Spain for the Sovereigns - Plaidy Jean. Страница 36

It was she who had brought the alguazils to the house; it was she who, in a sudden uncontrollable rage, had run to the Convent of St Paul’s and told the eager Inquisitors of the conspiracy which was brewing in her father’s house and of which her father was the leader.

What were they doing to him and his friends now in the Convent of St Paul? There were terrible hints of torture, and if these were true, she and she alone was responsible.

There was only one way to cling to her sanity. She would refuse to believe these stories of the methods of Inquisitors. There would merely be gentle questionings; the plot would be unmasked; and then her father would return home.

She went out and stood in the shadow of the Convent of St Paul looking up at those stone walls.

‘Father,’ she sobbed, ‘Idid not mean to doit. I did not know. I did not think . . .’

Then she went to the gate and asked to be admitted.

‘Let my father be freed,’ she implored. ‘Let me take his place.’

‘This girl is mad,’ was the answer. ‘Tell her to go away. There is nothing we can do for her here.’

Then she beat with her hands on the stone walls, and she wept until she was exhausted and slumped down in her misery, her dark hair falling about her face so that she, la hermosa hembra, had the appearance of a beggar rather than of the onetime pampered daughter of the town’s richest man.

As she crouched there a man who was passing took pity on her.

‘Rise, my child,’ he said. ‘Whatever your sorrow, you cannot wash it away with tears.’

‘I deserve death,’ she answered, and she lifted her beautiful eyes to his face.

‘What crime have you committed?’

‘The greatest. That of betrayal. I have betrayed the one whom I loved best in the world, who has shown me nothing but kindness. He is in there and I do not know what is happening to him, yet some sense tells me that he is suffering greatly. I brought this suffering to him – I who have received nothing but good at his hands. That is why I weep and pray for death.’

‘My child, you should go home and pray for the man you have betrayed, and pray for yourself. Only in prayer can you find consolation.’

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘I am Reginaldo Rubino, Bishop of Tiberiades. I know who your father is. He is Diego de Susan, who has been guilty of plotting against the Holy Office. Go home and pray, my child, for he will need your prayers.’

A great despair came to her then.

She knew this man spoke the truth. She knew that a tragedy had come to Seville which made her own problems but trifles in comparison.

In awe she returned to the house; and although she believed that she had reached the very depth of despair, she was silent and no longer wept.

The day had come.

It was to be as a feast day . . . a grim holiday when all the people must go into the streets to see the show.

The bells were tolling. This was the occasion of the first auto de fe in Seville.

La Susanna had not slept for several nights. She had awaited this day with a terror which numbed her. Yet she would be there; she would witness the results of her treachery.

She listened to the bells, and she wrapped her shawl tightly about her, for she did not wish to be recognised. All Seville knew who would be the chief victims in today’s grizzly spectacle; and they would know who was the wicked one who had made this possible – the girl who had betrayed her own father.

But I did not know, she wanted to cry out. I did not understand. Did any of you understand what the coming of the Inquisition would mean to Seville? Once we were free. Our doors were left open and we did not dread a knocking on them. We had no fear that suddenly the alguazils would be among us . . . pointing at our loved ones. You . . . you and you . . . You are the prisoners of the Inquisition. You will come with us. And who could realise that that would be the last one saw of the dear familiar face.

For when one saw it again, the face would appear to be different. It would be unfamiliar. It would not be the face of one who had lived at peace for years among his family. It would be that of a man who had been torn from the family life he had once known, by a terrible experience of physical and mental pain and the brutal knowledge of the inhumanity of men towards their fellows. No, it would not be the same.

‘I cannot look. I dare not look,’ she murmured. But she must look.

There was the Dominican monk leading the procession; he looked sinister in his coarse robes. He carried the green cross high, and about it had been draped the black crape. This meant that the Holy Church was in mourning because it had discovered in its midst those who did not love it.

La Susanna looked up at the sky and asked herself: ‘Perhaps it is all Heaven that is in mourning because men can act with such cruelty towards other men?’

Here they were – the dreary monks, the familiars of the Holy Office; and then the halberdiers guarding the prisoners.

‘I cannot look, I cannot look,’ murmured La Susanna yet she continued to look; and she saw him – her beloved father, barefoot and wearing the hideous yellow sanbenito, and she saw that on it was painted the head and shoulders of a man being consumed by flames; there were devils with pitchforks, and the flames were pointing upwards.

With him were his fellow conspirators, all men whom she had known throughout her childhood. She had heard them laugh and chat with her father; they had sat at table with the family. But now they were strangers. Outwardly they had changed. The marks of torture were on them; their faces had lost their healthy colour; they were yellow – although a different shade from that of the garments they wore; and in their eyes was that look of men who had suffered horror, before this undreamed of.

The prisoners passed on, and following them were the Inquisitors themselves with a party of Dominicans, at the head of which was the Prior of St Paul’s, Alonso de Ojeda . . . triumphant.

Ojeda looked down on the prisoners as he preached his sermon in the Cathedral.

His expression was one of extreme fanaticism. His voice was high-pitched with mingled fury and triumph. He pointed to the prisoners in their yellow garments. These were the sinners who had defiled Holy Church. These were the men who would undoubtedly burn for ever in Hell fire.

All must understand – all in this wicked city of Seville – that the apathy of the past was over.

Ojeda, the avenger, was among them.

From the Cathedral the procession went to the meadows of Tablada.

La Susanna followed.

She felt sick and faint, yet within her there burned a hope which she would not abandon. This could not be true. This could not happen to her father. He was a rich man who had always been able to buy what he wanted; he was a man of great influence in Seville. He had so few enemies; he had been the friend of the people and he had brought prosperity to their town.

Something will happen to save him, she told herself.

But they had reached the meadows; and there were the stakes; and there were the faggots.

‘Father!’ she cried shrilly. ‘Oh, my father, what have they done to you?’

He could not have heard her cry; yet it seemed to her that his eyes were on her. It seemed that for a few seconds they looked at each other. She could scarcely recognise him – he who had been so full of dignity, he who had been a little vain about his linen – in that hideous yellow garment.

‘What have they done to you, my father?’ she whispered. And she fancied there was compassion in his eyes; and that he forgave her.