Captain from Castile (8 page)

He was quite honest. He moved in a world where every value has its

price in gold. When that yardstick failed, he was bewildered, angry, and scornful.

"Someone told me," he went on, "that you planned to send your son abroad." His voice had a patronizing drawl that stirred the roots of Pedro's hair. "Which is costly, as no one knows better than I. It seemed to me that perhaps a sale would accommodate you."

Don Francisco was doing his best to remain civil, but he felt the surges of wrath gaining on him. He tried to shut his mind to them. Because de Silva had no manners, it did not discharge him from his obligations as a host. He clung to that.

"As it happened, we were discussing the matter when you came, sir," he answered with more of a lisp than usual. "In view of the peace, I plan sending my son to France. The Sefior de Bayard has graciously consented to give him a place in his company."

"Ah?" De Silva did not seem impressed.

"It might interest you to see his letter. We were in the course of reading it."

De Vargas proudly handed over the sacred document, but the other gave it no more than a perfunctory glance.

"Hm-m," he said. "Yes, quite so." And having returned it: "Why Bayard? The choice amazes me. With all respect to the Chevalier as a stanch old war dog, isn't he a good deal of a relic? We're living in modem times. Why not send your son to one of the fashionable courts? I should think the household of Monsieur de Bayard would be as out-of-date as my grandmother's coif."

De Vargas's mouth felt fever-dry. With a shaking hand, he raised his cup and emptied it. Pedro's face was rigid. Dona Maria looked appealingly at her husband.

"Ha!" choked Don Francisco at last, his head swimming. "The Sefior de Bayard is my friend."

"No offense, of course," said de Silva airily. "It's no business of mine. I was only surprised. Or if not a court, why not the Indies? A youngster can pick up experience and perhaps money there. As a matter of fact, I intend to make the voyage myself fairly soon."

Pedro exchanged a glance with his mother. The look on his father's face would have made him laugh at any other time. It implied that of all places in the world, the Indies was where Diego de Silva best belonged.

"Naturally I shall not remain there," the latter continued. "My friend, Diego Velasquez, Governor of Cuba, has promised me a bargain

in land and Indians. It ought to be a sound investment. Besides, as you may know, I am a familiar of the Holy Office and will make a survey for the Suprema. The Inquisitor of Jaen, our good Father Ignacio de Lora, has been chosen to accompany me. We fear that heresy needs investigating in the Islands."

At this reference to the Inquisition, a shadow, an almost palpable chill, descended on the pavilion. It happened in any company where the dread name was mentioned. A kingdom within the kingdom, a power greater than the King's, a despotism more complete than any yet invented, it paralyzed the human soul with terror. It did not represent the Catholic Church. Indeed, it represented the very reverse of Catholic, a peculiar Spanish development, narrow, local, fanatic; a parasite repudiated by traditional Catholic thought then as well as since. Not until four hundred years later would the world again be visited by a similar curse. Secret denunciation—friend against friend, child against parent, enemy against enemy—the thought of dungeon, torture, whip and stake, beggary and infamy, were the ideas which the name conjured up. No one was safe; no one was too innocent to be proved guilty. In view of the menace, many noblemen and others, who could prove the purity of their blood, their limpieza, free of Jewish or Moorish taint, joined the ranks of the Inquisition. These were the familiars of the Holy Office. The affiliation was valuable for many reasons; above all it gave added power and relative security.

Don Francisco cleared his throat. "Yes, I remember hearing that you are an intimate of the Inquisitor's."

Suddenly de Silva's restless eyes, forever mocking and probing, stopped as if a new thought had occurred to him. He half-closed them and nodded. "A great privilege. By the way, sir, it seems strange to me that a man of your name and fame should not be one of us. All good Christians ought to unite in defense of the Faith."

"I'm not a theologian," snapped the other.

"Nor am I. It's an honor merely to serve the Cause as a humble soldier."

De Vargas said nothing.

"Of course I regret that the Holy Office must at times use severity," de Silva went on. "But what would you have? If bloodletting and dosing are often necessary to save the body, one cannot object to medicine that saves the soul. The reverend fathers are heavenly physicians. It is wonderful, sir, to watch their patience and skill in discovering and treating the devilish disease of heresy—the worst of diseases, as you must admit. They trace the slightest symptom to its

roots until the cancer is laid bare. I take it, you have not attended an examination?"

"No," grunted de Vargas.

The other leaned back reminiscently with the tips of his long fingers together.

"It's a valuable experience. I recall the last examination I had the privilege of watching. It was of a woman, Maria Oqueda. Note how alert the reverend fathers are. It was brought to their attention that she did not eat pork and that she bathed on Saturday. You and I would have made nothing of this, but not so the learned friars. They scented disease; the woman was arrested. Before the tribunal, she maintained, of course, that pork disagreed with her and that she bathed for reasons of cleanliness. Such excuses did not hoodwink the Inquisitor. She was stripped bare as my hand—"

"Remember that there are ladies here," de Vargas growled.

"No offense, my good sir. In the treatment of this ailment, the patients are stripped—a plain fact. She was then placed on the ladder, and the cords were tightened. What an outcry, senor! You'd hardly have thought it human. But obstinate? My word! Except for screams and babble, they could get nothing from her. I spare you details which may offend the ladies. This lasted more than an hour. She was then moved to the bench and given the water torment, a curious operation. Time passed, but the zeal of the reverend fathers did not slacken. For the sake of this woman's soul, they even postponed their dinner."

Dona Maria was white to the lips, and Mercedes, getting up, had hidden her face against her mother's shoulder. Pedro, disgusted, glanced at his father, whose sallow cheeks were flushed.

"They got results in the end," de Silva continued easily. "The woman confessed everything they suspected. She admitted practising Jewish-ness in secret. No one would have imagined such a crime, for she was born Christian. You can see by that the astuteness and patience of the Inquisitor, whom God must have inspired. The woman's goods were confiscated, and you may recall that she was burned in the last auto-da-fe. God forgive her sins!"

There was a bleak silence. De Silva suppressed a smile.

"And one can never tell," he added, "at what age the disease will strike. I remember the examination of a boy of twelve. He refused to bear witness in the case of his parents and was hoisted on the strappado. They then—"

"One moment, sir," interrupted de Vargas, lisping ominously. "We have had enough of this talk. It is unpleasant."

De Silva looked amazed. "Unpleasant to know that there are champions of the Faith who spend themselves to uproot the detestable sin of heresy? Don't you approve of the methods of the Holy Office?"

"I told you that I wasn't a theologian, and I have never been a hangman's valet. It ought to be unnecessary to point out that certain things aren't discussed in mixed company—details of the lazaret, the Jakes, or the torture room."

"Pretty squeamish for an old soldier," de Silva sneered. "I didn't think you were so lily-livered. I'm sure the ladies enjoy it—don't you, Dona Maria? As for the Holy Office, it hardly seems to me that you are overrespectful."

The dike burst. Francisco de Vargas straightened up in his chair, his nose Like a beak, his mouth grim, and the light of battle in his eyes. But in contrast, when he spoke, his voice was very gentle.

"Look you, sir, I'm not used to being reproved by young popinjays. Lily-livered? Before you were born, I was fighting the Moors. I have given more blood for the Faith than you have in your body. But I have fought men. I haven't stood slavering in a jail over the torture of women and children. Humble soldier of the Holy Office, indeed! As to manners, you seem to forget where you are and who I am. Do I make myself plain?"

Doiia Maria tried to speak, but could not get a word out. Pedro leaned forward, intent and prepared. But de Silva seemed unimpressed, though his black eyes danced.

He got up carelessly. "Not quite plain, Don Francisco. Later perhaps we can clear matters up. For instance, I'm not sure why you wish to pick a quarrel with me. Though injured by this young ruffian of a son of yours, I came here peaceably and alone. It was a mistake. I should have brought witnesses."

"Injured?" exclaimed de Vargas. "Injured?"

"If I attacked two of your servants, opened the face of one and broke the arm of another, wouldn't you call it injury?"

Don Francisco stared. "What do you mean, por Dios?''

Pedro's time had come. He stood up a little flustered, but with his eyes level on de Silva. "Add that your men set their dogs on a girl and then assaulted her. It makes a difference."

"Oho!" interjected his father.

De Silva nodded. "Yes, I forgot. The rogues were amusing themselves with your son's sweetheart, a tavern slut from the Rosario, a notable whore named Perez. Call it assaulting if you like. She lives by assaults."

"It's a lie." Pedro drew closer with his fists clenched.

"And having ridden down my men, he fondles the strumpet, puts her on his horse, and so back with them embracing to the privacy of the Rosario. Is that a lie too? Or did my fellow see wrong? At least the town will be amused to hear about it."

In the stricken quiet of the pavilion, Pedro was aware of his father's glazed look, his mother's distress, the pumping of his own heart. He remembered the scene with Catana at church, and how that clinched matters against him.

"So you didn't know of it?" de Silva went on. "I suppose he gave you to understand that he was hunting my slave. A fine story! I wish I knew the real truth of that part of it. And yet he calls me a liar!"

Pedro wished desperately now that he had told his parents about Catana. He would have told them, except for the ban against the Rosario and the fuss his mother had made at the church. The worst of it was the blow to his father's pride.

Francisco de Vargas got up.

"I did not know," he said coldly. "My son failed to inform me. He and I will settle that matter between us. If your men were innocent, I shall pay any proper claim. I shall report the affair tomorrow to the Corregidor and leave it in his hands. So much for that. It has nothing to do with what we were discussing—the subject of your manners, sir. If anything I said displeases you, I shall be glad to give you satisfaction at your pleasure."

"And I," said Pedro.

De Silva walked to the threshold of the pavilion and stood there a moment, a dark silhouette against the evening outside.

"I do not fight with striplings about their doxies," he answered with a half-laugh. "Or with cripples."

"Be careful," said Don Francisco.

"As to satisfaction," smiled the other, "leave that to me."

His footsteps died away before anyone spoke.

"I'm afraid," faltered Dona Maria. "What will he do?"

"Do?" retorted her husband. "Nothing. The man's a coward. He can do nothing against me." Then, turning to Pedro, "Did you hunt that slave?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you an affair with Catana Perez?"

"I have not."

"Did you visit the Rosario inn today against my orders?'"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, my son, for that I shall give you a sound flogging when we return to the casa"

ix

Stripped to the waist and kneeling at his father's prie-dieu in front of a gaunt crucifix on the wall, Pedro de Vargas braced himself to receive punishment. If he lived to be an old man, he would never forget that particular crucifix, which he had stared at on many such occasions. Other details of the severe, bare room that served his father as cabinet and study would remain vivid: the narrow, high-backed chairs of black oak; the table with its tall candlesticks, where Pedro had sweated at his lessons; the half-dozen leather-bound books, which constituted the family library; the rack of weapons and stands of armor, which were more interesting than anything else. But the crucifix was stamped on his mind more intimately and unforgettably.

He felt no resentment at being whipped, nor did Don Francisco flog him with any passion. It was more like receiving and administering a dose of bitter medicine. Pedro knew that he had disobeyed orders by visiting the Rosario, and that, if found out, he must pay for it. His father knew that discipline must be taught; it belonged to Pedro's military apprenticeship. It belonged also to that training in fortitude and scorn of pain which toughened the Spanish soldier.

Riding whip in hand, the elder de Vargas glanced with pride at his son's strong back, the ridges of muscles along the spine, his powerful shoulders and biceps, the small waist.

"I must attempt to make you remember that orders are orders," he said. "Have you any excuse?"

"Only, sir, that the Rosario inn was close at hand, and that I was more than hungry after hunting for the Indian. I had had no breakfast."

"Pooh!" said Don Francisco. "My dear son, reflect a moment. Often in your career you will be called upon to stand thirst and hunger for days at a time. Suppose you are sent on a foray by your captain. You must carry out the directions, food or no food. But in this case you could not even resist appetite for a few hours. I hope you understand how unmanly that was."

"Yes, sir."

"Moreover, in this case, you deliberately disobeyed. I have often told

you that you can never expect to command unless you learn to obey. Is that clear?"