She couldn’t forgive him.
The horse had made no difference. Valentina and Marius hadn’t found escape in the woods. They’d gotten turned around and wandered aimlessly through the trees for hours, searching for the road. When the king’s men had found them, she’d been almost grateful.
They had been taken back to Madrid, where she’d been locked in the women’s cells of the city prison. It stank of bodies and excrement, and something more, a misery that clung to her hair and her clothes. It was a sound too, a moan that echoed in her ears. Valentina had the same sense of shrinking she’d had at La Casilla. She would be consumed, but this time she would be swallowed into a wet, toothless mouth. She would rot away in the dark, fruit gone gray with rot, wood turned soft and formless.
She had put her hand to the damp wall and vomited, her body shaking so badly that she thought her bones would fly apart. When the guards led her outside it was night. There were stars above and the air was cool, and to her great shame she wept.
It was only when she’d been brought to the vicar’s offices that she understood they’d put her in the prison to terrify her.
The vicar offered her a small glass of wine and a comfortable chair. He told her that she needed to answer his questions truthfully or that he would have no choice but to turn her over to the tribunal in Toledo. She had nodded, still trembling, happy to say anything at all that would keep her from those cells.
He asked countless questions about Antonio Pérez, what he’d said about the king, his comings and goings from La Casilla, how much time he’d spent with Teoda Halcón, which texts he had in his library. She tried to remember what Pérez had told them about the third trial and if he’d shown special favor to the Holy Child, but there was little for her to say. She had
existed on the periphery of society in Madrid and nothing had changed at La Casilla. The questions about Luzia were easier to answer but more
frightening. Yes, she went regularly to mass. Yes, she took communion. No, Valentina couldn’t recall any blasphemous or heretical statements Luzia Cotado had made. No, she had never questioned the Trinity in Valentina’s presence.
“She is … she’s a scullion, señor. These aren’t conversations we have ever had. She’s a quiet girl.”
“Secretive.”
“Quiet. Humble. Perhaps a bit stupid.” Luzia was none of these things, but Valentina could do her this service.
“That kind of meekness is easily led,” said the vicar.
She expected him to ask about Víctor de Paredes, about Guillén Santángel, men of power and influence. Instead he moved on to questions regarding Marius. Did he correspond with anyone in Germany? Flanders? To her knowledge, had he expressed doubts about the Church? Had he taken a hand in hiring Luzia? Did he associate with the followers of
Piedrola? Did he speak disparagingly of the king?
When the interview was over she thought they would let her go home. “Not yet, señora,” said the vicar, and she was brought to a convent, where
she was allowed to make her confession and then shown to a narrow room that locked from the outside. She spoke no complaint. She had seen the alternative.
Every day, she was brought through the prison and then taken to the vicar, and every day she answered the same questions, described the same scenes and conversations. If anything changed in the telling, the vicar’s secretary read back her previous statements and they spent hours poring over the discrepancies.
It went on like that for six days, until Valentina began to question her own memories of Pérez, of Luzia, of Marius.
“You look tired, señora,” the vicar said when she was slow to give an answer. “We can find you a cell to rest in if you like?”
“No,” said Valentina. “I was only trying to remember accurately.” “You were telling us with whom your husband likes to hunt.” “My husband can’t afford to hunt. Not often.”
“But when he does.”
Valentina couldn’t remember. Her mind had been hollowed out by this ceaseless talking, by fear, by the blunt understanding of her lack of consequence. She had been deluded by pretty clothes and fine meals. She was no one, and it would take more than Luzia’s miracles to change that. She wasn’t even sure she wanted it to change. She was out of words. She was out of thoughts. Her mind could only form one low, long note, a bow
drawn across a gut string, back and forth, back and forth, no melody, no rise and fall.
“My husband is a coward,” she said, shocked at her own words but too tired to correct her course. “He has no political convictions. He doesn’t care about Antonio Pérez. He is loyal to the king because it’s easy to be loyal to the king and he likes what’s easy. It’s why he married me. There was no one to court and no one to impress. No work to be done. He cares about good
wine and fast horses. He doesn’t have the ambition for conspiracy.”
That night, they let her return home. One of the friars deposited her back at Calle de Dos Santos. “I hope you know God has spared you. In future, be more mindful of the company you keep.”
Valentina nodded.
“Will you not ask after your husband?”
“No,” said Valentina. “I don’t think I will.”
They had continued to pay Águeda her wages while they were at La Casilla, but Valentina hadn’t had time to send word that she would be back home, so the house was empty. She didn’t know where Luzia was or if
Juana would return. Maybe she should have asked after Marius, but she found she didn’t mind being in the house alone. She went down to the silent kitchen, softened bread in a bowl of wine, made herself eat a little ham and two pickled plums.
She had no water to wash with and no one to help her undress, so she slept atop her covers in her filthy clothes.
The next day she sent for Águeda and asked her to bring someone to help with the house. The cook arrived with a market basket full of food and her ten-year-old niece, who brought water from the plaza and helped Valentina wash and dress.
She was waiting, though she didn’t really know what for. For the king’s
soldiers or the alguacil’s men to knock at her door. For word that she was to be arrested or banished. For their property to be seized, though it was hard
to imagine who would want a shabby house and fields full of miserly olive trees.
She ate the midday meal in the kitchen, and when she climbed the stairs she was surprised to find Marius in the hall.
He had lost weight and his clothes hung on him. She knew she must look equally haggard. Had she found him more handsome when he was stout? Or had she been taken in by something else, an illusion like those Luzia
conjured?
He swept her into his arms. “It’s over,” he said.
She waited for him to release her. “Where is Luzia?”
His eyelids stuttered, as if he didn’t recognize the name. “Toledo. She was given into the Inquisition’s custody.”
“Then we should go there. She’ll need someone to advocate for her and make sure she’s receiving proper care.”
“The best thing we can do is stay far away. It’s a true miracle that we are free.”
Valentina shook her head slowly. She was still so tired. “I dragged her into this catastrophe. The least I can do is make sure she’s well-fed.”
“Have you gone mad?” He looked over his shoulder and whispered furiously, as if the inquisitors might be listening through the walls. “If she’s lucky she’ll be exiled, but she will not be lucky.”
“You should have given her the horse.” “It wouldn’t have mattered!”
“It would have,” she said. “It does.” She couldn’t explain why. She only knew she couldn’t shake free the memory of Marius standing with the reins in his hand, gripping them as if he were afraid the horse might bolt, unable to meet her eye.
“There’s nothing you can do for her,” he said.
That was probably true. What could one powerless woman offer another? “I can make sure she doesn’t die alone.”
He stared at her as if she’d sprouted a horn from her forehead. “You do not want the Inquisition’s attention, Valentina. The best thing you can do is wash your hands of that woman. To do otherwise is dangerous, and you are too foolishly sentimental to realize it.”
“I recognize the danger,” she said. “And I would rather be a fool than a coward.”
Marius jolted as if struck. “That is enough. You have forgotten what it is to be a wife.”
It was possible she had never known. “I’m going to bed.” “It’s the middle of the day.”
“And yet I find I am weary.”
He stepped in front of her, blocking her path to the stairs.
“You can’t save her,” he pleaded. “You must know that! What can you hope to achieve?”
“I don’t know.” She didn’t even like Luzia. But she was certain that if she were the one locked in the tribunal’s cells, Marius would still be hiding here.
“You brought her into our house! You had her perform those little
miracles that could have cost us everything. You brought this disaster upon us, and now I’m the one you blame?”
“Go away, Marius.”
“Go … Where would you have me go?”
Valentina sighed. She just wanted to crawl into bed. “You’re right. I’m stupid and sentimental. When we wed I was a foolish girl who hoped to
love you. I grew into a foolish woman who hoped to please you. And now, well, I suppose I’m still a foolish woman who only hopes to be rid of you. Go away, Marius.” She turned from him, heading back toward the kitchen. “Go away and be glad I didn’t tell the vicar you sleep with a portrait of Martin Luther cradled in your arms.”
Valentina descended the kitchen stairs. She couldn’t sleep. Not yet. She needed to speak to Águeda.
