Page 103 of The Familiar

Neva sang on.

CHAPTER 45

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.