Spain for the Sovereigns

Chapter VI LA SUSANNA

It was spring in Toledo. Isabella rode through the streets between the Moorish buildings, and with her was Ferdinand and her two-year-old son, Prince Juan.

This was an important occasion. The Cortes was assembled in Toledo.

Isabella, so simple in her tastes on ordinary occasions, displayed the utmost splendour when she took her place at affairs of state. Now she was dressed in crimson brocade which was embroidered with gold, cut away to show a white satin petticoat encrusted with pearls; and seated on her horse she made a beautiful picture.

The people cheered her. They did not forget that she had brought justice into the land. They recalled the reigns of her father and half-brother, when favouritism had ruled in the palace and anarchy on the highway. Yet this young woman with the serene and gentle smile had been responsible for the change.

The sight of the little Prince in brocade and satin, as fine as that worn by his parents, warmed their hearts. There he sat on his pony, smiling and accepting the applause of the crowd as though he were a man instead of a very small boy.

‘Long live Isabella and Ferdinand! Long live the Prince of the Asturias!’ cried the people.

The citizens of Toledo were sure that this little one, when he reached manhood, would be as wise as his parents.

Into the great hall they went, and the first duty of that Cortes was to swear allegiance to the young Prince and proclaim him heir to the throne.

Isabella watched her son, and her smile became even more gentle. She was so proud of him. Indeed, she was proud of all her children. She wished that she had more time to spend with them. It was one of her greatest regrets that her duties called her so continually from the company of her children.

But she was dedicated to a great task. She was already achieving that which she had set out to do; she had made of Castile a law-abiding state. Galicia and Leon were following Castile. Once she had made them a Christian state, perhaps she would be able to think a little more frequently of her own family. For the time being she must leave them in the care of others; and only on rare occasions could she be with them.

Now little Juan was the recognised heir to the thrones of Castile and Aragon. Isabella determined that, before he reached these thrones, she and Ferdinand would have done their duty, so that it would not only be Castile and Aragon that he inherited but the whole of Spain, including the kingdom of Granada.

The Cortes then discussed the finances of the country; and it was agreeable to realise that these had been placed on a much firmer foundation than had existed when Isabella had inherited the throne.

But the most important edicts of that Cortes were the rules against the Jews, which were being reinforced.

These were unanimously adopted.

‘All Jews in the kingdom to wear a red circle of cloth on the shoulders of their cloaks that they may be recognised as Jews by all who behold them.

‘All Jews to keep within the juderias, the gates of which shall be locked at nightfall.

‘No Jew is to take up a profession as innkeeper, apothecary, doctor or surgeon.’

The persecution had been renewed.

Alonso de Ojeda was on the scent. As he walked through the streets of Seville he promised himself that very soon these carefree citizens would see sights to startle them.

The Jews did not believe that the laws were to be taken seriously. They had found living easy for too many years, thought Ojeda grimly.

They were to be seen without their red circles; they continued to practise as surgeons and doctors, and many people patronised them – for they were noted as being very skilled in these professions. They were not keeping to their ghettos.

They shrugged aside the new law. They could be seen sunning themselves under the palms and acacias, or strolling with their families along the banks of the Guadalquivir.

They had not realised that the old sun-drenched life was fast coming to an end.

One of Ojeda’s fellow Dominicans brought a pamphlet to him and, as Ojeda read it, he smiled cynically.

Some Jew who was a little too sure of himself had written this.

What, he demanded, were these new laws but an attack on the Jewish community? The country was under the spell of priests and monks. Was that the way to prosperity? The Christian religion sounded impressive in theory; but how was it in practice?

‘Blasphemy! Blasphemy!’ cried Ojeda, and hurried with all speed to Torquemada, who, when he had read the pamphlet, was in full agreement with Ojeda that something must be done immediately.

He went to see Isabella.

Isabella, reading the pamphlet, shared the horror of the Dominicans.

She sent for Cardinal Mendoza and Torquemada.

‘You see, Cardinal,’ she said, ‘your plan of persuasion has failed.’

The Cardinal answered: ‘Highness, dire punishment will prove no more effective than persuasion, I feel sure.’

Torquemada’s fiery eyes blazed in his emaciated face. ‘Persuasion has undoubtedly failed,’ he cried. ‘We will at least try dire punishment.’

‘I fear, Cardinal,’ said Isabella, ‘that the time has come to do so.’

‘What are Your Highness’s orders?’ Mendoza asked.

‘I desire,’ said Isabella, ‘that you and Tomás de Torquemada appoint Inquisitors; and as the town of Seville would appear to be more tainted with heresy than any other in our dominion, I pray you begin there.’

Tomás de Torquemada flashed a glance of triumph at the Cardinal. His way was to be the accepted one. The catechism had proved fruitless.

The Cardinal was resigned. He saw that there was nothing he could do to hold back the tide of persecution. That Jew and his pamphlet had caused his race a great deal of harm.

The Cardinal had no alternative but to go with the stream.

‘My lord Cardinal,’ said Torquemada, ‘let us obey the Queen’s command and appoint Inquisitors for Seville. I suggest two monks of my order – Miguel Morillo and Juan de San Martino. Do you agree?’

‘I agree,’ said the Cardinal.

In the narrow streets of Seville, dominated by the buildings of a Moorish character, the people lounged. It was warm on that October day, and ladies wearing high combs and black mantillas sat on the balconies overlooking the crowds gathering in the streets.

This was in the nature of a feast day, and the people of Seville loved feast days.

A man and his family sat on the balcony of one of the handsomest houses in the town, overlooking the streets. With them sat a young boy strumming a lute and another with a flute.

People paused to glance at the balcony as they passed along the street. They had been looking at Diego de Susan, who was known as one of the richest merchants in Seville.

They whispered of him: ‘They say he owns ten million maravedis.’

‘Is there so much money in all Spain?’

‘He earned it himself. He is a shrewd merchant.’

‘Like all these Jews.’

‘He has something besides his fortune. Is it true that his daughter is the loveliest girl in Seville?’

‘Take a look at her. There she is, on the balcony. La Susanna, we call her here in Seville. She is his natural daughter and he dotes on her, they tell me. She is well guarded; and needs to be. She is not only full of beauty but full of promise, eh?’

And those who glanced up at the balcony saw La Susanna beside her father. Her large black eyes were slumbrous; her small face an enchanting oval, her heavy black hair caught up with combs which sparkled in the sunshine; her white, ringed hands waved the scarlet and gold fan before her exquisite features.

Diego de Susan was much aware of his daughter. She was his delight, and his great regret was that she was not his legitimate child. He had not been able to resist the temptation to take her into his household and bring her up with all the privileges of one born in wedlock.

He was afraid for La Susanna. She was so beautiful. He feared that the fate of her mother might befall her; and so he guarded her well. This he intended to do until he could make a brilliant marriage for her, which he was sure he would do, since she was so beautiful and he was so rich.

But now his attention was turned to the events of this day.

He had felt a little uneasy when he had heard the proclamation read in the streets.

Great suspicion had been aroused concerning the secret habits of certain New Christians – those Jews who had embraced the Christian religion only to revert in secret to their own faith. This, went on the proclamation, was the worst sort of heresy, and Inquisitors had been appointed to stamp it out. It was the duty of all citizens to watch their neighbours and if they discovered aught that was suspicious they must report it to the Inquisitors or their servants with all speed.

That made Diego de Susan feel vaguely uncomfortable; and when he recalled that it was added that those who did not report such suspicious conduct would themselves be considered guilty, his fear took on a more definite shape.

Were neighbours being asked to spy on each other? Were they being told: ‘Report heretics, for if you do not you in your turn will be considered guilty!’

Diego tried to shrug aside such uneasy thoughts. This was Seville – this beautiful and prosperous town which had been made prosperous by men such as himself and his fellow merchants. Many of them were New Christians, for it was the Jewish community who by their industry and financial genius had brought prosperity to the town.

No, these priests could do no harm in Seville.

He looked at his daughter. Automatically the white hand worked the vivid fan back and forth. Her long lashes drooped. Did she look a little secretive? Was all well with La Susanna?

La Susanna was thinking: What will he say when he knows? What will he do? He will never forgive me. It is what he feared would happen to me.

She grew suddenly angry. She had a fiery temper which could rise within her and madden her temporarily. It is his own fault, she told herself. He should not have shut me away. I am not the kind to be shut away. Perhaps I take after my mother. I must be free. If I wish for a lover, a lover I must have.

Her expression did not change as she went on moving the fan.

She adored Diego, but her emotions were too strong to be

controlled. She hated herself because she had deceived him, and because she hated herself she hated him.

It is his fault, all his fault, she told herself. He has no one to blame but himself.

Soon, she thought, I shall be unable to hide the fact from him that I am pregnant. What then?

She had been well guarded, but, with the help of her sympathetic maid, it had not been impossible to have her lover smuggled into the house. He was young and handsome, a member of a noble Castilian family, and she had been unable to repress her desire for him. She had not thought of the consequences. She had never thought of the consequences of her actions. She had been impulsive. Thus must her mother have been.

Now she sat on the balcony, only vaguely hearing the shouts in the streets, unaware of the new tension which was creeping over the city. She was thinking of her father, who had loved her so tenderly during the years of her childhood, who was so proud of the daughter known throughout Seville as la hermosa hembra. Oh, yes, she was indeed beautiful, but she was no longer a child; now she was a woman who must live her life as she wished to, who must escape from the rule of a father who, out of his very love for her, treated her with a strictness which, to one of her wild nature, was intolerable.

And what will he say, she asked herself again and again, when I present myself to him and say, ‘Father, I am with child’?

And where was her lover? She did not know. She had tired of him, and he had no longer been smuggled into her room. There was only the child within her to remind herself how much she had loved him.

A procession was now coming through the street, and the sight of it sent a shiver through the most thoughtless of the spectators. It was as though a warning cloud hung over the sunny streets.

On it came, headed by the Dominican monk who carried the white cross. There were the Inquisitors in their white robes and black hoods. With them walked their familiars, the alguazils, who would assist them in their work, and the Dominican friars, in their coarse habits, their feet bare.

It was a mournful procession, funereal and depressing. On it went to the Convent of St Paul, where the Prior, Alonso de Ojeda, was ready to instruct these men in the duties which lay before them, to whip them to fierce enthusiasm by his fiery denunciation of those who did not accept the rigid tenets of his own faith.

Even La Susanna, her mind full of her own impending tragedy, sensed the foreboding inspired by that grim band of men. She looked at her father and saw that he was sitting tense, watching.

Crowds of gipsies, beggars and children followed the procession to the convent, but they, who previously had been chattering, shouting and dancing as they went, had fallen silent.

A visitor had stepped onto the balcony. It was a fellow merchant and friend of Diego de Susan.

He was looking grave. He said: ‘I do not like the look of that, my friend.’

Diego de Susan seemed to rouse himself and throw off his depression. ‘Why, they are trying to bring the Inquisition to Seville. They will not succeed.’

‘Who will prevent them?’

Diego had risen and laid his hand on the shoulder of his friend. ‘Men like you and myself. Seville prospers. Why? Because we have brought trade to it. Men such as ourselves rule Seville. We have only to stand together, and we shall soon make it clear that we will have no Inquisitors inquiring into our private lives.’

‘You think this possible?’

‘I am sure of it.’

Diego de Susan spoke in strong ringing tones; and one of the musicians on the balcony began to strum his lute.

La Susanna forgot the procession. She was saying to herself: How shall I tell him? How shall I dare?

In a back room of Diego de Susan’s house many of the most important citizens of Seville were gathered together. Among them were Juan Abolafio, who was the Captain of Justice and Farmer of the Royal Customs, and his brother Fernandez Abolafio, the licentiate. There were other wealthy men, such as Manuel Sauli and Bartolomé Torralba.

Diego had all the doors closed and had posted servants whom he could trust outside, that none might overhear what was said.

Then he addressed the gathering. ‘My friends,’ he said soberly, ‘you know why I have asked you to assemble here this day. We have seen the procession on its way to the Convent of St Paul, and we know what this means. Hitherto we have lived happily in this town. We have enjoyed prosperity and security. If we allow the Inquisitors to achieve the power for which they are clearly aiming that will be the end of our security, the end of our prosperity.

‘At any hour of the night we may hear the knock on the door. We may be hurried away from our families before we even have time to dress. Who can say what will happen to us in the dark dungeons of the Inquisition? It may be that, once taken, we should never see our friends and families again. My friends, it need not be. I am convinced it need not be.’

‘Pray tell us, friend Diego, how you propose to foil these plots against us?’ asked Juan Abolafio.

‘Are they plots against us?’ interrupted his brother.

Diego shook his head sadly. ‘I fear they may well be directed against us. We are the New Christians; we have wealth. It will be easy to bring a charge against us. Yes, my friends, I am certain that these plots are directed against ourselves. The Inquisitors have been shown great respect by the people of Seville; but their invitation to come forward and expose those whom they call heretic has not been taken up. Therefore they themselves will begin to look for victims.’

‘It has been announced that it is a sin for the people not to pass on any information that comes their way . . . in other words, the citizens are being subtly threatened that they must become spies, or themselves be suspected,’ said Bartolomé Torralba.

‘You are right, Bartolomé,’ Diego replied. ‘We must consider the fate of those New Christians who fled from Seville and took refuge with the Marquis of Cadiz, the Duke of Medina Sidonia and the Count of Arcos.’

‘It is because you are considering these people,’ put in Sauli, ‘that you have asked us to come here this day, is it not, Diego?’

Diego nodded sadly. ‘You know, my friends, that these noblemen, who gave the fugitives refuge on their estates, have been ordered to hand them over to the Inquisitors of our town.’

All the men looked grave.

He went on: ‘They have been threatened with ecclesiastical displeasure if they do not obey. More than that . . . they themselves will incur the displeasure of the Queen, and we know what this could mean. But do not let us be downhearted. Seville is our town. We will fight to preserve our rights and dignities.’

‘Can we do this?’

‘I think we can. Once we show our determination to be strong, the people of Seville will be with us. We have their high regard. They know that we have brought prosperity to the town, and they ask that they may go on in that prosperity. Yes, if we show that we are strong and ready to fight for our liberty – and the liberty of conscience for all – they will be on our side. We are not poor men. I have brought you here to ask you how much money, how many men and arms you can put into this enterprise.’

Diego drew papers towards him, and the conspirators watched him tensely.

From then on the conspirators met in the house of Diego de Susan.

There was great need, Diego impressed upon them, to preserve secrecy. Since the Inquisitors were continually reminding the people that it was their duty to spy, how could they be sure who, even among those servants whom they considered loyal, might not be on the alert?

It was a few days later when Diego came into his daughter’s room without warning; he saw her sitting with her embroidery in her hand, staring before her with an expression on her face which Diego could only construe as fearful apprehension.

His mind was full of the conspiracy which was coming to its climax, and he thought: My dearest child, she has sensed what is about to happen and she is terrified of what will become of me.

‘My darling,’ he cried, and he went to her and embraced her.

She threw herself into his arms and began to sob passionately.

He stroked her hair. ‘All will be well, my daughter,’ he murmured. ‘You should have no fear. No harm will come to your father. They frightened you, did they not . . . with their black hoods and their mournful chanting voices! I grant you they are enough to strike terror in any heart. But they shall not harm us. Your father is safe.’

‘Safe?’ she murmured, in a bewildered voice. ‘You, safe . . . Father?’

‘Yes, yes, daughter. This is our secret . . . not to be spoken of outside these walls. But you, who know me so well, have sensed what is happening. You know why the Captain of Justice and his friends come to the house. You have heard the injunctions from the Convent of St Paul. Yes, my child, we are going to rise against them. We are going to turn them out of Seville.’

La Susanna had been so occupied with her personal tragedy that she had not given much thought to the new laws which had been brought to Seville. The conspiracy, of which her father was the head, seemed to her, in her ignorance – for she had always lived in the utmost comfort and luxury, sheltered in her father’s house – a trivial affair. She could not conceive that her father, the rich and influential Diego de Susan, could ever fail in his dealings with the authorities; and this conspiracy seemed to her a childish game compared with her own dilemma.

She had never been able to restrain her feelings. Her wild and passionate nature broke forth at that moment, and she burst into loud laughter.

‘Your conspiracy!’ she cried. ‘You are obsessed with that and give no thought to me and what may be happening to me. I am in dire trouble . . . and you are concerned only with your conspiracy!’

‘My dearest, what is this?’

She stood up, drew herself to her full height and, as he looked at her body, in which the first signs of pregnancy were beginning to be apparent, he understood.

She saw him turn pale; he was stunned with horror; she realised with triumph that for a moment she had made him forget his conspiracy.

‘It is impossible,’ he cried out, angry and pathetic at the same time. He was refusing to believe what he saw; he was imploring her to tell him he was mistaken.

La Susanna’s uncontrolled emotions broke out. She loved him so much that she could not bear to hurt him; and because she was self-willed, defiant and illogical she now hated herself for having brought this tragedy on him; and since she could not continue to hate herself, she must hate him because his pain made her suffer so.

‘No!’ she cried. ‘It is not impossible. It is true. I am with child. My lover visited me at night. You thought you had me guarded so well. I deceived you. And now he has gone and I am to have a child.’

Diego groaned and buried his face in his hands.

She stood watching him defiantly. He dropped his hands and looked at her; and his face, she saw, was distorted with rage and grief.

‘I have loved you,’ he said. ‘I could not have loved you more if you had been my legitimate daughter. I have cared for you . . . I have watched over you all these years, and this is how you repay me.’

La Susanna thought: I cannot endure this. I am going mad. Is it not enough that I must bear my child in shame? How can he look at me like that? It is as though he no longer loves me. He thinks to rule me . . . to rule Seville . . . me with his strict rules; Seville with his conspiracy. I cannot endure this.

‘So you regret taking me into your house! Have no fear. I shall ask nothing of you that you do not want to give.’

She was laughing and crying as she ran from the room and out of the house. She heard his voice as he called her: ‘Daughter, daughter, come back.’

But she went on running; she ran through the streets of Seville, her beautiful black hair escaping from its combs and flying out behind her.

She was thinking of her father whom she had loved so dearly. She could not forget the expression of rage and sorrow on his face.

‘I love him no longer . . . I hate him. I hate him. I shall punish him for what he has made me suffer.’

And, when she stopped running, she found herself outside the Convent of St Paul.

It was dusk, and still La Susanna had not returned to the house.

Diego was frantic. He had searched for her in the streets of Seville and beyond; he had wandered along the banks of the Guadalquivir calling her name, imploring her to come home.

But he could not find her.

He thought of her wandering in the country in the darkness of the night, at the mercy of robbers and bold adventurers who would have no respect for her womanhood. It was more than Diego could bear. His anxiety for her had made him forget temporarily the plan which was about to come to fruition to oust the Inquisitors from Seville.

He returned to the house, and when he heard that she had not come home he wandered out into the streets again, calling her name.

And at last he found her.

She was quiet now, and she walked through the streets as though she were unaware of everything, even herself.

He ran to her and embraced her; she was trembling and she could not find words to speak to him. But she was coming home.

He put his arm about her. ‘My little one,’ he said, ‘what anxiety you have caused me! Never run away from me. This has happened, but we will weather it together, my darling. Never run away from me again.’

She shook her head and her lips framed the words: ‘Never . . . never . . .’

Yet she seemed distrait, as though her mind wandered; and Diego, who knew the wild impetuosity of her nature, feared that some harm had been done to her mind by the shock she had suffered.

He murmured tenderly as they came towards the house: ‘All is well now, my little one. Here we are at home. Now I shall nurse you back to health. We will overcome this trouble. Have no fear. Whatever happens, you are my own dear daughter.’

They entered the house. It seemed unusually quiet. One of the servants appeared. He did not speak, but at the sight of his master and La Susanna he turned and hurried away.

Diego was astonished. He strode into the small parlour, and there he found that they had visitors, for several men rose silently as he entered.

They were the alguazils of the Inquisition.

‘Diego de Susan,’ said one of them, ‘you are the prisoner of the Inquisition. You will accompany us to the Convent of St Paul for questioning.’

‘I!’ cried Diego, his eyes flashing. ‘I am one of the leading citizens of Seville. You cannot. . .’

The alguazil made a sign to two guards, who came forward and seized Diego.

As they dragged him out of the house, Diego saw that La Susanna had fainted.

The news spread through Seville. Its leading citizens were lodged in the cells of St Paul’s. What was happening to them there could be guessed. The Inquisitors were determined to show the citizens of Seville that a mistake had been made if it was thought they did not mean to carry out their threats.

Others were arrested. Did this mean that the cells of St Paul’s had been turned into torture chambers?

La Susanna, who had collapsed at the sight of the alguazils who had come to arrest her father, had been lying on her bed in a dazed condition. When at length she arose, her grief was terrible. It was the grief of remorse.

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.

The fires were lighted. She could not look. But how could she turn away?

She heard the cries of agony. She saw the flames run up the hideous yellow; she saw her father’s face through the smoke.

‘No!’ she cried. ‘No!’

Then she slid to the ground, and knelt praying there, praying for a miracle while the smell of burning flesh filled her nostrils.

‘Oh God,’ she whispered, ‘take me . . . Let me not rise from my knees. Strike me dead, out of your mercy.’

She felt a hand on her shoulder and a pair of kindly eyes were looking into hers.

It was the Bishop of Tiberiades who had spoken to her outside the Convent of St Paul.

‘So . . .’ he said, ‘it is La Susanna. You should not have come here, my child.’

‘He is dying . . . cruelly dying,’ she moaned.

‘Hush! You must not question the sentence of the Holy Office.’

‘He was so good to me.’

‘What will you do now?’

‘I shall not go back to his house.’

‘All his goods will be confiscated by the Inquisition, my child; so you would not be able to stay there long if you went.’

‘I care not what becomes of me. I pray for death.’

‘Come with me.’

She obeyed him and walked beside him through the streets of the city. She did not notice the strained faces of the people. She did not hear their frightened whispers. She was unaware that they were asking themselves whether this terrible scene, which they had witnessed this day, could become a common one in Seville.

There was nothing for La Susanna but her own misery.

They had reached the door of a building which she knew to be one of the city’s convents.

The Bishop knocked and they were admitted.

‘Take care of this woman,’ said the Bishop to the Mother Superior. ‘She is in great need of your care.’

And he left her there, left her with her remorse and the memory of her father at the stake, with the sound of his cries of anguish as the flames licked his body – all of which were engraved upon her mind for ever.

In the Convent of St Paul Ojeda planned more such spectacles. They had begun the work. The people of Seville had lost their truculence. They understood now what could happen to those who defied the Inquisition. Soon more smoke would be rising above the meadows of Tablada.

Seville should lead the way, and other towns would follow; he would show Torquemada and the Queen what a zealous Christian was Alonso de Ojeda.

He sent his Dominicans to preach against heresy in all the pulpits of the city. Information must be lodged against suspected heretics. Anyone who could be suspected of the slightest heresy must be brought before the tribunals and tortured until he involved his neighbours.

There were friars at St Paul’s whose special duty it was on the Jewish Sabbath to station themselves on the roof of the convent and watch the chimneys of the town. Anyone who did not light a fire was suspect. Those whose chimneys were smokeless would be brought before the tribunal; and if they did not confess, the torture could be applied; it was very likely that, on the rack or the hoist or subjected to a taste of the water torture, these people would be ready not only to confess their own guilt but to involve their friends.

‘Ah!’ cried Ojeda. ‘I will prove my zeal to Tomás de Torquemada. The Queen will recognise me as her very good servant.’

And, even as he spoke, one of his monks came hurrying to him to tell him that plague had struck the city.

Ojeda’s eyes flashed. ‘This is the Divine will,’ he declared. ‘This is God’s punishment for the evil-living in Seville.’

The stricken people were dying in the streets.

‘Holy Prior,’ declared the Inquisitor Morillo, ‘it is impossible to continue with our good work while the plague rages. It may be that men who are brought in for questioning will sicken and die in their cells. Soon we shall have plague in St Paul’s. There is only one thing we can do.’

‘Leave this stricken city,’ agreed Ojeda. ‘It is the Divine will that these people shall be punished for their loose living; but God would not wish that we, who do His work, should suffer with them. Yes, we must leave Seville.’

‘We might go to Aracena, and there wait until the city is clean again.’

‘Let us do that,’ agreed Ojeda. ‘I doubt not that Aracena will profit from our visit. It is certain that it contains some heretics who should not be allowed to sully its purity.’

‘We should travel with all speed,’ said Morillo.

‘Then let us leave this day.’

When he was alone Ojeda felt a strange lethargy creep over him; he felt sick and dizzy.

He said to himself: It is this talk of the plague. It is time we left Seville.

He sat down heavily and tried to think of Aracena. The edict should be read immediately on their arrival, warning all the inhabitants that it would be advisable for them to report any acts of heresy they had witnessed. Thus it should not be difficult to find victims for an auto de fe.

One of the Dominicans had come into the room; he looked at the Prior, and his startled terror showed on his face.

He made an excuse to retire quickly, and Ojeda tried to rise to his feet and follow him, but he slipped back into his chair.

Then Ojeda knew. The plague had come to St Paul’s; it embraced not only those who defied the laws of the Church but also those who set out to enforce them.

Within a few days Ojeda was dead; but the Quemadero – the Burning Place – had come to stay; and all over Castile the fires had begun to burn.