Free The Inquisitor's Wife by Jeanne Kalogridis Page A

torch was burning near the front entrance. In its yellow glare stood the motionless African, Máriam, her dark features impassive, her black gown hanging upon her bony frame, leaner in the days after my mother’s death. She’d spoken barely a word to anyone since then, except to gain permission from my father to be the sole person responsible for seeing to my mother’s belongings. Máriam didn’t smile as our carriage approached; Fray Hojeda had been adamant about not permitting her to attend the ceremony, as she’d been born a Muslim and therefore wasn’t welcome at San Pablo. Her rose-full lips, lightening at the seam, had thinned with determination. Sitting on the pavement next to her was a small trunk.
    My father leaned out the window and signaled for the driver to stop. The driver reined the horses in, hopped down, and opened the door so that my father could get out, even though our ultimate destination was the Hojeda house across the street, several long strides away.
    My father slammed the door shut behind him, leaving Gabriel to look questioningly at him. There was supposed to be a small supper at the Hojeda house, followed by wedding cake, but I saw the agitation and tears in my father’s dark eyes and knew he couldn’t bear to stay. He had never before set foot beneath his neighbor’s roof—he’d never before been welcome to do so—and I knew that, like me, he was thinking of how horrified my mother would have been to have seen me wed to a converso- hating Hojeda.
    He turned, put his hands upon the edge of the open window of the carriage, and with his troubled gaze fixed firmly on my husband, said to Gabriel, “I wish to give my daughter a wedding present.” My father gestured with his chin at Máriam, standing nearby.
    “A slave?” Gabriel asked politely enough, although his tone conveyed reluctance at the thought of permitting this exotic creature to dwell under his roof.
    My father shook his head. “A servant. I’ll pay her wages—and extra for her room and board, if you wish. She cared for my wife and…” His voice grew thick and trailed off. When he recovered, he added, “And she helped to raise my daughter. It would be a great comfort to Marisol if…”
    Embarrassed by my father’s proximity to tears, Gabriel’s expression grew kindly. “Of course, don Diego,” he murmured in a low voice.
    As my father turned away abruptly from the carriage window, Máriam stepped forward and curtsied to Gabriel with exceptional grace.
    “Don Gabriel,” she said distinctly, her head bowed; she’d come to Spain as a girl, so her Castilian was as fine as any Andalusian lady’s. “My name is Máriam. I’m a good Christian and would be honored to serve in your household.”
    I stared hard at Máriam.
    “Of course,” Gabriel repeated, flushing, though I heard resistance in his courteous tone. He gestured to the coachman, who fetched the heavy trunk with difficulty; he needed my father’s help to set it up on the driver’s seat. As the two struggled, Gabriel spoke again to the Nubian. “Do you know where the servant’s entrance is?”
    Máriam lifted her face to nod politely, and headed on foot across the street as Gabriel called for the driver to take us home. Neither my father nor husband had mentioned money; if Máriam represented my entire dowry, it was a poor one indeed.
    Had I known at that moment the terrible price my father had agreed to pay, I would have bolted from the carriage and run to him screaming. But I was selfish and bitter, thinking only of my unhappiness, not his, and I turned my back to him without a word.
    *   *   *
     
    I spent my childhood staring across the street at the Hojedas’ Moorish palace, three times the size of my parents’ house and at least two centuries older. Many times, I tried to imagine what lay beyond the vine-covered wall separating the property from the street. Now, sitting beside Gabriel, I peered through the carriage window as the side gates