Authors: Ken Follett
But other iron makers in Seville were not so glad. They could see that Carlos was making twice as much money as they were. Surely there was a rule against this? Sancho Sanchez lodged an official complaint with the corporation. The council would have to make a decision.
Barney was worried, but Carlos said the corporation could not possibly go against the king’s armourer.
Then they were visited by Father Alonso.
They were working in the courtyard when Alonso marched in, followed by a small entourage of younger priests. Carlos leaned on his shovel and stared at the inquisitor, trying to look unworried, but failing, Barney thought. Aunt Betsy came out of the house and stood with her big hands on her broad hips, ready to take Alonso on.
Barney could not imagine how Carlos could be accused of being a heretic. On the other hand, why else would Alonso be here?
Before saying anything, Alonso looked slowly around the courtyard with his narrow, beaked nose in the air, like a bird of prey. His gaze rested on Ebrima, and at last he spoke. ‘Is that black man a Muslim?’
Ebrima answered for himself. ‘In the village where I was born, Father, the gospel of Jesus Christ had never been heard, nor had the name of the Muslim prophet ever been spoken. I was raised in heathen ignorance, like my forefathers. But throughout a long journey God’s hand guided me, and when I was taught the sacred truth here in Seville I became a Christian, baptized in the cathedral, for which I thank my heavenly father every day in my prayers.’
It was such a good speech that Barney guessed Ebrima must have made it before.
But it was not enough for Alonso. He said: ‘Then why do you work on Sundays? Is it not because your Muslim holy day is Friday?’
Carlos said: ‘No one here works on Sundays, and we all work all day every Friday.’
‘Your furnace was seen to be lit on the Sunday I preached my first sermon in the cathedral.’
Barney cursed under his breath. They had been caught out. He surveyed the surrounding buildings: the courtyard was overlooked by numerous windows. One of the neighbours had made the accusation – probably a jealous metal worker, perhaps even Sancho.
‘But we weren’t working,’ said Carlos. ‘We were conducting an experiment.’
It sounded thin, even to Barney.
Carlos went on, with a note of desperation: ‘You see, Father, this type of furnace has air blown in at the bottom of the chimney—’
‘I know all about your furnace,’ Alonso interrupted.
Aunt Betsy spoke up. ‘I wonder how a priest would know all about a furnace? Perhaps you’ve been talking to my grandson’s rivals. Who denounced him to you, Father?’
Barney could see from Alonso’s face that Aunt Betsy was right, but the priest did not answer the question. Instead he went on the offensive. ‘Old woman, you were born in Protestant England.’
‘I most certainly was not,’ Betsy said with spirit. ‘The good Catholic King Henry the Seventh was on the throne of England when I was born. His Protestant son, Henry the Eighth, was still pissing in his bed when my family left England and brought me here to Seville. I’ve never been back.’
Alonso turned on Barney, and Barney felt the deep chill of fear. This man had the power to torture and kill people. ‘That’s certainly not true of you,’ Alonso said. ‘You must have been born and raised Protestant.’
Barney’s Spanish was not good enough for a theological argument, so he kept his response simple. ‘England is no longer Protestant, nor am I. Father, if you search this house, you will see that there are no banned books here, no heretical texts, no Muslim prayer mats. Over my bed is a crucifix, and on my wall a picture of St Hubert of Liège, patron saint of metal workers. It was St Hubert who—’
‘I know about St Hubert.’ Clearly Alonso was offended by any suggestion that someone else might have something to teach him. However, Barney thought he might have run out of steam. Each of his accusations had been parried. All he had was men doing something that might or might not count as working on a Sunday, and Carlos and his family were surely not the only people in Seville who bent that rule. ‘I hope everything you have said to me today is the pure truth,’ Alonso said. ‘Otherwise you will suffer the fate of Pedro Ruiz.’
He turned to go, but Barney stopped him, concerned for Jerónima and her father. ‘What happened to Pedro Ruiz?’
Alonso looked pleased to have shocked him. ‘He was arrested,’ he said. ‘In his house I found a translation of the Old Testament into Spanish, which is illegal, and a copy of the heretical
Institutes of the Christian Religion
by John Calvin, the Protestant leader of the abominable city of Geneva. As is normal, all the possessions of Pedro Ruiz have been sequestrated by the Inquisition.’
Carlos did not seem surprised by this, so Alonso must be telling the truth when he said it was normal, but Barney was shocked. ‘All his possessions?’ he said. ‘How will his daughter live?’
‘By God’s grace, as we all do,’ said Alonso, and then he walked out, followed by his entourage.
Carlos looked relieved. ‘I’m sorry about Jerónima’s father,’ he said. ‘But I think we got the better of Alonso.’
Betsy said: ‘Don’t be so sure.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Carlos asked.
‘You don’t remember your grandfather, my husband.’
‘He died when I was a baby.’
‘Rest his soul. He was raised Muslim.’
All three men stared at her in astonishment. Carlos said incredulously: ‘Your husband was a Muslim?’
‘At first, yes.’
‘My grandfather, José Alano Cruz?’
‘His original name was Youssef al-Khalil.’
‘How could you marry a Muslim?’
‘When they were expelled from Spain he decided to convert to Christianity rather than leave. He took instruction in the religion and was baptized as an adult, just like Ebrima. José was his new name. To seal his conversion, he decided to marry a Christian girl. That was me. I was thirteen.’
Barney said: ‘Did many Muslims marry Christians?’
‘No. They married within their community, even after converting. My José was unusual.’
Carlos was more interested in the personal side. ‘Did you know he had been raised Muslim?’
‘Not at first, no. He had moved here from Madrid and told no one. But people come here from Madrid all the time, and eventually there was someone who had known him as a Muslim. After that it was never quite secret, though we tried to keep it quiet.’
Barney could not restrain his curiosity. ‘You were thirteen? Did you love him?’
‘I adored him. I was never a pretty girl, and he was handsome and charming. He was also affectionate and kind and caring. I was in heaven.’ Aunt Betsy was in a confiding mood.
Carlos said: ‘And then my grandfather died . . .’
‘I was inconsolable,’ said Betsy. ‘He was the love of my life. I never wanted another husband.’ She shrugged. ‘But I had my children to take care of, so I was too busy to die of grief. And then there was you, Carlos, motherless before you were a day old.’
Barney had an instinctive feeling that, although Betsy was speaking candidly, there was something she was holding back. She had not wanted another husband, but was that the whole story?
Carlos made a connection. ‘Is this why Francisco Villaverde won’t let me marry his daughter?’
‘It is. He doesn’t care about your English grandmother. It’s your Muslim grandfather he considers impure.’
‘Hell.’
‘That’s not the worst of your problems. Obviously Alonso, too, knows about Youssef al-Khalil. Today’s visit was just the beginning. Believe me, he will be back.’
*
A
FTER
A
LONSO
’
S VISIT
Barney went to the home of the Ruiz family to see what had happened to Jerónima.
The door was opened by a young woman who looked North African and was evidently a slave. She was probably beautiful, he thought, but now her face was swollen and her eyes were red with grief. ‘I must see Jerónima,’ he said in a loud voice. The woman put her finger to her lips in a shushing gesture, then beckoned him to follow her and led him into the back of the house.
He expected to see a cook and a couple of maids preparing dinner, but the kitchen was cold and silent. He recalled Alonso saying that the inquisition routinely confiscated a suspect’s goods, but Barney had not realized how fast it would happen. Now he saw that Pedro’s employees had already been dismissed. Presumably his slave was going to be sold, which would be why she was crying.
She said: ‘I am Farah.’
Barney said impatiently: ‘Why have you brought me here? Where is Jerónima?’
‘Speak quietly,’ she said. ‘Jerónima is upstairs, with Archdeacon Romero.’
‘I don’t care, I want to speak to her,’ said Barney, and he stepped to the door.
‘Please don’t,’ said Farah. ‘It will cause trouble if Romero sees you.’
‘I’m ready for trouble.’
‘I’ll bring Jerónima here. I’ll say a neighbour woman has called and insists on seeing her.’
Barney hesitated, then nodded assent, and Farah went out.
He looked around. There were no knives, pots, jugs or plates. The place had been cleared out. Did the inquisition even sell people’s kitchenware?
Jerónima appeared a couple of minutes later. She was different: she looked a lot older than seventeen suddenly. Her beautiful face was an impassive mask, and her eyes were dry, but her olive skin seemed to have turned grey, and her slim body trembled all over as if shivering. He could see the enormous effort it took to bottle up her grief and rage.
Barney moved towards her, intending to embrace her, but she stepped back and held up her hands as if to push him away.
He looked at her helplessly and said: ‘What’s going on?’
‘I am destitute,’ she said. ‘My father is in prison, and I have no other family.’
‘How is he?’
‘I don’t know. Prisoners of the inquisition are not allowed to communicate with their families, or with anyone else. But his health is poor – you’ve heard him panting after even a short walk – and they will probably—’ She became unable to speak, but it lasted only a moment. She looked down, breathed in, and regained control. ‘They will probably put him to the water torture.’
Barney had heard of this. The victim’s nostrils were closed to prevent him breathing through his nose, and his mouth was forced open, then jar after jar of water was poured down his throat. What he swallowed distended his stomach agonizingly, and the water that got into his windpipe choked him.
‘It will kill him,’ Barney said in horror.
‘They have already taken all his money and possessions.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Archdeacon Romero has offered to take me into his household.’
Barney felt bewildered. Things were moving too fast. Several questions occurred to him at the same time. He said: ‘In what role?’
‘We are discussing that right now. He wants me to take charge of his wardrobe, ordering and caring for his vestments, supervising his laundress.’ Speaking of such practical matters clearly helped her control her feelings.
‘Don’t go,’ Barney said. ‘Come away with me.’
It was a reckless offer, and she knew it. ‘Where? I can’t live with three men. It’s all right for your grandmother.’
‘I have a home in England.’
She shook her head. ‘I know nothing about your family. I hardly know anything about you. I don’t speak English.’ Her face softened briefly. ‘Perhaps, if this had not happened, you might have courted me, and made a formal offer to my father, and perhaps I would have married you, and learned to speak English . . . who knows? I admit I have thought about it. But to run away with you to a strange country? No.’
Barney could see that she was being much more sensible than he. But all the same he blurted: ‘Romero wants to make you his secret mistress.’
Jerónima looked at Barney, and he saw in her big eyes a hardness he had never noticed before. He was reminded of Aunt Betsy’s words: ‘Jerónima Ruiz has her eye firmly on her own selfish interests.’ But surely there were limits? Jerónima now said: ‘And if he does?’
Barney was dumbfounded. ‘How can you even say it?’
‘I’ve been thinking about this for forty-eight sleepless hours. I have no alternative. You know what happens to homeless women.’
‘They become prostitutes.’
This seemed not to shake her. ‘So my choice is flight with you into the unknown, prostitution on the streets, or a dubious position in the affluent household of a corrupt priest.’
‘Has it occurred to you’, Barney said tentatively, ‘that Romero might even have denounced your father himself, with the intention of forcing you into this position?’
‘I’m sure he did.’
Barney was astonished again. She was always ahead of him.
She said: ‘I’ve known for months that Romero wanted to make me his mistress. It was the worst life I could imagine for myself. Now it’s the best life I can hope for.’
‘And he has done that to you!’
‘I know.’
‘And you’re going to accept it, and go to his bed, and forgive him?’
‘Forgive him?’ she said, and a new light came into her brown eyes, a look of hatred like boiling acid. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I might pretend. But one day I will have power over him. And when that day comes, I will take revenge.’
*
E
BRIMA HAD DONE
as much as anyone to make the new furnace work, and he harboured a secret hope that Carlos would reward him by giving him his freedom. But as the furnace burned for days and weeks his hopes faded, and he realized that the thought had not even crossed Carlos’s mind. Loading cold ingots of iron onto a flatbed cart, stacking them in an interlocking web so that they would not shift in transit, Ebrima considered what to do next.
He had hoped Carlos would make the offer spontaneously, but as that had not happened he would have to ask outright. He did not like to beg: the very act of pleading would suggest that he was not entitled to what he wanted – but he
was
entitled, he felt that strongly.
He might try to recruit Elisa to support him. She was fond of him, and wanted the best for him, he felt sure; but did her affection extend so far as to free him, in which case he would no longer be there when she needed love at night?