Bridge of fire, p.12
Bridge of Fire, page 12
No, she wouldn’t think of it.
As she stooped to blow out the bedside candle, she heard the door creak behind her, a stealthy sound that sent an icy current along her arms.
“Who is it?” she whispered.
The door slowly opened, and Miguel came into the room.
“You?” Startled, she drew back, her hand going to her mouth.
“In the flesh.”
She took a deep breath to steady herself. Miguel stood only a few feet from her, Miguel in black velvet and white linen, smelling of leather and horses and the sea.
“How did you get in?” she asked in a low, husky whisper. When he started to speak, she cut him off. “Don’t answer. I recall how adept you are in clambering over garden walls.”
“It pleases me that you haven’t forgotten.” He smiled.
That smile: the white, even teeth in a bronzed face, the eyes that looked dark, almost black, in the shadowed room, reminded her of other smiles, other rooms…
She drew herself up. “Why are you here? Why have you come like a thief in the night?”
“Curiosity,” he replied easily. “I heard that you had married Don Ruy after all. And that you had a son. I came to see if the child was mine.”
“He is not. And if he were, what concern is that of yours?” she asked sharply. “He would be half-Jew, a child with tainted blood.”
Miguel said nothing, but silently approached the bed. He stood for a long time looking down at the boy, his features expressionless. He was hatless, his shoulder-length red-gold hair glinting in the flickering lamplight. Francisca eyed him with rancor. Yes, he was handsome, as handsome as she remembered, the Latin profile so like a heathen god’s, the proud head and the thin, sensuous mouth above the beard still the same. But she had not forgotten who he was or how he had cast her aside because of her faith.
“Now that you’ve seen him,” she said with asperity, “I must ask you to leave.”
“What did you name him?” he asked, ignoring her request.
“Jorge, Jorge Carlos.”
“He favors you. But the chin—”
“My husband’s. Are you relieved, Miguel, relieved that you haven’t fathered a marrano bastard?”
He turned to face her, the smile gone, a hard, arrogant look in his eyes. The look angered her; he was relieved, damn his soul! He had come to make sure that he hadn’t spawned a by-blow unworthy of the pure del Castillo blood.
“Is he your husband’s? I want the truth, Francisca, or by God…”
“By God, what? How dare you come here, how dare you threaten me?” She tried to bring her temper under control, but the memory of the humiliating way in which he had dismissed her twisted her heart. Damn him! “You want the truth?” she spat at him. “All right. I’ll give it you! I was carrying the boy when I married Don Ruy. There you have it. Now, go and inform your uncle, the Inquisitor, that you have a Jew for a son. Because according to Hebraic law, the mother determines her child’s race. Go on! Go on!” she taunted, beside herself with anger.
It was an anger that had grown, accumulating through the years, an anger building up out of sorrow and pain, out of sleepless nights and silent tears, an anger so large she had not guessed at it until now. He had come back, not with regret, but with curiosity. Curiosity!
“Lower your voice!” he commanded, a cold glitter in his eyes. “Or would you prefer waking the household?”
She swallowed, clenching her fists at her sides. “This is my home. You have no right to be here.”
“Haven’t I?” His voice had resorted to its usual cool tone, but beneath his words she caught the resonance of an anger to match her own. “Where can we go where we won’t be heard?”
“I have nothing more to say.”
He gripped her arm with fingers of steel and pulled her close. “You forget that I’m not one to be ordered about.”
He was hurting her, bruising her skin, and she sensed the anger simmering under the deceptively calm surface. She could tell by his rapid breath, the slight tremor of his muscled arm, that he was keeping himself in check, that he could break her in two if he wished.
“Let me go or I’ll scream.”
“I think not. Scream and you will not live to regret it.”
She was suddenly afraid of him, afraid of what he might do. How far would anger goad him? Enough to kill her, the impure mother of his son? Kill her and abduct Jorge, passing him off as the offspring of a union with a Christian mistress. Or would he harm Jorge? No. Not that. He had always wanted a son. But not hers.
“There must be a place in this large house where we can remain undisturbed.” His fingers took a fresh purchase on her arm.
“You’re hurting me.”
He let go. “I’m not a bully. But so help me…”
The menace in his voice sent another finger of fear up her spine. “There…” She wet her lips. “There is a room below, used for sewing and weaving.”
“Let us find it, then.” He propelled her toward the door.
“I must speak to my husband. He will wonder why I haven’t come to bed.”
They went out onto the gallery. “Wait here,” she said in a low voice.
He grasped her skirt as she started away. “If you do not return in a few minutes,” he whispered, “I will follow you.”
When she entered the bedchamber, she found Ruy already asleep, lying on his back, soft snores issuing from his halfopen mouth. She stood for a few moments, her hands at her breast, listening to her heavy heartbeats. She must get rid of Miguel as soon as she could. She could never explain his presence here in the house. Oh, why did he have to come?
When she returned to the gallery, she thought for a moment that he had gone. But no. He detached himself from the shadows and took her arm once more. She led him down the stairs to the dining room, where she lighted a candle from the oil lamp kept burning there.
The weaving room was across the patio and through a dark passage. As Francisca opened the door, they were assailed by the astringent odor of new leather and fermenting indigo. This was the room where hired artisans skilled in leather-work, needlework, dyeing, and weaving produced the household’s clothing. In one corner was a pile of cotton, still to be seeded, and beside it a bale of tanned hides.
Francisca put the candle down on a chest next to a loom, the flickering light throwing crouching shadows across the whitewashed ceiling. When she turned, Miguel was closing the door behind him.
“What is it you have to say?” Francisca asked coldly, though her heart was beating in a loud, erratic way.
He came across the room, his hand resting lightly on his sword hilt. He halted a foot from where she stood, his narrowed, probing eyes going over her, pausing at her waist, lingering at her breasts.
“Motherhood seems to have agreed with you,” he said, breaking a tense silence. “Tell me, do you love him?”
“My husband? Yes. Very much,” she lied. “He is kind, he is faithful and generous to a fault.”
“And he beds you well?”
“It is no concern of yours. However, if you insist on knowing, the answer is yes. I could not ask for a more ardent lover, passionate beyond anything I could expect.” Francisca saw a muscle twitch in his cheek. Good, she thought. No Spanish male likes to hear of a rival who pleasures his paramour—past or present—as well or better than he.
“I think you lie, my beautiful Francisca.” The silky voice was more menacing than if he had shouted at her.
He moved closer, his eyes burning with a strange glitter.
“You…” She swallowed, steadying the tremor in her voice as she went on, “You cannot abide the truth when—”
“Enough!” He reached out, inserting his hand in her bodice, and pulled her roughly against his hard chest. He stared down at her, eyes narrowed, the way he had stared over the length of his sword at the luckless Don Carlos. She felt a tingle of fear at the back of her neck.
Then he brought his mouth down, savaging hers, a punishing kiss, not caring if it hurt. Her balled fists struggled up, beating at his arms and back, sliding futilely down as his tongue and teeth pried her lips open. Her hand touched his sword hilt and came up again, grasping it.
Aware of her intent, he pushed her away, so violently, she fell back against the chest. He unbelted his sword and, throwing it in a corner, advanced on her again, bringing her upright.
“You have a way of forcing my hand,” he said grimly, swiftly unlooping the small buttons at the front of her gown.
“No, Miguel. No!” She tried to wrench herself free, but he steadied her by grasping a shoulder. Flushed, angry, trembling, she could think of nothing to say except, “You—will get me with child again!”
“You did not seem to care before.” He pushed her protesting hands away. “Would you rather I tore the clothes from your body? You have no choice, Francisca. Submit.”
“Never!”
“Such drama.”
Pinioning her wrists with one strong hand, he undressed her with the other, his supple fingers skillfully maneuvering buttons, hooks, and loops. When she stood shivering, naked, and quiescent, he began to unbutton his doublet. Francisca, freed of his hold, bolted for the door. He caught her and flung her upon the heap of cotton, falling over her, covering her with his weight.
“Don’t do this,” she whispered, “I beg of you.”
He buried his head in her throat, pressing her into soft, yielding cotton bolls beneath. For a long time he held her thus, the gilded buttons of his doublet digging into her naked flesh. Then he started to kiss her, softly this time, his lips a feather touch upon her cheeks, her mouth, the side of her neck. Lifting himself slightly, he brought his mouth down to a breast, taking the tender nipple in his mouth, his tongue swirling about it.
She caught her breath as she felt the crest harden. It had been years since her breasts had been so erotically caressed. Ruy’s clumsy kneading had always left her cold. But this…
“You mustn’t,” she said weakly, bringing up her hands to push his head away. But they faltered as Miguel took the other nipple in his mouth, sucking with warm lips, his thumb gently manipulating the rosy peak he had just left. Her hands tangled in his hair as the old familiar, half-forgotten languor began to take possession of her body.
“Francisca, must I not?”
She did not answer, did not move as he finished stripping himself of doublet and breeches.
Then he was over her again, caressing, kissing, spreading her unresisting flanks. When he entered her, pressing deep inside, filling her as she hadn’t been filled in six long years, she moaned, her senses expanding, reeling, taking wing. She surged against him, raising her hips, moving with him, linking her hands across the rippling muscles of his back, as if to draw him closer. He dug his chin into her shoulder, whispering words she could not catch. But words were meaningless in the torrent of sensations that tore through her. Her veins ran with molten lava, her bones melting in the heat; she would die of it, die happily. Miguel’s thrusting grew wilder and wilder until, pulled into a revolving vortex, they were both suddenly thrown into blinding light.
For a long time nothing could be heard but their heavy breathing as Miguel’s damp, perspiring body lay over hers. He was her lover, her love. Nothing, not even Miguel himself, had changed that. But it was a lost love, a hopeless one. Tears crowded her eyes and slipped from her closed lids before she was able to stop them. She must not weep. Above all she must not let Miguel know that he had triumphed again over her soul as well as her body.
“Please go now,” she said when she could find her voice.
He rolled from her, raising himself on an elbow, trying to read her face in the dim light.
“You cannot mean that my lovemaking meant nothing to you.”
“When it is over, what is left? The hottest of fires leaves nothing but ashes at the end.”
He rose and silently got into his clothes. At the door he turned and gave her a hard, cold look. “I shall not trouble you again. If I need a bitch in heat, there are plenty for the taking.”
Then he was gone.
Don Pedro was hard put to understand why Miguel del Castillo had refused his invitation to supper.
“He claims he has lost his influence with the royal commission and cannot help me,” a puzzled Don Pedro told Ruy and Francisca. “And is too busy to take an evening off for a visit. A feeble excuse at best.”
It was Friday night again. The family had spent a half hour in their secret place of worship, lighting the Sabbath candles and reciting a simple prayer. This time they had been led by Jorge, who had memorized the Eighteenth Psalm of David, “I love Thee, oh Lord, my strength…” while the family had followed his words, beaming at him with pride. Now they were at supper.
“Have you in some way insulted del Castillo?” Don Ruy asked.
Francisca sat with downcast eyes, tracing the pattern of the damask cloth with her spoon. She was still struggling with the need to warn the men that Miguel knew their true identity. She had been on the verge of confession more than once, but somehow had not been able to find the right words.
“I cannot think how I might have, offended him,” Don Pedro said. “Whatever it was, it could not have been too serious. He has given me the name of a merchant who might be instrumental in getting me a larger allotment of quicksilver than the Crown currently allows.”
“The Crown.” Don Ruy shook his head. “They are stifling trade with their monopolies, decrees, and senseless ordinances forbidding us to trade directly with England or France. If we could conduct business with foreigners, it would be to the advantage of the king in the long run. As it is, contraband trade flourishes to the detriment of honest folk.”
Don Pedro sighed. “True. But it is not for us to question. We have not done badly despite the restrictions. And I, for one, am willing to let well enough alone.”
Always, Francisca thought bitterly, we take the cautious approach, tiptoeing through life, afraid to antagonize the authorities in the slightest matter, fearful of calling attention to ourselves. But what else could they do? To challenge the Crown was treason, punishable by banishment, imprisonment, or a sentence to the galleys. For a Jew to do so was certain death.
“I have no reason to quarrel with things as they are, either,” Don Ruy said with a smile. “A lovely wife, a son, one of the finest houses in Mexico City. What more could a man ask?”
What more? Francisca thought. Freedom to practice our own religion. Safety. The secure knowledge that they could not be harmed for what they thought. Tonight, Francisca promised herself, after we have gone to bed, I will tell Ruy.
But when they got home, Ruy said he wasn’t tired enough to retire. “I’ll sit with a book for an hour or two. Why don’t you go up to bed?” he suggested. “I won’t be too late.”
Francisca fell asleep waiting for him, and when she woke some time later, he was already in bed beside her deep in slumber. She was resettling her pillow when a loud pounding on the door below echoed through the silent house.
Francisca’s heart leaped into her throat. Who would come at this hour? Dear God!
More pounding, footsteps, voices. The hairs on the back of her neck stiffened.
A fusillade of ominous rat-a-tats again, a voice crying, “Open up in there! I say, open up in the name of God.” Terror shot through Francisca’s veins. That which she had dreaded for so long had come about. She bounded out of bed and threw a cape about her shoulders. Ruy, sitting up, said, “What is it?”
Francisca did not answer, but lit a candle from the coals on the hearth and went out on the gallery. Leaning over the rail, she saw the doorman holding a lamp while Diego, the footman, drew the heavy bolt. The door swung open with a crash. A tall man, the constable, followed by four hooded figures in the livery of familiars with the frightening green cross of the Holy Office sewn on it, entered. One remained guarding the door while the three others stationed themselves upon the stairs.
“Where is Don Ruy de Diaz? Let him come forth at once!”
“He is not here,” Francisca answered loudly, descending the staircase, flicking a look of disdain at the familiars. Petty volunteers, the lowliest officers of the Inquisition, they carded out their duties with nasty tyranny. “He is gone to Acapulco.”
“Then search the house!”
As the familiars turned to obey orders, Don Ruy, fully dressed, appeared.
“There is no need for that,” he said quietly. “I am here. What is your pleasure?”
“It is not for you to ask. Come with us.”
“No!” Francisca cried, clinging to Ruy. “I won’t let them take you!”
“My dear, the Lord, God, will protect me. Be brave.” She watched as he was escorted through the outer door, a man who had never harmed a soul, squaring his thin shoulders against whatever would come.
The worst had happened. Miguel in his anger had finally betrayed them to the Inquisition. But it was she, Francisca, who was entirely to blame.
Chapter XI
One of the most terrifying aspects of the Inquisition was its secrecy. Once a prisoner had been taken, it was as if he (or she) had vanished from the face of the earth.
Those on the outside would have no communication with the accused; no letters, no messages, not so much as a whispered word would reach them from the charged who had disappeared behind the Casa de la Inquisición walls. Rumor would run rampant, but whether based on fact or fiction was impossible to ascertain. Family and friends lived in daily fear, for who knew what the imprisoned might say or who might be implicated under the relentless questioning—or torture—of jailers?
A tearful Francisca belatedly confessed her relationship with Miguel to her father. She had expected anger from him, a sweeping command to take her bastard and never show her face again. But Don Pedro was too crushed by events, too stunned by Ruy’s arrest to do more than shake his head sadly. “Folly, my child, such folly. And see where it has brought us?”
He had become an old man overnight. The sight of his lined face, the hollowed eyes, trembling hands and voice, was a punishment far worse than his anger could have been.
