Bridge of Fire, page 16
Chapter XIII
For a reason known only to her inquisitors, Francisca was not taken to the torture chamber the next morning. Her slop jar was emptied; the warder, mum as usual when questioned, brought her bread soaked in water to break her fast. Francisca tried to guess why the judges had delayed her session in the torture chamber. Had they deliberately decided to let her wait, assuming that uncertainty would weaken her will?
A few hours later the jailer opened her door and roughly shoved a woman inside. “Here is another Judaizer to keep you company,” he said.
It was Aunt Juliana.
Francisca stood stunned for a long moment. Then she ran to her aunt, embracing her, holding her tightly, weeping for joy. Juliana had lost none of her plumpness; her cheeks were still round as apples, her color high. It was so good to see a member of the family who was whole and in good health, and not broken by the rack or pale with fear.
Francisca smoothed Juliana’s white lace collar and hugged her again. “Oh, Auntie, how wonderful you look, and you smell so clean! It distresses me to see you here. But you will forgive me if I say, never was a friendly face more welcome.”
“Poor child.” Juliana looked around the cell, her nostrils pinched, her gaze taking in the odorous straw, the dirty mattress, and the slop jar. “It’s a wonder you are not ill.”
“I am as well as can be expected. But, Auntie,” she warned, lowering her voice to barely above a whisper before she went on, “we must be careful lest the jailer has his ear to the door. I suspect they have put you in with me thinking to overhear our conversation.”
“The idol-worshipping lackeys! I will be careful, blessed child. But you live, and that is what is important.”
“Yes, I live. But, Auntie, Ruy—Ruy is dead. He—he died a martyr’s death under torture.”
For a moment Juliana was struck dumb. She clasped her hands over her heart. “Ayee! God help us all! What a terrible loss! Such a good, pious man! Dead! Killed by dogs! And who was there to wash his corpse, to cut his nails and hair, to wrap him in a shroud and place a gold coin on his brow? No one but the accursed inquisitors, who have most likely buried him like a pagan. Nevertheless, God will surely take him into Paradise. Have you prayed for him, Francisca?”
“Yes, Auntie. That is not all. They took Jorge from me, tore him from my arms, saying they would give him to a Christian family. Jorge, so little…he…” Her voice caught on a sob. “He didn’t understand.”
“My dear niece, my dear niece,” Juliana murmured, patting Francisca’s hand. She lowered her weight on the stool, and Francisca seated herself on the floor at her aunt’s knees, putting her head in her lap as she often had done when a little girl.
Juliana touched Francisca’s cheek. “You have been badly used. Have they also tortured you?”
“Only my mind. I sorrow for Ruy and Jorge. But Ruy is out if it, and Jorge, I hope, is receiving kindness, even though it be Christian kindness. But, Juliana, they forced me to witness Mamá on the rack. Auntie…” Her voice broke again, and she could not go on.
Juliana kissed her niece, smoothing back her hair. “There, there,” she crooned.
Francisca, swallowing her tears, went on. “She was so brave, so brave. They—they twisted the rope, but she would admit nothing…It was I who gave way. I could not bear to hear her cries of pain.”
“And…?”
“I told them that Papá, Mamá, Leonor, and I were Judaizers. That was all. I informed on no one else. I said not a word about you and Beatriz having gone to Tacuba.”
“But we weren’t at Tacuba. Beatriz and I had moved to Seguro and were hiding in the house of a former Indian servant, a woman my daughter trusted implicitly.”
“Who gave you away? The ’trusted’ servant, perhaps?”
“Not Catalina. She hates the Office. They sent her husband to the galleys for spitting at a priest.”
“Then Beatriz is also in prison.”
“No. Beatriz managed to escape. When she heard the knock on the door, she guessed what was coming and climbed through a back window. She is young, you know, quick and fleet, and she ran into the fields. The constable was unable to catch her.”
“Then who informed on you?”
She shook her head. “I truly don’t know.”
Francisca drew a long breath. “I’m glad Beatriz got away. I wish her well. If only we had taken flight, too. But it’s useless to lament over what should have been done. It’s now I am concerned with. They have promised to take me and Mamá to the torture chamber again. For myself, I do not fear the rack as much as I fear what will happen if I must watch them torment Mamá.”
“You must pray for God to give you strength, my child. His mercy is eternal for us and all of Israel.” She kissed the top of Francisca’s head.
Francisca hugged her knees. “I had much hope until yesterday. A man, a friend from the past, visited me dressed as a friar, and promised to return to help me, as well as Mamá and Papá, escape.”
Juliana’s mouth fell open. “Well, why did you not say so before? Who is this friend?”
“Miguel del Castillo.” She hesitated a moment and, thinking a confession meant little now, added with a tinge of irony, “The father of my child.”
“Ah,” Juliana said, letting out her breath. “Your lover. Though you have never named him, I guessed as much.”
“You knew Jorge was not Ruy’s son?” Francisca asked, astonished.
“Not for certain. Just a feeling in my bones. Jorge had nothing of Ruy in looks or manner. When did Don Miguel come to see you?”
“Three, perhaps four weeks ago. Now I realize that he made an empty promise. He came because he thought I knew where they had taken Jorge.” Francisca’s mouth hardened, and her voice was bitter. “Auntie, I’m sure it was he who informed on us. In a rash moment I let slip that we were Jews. He once swore he loved me—but it was a lie. He has never loved me.” Francisca paused, her mind suddenly looking back to the day he had asked her to marry him, and how a few words had changed him from lover to enemy. A tear appeared on her lashes and slowly rolled down her cheek.
Juliana said nothing, but rose and began to walk the tiny cell, clasping and unclasping her hands. Finally she stopped and looked down at Francisca, brooding over her for a few moments.
“Do you still love this Don Miguel?”
“How can I love a man that has betrayed us all?”
“You have answered my question with another question. I want the truth. Do you still love him?”
Francisca turned her eyes away from her aunt’s sharp gaze. “I don’t know. There was a time when I did with all my heart. But now…How can I answer after all that has happened?”
“I want the truth, Francisca. Do you still love him?”
Francisca lowered her head and, in a voice so low, Juliana had to bend to hear it, said, “In my heart I suppose I have never stopped loving him.”
“Then I have something to confess.”
“You?” Francisca looked up sharply. “About Miguel?”
“He came to the house one afternoon, shortly before your wedding. The others were out. You were having your siesta. I spoke to him—”
“Wait! I remember! I overheard only one meaningless phrase. I saw his arm—russet velvet. Later you said you were having a conversation with a merchant about a wedding gift. But it wasn’t a merchant, it was Miguel, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. It was Miguel. He wanted to see your father. I told him that Don Pedro was out. He said it was a matter of urgent importance. ‘Surely,’ I told him, ‘if you have wine to sell, the matter is not that urgent.’
‘You don’t understand,’ he replied, ‘I have come here to ask Don Pedro for his daughter’s hand in marriage.’”
“He said what?” Francisca rose to her feet slowly. “He came…”
“To ask for your hand in marriage. He said he loved you, that there had been a quarrel, but he hoped to make amends. I asked him if you and he had been lovers, but he refused to answer my question. He repeated that he wished to have you as wife.”
Francisca stared at her in disbelief. “Why was I never told?”
“I did what I thought was best. How could you marry a Christian, a relative of a hated inquisitor? Your life wouldn’t be worth a grain of salt.”
“I told you he already knew.”
“In the first flush of love, perhaps it didn’t matter. But later—”
“No! Can’t you see he didn’t care? Oh, God, if I had only known. What did you tell him?”
“I told him that you were very much in love with Don Ruy, that whatever had been between you and him had been a flirtation on your part, nothing more. That you yourself had told me that Don Ruy meant more to you than any man you had ever known.”
“Oh, God, God! And you sent him away?”
“Francisca, I did what I thought was for your own good.”
The urge to rage at Juliana, to upbraid her for having been stupid, blundering, and meddlesome, came and went. What was important now, more important than scolding Juliana, was that Miguel had loved her. He had had second thoughts. He had decided, whatever she was, Judaizer or Moslem or pagan, he loved her and had wanted her to be his wife. And Juliana had sent him away, thinking Francisca had used him as a man used a maid before he settles down to marriage with someone else. Was it any wonder that Miguel had been cool to her when he had come to her cell? He had seen her shock and dismay at the news of Ruy’s death, heard her praise Ruy as kind and decent. Miguel had believed that she loved Ruy. Yet he had been willing to risk all to save her. And her family.
“Something must have happened to him,” Francisca said, worried now, certain that Miguel had met with some mishap. “He may have been discovered and arrested.”
“It’s possible. No one is immune, especially if suspected of trying to help a prisoner escape.”
“There may have been others, men he hired to assist him, and among them an informer.”
“People are afraid,” Aunt Juliana said. “If they make confession to their priest and even hint that they suspect a Judaizer, they are urged to report it to the Holy Office or face damnation. Fear is what gives the Inquisition its power.”
Juliana was escorted to the audience chamber the next morning. What would happen to her there, Francisca could only guess. In all probability the same questions would be put to her aunt, and Juliana, surely defiant, would proudly admit she was a Judaizer while refusing to name others. She was not returned to the cell, and though Francisca continued to expect her, she was never to see Juliana again.
In the meanwhile Francisca waited, hope renewed that somehow Miguel would overcome what obstacles had delayed him and return. He couldn’t be dead. She would not allow herself to think of it. Nor could he have left New Spain without her. He loved her. He had told Aunt Juliana that he wanted to marry her. She kept that thought close to her heart, warming herself by it through the long, dismal hours, pacing or sitting, or on the lumpy mattress when sleep would not come.
Daily she expected the familiars to arrive and fetch her to the torture chamber. She wondered about her mother. Every step in the corridor would bring her quickly to the peephole, her eye straining to see. But Mariana’s broken figure shuffling between her guards never materialized. What had they done to her? Had she perished from the pain of bruised flesh and broken bones? Pictures of her mother’s suffering as she lay stretched upon the rack threatened to drive her mad with rage and frustrated helplessness. Only the thought that soon, soon Miguel would release them steadied her, calmed the urge to scream and throw her food at her jailer.
Then one night, as she lay listening to the scurry of rats, the cell door cautiously opened. Her heart leaped and bounded as she saw a Dominican monk enter, candle in hand, the hood of his habit pulled low.
“Miguel!”
He put his finger to his lips, then silently beckoned. Francisca snatched up her shawl and followed. The corridor was strangely silent. No wardens or familiars were in sight. Sleeping? Francisca wondered. Or had they been bribed to make themselves scarce?
The figure ahead moved swiftly, turning a corner, taking a staircase down to a lower level, into the bowels of the Casa de la Inquisición, housing those already condemned. Here the dampness was more acute, the walls sweating with moisture, the plaster peeling in strips. In the silence the drip-drip of water could be heard, then as they passed a grilled door, a rustle of straw, muffled sobbing, and a soft cry of “Mercy!”
They came to the end of the corridor and paused before a large oaken door. The Dominican unlocked it with a key from one of many on a large brass ring. They entered a room, a narrow cell that stank of its former occupants. When the figure Francisca had thought was Miguel’s closed and barred the door, she had her first inkling that something might be wrong. This Dominican was not tall enough; the shoulders, even in the habit, were too slender. Another trap?
“Who are you?” she asked in a whisper as the friar placed the candle on a keg.
The hood was thrown back.
“Beatriz!” Francisca’s astonishment gave way to joy. She rushed forward and embraced her mother’s cousin, so delighted she hardly noticed the way Beatriz stiffened at her touch. “Oh, Beatriz, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you. How did you find the habit? How did you manage to gain admittance? Did Miguel send you? And the keys, how…?” She was aware that she was babbling, but it was from sheer relief. No trap. Nothing to fear. It was Beatriz.
Francisca went on in a calmer tone. “You must tell me all, once we are shut of this terrible place. You are here, praised be the Lord. Mamá is in a bad way. I have heard nothing of Papá. And Juliana—”
“Wait!” Beatriz cautioned. “There is something I must ask before we proceed. The Benavidos—do you know where they may have gone?”
“No. You know as well as I that they left without telling anyone their destination. Is it important?”
“Yes. They never wrote or tried to communicate with you? And what about the Rodriguez family? The Orozcos?”
“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“I have my reasons, which you will learn presently. One more thing. Did your father ever succeed in converting Fray Luis Morales?”
“Why, he was already a Judaizer. But, Beatriz, I don’t understand any of this. Shouldn’t we be hurrying on? You have the keys—thank the Lord for that, a miracle, as Aunt Juliana would say—and if we don’t make haste, it may be too late.”
“It will matter little,” Beatriz said with a downward twist of her mouth. “You are not going far, cousin.”
“Beatriz,” she chided. “You are jesting, and this is no time for—”
“I am not jesting. I speak in sober truth.”
“But Beatriz—”
“You thought I had come to rescue you,” she interrupted again, venom in her voice. “You were wrong. You are still a prisoner, and will be until sentence is passed. And for my pleasure, your punishment will be the stake.”
Francisca had a moment of blackness, when the dim room grew even dimmer, and her heart pounded crazily in her ears. With force of will she stayed the threatening darkness and brought Beatriz’s face into focus again.
“So…” Francisca took a deep breath, amazed that she could speak at all. “You are with them” This was a blow, a disaster she had never in her wildest imagination foreseen. She had been betrayed, and by one of her own. Beatriz’s questions about the Benavidos, the Rodriguezes, should have warned her. But she had walked into the trap as trustingly as any babe.
“Yes,” Beatriz said, “I am one of them.”
“But when, how? What brought you to such a pass? Torture? It must have been.”
“Why are you so sure that I have chosen to be on the side of the Holy Inquisition because of torture? You are wrong. I renounced Judaism long ago. Any fool could see that clinging to a despised religion could bring nothing but scorn, imprisonment, and eventually the quemadero.”
“And you gave us away. All of us—Ruy, Mamá, Papá, Leonor, Juliana, myself, Jorge, and our friends? Why?”
“You would never understand, Francisca. You who were the great lady, waited upon hand and foot since infancy, catered to and coddled, given an extravagant dowry and a splendid wedding. While I was always a mestizo, a half-caste, the poor relation, treated like a servant. Don’t you think I was humiliated? ’Fetch me a glass of water, Beatriz,’” she mocked, her face, always plain, but ugly now, twisted with hate. “‘My shawl, Beatriz; hold my fan, Beatriz; be a good girl and run to the fishmonger, Beatriz; I have a rip in my skirt—could you mend it?’”
Francisca gazed at her in astonishment. “You resented us; all these years you resented the very errands or little services I myself would have performed gladly? We thought that by making yourself useful, you would not feel beholden.” They were to blame, the entire de Silva family, Francisca thought; they were to blame for not guessing at the canker of envy growing year by year in Beatriz’s breast. “I see where we were wrong. If only you had said something.”
“You would have called me ungrateful, reminding me that you had taken me into your home out of the kindness of your hearts. Kindness. I spit on your charity!”
Confounded, Francisca said, “But if you felt this way, why wait until now to betray us?”
“Do you remember Don Alfredo de Contreros?”
“Of course I do.” What had Don Alfredo to do with all this? “He was the profligate hidalgo who would marry you only if Papá gave you a large dowry.”
“I loved him,” Beatriz said, snatching Francisca’s arm, holding it in a bruising grip. “Do you know what I am saying? I loved him, and I didn’t care about his weakness for wine and women, about his wanting me for my dowry. I did not even care if, by marrying him, I would have become a lady. I wanted him, and your father dismissed him out of hand.”
