The Devils of Cardona (44 page)

Mendoza's work was done, and he told the viceroy that he and his men would be returning to Castile the following morning. That night he and Ventura ate supper at the viceroy's house for the last time, and the viceroy invited Necker and Gabriel to join them. The next morning Mendoza ate breakfast with the old viceroy and thanked him for his hospitality and assistance.

“Not at all, Licenciado,” the viceroy replied. “Aragon and the king should thank you and your men for putting an end to this villainy. Now we can all look forward to the infanta's marriage next year. And I have just been informed that a new corregidor has been appointed in Jaca and that he will shortly be passing through Zaragoza.”

“And the king of Navarre is now heir to the French throne,” Mendoza said. “And he may have to become a Catholic. So perhaps the Béarnese will lose interest in Spain.”

“Perhaps,” Sástago said. “But I must warn you, Mendoza. Villareal sent a messenger to me personally this morning. The marquis is furious that you don't answer his letters. I would say he is also rather concerned.”

“He has good reason to be,” Mendoza said.

“I hope you know what you're doing, Licenciado Mendoza,” the viceroy said. “There's one other thing I wanted to ask you. I was talking to Judge Argensola after the execution, and he told me that during Vallcarca's
interrogation the baron said that the countess was a
bujarrona
. He said that she and her maidservant were having . . . intimate relations.” The viceroy pulled a face on uttering these words, as though he had just tasted a bitter lemon. “Did you ever have reason to suspect such a thing?”

Mendoza showed no sign of surprise or emotion. “I did not, Your Grace. And this sounds to me like another attempt by a desperate man trying to escape judgment.”

“That's what I thought.” The viceroy looked pleased. “Well, maybe now that all these villains are out of the way, she'll find herself a good man. She has to if she wants to preserve the House of Cardona.”

“She does, Your Grace,” Mendoza agreed. “And I have no doubt that she will find one.”

he countess sat watching Carolina scatter bread crumbs along the edge of the patio while Susana walked along beside her. From the roof and the high wall and the branches of the lemon tree, a few sparrows fluttered down and began to peck at them as Susana raised her finger to her lips to indicate to Carolina that she should remain silent. The countess and Susana smiled at each other, in a way that they were able to do only when they were removed from the scrutiny of the outside world. One day that might change, the countess thought, when Carolina grew older and learned that certain forms of love were sinful and forbidden, but for now the immediate threat that had been hanging over them had been removed.

She knew that this security was fragile and that the threat would never disappear completely. There was always the possibility that one day she or Susana would be
discovered, that some other Sánchez or Vallcarca might emerge to denounce or blackmail her, that some new inquisitor would take the place of Mercader. But more than ever it seemed a risk worth taking, and now, at last, she had found a way to reduce it. She had the letters of approval from Sister Margarita and Bishop Santos. That same morning she had discussed with Father García the final arrangements for Sunday's service and approved the message that was to be proclaimed by the
pregonero
over the coming days.

She knew that what she proposed to do was sinful. To renounce the flesh in public when she had no intention of renouncing it in private was not an act that could please God. But there were so many things she would do to please him that she was convinced that God would forgive her, and there was no other way that she, Susana and Carolina could remain together in this world and preserve the House of Cardona. One day she would convince her Morisco vassals that the Son of God had been born of a virgin. She would convince them to believe in the Holy Trinity and the Resurrection. She would bring those souls to Christ one by one, through patience and persuasion, till there would no longer be any distinction between Old Christians and New Christians. And one day, if God willed it, she would make her last confession in her own bed and not in an inquisitorial jail, surrounded by her daughter, her grandchildren and the woman she loved most of all.

She smiled at the thought as Tomás came out onto the patio and told her that the Count of Espinosa had arrived. For the first time in her life, she felt relieved to see her father-in-law. Because Espinosa was the one remaining issue she had not resolved, and since he had fled to Toledo, it had begun to seem increasingly unlikely that she could resolve it. She had sent two messengers in an attempt to coax him back, and now he had returned in search of the one thing that always attracted him. She promised herself that he would not leave unless she got exactly what she wanted.

She waited a few more minutes before going out to the drawing room.
The last time she'd seen him there, Espinosa had been unctuous, hypocritical and menacing. Now he oozed fake humility and fake repentance as he got up and tried to kiss her.

“Isabel,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

She walked straight past him without offering her cheek and sat down in the same seat where she had greeted him less than two months before.

“Of course you're sorry,” she said, looking at him coldly. “Because your master is now dead and your plot has collapsed.”

“I didn't know anyone would be killed!” he protested. “I only wanted to protect Cardona.”

“You wished to protect yourself, sir.”

“You judge me too harshly. You were being stubborn. Marrying Vallcarca was our best option.”

“
Your
best option. And please stop pretending that this had anything to do with my welfare. You demean yourself, sir. You would have seen me in the Aljafería!”

“I thought that you'd agree to marry Rodrigo first.”

“You lie to me as you lie to yourself. You are a villain, sir, and I could
never
judge you too harshly!”

Espinosa stiffened, and the haughtiness returned, curdling his bony, cadaverous features into a contemptuous scowl. “And is that why you asked me here? So that you could tell me that? You could have said it in a letter.”

“There are some things that cannot be said in letters. I summoned you here because you are fond of business propositions. Well, I have one to make to you. I will give you three thousand ducats toward your debts. In return you will renounce your family's claims to Cardona. You will agree never to return to these estates or have any contact with my daughter or any member of my family. You will agree to all this in the presence of a notary.”

Espinosa looked unimpressed. “That's a lot to ask for three thousand ducats. It won't even cover half of what I owe.”

“To guarantee this arrangement,” the countess went on, “you will sign a full confession in the presence of witnesses admitting that you and Vallcarca tried to blackmail me. You will state that any imputations of bad character or impious behavior attributed to me were inventions concocted by the two of you. In the event of any violation of this agreement, copies of this confession will be sent to the justiciar, to His Majesty and also to Licenciado Mendoza.”

Espinosa looked incredulous now. “And what makes you think I would be stupid enough to agree to something like that?”

“Because you are now in Cardona, and if you refuse, I shall have you arrested and placed in the seigneurial jail. My own courts will interrogate you and try you and find you guilty. And I assure you, you will hang.”

“Hang the father of your own husband? Come now, Isabel. That's not you at all.”

The countess was sitting demurely with her hands folded on her lap. “You have no idea what I am capable of, sir. Licenciado Mendoza knows everything about you. It is only because of me that you have not been arrested already. You have no more choices. You will do as I say or you will die in Cardona.”

Espinosa's clawlike hands were wrestling with each other, and he stared back at her with a mixture of helpless anger and self-pity. “You would blackmail an old man?”

The countess's face was expressionless as she got to her feet.

“I would, sir,” she said coldly. “You came back here for money. And I advise you to accept what I am offering. You may wait here while I summon the notary. If you even attempt to leave this room, you will be arrested. Would you like Esteban to bring you some lunch after your journey?”

“I've lost my appetite,” he replied.

“I'm sorry to hear that.” The Countess of Cardona smiled benignly, and with a faint swishing of her velvet gown she walked out the door and shut it quietly behind her.

•   •   •

O
N
THE
WAY
BACK
TO
V
ALLADOLID
, their mood was very different from that on the outward journey. This time there were no ribald anecdotes, no tales of old wars and battles, no cursing and laughter. All of them were conscious of the two companions whom they'd left in the mountains, though no one spoke about them. Conversation was sparse and mostly perfunctory. Even Gabriel, who had spoken to everyone and never stopped asking questions on the journey up from Castile, now spent much of the day riding alone, immersed in his own thoughts.

Ventura was also subdued, and Mendoza sensed that he was sinking into one of the brooding moods that often overcame him when there were no wars, adventures or affairs of the heart to distract and excite him. His cousin became noticeably more morose the closer they drew to Valladolid. On the final day, they reached the Esgueva River, and everybody's spirits seemed to lift at the sight of the city walls except Ventura's, who appeared even gloomier as Necker began talking almost animatedly about how much he was looking forward to seeing his wife and children again.

“And what will you do, cousin?” Mendoza asked.

“I don't know. See how things are in Madrid. Perhaps I'll go back to Flanders.”

“Why don't you stay with us till you make up your mind?”

Gabriel urged him to accept the invitation, and Mendoza was pleased to observe that his page seemed almost cheerful. He waited until they reached the outskirts of the city before riding alongside the young man.

“There's something I've been meaning to say to you,” Mendoza said awkwardly.

“Sir?”

“There are many men in Valladolid or Madrid who would like a page or a secretary. I could arrange it for you with an excellent recommendation, especially after what you've done.”

Gabriel looked at him in surprise. “Why would I want to do that, sir?”

“I thought perhaps you might feel different . . . after what I told you.”

“I thank you for the offer, sir. But I want to go home.”

“I'm glad to hear it—”

Mendoza was about to call him “boy,” but suddenly it seemed no longer appropriate. Gabriel smiled at him, and Mendoza smiled, too, and as they entered the familiar streets once again, he realized that in some way he did not fully understand, the little boy he'd saved at Galera had also rescued him and enabled him to preserve the humanity that the War of Granada had very nearly taken away from him. Without Gabriel he, too, might have lost his bearings, like his cousin, and spent his life chasing danger or ended up as bitter and resentful as the old friend who had once plucked him from the deck of an infidel ship.

“Bernardo,” his cousin asked him now, “do you remember when the abbot told me I should go into the world to do some good?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think we did some good in Aragon?”

Mendoza smiled. “I believe we did,” he said.

•   •   •

O
NCE
AGAIN
THEY
RODE
into the Plaza Mayor, past the Royal Chancellery, and the lawyers swarming like black bees, and the notaries with their brown leather bags and sheaves of papers, along the cobbled streets until they saw his house, and Mendoza could not remember a time when he'd ever been so happy to see it. The three of them unloaded their bags and weapons, and Mendoza knocked loudly while Necker took the horses to the stables. A few minutes later, Magdalena appeared in the doorway and clapped her hands to her cheeks at the sight of them.

“¡Dios mío!”
She made the sign of the cross and looked gratefully up toward the sky. “Thank you, Lord!”

Tears were rolling down her cheeks now as the little housekeeper
embraced Gabriel and pressed her head against his chest and pulled his face down toward her to kiss him. Gabriel bit his lip and stared resolutely at the door behind her in an effort to contain his own tears.

“I told you I'd bring him back alive,” Mendoza said.

“I prayed every day for all of you! Every day!”

Mendoza told her that Ventura would be staying with them for a while, and she hugged him and Ventura, too. He had thought that he would give his report to Judge Saravia that day, but it was getting late and he was in no mood to see him. Nor was he ready yet to see Martín's wife and Daniel's fiancée and tell them what had happened. Magda gave him his letters, including one that she said had arrived only two days before from Aragon. He recognized Sástago's handwriting and went to his bedroom and looked at his books, his pictures and the vihuela resting against the wall. It was still in tune, and he played a few notes and then laid it back down, because he was not yet ready for music.

Instead he sat at his table near the window and opened Sástago's letter. It was only a short note, thanking him once again for his work in the investigation. The viceroy informed him that he had written to the king to praise Mendoza for his efforts in bringing peace and tranquillity to Aragon and uncovering the scandalous and unpleasant events that had threatened the royal wedding. The letter also brought surprising news from Cardona. In the week of his departure from Aragon, the countess had declared her intention to become a
beata
—a holy woman—and had pledged to build a new monastery and convent in the Cardona estates. The archbishop of Zaragoza had approved this decision, and her new status was to be publicly proclaimed in a ceremony at the church in Cardona attended by Archbishop Santos and leading members of the Aragonese clergy.