The Devils of Cardona (45 page)

Though the countess would not go into a convent or lose her title, she had taken vows of celibacy and pledged to dedicate the rest of her life to pious works. The legal status of her estates was not yet clear, the viceroy said, but she was believed to be seeking a special dispensation from His
Majesty to allow the Cardona inheritance to pass directly to her daughter, Carolina. Even more surprising, her father-in-law had signed documents renouncing the Espinosa family's claims to her estates. All this was known even in Zaragoza, because the countess had made sure of it. A lot of men would be disappointed by this decision, the viceroy said, including some he knew, but what the world had lost, the church had certainly gained.

Mendoza smiled. He imagined the countess kneeling in front of the altar and the wounded blue eyes gazing up toward the cross as she pledged herself to Christ in front of a packed church. He had no doubt that the congregation would have been impressed by her piety, because the Countess of Cardona was a very pious and very convincing woman, who was cleverer than any of them thought, and she was willing to take great risks to protect those she loved. And whether or not her secrets were ever revealed, he promised himself that it would not be due to him.

•   •   •

T
HE
M
ARQUIS
OF
V
ILLAREAL
looked out the window as his carriage climbed up the hill from the Manzanares River alongside the old defensive walls toward the broad plateau where the great stone façade of the Royal Alcázar loomed over the capital. The road was busy, and some of the travelers paused to admire the gleaming silver-and-walnut carriage with its team of six horses and its fifteen-man escort. Villareal stared stoically past them toward the four conical towers and the rows of symmetrical windows, where his gaze rested anxiously on the Golden Tower that housed the royal apartments.

For years his life and career had revolved around the Royal Palace. Within its walls he had made love and money, friends, allies and enemies, and he had continued the inexorable ascent that would one day take him into the royal household. There had been times when things had not always gone as they should, but he'd never felt that his position within the court or the government was under any real threat. Even his rivals understood that
he was one of the king's most trusted ministers, and until very recently Villareal had believed that, too. But now he could not shake off the feeling that the world he had once belonged to was slowly and invisibly pulling away from him and that there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

It was six weeks since he'd last received a report from Alcalde Mendoza and a month since he'd received the letter announcing that all the judge's future reports would be sent directly to the king. Since then his secretary had written four letters to Zaragoza demanding an explanation, without receiving an answer. He had even sent a letter and a messenger to the viceroy's house, but Mendoza had refused to speak to him.

It was obvious that Mendoza had now become his enemy. As the carriage approached the central gate, he reminded himself that Calvo was dead, and so were Sánchez and the Catalan. Whatever Mendoza knew, or thought he knew, and whatever he'd told the king, there was no one left alive who was able to testify against Villareal. Yet he had written to the king two weeks ago to recommend a replacement for Corregidor Calvo and to demand Mendoza's recall and still had not received a reply.

That silence was far more troubling than Mendoza's, and he tried to suppress his anxiety as the carriage entered the courtyard and came to a halt alongside the patio where the Council of Aragon had its chambers. A servant opened the door, and he stepped down onto the cobblestones and glanced around at the familiar crowd of hawkers, food vendors, courtiers, lords and ladies, servants, pages, officials and petitioning soldiers who filled the vast space. He nodded at the courtiers and officials who required acknowledgment, and they nodded back or bowed and fluttered their fans. All this was how it should be, and it was not until he saw Secretary Vázquez standing outside the doorway of the Council of Aragon that his stomach tightened and the anxiety flared up once again.

“Good morning, Secretary Vázquez.”

“Excellency.” The secretary did not bow or return the smile. “His Majesty wishes to see you.”

“Of course,” Villareal replied. “Shall I attend His Majesty after the council meeting or later today?”

“The king wishes to see you now.”

Villareal nodded obediently and followed the secretary up to the first floor, past the rows of paintings and past more officials and courtiers, some of whom, he was now certain, were looking at him differently. The secretary left him in the reception room, and he glanced absently at the rows of paintings by Titian, Antonis Mor, Tintoretto and Bassano and other artists whose names he'd forgotten. Normally he liked to arrive early to his meetings with the king in order to admire them, but now he paced up and down until he came to a halt in front of the triptych by the Flemish painter Bosch, one of the king's favorites.

The central panel showed a peaceful, bucolic scene of peasants enjoying themselves around a giant hay wagon while Jesus looked down from a cloud above them. Some were singing, dancing and playing musical instruments. Others were preparing and eating food against a background of green hills. In the third panel, an army of demons and half-men/half-animals were storming a town with siege ladders and burning, raping, killing and looting while the corpses of naked men and women littered the ground all around them.

The juxtaposition disturbed him, and he did not understand the painter's intentions. He was still staring at the painting when Secretary Vázquez emerged through a door and summoned him inside. The king was in his study, dressed in his usual black, and did not look up as he entered the room.

“We have received an unusual request from the Countess of Cardona,” he said. “She wishes to change the status of the Cardona inheritance so that her estates can be passed on to her daughter. I am minded to do as she asks, given that it now appears she was not what she seemed to be. And this judge of yours speaks very highly of her.”

Villareal bowed slightly. “As Your Majesty wishes.”

“He speaks less highly of you, Counselor,” the king went on. “In fact,
we have lately received a troubling letter from Zaragoza in which Alcalde Mendoza has made some very serious accusations.”

Villareal had the peculiar sensation that the floor was moving beneath his feet. He would have liked to sit down, but he received no such invitation as Secretary Vázquez read out the contents of Mendoza's letter in an emotionless monotone.

“Your Majesty, I categorically deny these scurrilous and groundless accusations, and I defy Judge Mendoza to produce any evidence to support them,” he said emphatically when Vázquez had finished.

Philip nodded at his secretary, who presented him with the copy of Calvo's confession, and the two men watched in silence while Villareal read it.

“Sire, this document has no legal value. It is the last testament of a man who is about to kill himself and has clearly lost his senses. I have never had the relationship with the corregidor that he describes.”

“And yet he insists that you did. And Judge Mendoza has also sent us letters that you sent to him in which you refer to ‘our business in Cardona' and a man called Lupe?”

“I was referring to the corregidor's investigation, sire. And the name refers to the bandit Lupercio Borrell, whom I wanted Calvo to arrest.”

“Señor Borrell was also in our employ at one time, was he not? When he assisted the Catholic cause in France?”

“That is correct, Your Majesty.”

“And he performed some valuable services on our behalf?”

“He did, Majesty. But he has since become a criminal and a bandit, and it was my understanding that he was working for Baron Vallcarca.”

“I see.” The gray eyes continued to look at him with the same terrifying disdain. “And what did you mean by ‘sparkle'?”

“'Sparkle,' Your Majesty?”

“You asked the corregidor for more sparkle—on more than one occasion.”

“I wanted the corregidor to pursue his investigations with more vigor.”
Villareal was conscious that his forehead was sweating, and he resisted the urge to wipe it. “I believe that Alcalde Mendoza has misinterpreted my language and my intentions.”

“Yet you yourself have told me that this judge is of good reputation. And now you say that he is incompetent and reckless and you have asked me to recall him.”

“I have since discovered that his reputation was inflated. It has been obvious for some time that he has been out of his depth in this investigation.”

The king nodded. “Perhaps,” he said icily. “But Grand Inquisitor Quiroga has written to us praising Judge Mendoza for his cooperation, and he has mentioned your name in connection with the murders of his officials.”

It seemed to Villareal that a howling, cold wind was blowing through the room. He felt dizzy and light-headed and wished that he could sink into the floor and vanish.

“Sire, this is a conspiracy to blacken my name. You know that I have always served you well.”

“Indeed. But now your services are no longer required. You are no longer my counselor, and you are no longer welcome at court. You may return to your estates, but you will no longer travel anywhere with more than four servants.”

“Your Majesty—”

Philip smiled. It was an odd, disturbing smile without a trace of warmth, humor or understanding, a smile that told Villareal the conversation was now over and so was his career. He bowed deeply and left the room, and as the door closed behind him, he knew that he would never be coming back.

•   •   •

O
N
S
UNDAY
, Mendoza went to church early and lit two candles, one for Daniel and one for Martín, and waited for the congregants to arrive. He was pleased to see Elena among them, and he was even happier to see that
she was without her husband. After all this time, he was not confident that she might still have any interest in him, but as soon as he saw her lips part with pleasure beneath the veil, he knew that he had no need to worry. When the service was over, he went outside and waited for an opportunity to speak to her and suppressed his impatience when he saw Saravia waddling toward him.

“There you are, Mendoza,” the judge said, looking at him suspiciously. “I heard you were back, but you didn't come to see me.”

“I arrived late yesterday afternoon, Your Worship. I intended to report to you first thing tomorrow.”

“Did you? And did you know that the king was preparing to send three thousand troops to Cardona and he has now reversed his decision? Did you know the Marquis of Villareal has been dismissed from his post and expelled from the court? No one seems to know why, but they're saying he will be lucky to escape criminal charges.”

“I was unaware of that, sir.”

“Well, you can give me a full report tomorrow.”

Mendoza promised that he would, and as the judge wandered off to speak to a group of lawyers, he saw Elena with the corner of his eye, gracefully maneuvering her way through the crowd toward him with her maidservant, like the figurehead of a ship.

“Licenciado Mendoza!” she said. “You have descended from the mountains. Have you brought the stone tablets with you?”

“Unfortunately, I was unable to find them, Doña Elena.” He bowed. “I returned yesterday.”

“But was your mission successful?”

“As much as could be expected.”

“Well, your return is fortuitous,” she said, fluttering her fan. “On Wednesday we are having some entertainment at my house. There will be music, poetry and dancing. Will you come and play the vihuela for us?”

“Duty permitting, madam,” he said with the faintest of smiles.

“I hope it does,” she said, lowering her voice. “Because my vihuela needs tuning, and no fingers have touched its strings in your absence.”

Mendoza nodded gravely and said that he would he happy to make them sing again. He watched her leave and then moved lightly across the vast square, tapping his stick, with his black cloak trailing behind, scanning the arches and nooks and crannies in search of vice and crime as the cathedral bells rang out in celebration and the fragment of an old poem flashed through his head—“Do not be late, for I am dying, jailer / Do not be late, for I am dying”—and another voice answered back, in time with the bells,
Not yet, not
yet.

I would like to thank Jonathan Ferguson and Henry Yallop, from the Royal Armouries Museum in Leeds, for sharing their knowledge and expertise regarding sixteenth-century weaponry. I also wish to extend a special thank-you to my agent, George Lucas, who saw the potential of this book at a very early stage and carefully nurtured it through to publication. Without his encouragement and support, it can truly be said that it would not have been written.

Matthew Carr
is a writer, a journalist, a blogger, and the author of several books of nonfiction, including
Blood and Faith: The Purging of Muslim Spain
. He has written for a variety of publications, including
The New York Times
,
The Observer
,
The Guardian
, and others. He lives in the United Kingdom with his family.
The Devils of Cardona
is Carr's first novel.

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