Author: Cambria Gordon
Category: Other
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/cambria-gordon/580810-the_poetry_of_secrets.html
For Howard
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Research Notes
Poetry Citations
Suggestions for Further Reading
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
The day Isabel followed a handsome stranger into an alleyway, her grandmother’s words echoed in her head: Your impulsivity will be the death of you. But Isabel could not help herself. In these moments, it was as if an unseen physical force took over her body, compelling her to act and ignore the consequences. She had been sitting on her favorite writing bench in the plaza mayor, the main town square, working on a poem, when an older couple strolled by her bench.
“Whatever could you be scribbling, my dear girl?” remarked the woman, nostrils swollen.
Isabel was glad she had dabbed rose water on her neck this morning, as the woman was very close and, unlike Isabel, she smelled foul. The woman leaned over to get a better view of Isabel’s notebook, her giant linen headdress jutting in two points, looking like a horned animal ready to charge. “Why, those are words! Shouldn’t you be at home, learning a new stitch?”
Isabel ground her top and bottom teeth together.
“What’s our world coming to,” said the woman’s male companion, the corners of his lips dipping down, “when young ladies can read and write like grandees?”
This was not the first time someone had rudely commented on what Isabel was doing on that bench, but she could tolerate it no longer. “Well, this young lady thinks there’s more to life than embroidery, gossiping, and chewing búcaro,” Isabel blurted.
The handsome stranger darted past right then. Isabel threw her writing materials into her leather satchel and ran, leaving the couple standing there, mouths agape.
He looked older than her, perhaps eighteen or twenty. She had not seen him before, which was unusual, their village being so small. His shoulder-length dark hair was tied in a cord, and he wore hose and black leather boots under a belted green doublet.
She began a made-up conversation between them, based on the poem she had just penned.
Her: A lifetime without love is of no account.
Him: Love is the water of life.
Her: Drink it down with heart and soul.
She knew people didn’t speak in that way. She simply liked imagining having someone in her life who was as passionate about love as she was. At sixteen, she was still unbetrothed, and despite her romantic notions, she relished her freedom. Dios help her if she were married to a proper Spanish gentleman. He’d never allow her to write. Maybe she wouldn’t wed at all and would become a famous poet instead. Later this evening, a public poetry reading was being held in the Moorish quarter, and for the first time, Isabel thought she might be brave enough to stand up and actually recite one of her own works.
Just inside a narrow alley, the striking young man paused and turned halfway around. She caught a glimpse of his profile. Long lashes, skin smooth and uncovered by beard. He darted into a tannery and she thought about walking right into the store to get a good view of him. But she did not. Practicality outweighed impulsivity. She needed to get back. It was Friday evening and the sun was almost setting. Sighing, she gathered up the layers of her skirt and reversed direction over the cobblestones.
A religious processional approached from the west, blocking her way. Though these were common in Trujillo, Isabel never got used to them. She waited for the macabre scene to pass her by, her eyes on the ground so she wouldn’t have to watch the leather scourges break the flesh on the backs of the penitents. The ends of the cords held wax balls laced with filings of tin and splinters of colored glass. It was all so barbaric.
When she could finally cross the street, she hurried to where the paved road changed to dirt just outside town. She purposely let her dress drag in the dust. The dirtier the better. Another five minutes’ walk and she’d be home.
At the mouth of a narrow, winding alley, Diego smelled the scent of roses behind him. He paused, wanting to see where it came from, but his father’s voice buzzed in his brain like a trapped fly. “It’s time you learned the family business!”
Family business, mi culo, he thought. My arse. As the son of Count Altamirano, Diego must learn how to recognize the proper forks for fish and meat, play the lute, and become adept at courtly flirtations.
There was no part of that life he wanted to lead.
His father had sent word to Diego at University of Coimbra in Portugal, where he was in his second year. Enough frivolous pursuits in art and philosophy. It was time to do his duty for the Crown and act the part of the noble title he was to inherit. Diego supposed he should be grateful for the education he had been afforded so far. Unlike other sons of aristocrats, he did not have to become a page and train in a royal household. His parents enrolled him in grammar school to learn Latin, and then later, when he asked, allowed him to attend college. But there was an urgency in his father’s latest letter, and Diego had been unable to refuse him. When the family horse and carriage had shown up to fetch him at his leased house near campus, he was resigned.
Upon arriving home, he and his father had argued.
“Why now?” Diego asked.
“Our family is part of the Order of Chivalry. Whether you desire it or not, you will inherit my title.”
“But I want to be a painter, you know that.”
“Stop with that nonsense,” said the count. “If you must have art in your life, then become a patron and buy some devotionals to adorn your walls.”
“I want to be of use to society, Father.”
“Then help me with tax and rent collection.”
Diego had acquiesced, as he always did.
Thus he found himself today, trudging through the streets and alleyways of Trujillo, meeting all the tenants on the Altamirano estate. He stood at the entrance to a tannery, the putrid smell of grimy animal skins soaking in urine nearly making him back out. At this very moment, his own classmates, dressed in short cassocks and square caps, were probably reading philosophy. Or perhaps even studying the techniques of the painter Verrocchio and his young apprentice Leonardo da Vinci. Diego’s favorite professor was likely gesticulating in that comical way he had, with one elbow in the air. He had recommended Diego for an artist guild in Lisbon earlier this year, but Diego had not even bothered asking his father. Sons of highborns didn’t join guilds.
A customer buying a horse saddle exited and the tanner turned his a
ttention to Diego. Just in time. Thinking about philosophy and famous paintings had made Diego want to toss his dagger at something and shout obscenities. He needed to act the part of a count-in-training. Let the cursed tax collection begin.
Seville, region of Andalucía, Spain
Fray Tomás Torquemada blew out the candle and lay down on his wooden board. His coarse pants and tunic irritated his skin, but this was how he preferred it. Pain was purification. The only way to salvation. Sleep would not come easy to him this evening. Tomorrow was the first day of the Order of the Inquisition and he would be riding from the capital to spread the gospel to those Godforsaken, uncivilized villages all over the country. A vein in his neck pulsed with anticipation. Maybe he should wash, a ritual cleansing, to calm down? No, that’s what the dirty Jews did before the Sabbath. A lot of good it did them. They could never wash off the impurities. The filth was under their skin. Even worse than the Jews were the conversos, heretics the lot of them.
He rolled onto his side, the hard surface digging into his shoulder. Torquemada had not always been his surname. But it was apt. It meant twist and burn. How fitting that he would be the one making the converso sinners writhe in the flames of the stake. Who better to ferret out the false Christians than someone who descended from Jews himself? He must point his finger the hardest so it would never be turned on him. He sat up and spat for good measure into his chamber pot. Those once-Jewish converso swine belonged where he voided his own waters each morning.
Finally, his queen had understood! All those years of listening to her foolish childhood confessions had paid off. She and that weak husband of hers, King Ferdinand, had seen the light of reason. He, Tomás, would get to fulfill his lifelong dream of uniting Spain under one Christian God. Sin was the only reason his country had been divided. The sin of tainted blood running through the veins of conversos, sullying good Christians by intermarrying and breeding with them. These impostors were liars, converting and being baptized in public, but Judaizing in private, lighting candles on Fridays and eating all that horrid food fried in oil. Not to mention cutting off a piece of skin on the male sex organ. It was unholy, altering the body God chose for you. Eliminating them once and for all was the key to redemption. He would lead the charge of the limpieza, the cleaning of the country, and personally see that the punishment equaled the crime. He whispered the words of Saint Vicente Ferrer. Per quae peccat quis, per haec et torquetur. We are tortured for our sins.
He had never felt this assured. He was a hunter. And he would not quit until all his prey was annihilated.
Entering the house, Isabel set her satchel down on a small oak table. Beatriz, her younger sister by just a year, stood at the door to the cellar, tying a ribbon on her linen dress. Isabel scooted in front of her. Beatriz swatted her on the behind, but Isabel grinned. She had made it down first.
The sudden shift from warm to cold always made Isabel shiver as she descended the stone steps to the lower level of the house.
“How I hate eating dinner down here in this dank, frigid prison of a room,” complained Beatriz behind her.
“And you never miss an opportunity to remind us how you feel,” Isabel hissed back.
“Hurry, girls,” called Abuela, who was already there with Mamá and Papá, putting the finishing touches on the table.
Mamá eyed the bottom of Isabel’s gown. “Nice and dirty. A fine job. No one will think you put on your Friday best.”
The fruity aroma of grapes mixed with the scent of freshly baked bread. Isabel loved it down here, under the arched ceilings, away from the dust and horse manure of the streets of Trujillo. Even though the ground was not paved in their cellar, the dirt floor stayed compact. The white lace cloth lay perfectly crisp across the table. Isabel had taken the linen smoother herself this morning, dampening the material as she pressed out the wrinkles. Sitting on top was a pair of tall silver candlestick holders, standing at attention like sentries, wearing soldier’s hats of small white candles. Papá covered his thinning hair with his good skullcap, the one with the garnet and gold thread. Mamá used a flint and fire steel to light the taper, then used the taper to light the candles. She covered her eyes and recited the women’s prayer in Aljamiado, a mix of Hebrew and Spanish. “Kun estas kandelas, arrogamos al Dio, el Dio de muestros padres, Avram, Isak, i Yakov, ke muz de vida saludoza.” With these candles, we pray to God, the God of our fathers, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to grant us good life and health.
The timbre of Mamá’s voice was confident, knowing she was safe, hidden away from the prying eyes of nosy neighbors and Church officials.
Most people in Trujillo assumed their cellar was only for the pressing, fermentation, and bottling of wine. Papá’s vino tinto, made from grapes he imported from a nearby farm, was known throughout the region, and his distinct green bottle could be found in the homes of many nobles and important people in local government. But the cellar also held another purpose. Their hidden weekly Shabbat dinners.
The Perez family were conversos. Throughout the four kingdoms of Spain, there were thousands of people just like them, both Muslims and Jews, known as the converted ones. Though Isabel and her family were Christian on the outside, attending church diligently every Sunday, and even displaying Jesús on his cross in their sala so no one would question their devotion, they were part of a small minority who still maintained their original traditions in private.
By now Isabel was used to her family’s strange rituals belowground; she didn’t even think twice about it. But this wasn’t always the case. Her earliest memory was of being a small, frightened girl, sitting at the cellar table in the eerie glow of candlelight. Papá had looked at Isabel and Beatriz, then ages five and four, and declared, “It’s time you learned the truth.” He paused dramatically. “We are Crypto-Jews.”
“Are we mummies?” Isabel had asked, thinking of corpses lying in underground caves.
“No, cariña, we’re secret Jews,” Papá clarified, slightly amused.
Mamá’s face became dark and serious. “Listen to me very carefully, girls. You must never tell anyone what we do down here.”
“But I can tell the Cohens?” Isabel asked, thinking of their dear Jewish friends and the new twins Señora Cohen had just birthed.
Papá shook his head. “Not even them. Someone might overhear.”
That didn’t seem fair! “The Cohens have Friday night dinners aboveground, out in the open,” Isabel whined. “Why should we have to hide?”
“There are laws against conversos Judaizing,” explained Mamá, “which means participating in Jewish traditions. You would not be safe if the wrong person learned of our weekly ceremony.” She took hold of the girls’ hands. “From now on, ensure that you have dirt under your nails and your dresses are sullied every Friday. That way no one will think we are preparing for Shabbat. Keep our secret deep in your heart and not on your lips.” Then she made them swear and vow in the king’s name never to reveal the truth.
Over the years, Isabel had found it easy to keep the promise, to follow along with her parents’ traditions and accept their double life.
With the candle blessing complete, everyone took their seats except Isabel, who was lost in thought. Not about the memory of her first cellar dinner, but about the reading this evening. She had already memorized the poem she’d written, so that wasn’t what concerned her. How was she going to slip out of the house unnoticed and get to the Moorish quarter?
“Isabel, we’re waiting!” said Mamá.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, pulling out her chair.
With no son to bless since Isabel and Beatriz’s baby brother, Rodrigo, or Ruy as they called him, had died last winter, Papá turned to his daughters, resting his hands on each of their heads. Beatriz flinched, moving away from Papá’s touch. Isabel leaned in to give him this small pleasure.
“May you be like Sarah, Rebecca, Leah, and Rachel,” said Papá. “May God bless you and guard you. May God show you kindness and grant you peace.”
Abuela then recited the blessing over the bread. “Take some challah, Eva.” Abuela always addressed Isabel by her Hebrew name down in the cellar, never the name she received at the baptismal font. Isabel actually preferred Eva. It was prettier. She did not appreciate being named after Queen Isabella. The woman was a fickle ruler, and ugly to boot.
Abuela passed the bread plate to Beatriz. “You too, Malka.”
“That’s not my name.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to acknowledge it every once in a while,” Isabel snapped at her sister.
“There was talk today in the taberna,” said Papá. “Someone thought they saw an Inquisition spy standing in the corner by the bar.”
“Here in Trujillo?” said Mamá.
Papá nodded. “They were watching who was eating pork and who was not. Luckily, I had not ordered any food, even though someone nearby called me out as a Marrano.”
“He called you a pig?” asked Isabel.
“To Spaniards, Marrano is just another word for a Jewish converso,” explained Papá. “Like Morisco is another word for a Muslim converso.”
“That’s hardly the same thing,” said Isabel, not appreciating being equated with swine. “At least Morisco sounds like the word Moor.”
“I prefer the term New Christian,” said Beatriz.
Papá’s eyebrows joined together in distress. “Make no mistake. The authorities are waiting for conversos like us to backslide into Judaism. And not just in tabernas. In carnicerías, keeping track of who buys meat during Lent and who doesn’t. In church, noticing who snickers at the mention of Madre Mary, and who is solemn.”
“I never smile at Santa Madre’s name,” said Beatriz.
“Yes, you’re the perfect Christian,” said Isabel.
Beatriz tossed back her head, her hair nearly whipping Isabel in the face.
Isabel was well aware of the tenuous ground the conversos walked on. The Jews judged them for rolling over, for converting too easily and turning their backs on God. The Christians accused them of tainting the blood of their children by intermarrying with Old Christian nobility. But Inquisition spies in their midst? This was new.