once alert, gave an order; but so intent was everyone that not a man stirred.

Garcia had now reached the faggots. He paused a long moment; then, bending a little, as if to shift the burden, he did something with

his hands. When he straightened up, a Ump form lay outstretched on the bed of firewood surrounding the stake. He stood looking down, his huge fingers still curved to the shape of the woman's throat.

Suddenly he raised his clenched fists toward the platform and roared: "Now she's safe enough, you bastards! Now you can have her!"

Making the most of the crowd's stupefaction, he hurled himself, like a mad bull, against the wall of people, and broke through it. Pedro saw a brief eddy, heard shouts and a scuffling of feet; but Garcia had already disappeared.

XwII

At that period, the Inquisition had not yet, to the same extent as later, acquired its own special prisons, so that the Castle of Jaen was used for offenders of all classes. It afforded thieves or heretics the same accommodations.

Jaded by the events of the past night and shaken by the last scenes of horror in the public square, Pedro found it a relief at first to be alone in a cell under one of the corner towers. Sitting head in hand on the edge of a bunk filled with moldy straw, he tried to shut out the memory of Garcia and of the execution of the condemned wretches that ended the auto-da-fe. It had all become personal with him now, so personal as to nauseate him. Not until several hours later did the immediacy of the recent sights and smells fade out into an increasing awareness of his own present and future.

Through a fifteen-foot wall, a slanting funnel, ending in a crack, allowed the passage of a ray of light intense at first but gradually dimmer as the sun moved westward. The cell had the damp atmosphere of a cr)'pt tainted with the stench of excrements. It swarmed with vermin. As Pedro emerged from his sick apathy, the sight of a sleek rat, uplifted motionless on its haunches in the beam of light, did more than anything else to remind him of his situation. Soon it would be night, and the creatures would come scuttling out to people the darkness. Still worse, perhaps, was the complete silence of the place—no whisper of any human sound. And yet he knew that this was one of the better cells. It had light for a part of the day at least, whereas some were completely black at all times.

Uncertainty and imagination soon began working. Getting up, he started to pace the twelve-foot length back and forth. Where were his

lOI

father, mother, and sister? When would he be brought before the tribunal? Of what would he be accused? How would he stand the Question? Fear of the torture grew momently like a nightmare which he could not shake off. On the other hand, he had heard of people who had been locked in to die of starvation or thirst. Perhaps that would be the way with him—for lack of evidence.

Back and forth.

The beam of light, having crossed the floor, now slanted up against the wall and fell on a line of rough scratches above the bed. "Miserere mei, Domine." Then, as if this were its farewell, it withdrew and left the place in darkness.

Back and forth. He must tire himself out in order to sleep. He lost the notion of time, how many hours he had been here. Now and then unconnected snatches of the past few days rose to the surface of his mind. . . . His pursuit of de Silva's Indian servant. How little he had dreamed then that the boot would soon be on the other foot! He wondered whether Coatl had got away, and winced at the thought of the scruples he had felt about helping him. The best deed of his life! . . . His resentment at Garcia's impertinence in even suggesting the possibility that Doiia Maria de Vargas might ever be in a like case with Dorotea Romero. Nothing to resent now. . . . His cloud castles last night after leaving the Carvajal garden. This was his castle, this hole of shame and heartbreak. Would Luisa know what had happened? Would she still pray for him? Every thought seemed ironic, bitter as gall. What was that Italian verse his mother quoted—about remembering lost happiness—Dante's verse?

All at once, as if it had been a thunder crash, he started at the sudden grinding of the key in the lock. The door banged open, and its aperture with the space behind it was blocked by the figures of several men, one of whom carried a lantern.

"You, there," said a squat, bare-armed fellow in a leather jerkin— "ready for the first chat?" He had a clanking contraption of chains in his hands, which he now deftly attached to Pedro's wrists and ankles. They were heavy and crisscrossed so as to hamper any movement. "Feel talkative, eh? Want to cough up your sins? Adelante!''

Grasping Pedro's arm, he half-led, half-shoved him out to the others in the corridor. They were men of the same type, square, bull-necked, crop-headed. With their hairy, naked arms and blunt faces, they looked like butchers or what they were—hangman's lackeys.

Flanked by two of them, Pedro shuffled and stumbled along the passage, which multiplied the sounds of footsteps and chains. They went

down some twenty feet of steps to a lower level and followed another passageway, the lantern hovering vaguely on blank doors and sweating walls. It was more like a tunnel, narrow, low, and stifling, than a corridor. They continued on to a dead end and to an open door on the right.

"The prisoner, Pedro de Vargas," announced a soldier on guard there, stepping to one side.

"Let him enter," came a voice from within, "and leave me alone with him."

Pedro found himself in a large, vaulted room, dimly lighted by cressets. It was probably an ancient guardroom, for a fireplace occupied one end, and empty weapon racks stood along the walls. At the other end, opposite the hearth, rose a dais, such as judges used, with three chairs now empty. In front of this on the floor stood a small wTiting table. But these details made only a half-impression. As the door closed upon the withdrawing soldier, it was the commanding, white-gowned figure of Ignacio de Lora standing in the center of the room that held Pedro's attention.

The monk's high forehead caught the light, which fell also on his silver crucifix. He stood with his head thrust forward a little and his eyes hidden under their dark brows. Then, turning, he walked ovet to a high-backed chair against the wall and seated himself.

"Come here, my son," he directed. "I want a word with you."

But when Pedro, carrying his chains, stopped in front of him, de Lora said nothing for a while, merely eying the prisoner from head to foot and fingering his beard.

At last he remarked, "You look changed since the other night. It occurred to me then that we would be meeting soon. In your case, the wages of sin have not been delayed."

Until then fear had been uppermost in Pedro's mind; now it was submerged by a rising smother of hatred. He found it easy to return de Lora's stare with interest.

"Sin?" he repeated, and de Lora expertly noticed that his voice had grown older since the last time they had met. "I hope Your Reverence doesn't mean that I've taken a bribe or broken a promise. That would be unjust."

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.