so carelessly?”
“Ah, my friend! For Estevan’s brothers to have kept it, knowing that their house would surely be searched as matter of course even while the boy was still merely missing—that would have been to hide it carelessly. As for keeping it in the bottom of Pedro’s chest, how could they expect blame to fall anywhere else than upon your people?” Don Felipe spoke with a heart made all the heavier by the secret knowledge that, had it not been for his own actions taken upon information given, received, and given again under the strict Seal of Confession, the boys would have been safe in their expectation. “Even those children themselves,” he went on bitterly, “knowing their own guilt, saw nothing wrong in allowing the blame to fall on Jews! This is not the world as we knew it under the infidel Moors of Karnattah, old friend.”
“I fear,” said Gamito, “that it will grow worse yet. We may live to see more such massacres as those of our grandparents’ days.”
“And you, Gamito? Would it not be better for you to join your brother and his wife in Rome?”
The Jew shook his head. “I will not abandon my people as long as need remains here.”
“There are still those who cling to their belief that you caused the Holy Child’s death, who refuse to believe in the guilt of his brothers and their playfellow. Rumor may point you out even in Zaragoza.”
Gamito shook his head. “It is a large enough city, I hope, for me to live quietly in its Jewish quarter, unseen by any save my own kind.”
“And if our monarchs force Aragon to accept their new Inquisition?”
“Old friend,” said Gamaliel Ben Joseph, “I no longer so greatly fear the Inquisition. Is it not thanks to your Inquisition that I am free? No, it is the mob that I most fear now, and not the Inquisition that holds it somewhat in check.”
Far back though his servant and the former soldier were, Felipe lowered his voice. “Then never allow yourself to be baptized, Gamito—not, at least, without feeling true conversion in your heart,” he added, prudent even in their privacy. “And never, even if asked, speak a word concerning your beliefs to any Christian, for that might be called proselytizing. Avoid these things, and you should remain safe even from this new Inquisition.”
Gamito nodded, and they rode on.
Not that the investigation of local inquisitor and bishop’s Ordinary had been enough, Don Felipe thought with some anger. No, it had been necessary after all to appeal to the Justicia on behalf of Gamaliel Ben Joseph and Nathaniel Ben Solomon. The Justicia was a man able to weigh evidence, and pardons for both Jews had come, along with a document ordering the Christians of Daroca to keep the peace and withhold hasty judgment as regarded their Hebrew neighbors. Alas, not even this had crushed out the earliest opinions concerning the death of Estevan del Quivir. Nathaniel the Silversmith had already traded his house for mules and taken his family across the mountains to France. Certain others of Daroca’s Jews, even though never accused by name of this crime, had followed his example.
Another half hour, and Gamito said, “There is the inn where two of my brethren from Zaragoza are to meet me. Farewell, old friend. Peace be with you. I shall not risk either of us by writing letters.”
Swallowing hard, Felipe brought himself to say, “Except in need, Gamito. If need should press you, let me know of it.”
Because of the servants behind, they ventured nothing more, save that halfway to the inn, the Jew turned back briefly and gave the Christian a single wave of one hand.
Felipe returned it, then sat and watched until Gamito reached the inn. His friend would never know how much he had sacrificed—the peace of his own conscience, perhaps the very salvation of his soul—for the sake of friendship and justice.
Gubbio and Luis eventually came up to him and sat in silence, awaiting his pleasure and meanwhile leaving him to his own thoughts, which had turned back to the three boys: victims, in some sense, of his own sin. Especially was Pedro Choved his victim. Merely pointing to a door and naming it as that of the torture chamber—an irregularity which shamed Fra Guillaume’s with the Moorish lad Mehmoud Aben Fazoud into insignificance—had sufficed to bring from young Pedro, already broken in spirit as he was, a tearful admission at last, complete with the names of Estevan’s older brothers. Neither of them, however, had confessed to anything. Seeing his friends’ resolve, Pedro had refused to ratify his admission. Without public confession, there could be little use in so much as offering the young killers to the law’s secular arm. Nor, to Felipe’s secret relief, would Fra Guillaume even hear of holding a consultation on resorting to any degree in more regular fashion, let alone of attempting to find a laborer for the manual work attendant on exercising the long-disused inquisitorial privilege here in Aragon.
The ecclesiastical arm still had power to judge guilt and assign some penalty, even without confession. All three boys had been sentenced to make the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, the last mile on their knees, as soon as they should either find sponsors to accompany them, or be old enough to go by themselves. In addition, Pedro Choved’s mother had disowned and turned him out by her own act. Don Felipe hoped that their souls, at least, might be saved.
Blinking tears from his eyes, the Ordinary turned Castaña—his favorite little mule of the bishop’s stables—motioned to his attendants, and started back toward Daroca.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
