The Lady of Seville

By Elizabeth Currie

It is the close of the hot summer of 1559 and Spain is at the height of its Imperial powers. Its treasure fleets ply the Spanish Main between the New World and Seville, laden with the gold and silver of vanquished Indian nations, whilst at home the all-powerful Inquisition jealously guards the nation’s Faith.
Amidst the hothouse artifice of Seville’s aristocratic salons, Doña Maria de Cavala’s dreams of an ideal marriage to a young aristocrat are unexpectedly dashed when his father becomes the unwitting victim of a plot to ruin him and is condemned to death for heresy. Instead Maria must marry the baleful Alonso de Tordesillas – a corrupt soldier of fortune from the Indies. It is a union that will secure her family’s wealth and prestige, but condemn her to certain misery. Appalled by this reversal of her fortunes, Maria renounces duty and honour and escapes to follow her former betrothed – the young Miguel Ortega– who has fled for his life to South America.
There, as Miguel struggles to make a new life for himself, his noble upbringing leaves him unprepared him for the harshness of the new world he now encounters. It is a world of guile, of graft and of the exploitation of weakness; a world where swift wits, a hard heart and skill in the bearing of arms alone determine a man’s fortune. Can the love that María once felt for him survive these changes of fortune, or her growing fascination with the handsome Basque adventurer who has promised to be her escort?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Currie
• Release date: Feb 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301026838

Elizabeth Currie

I am something of a composite creature in many ways. From a life spent working mainly as an academic (archaeology, anthropology, history and health sciences) in recent years I have turned writer of fiction, travel and poetry. I also work as a visual artist and fine art photographer. Travel is the single most important theme linking all these, providing me with a rich source of ideas and imagery that inspires all my work.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The first thin spiral of smoke wound slowly upwards from the brushwood just lit, bringing with it sparks and a pleasant aromatic scent bearing incongruous memories of feast days and celebrations. The confused murmur from the jostling crowd held back by guards beyond the perimeter fences lent to the illusion – briefly. Until moving awkwardly against the chains that held him fast to the hard wooden post, the jarring pain from his broken body forced Miguel back into the present. The fires had been lit! Soon the pain would follow.

His mind drifted uncertainly between dull lack of comprehension and dreamlike placidity to a lucidness charged with fear. The dense jumble of years that had brought him to this moment seemed themselves like the jostling rabble of jeering crowds that had surged and fought on every side of the terrible procession that had borne him – and the others condemned to die that day – to this barren place of execution. Long years born in hope and in glory, in the brightness of the wars of conquest and the honours that had followed, to the life of wealth and ease and acclamation, to that moment when the heavy thud thudding upon the doors had announced the ending of everything. In such a short space of time, all was lost; the giddy heights of social acclaim undone almost in the blinking of an eye. A denouncement from someone, from somewhere, a lie, and then that which all men lived in terror of had turned its bright unfriendly eyes upon him. Had sent its officers that sultry afternoon to his door to require he answer their questions.

The wisps and spirals of smoke had quickly thickened and, as they curled around him he coughed, racking his body with more pain. All men prayed that the smoke would bring them merciful oblivion before the flames arose to consume them in anguish. But Miguel didn’t know. He had blazed his trails of glory in the fires of the early years of the Crown of Spain’s conquests, had heard the screams of the vanquished as their towns and cities burned; but that was war and that was the price of glory – at least for those who were victors. Now, in that ironic twist that fate can sometimes deal, he was no longer victor, he was a man condemned, and so now would he taste the fires of the defeated in his turn.

The mute hubbub of the distant crowd gathered to watch this rarest spectacle merged with the closer crackle of the wood as it now succumbed to the creeping flames, and with the sound of his own rasping, hesitant breathing. What had gone so wrong? In all that he had done, what error had brought him to such a pass as this? Why had God himself abandoned him to such an unjust and terrible end? And whatever had happened to his son? His mind flashed back with searing vividness to the moment – an eon ago, yet earlier in the day – when, in the slow sombre procession of the penitents, in stumbling he had glanced up and seen, standing dreamlike above him on a balcony, the figure of the girl in resplendent dress, who had been to wed his son. Their eyes had met one moment, hers like a hunted deer wide and dark with fear as she had stared down at him. He had tried to speak to her despite the impossible distance of space and circumstance, to protest his innocence. Until the guard who accompanied him had seized his arm and jerked him forward again on the long march that had led, eventually, to here.

There were other sounds now that mingled with the crackling of the fire and the jeering of the watching crowds; the sounds of terrible cries rose all around him; and somehow from him too, as the flames arose and took their hold. But already a strange detachment had taken him also. Somehow he could both hear the cries and feel the flames and yet somehow, too, it all began to feel less urgent than it had. His body was engulfed in flame, but his mind floated in a kind of radiance borne not of flame, but some other light perhaps; until all went dark.

The crowds had fought their way forward to watch as the fires from a dozen or more pyres sent smoke and sparks high into the darkening skies of evening and, too, the screams of those who perished each in their private inferno. But it was nothing to the fires of hell that awaited them now! And as the spectacle drew to its close, straggles of awed but satisfied spectators detached themselves and made their way back home amidst the fairground atmosphere, of hawkers and peddlers and vendors of food. It was ever a salutary experience to see what happened to those – from the humblest to mightiest of the land even – who had so brazenly and foolishly crossed the will of God, the Holy Church and the Office of the Inquisition!

BOOK ONE: THE LADY OF SEVILLE

CHAPTER ONE: THE LADY OF SEVILLE

Snowflakes were floating past the window panes, softly, calmly against the deep grey skies of a late winter’s afternoon. She lifted her face and watched them fall, the deep hush of the still day’s end broken only by the crackle of the fire burning brightly, reassuringly in the hearth behind her. In her hand she held a pen, poised uncertainly above a blank sheet of parchment. This was to be her story, but still she doubted how to start. There seemed to be so much to say, and all of it so long ago.

The quiet stillness and calm were reassuring, but there were other days deep in that past that had been far from calm and far from reassuring, that had been suddenly charged with uncertainty and terror. Her dark eyes were dreamy now staring at the snowflakes, remembering a time and a place where snow rarely fell, in the days of her youth, so long ago now and so far away. It was a time when the sun seemed always to shine, bleaching the land of colour in the long hot summer months, lending radiance in winter. A place where cool fountains splashed in elegant courtyards and the raucous noise of cart wheels, the clatter of hooves, shouts of merchants and labourers and peasants through the town’s cobbled streets were muted by the thick walls of the cool mansion where she had passed her childhood. There was the garden with its flowers and fountains, with its columns and marble statues of men from another age long past; with doves that cooed in the tall trees; the scent of orange blossom in the spring. And, in the cold of deepest winter, where oranges yet festooned the trees.

The lines that now marked her brow and her cheeks were invisible in the shadowy reflection that stared back at her from the window glass and her hair, hidden beneath the coif, could well have been as dense and black as it once had been. Her face was still small and well-shaped, still beautiful; her mouth nearly as beguilingly full as the days when it had first been kissed; its expression still sweet. She still had her elegant poise, the slight tilt to her head: beautiful María, María de Cávala; once betrothed of two men, destined to marry neither. There had ever been something shadowy, elusive about her down through her long life, the occasional gleam of something hidden, like gold; an aristocrat in disguise.

The blank sheet of parchment that lay before her upon the old oak table seemed of itself to be a mirror, waiting for an image to reflect. And so at last she wrote, hesitantly the words, the statement, the confession:

‘My name is María de Cávala ...’ upon it and stared at them, glistening wetly in the candlelight, as though a secret had finally been spoken aloud. It had been fifty years since she had last owned that name, fifty years since she had left it and all that had been her life and had fled on a ship to a land they called Quito.

The shadowy reflection in the window seemed to watch her, merging with the flakes of snow that slowly drifted past, dreamlike, ethereal, like petals of pale blossom, borne on the chill winter wind outside in the deepening dark of evening. How dark those days had been! And she shivered, despite the heat from the fire burning brightly in the hearth behind her. Again the doubt, the certain knowledge of the pain that waited behind the door closed upon those times. Why think of it at all? Why not continue the forgetfulness of the long years that had brought her to this table, on a cold evening in late January, to confront finally, the truth of her life? But an urgency was with her that would not now be denied, an imperative to own all that she had once been, one last time, before she died. Because deep in her heart she knew that death was probably very close now, and so this could wait no longer.

Love and pain make strange and contradictory bedfellows, yet often it seems dwell in the same place. And where good thrives there too does evil. She closed her eyes now and tried to clear her mind, whispering a simple prayer, then waited. Orange trees and laughter and the strong sharp scent of citrus sprang from the dark locker of memory, she could almost taste the bitter sweetness, the oranges of Seville. And then laughing with her sister Leonor, dancing amongst the fallen fruit – the sunshine of childhood, before the shadows came.

María opened her eyes again. The servant had entered the room with another load of wood for the fire but María never heard him, staring still at the drifting snowflakes as though each one held a memory, a picture from that lost time. Marta! The image of an old and kindly face came before her and with it a curious feeling of both sweetness and sorrow – nostalgia, the innocence of childhood; of feeling loved and protected; and María’s mouth twisted a little and she sighed. Tomás glanced at her as he turned to leave, but saw in her face the distance of her mind and softly departed after lighting more candles for the fall of evening, closing the door quietly behind him.

María was just fourteen when Marta had died and nothing was ever to be the same again. Her death had been quite unexpected and devastating. María’s mother had died when Francisco, her brother was born, but she had been too little to remember. Marta the nurse was all she had known. At first they had lived in Carmona, a small town not far from the city of Sevilla. The family was of aristocratic lineage with links to the great houses of Énriquez and Córdoba, but the shadows had somehow started to fall even then in those days of sunshine, in the hot lands of Andalusia, and she had never known why. Daughters were never told anything. When the time came they were duly married to men chosen for them by fathers and uncles, even brothers or grandfathers and with the dowries conferred upon them there were none greater or more important than their family’s honour. This was the lot of women: to bear with dignity in silence whatever befell them, expecting only to preserve honour above all other things; even though that honour should bring pain or shame.

Her pen had fallen to rest upon the unfinished page in a little splash of ink; it was now too dark for writing. The candle on the table was burning lower and it’s soft glow lit María’s face, her eyes still distant with memory, still watching the falling flakes of snow drifting past the windows, the distant hills and snowier peaks now lost to view; too dark. Too dark! Darkness had slowly overtaken them all in those lands of vivid heat and light, when it seemed as though Satan himself had come; had come with the Lutheran heresy, bringing horror and destruction with him. The memories of those days long past, charged with poignancy and pain, came before her once again and with them, inevitably, came also one whose very name was somehow a metaphor for that past of suffering and loss: Miguel. Poor Miguel! And her mouth twisted again remembering her betrothal and how it had all gone so terribly wrong.

After their nurse’s death, María and her sister Leonor had moved from the family house in Carmona to a larger and more sumptuous residence in the heart of Seville, to live with their uncle’s family. Here they were more conveniently central to the social milieu and the politics requisite for their marriages. And so, when María was sixteen, Leonor – herself just eighteen – had been the first to be married. The match made for her was considered an excellent one: with Don Pedro de Montesino, a nephew of Don Carlos Ponce de Énriquez. No matter that Montesino was twenty years her senior and already twice a widower; this was usual enough. María and Leonor had always been very close, friends as well as sisters. How often they had used to laugh and tease each other and joke about the endlessly entertaining subject of men and marriage! But after Leonor had married she had become distant, remote and even formal. María rarely saw her it was true, but not even in the brief letters that passed between them was there any suggestion of the warm intimacy they had once shared. Sometimes María had briefly glimpsed a look like sorrow disguised beneath the unfamiliar expression of watchful reserve her sister now wore.

With Leonor married, María had been left nearly alone in the large ornate mansion with only maidservants and ladies in waiting for company, and there was now no longer the warm comfortable presence of anyone in her life anymore. Her visits into the outside world were rather infrequent and always accompanied by her aunt or by chaperones. There were the regular visits to mass at the church just a short walk from the house on the square outside; occasional visits to mass, saints or feast day celebrations at the great new cathedral in the centre of Seville. Sometimes there were visitors to lighten the quietness of the days, when her brother or her cousins came, or perhaps friends of her uncle and things became a little gayer. She rarely saw her father who spent much of his time travelling on court matters away from Seville. Occasionally she was allowed to accompany other members of the family on their visits: to feasts or celebrations in the city and once even to a banquet at the Alcázar palace, when Prince Felipe, heir to the throne of Castile himself had been present.

And – finally – there was talk of the plans underway to arrange her own marriage. Her aunt, a cool and formal woman, had spoken occasionally to her that suitable alliances were being sought. María remembered feeling both excited and nervous at the idea. There was always that uncomfortable memory of the way Leonor had changed after her own marriage; the feeling that all was not well with her in her new life. When María had once questioned her aunt Doña Juana about her sister, she had been promptly told to remember the reasons for marriage:

Marriage is first a holy sacrament given by God for the avoidance of sin and principally for the gift of children to be born into an honourable estate. It is also the means by which great houses make alliances, and a woman takes with her the honour of her family and bears it with her always. There is no other reason for marriage and you would be wise to remember this. I know you like to read the romances of knights and their ladies and dream about deeds of chivalry and love, but it should please you to remember that you have a sacred duty to your family. That is the best a daughter may hope for. In time you will find this will suffice!

It was then the late summer of 1558, and one hot September afternoon, María had been sitting in an alcove in the salon, dreamily listening to the incessant trilling of a canary as she fingered some chords on a mandolin. Doña Juana appeared and told her that an artist had been engaged to paint her portrait. And this was the first real sign that the business of her own marriage had moved from the level of a mere idea into something more definite. She had been told that she was likely to be betrothed to the son of a wealthy gentleman, a man whose family had been awarded land and title by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella at the conquest of Granada and who had himself acquired further wealth and then royal office after the conquest of the kingdom of Peru, in which he had taken part with the Marquis and later governor of Peru, Don Francisco Pizarro. She remembered standing for the painting on the balcony of the house that overlooked the tiled patio below, holding a rose in her hand to signify love, for she was a girl on the threshold of her marriage. And not many weeks later she finally met the man she had been betrothed to – Juan Miguel Ortega.

It had been so many years since María had thought about Miguel, had ever allowed herself to think about him. He had existed like a fugitive in her memory, like a lost soul consigned to an oubliette, for the thought of him still caused her pain. As she thought of him now, finally, after so many years, she found her eyes filling with tears, and the now dark world outside the window of the room where she sat blurred, together with the guttering candle, through her own tears. Poor Miguel! How heavy her heart felt at the thought of him. How much he had lost; how much he must have suffered! It was hard to force herself to remember, not because she couldn’t remember but because she didn’t want to. To remember that she had loved him and had once thought herself so lucky; so much luckier than her poor sister Leonor, unhappily married to an older man who treated her with contempt.

She clearly recalled the day she and Miguel had finally met one another. She had followed the usual protocol of keeping her eyes modestly lowered, her heart full of a strange surging mixture of hope and fear and excitement. She had glimpsed the large party awaiting her; had seen his shoes and hose as he stood before her and the feather in his doffed cap and the tip of a scarlet and blue cloak as he had bowed low before her, greeting her with solemn courtesy as was usual. After she had curtsied herself in her turn, she had finally glanced up, unable to restrain her eagerness any longer, and beheld rather a slight but handsome youth, with dark curling hair and large dark eyes staring at her with an expression of wonderment upon his face. This was the man who was to be her husband! She remembered the way they had smiled at each other, shyly. Later, as they walked through the gardens of the mansion, along the terrace amidst the roses and the jasmines, they had talked and even laughed together a little, despite the presence of their family members and her ladies as chaperones. It had seemed such a blessing.

María had been betrothed to the only son of Miguel Ortega de Santa Fé. She remembered retiring to bed that evening feeling excited and happy. Her ladies had laughed at her, making jokes about her marriage and her future husband. What a dashing young man he was! He was not very tall it was true, but still he had that about his countenance and demeanour that promised virility! Yes. Miguel had seemed dashing to María and she thought about him a lot in the following weeks. He had come to visit several times, but although they had never met without María’s chaperones present as was usual, and sometimes even with friends of Miguel himself, nevertheless they clearly had both felt a strong and a growing regard for each other. And María felt herself to be very much in love with this sweet young man with the haze of dark curls – not, in fact, unlike her own perhaps – and the large dark eyes too, who gazed upon her so adoringly; who held her hand so lovingly whenever he kissed it at greeting or departure. How very lucky she was!

They had been betrothed in April with the scent of orange blossom heavy in the air and, with the advent of the hotter months, as the scent of orange blossom gave way to jasmine, their formal courtship continued. There were still many details of the marriage to be agreed upon and so emissaries of the two families went back and forth, and there were meetings between Miguel Ortega senior and her uncle, who had authority to act on behalf of her father.

Their family is not exactly of an ancient or aristocratic line, but they are still of pure blood. No converso or Jew as far as we can tell. Don Miguel has title, office and much wealth, which will benefit our family in many important ways. You are a lucky girl and this marriage will do you no dishonour, although it will certainly do more honour to the Ortegas, to be joined to our family.

María had seen Leonor again during this period of her betrothal. Leonor had finally given birth to a daughter earlier that year, this not long after she had suffered the stillbirth of her first born child – a son – and a miscarriage before this. María recalled how pale and tired she looked and how rarely she ever seemed to smile now. They had walked around the courtyards together, María searching for things to say to her sister, who had once been her friend. She had brought up the subject of her betrothal to Miguel and how happy she was that she was soon to be married to a man she loved. María would never forget the look on Leonor’s face or the sound in her voice, as she said impatiently:

Don’t be such a fool María! You marry for the honour and benefit of your family as you should well know, and you marry at their pleasure. Do not make the mistake of believing that the smiles of your betrothed now will survive the wedding celebrations, or your wedding night even! And if you fail to give him the son he desires, you will be doubly cursed!

María had looked sharply at her sister in dismay, but Leonor had quickly fallen quiet and then changed the subject, as though conscious that she had given away too much. They parted shortly afterwards and María had not seen her since. But it cast a shadow over the happiness that had so buoyed her up until then, like clouds across the noonday sun. She was worried about Leonor and now troubled about her own marriage. Would Miguel somehow change towards her? She could hardly believe it given how sweetly charming he was every time she saw him. It seemed to her nearly idyllic. What did Leonor mean? It was terrible to think that her life was one of suffering that she couldn’t even talk about. María wrote her a letter and tried, one last time, to engage her sister at the level of the friendship and intimacy they had once shared. But the reply, when it finally arrived, remained coolly aloof and assured her that she was as happy as any woman could be who had been graced with an honourable marriage.

It was the year of 1559 and as the days of summer wore on, thunder clouds had gathered. There had been a strange and palpable tension in the air. Unaccountable delays seemed to have crept into the proceedings, although she was told nothing. She had seen Miguel just once and he had seemed rather distracted and a little nervous. When he left he had looked longingly at her and she remembered the feel of his fingers as he gave her hand the little secret squeeze that he always did upon leaving.

Fare well María! I pray that we may be wed before many more weeks should pass.

The weeks had come and gone, but there had been nothing more from him. Her uncle had been called away and her aunt Juana behaved as though she knew nothing, although wore a more guarded expression than usual it seemed. No one told her anything, when her marriage was supposed to be, or why Miguel never came any more. She supposed he had been called away on business of some nature, perhaps with his father. The fact that they had been formally betrothed with attendant festivities should have guaranteed that a ceremony would follow shortly. As the hottest month of August arrived, her uncle returned and finally summoned her to see him. She went to him, her heart a painful mixture of hope and foreboding. Her uncle normally left her aunt to keep her informed of developments, so if he himself had decided it appropriate to talk to her directly, then surely something serious had happened. As she entered the small audience room, hung with portraits of their family members, she observed him pacing up and down, looking glum. She curtsied and waited with a sense of mounting alarm at the expression on his face.

I am sorry María to have to tell you that your betrothal with young Ortega cannot continue. Indeed it has been several weeks since it was formally ended. I could not tell you myself being away and could not trust others with the news. This is indeed a sorry business, but also a mercy too. A mercy that no marriage took place before the truth came to light!

What do you mean uncle? How should this be? Whatever has happened?

In the shock of the news she had rather forgotten herself, questioning him abruptly as though he were an equal, and observed him looking at her rather sharply.

Forgive me sir; but you may understand how anxious and alarmed I am to hear your news. Please tell me what has happened. I understood from all you said that the match was a good one?

He mollified a little; an austere man, he was not without humour or compassion when the occasion demanded.

I am sorry niece that it should be this way. But Don Miguel Ortega was arrested several weeks ago on the orders of the Holy Office for heresy, and is even now as we speak in prison. His estate has been confiscated. It is of course impossible that there can now be any alliance between such a family and our own, and I thank our Lord for the mercy that this was found out before such an alliance was made.

María stared at him in shock, unable to take in the full import of his words.

Again I say I am sorry niece, but be grateful you have been spared the dishonour of finding yourself as daughter-in-law to such a man! Your family would of course have had to disown you. This is a mercy! In time we will make another match for you so do not fear!

And he had turned on his heel and walked briskly from the room, leaving María standing there alone, forlorn, like a statue, contemplating the ruin of her life and her dreams.

In time life gradually resumed the tenor and feel it had had before the brief heady days of her betrothal, although her maids had lost the gaiety they once had and seemed distant and formal in her presence. Sometimes she would hear them whispering together when they thought she couldn’t hear them. She could talk to no-one about what had happened; about poor Miguel; about anything. Her aunt, who had presumably known about it all for some time, remained silent on the subject and if questioned would only take the same view as her uncle anyway, that the family had all been spared a terrible disgrace.

María attended mass; she walked in the gardens. Sometimes she went out into the city with her aunt and ladies, or her chaperones; sometimes she worked at her embroidery or tapestries, or read as many books as she could from her uncle’s library. She played the mandolin, the guitar or the virginals and tried to sing in the way she had once, but there was now no spirit or liveliness in her voice. Sometimes the sadness of the music made her close to tears. At her private prayers in her room, before the little effigy of the Virgin, she prayed urgently for help and for guidance. At bedtime, when the candles were extinguished and she had retreated behind the privacy of the bed curtains, she waited until all was quiet before crying quietly into her pillow. And there was no-one to talk to or to understand her loneliness or her sorrow. Whatever had come to pass, it was universally presumed that she had had a most fortunate escape and that it would not be so very long before another suitable match would be made for her.

Then the day came when her cousins Sancho and Ramón, with her brother Francisco turned up with a party of friends, restoring a little liveliness to the dullness of the household. They also brought more news of the terrible events that had been engulfing the city recently in a wave of fear and of which even María herself had become aware from the regular and solemn warnings issued by their parish priest at church. Across the course of the previous year and this, it had apparently come to the attention of the Tribunal of the Inquisition that a number of eminent Sevillian clergy, citizens and even members of the nobility were implicated in the Lutheran heresy; there had been others too – way up north in Valladolid. There had followed several waves of denouncements and a number of searches and raids. Don Miguel Ortega de Santa Fé had been arrested during one of these. He had of course denied any involvement with the heresy, but given the rumours against him, and the finding of books in his library forbidden under the Index, together with pagan figures in his private collections that he had brought with him from his time spent in the Indies, it had been deemed necessary to interrogate him more harshly, to get to the bottom of the matter. He had apparently resisted at first, but had eventually confessed to the heresy under torture and in so doing had condemned himself. No one knew what had become of his son, Juan Miguel. Under such circumstances it was not uncommon for other close members of a family under suspicion of heresy by the Holy Office to flee into exile for their lives. It was assumed that he had done this shortly after his father had been forced to confess, and when it became clear that the family’s estate and all their possessions had been sequestered.

Her brother and cousins all congratulated María heartily on her lucky escape, and with it the entire family’s fortunes which would have been dealt such a damning blow should an alliance have been made before the arrest. María herself remained silent on the matter, hardly knowing what she should say, but acutely aware how her own private feelings diverged so completely from those of every other member of her family. But worse was to follow. As the sultry and insufferably hot days of August dragged by, a general notification was published of a great auto de fé which was to be held in the centre of the city on 24th of September, which all good and faithful subjects of His Majesty Don Felipe were invited to attend. In it, those who had been found guilty of the heresy and diverse other offences would be paraded publicly before being handed out their sentences. Such spectacles were considered a rare treat, being even more splendid and colourful than the annual festivities and parades during Holy Week or at Corpus Christi. And it always did the soul good to witness the parading of the penitents and to feel re-affirmed in the body of the faithful.

María hardly knew what an auto de fé was supposed to be about, excepting that it seemed to be something that everyone would be expected to attend and promised a rare degree of excitement and spectacle. She might have felt excited at the thought of something so different and entertaining, excepting that it was spoken of in association with the terrible wave of arrests that had taken the father of her betrothed, with the implication that Don Miguel Ortega might himself be one of the condemned who would be in the parade of heretics and penitents. The thought was a frightful one and María wondered if there would be anyway that she could avoid being present, but it soon became clear that avoidance would be completely out of the question. The Cávala family had nearly been united with the Ortegas through marriage. As such it would be more than just advisable, but of critical importance that all members of the family be present to witness the judgement and condemnation of Don Miguel for his lamentable crimes of heresy; and none more important than the woman who had so narrowly escaped being the bride of his son.

As rumours of the impending spectacle gathered apace, María was once again summoned before her uncle for an official audience, when she was told that a new match had just been agreed for her. Negotiations were even then taking place and it was hopeful that a marriage could be made before the end of the year. Given the unexpected and unfortunate circumstances that had necessitated the immediate ending of her earlier alliance, it was considered extremely fortuitous that another had presented itself so promptly. It would certainly help to offset any unfortunate associations remaining from the earlier betrothal.

María was stunned at the news. She had not begun to be able to adjust to the ending of her betrothal to Miguel, to the knowledge that she would probably never see him again. The idea that she was now on the point of being married to another, a complete stranger, who would then expect to command her affections was impossible to comprehend. She looked at her uncle as he spoke without comment.

I hope you are pleased with this María. Much work has been undertaken on your behalf. Again, we have been able to make you a good match as well as one which offers significant wealth for the family.

She nodded, looking down without comment. Her uncle stared sharply at her.

You don’t appear so inclined to argue as you once were! I’ll take that as a good sign, that you’re finally learning the realities of what duty demands, and what good fortune has brought you,

But the family are, of course, also the beneficiaries are they not, sir?

Of course! But you yourself are also honoured by this. The man himself is a wealthy hidalgo, once again a man of fortune from the Indies. What he lacks in family and title, he more than compensates for in deeds of arms, in public office, in private estates and in extensive fortunes.

And he will not prove a heretic in the manner of Don Miguel Ortega?

Her uncle looked sharply at her again, aware of the note of irony in her voice. Was it possible that his young niece was actually being insolent? She was still standing with eyelids lowered, so he decided instead that she had merely learned a valuable lesson in the politics of marriage, and was simply concerned to avoid a repetition of the previous regrettable circumstances.

It was hardly our fault to have been so taken in by Don Miguel Ortega. These things happen and these are certainly difficult and dangerous times that we are witnessing. But there is ample proof that your new betrothed is a man of integrity. The negotiations are nearly complete and then you will be introduced to one another. He is a man of … more mature years it is true, but his fortune and his reputation stand in his favour.

A horrible stricture of her heart followed this brief description of her new betrothed. A man of more mature years! Like Leonor had been married to; and after the handsome young Miguel, now gone forever. Better indeed if she could die of a fever before such a terrible fate overtook her. But then she felt guilty; such thoughts did not seem to accord with the life of Faith she always had aspired to.

May I ask sir, why is it that I must marry this man at all?

The question hung in the air between them. She still kept her eyes lowered, but trembled with the feeling of her uncle’s angry stare at her now unquestionable impertinence. She wondered herself at her own audacity; at the spirit of defiance that had suddenly manifest itself in such an uncharacteristic manner.

You might as well ask why daughters are born at all María! And now I suggest that you leave before my inclination to humour you fails me and you know what my anger is!

She curtsied very low to her uncle.

And I ask, indeed I command that you will not betray any unseemly emotions or make allusions to the earlier engagement!

She curtsied again and left quickly, withdrawing to her chamber to dwell upon the news that had just been given her. There seemed indeed to be no way that she could avoid the fate ordained for her, however insupportable it was. It would have been bad enough if this had been her first betrothal – to a man so much older – but for it to follow, and so shortly, that to a man she felt she had loved seemed particularly cruel. Prayer, the only course left, seemed a barren sanctuary as she knelt before her little wooden statue of the Virgin, mechanically saying prayers that now sounded empty and meaningless.

CHAPTER TWO: A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE

Alonso de Tordesillas, María’s new husband to be, had spent many years in the Viceroyalty of Peru, province of a land they called America. Rather as Don Miguel Ortega, he had earned preferment, title and lands following the conquest of that kingdom and had amassed a considerable fortune. However, unlike Don Miguel who had returned to Spain many years earlier to settle in Seville, Don Alonso had only lately returned, ostensibly with the intention of acquiring estates and to establish his house there. This was increasingly usual for men who had made their fortune in the Indies and who then married into families of more ancient lineage in Castile.

So the time came when María was escorted to meet her new betrothed who awaited her with a party of his attendants in the large salon of the house. There was an eerie resemblance to the earlier meeting with Miguel, like some déjà vue. As her party descended the sweeping flights of marble steps from the upper rooms to the lower, she could hear the sound of voices from the party of visitors who awaited them. Nearer and nearer they sounded as she approached the entrance to the tall salon, hung with its tapestries of ancient battle scenes. Again she kept her eyes lowered, but this time with the burdensome feeling that she never wanted to lift them again to face the reality of the man now chosen to be her husband. Her eyes counted the ornate tiles of the floor as she stepped across them, closer and closer to where, on the edge of her vision, she could see the party of the man designated to be her future husband assembled.

Her uncle, who had preceded her, bowed low to the visitors and made a lengthy speech of welcome to Don Alonso and his party, and then continued with the introductions, which concluded with the introduction of María to Don Alonso himself. With a great effort of will she then forced herself to raise her eyes and found herself staring directly at a tall thickset man who fairly loomed over her. He was considerably taller than Miguel had been, well-proportioned and well built, clearly a strong man who was used to bearing arms. His attire was exceedingly rich, much more so than the Ortegas and he sported much gold about his person, in neck chains, in rings and in brocade on the rich silks and velvets of his clothing. An opulent tear-shaped pearl dangled jauntily from one earlobe. But María hardly noticed any of this. A curiously awful feeling stirred in her as she met the flat gaze of his dark eyes. There was a kind of fixed smile on his mouth which did not extend to the eyes that seemed to penetrate her. María was reminded of the time she had observed one of the household cats with its dark eyes fixed intently upon a bird hopping just within its reach. If she had had a clearer understanding of what a predator was, then she would unquestionably have identified the man standing before her, staring coldly and insolently at her, as one. She dropped her eyes with a small awkward twist of her mouth and managed a short curtsey. All eyes were upon her; not only those of Don Alonso himself, but the rest of her own family, waiting to see how well she comported herself with this new man.

It was at least of some mercy that Don Alonso showed little interest in engaging her in conversation, unlike his predecessor once had, upon their perambulations through the gardens, or later at the banquet held in his honour. María sat next to her aunt and some way down the table from her uncle and her new betrothed, who spoke loudly of his exploits in the wars of conquest in the Indies, and the fortunes he had made there. There was little for her to say so she had fallen silent, picking at the food before her with not the smallest trace of appetite and yearning for the moment when she might be free to retire to her room.

Finally, it was over. She remembered facing her future husband one final time as they took leave of one another, determined this time not to look at him. She remembered with a shudder the way he had seized her hand in his, and with his other had, extraordinarily, smartly tilted up her chin so that she had to look at him.

I would see your eyes my lady! We are, after all, to be married shortly, and you must remember what your new husband looks like in case you mistake me at the wedding!

There was much laughter from the whole party. Don Antonio her uncle glanced nervously in her direction, as did his wife Doña Juana who had received the sternest instructions to guarantee the behaviour of their niece. But María said nothing. She jerked her head away and managed just another short curtsy.

I hope her humour improves after we are wed Don Antonio!

My niece is a virtuous and modest girl. She also bears the greatest respect towards her elders and superiors and has learned not to talk idly or to speak out of turn.

Hmm! Perhaps it is as well. I cannot abide women who behave as though they are the equal of their lord! We would not want that I should have to discipline her too soon in the marriage would we?

This was spoken half to María and half as though to himself. Again there was a round of appreciative laughter from the assembled group who undoubtedly found the new betrothal much more entertaining than the former. Don Alonso impressed them with his forthright manner and sense of power.

Later, María had again to endure the jokes of her maids and ladies, who made no secret of their approval of the manliness of her latest