The Heretic's Daughter

By Michael Lynes

As the Inquisition’s grip tightens Isaac and Isabel must choose between family and faith. Will they survive the consequences?
Isaac seeks revenge on Torquemada for murdering his wife and best friend. He’s not the only one who wants The Grand Inquisitor dead. The King commands Isaac to investigate. Should he save the man he hates? Fail and he loses the King’s protection — the only thing keeping him alive. Feeling abandoned by her father and conflicted by his heresy, Isabel sets out to discover the truth herself. The trail leads to the darkest places in Seville. She’s unnerved by a shocking revelation and a surprising discovery about her real feelings. Can Isabel use what she unearths to save her father and their family?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Romaunce Books Publishers of Iconic Romantic Fiction.
• Release date: Jan 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215400265

Michael Lynes

MICHAEL LYNES is the Award-Winning Author of The Blood Series. To date, the series has won the New Apply Literary, Indie BRAG Medallion, Readers Favorite for FANTASY and most recently the IAN Book of the Year Selection for Fantasy. The series begins with the novella "It's in the Blood" and continues with Destroyer's Blood. NEW release Book Two - FIRST BLOOD is due out on November 1st 2019. Book One - "Destroyer's Blood"  Reviewed By Christian Sia for Readers' Favorite Destroyer's Blood: The Adventures of Devcalion: "a gripping fantasy with strong hints of Greek mythology." Meet Devcalion, "Dev," a demigod, son of Prometheus and nephew of Zeus. He has a telepathic sword and a very close friend called Betrayer, "Tray". When we encounter Dev, he and his friend are climbing up Half Dome. An encounter with Hermes changes everything, driving Dev to the last place he wants to be -- Mt. Olympus. Dev and Tray are pulled into a war they never bargained for. With the darkest power in the universe bent on wreaking havoc, do they have any chance of surviving?  Destroyer's Blood has been awarded the Silver Medal for Fantasy in the Readers Favorite Awards for 2019 and has won an Indie B.R.A.G. Medallion for Fantasy. It also won the Solo Medalist in the New Apple Summer eBook Awards for 2019. Book Two - "First Blood" will be released in November of 2019. His short story collection, "The Fat Man Gets Out of Bed", was chosen solo Medalist Winner in the 2017 New Apple Summer Indie Book awards.  His memoir, "There Is A Reaper: Losing a Child to Cancer", was an Indie B.R.A.G. Gold Medallion Honoree , a silver-medal winner Readers’ Favorite International Book Awards for Memoir, a medalist in the New Apple Book Awards for Memoir, and a finalist in Independent Author Network Book of the Year award and the Beverly Hills Book Awards. Most recently Mr. Lynes has been a Contributing Author to the 2019 Ghostly Rites Anthology. Mr. Lynes was awarded a BSEE degree in Electrical Engineering from Stevens Institute of Technology and currently works as an embedded software engineer. He has four sons, has been married for over thirty years, and currently lives with his wife and youngest son in the beautiful secluded hills of Sussex County, New Jersey.

Book preview

Prologue

Isaac yearns for a place that no longer exists — Seville before the Inquisition. A place where Torquemada did not call out the names of the heretics to be punished. Where Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand did not watch impassively as executioners smeared a blonde-haired girl’s tunic with sulphur — to quicken the journey of the flames from the crackling pyre at her feet. A twisted mercy. Where Isaac did not see white tendrils of smoke, hear shrill screams or smell the bitter stink of charred flesh. Where he did not witness Juan’s body melt into the inferno.

The Seville of his dreams is a blur of memory. Sunny afternoons with Juan swimming in the river, sword fighting, and wrestling. Sometimes Maria comes to him and those are the sweetest memories. Overwhelmed by the vision of his wife he pushes her away, returning to play with Juan.

Joy is fleeting and turns to guilt. Why should he be rewarded with visions of the good times? He had not saved his wife, had not defended his best friend. His penance is the sharp thrusts of pain in his chest as the horrors of Juan’s execution and Maria’s murder flash through his imagination. Each stab reminding him of his oath — I will make you pay, Torquemada, no matter how long it takes.

BOOK I

Seville

Chapter 1

Abu Ali Sina, the apothecary, began his morning ritual by kneeling to light the nuggets of oud on the incense burner. Crackling and sparking, they released their heavy, woody fragrance. Inhaling the smoke, he stood and stretched his tall, slender frame. The scent always brought Khadijah to mind, and he whispered a prayer for his wife’s soul.

He kept the incense burner behind the counter; the Catholics did not appreciate the Mudéjar’s perfume. He would have ten running all day, but that would be provocative. He could not afford to lose Catholic patrons; there were not enough Mudéjars left in Seville to keep his business alive. And there were no Jews left at all. He didn’t want to run away to Granada, as so many of his friends had. It was easier to worship Allah there. But he would have to close the shop that had been in his family for five generations. He did not want that guilt.

Surveying the rows of orange and blue earthenware jars filling the tall mahogany shelves behind the counter, he took a mental stocktake. Enough cumin, anise and horehound, but mandrake root was very low. He normally prescribed it to ease stomach-ache, but perhaps its other use as an aphrodisiac was causing the high demand? The large glass jar on the counter was still full of slippery, copper-coloured leeches. Was blood-letting falling out of fashion?

The rasp of the shop door announced the day’s first customer. A tall, cloaked figure moved through the deep shadows, disturbing motes of dust. Ali Sina had only lit a few candles; he had to save what little money remained. Besides, nobody usually came in this early.

‘Good morning, apothecary,’ came a deep growl from the half-light.

‘Good morning. You’re most welcome, señor.’

The man’s wide-brimmed hat hid most of his face. Ali Sina could make out a beard and the glint of perhaps blue eyes. He looked familiar, but the apothecary didn’t think he had visited the shop before.

The man wrinkled his nose. ‘Couldn’t you burn some orange or lavender? Can’t stand that Moorish smell.’

‘I’m sorry, señor. I rarely have customers this early.’

The man ignored the apology and looked up at the jars. Ali Sina followed his eyes, trying to guess what he was looking for. Perhaps some sage or chamomile to ease his digestion? The man coughed. Ah, a cold?

‘I need something for my chest, it’s very heavy.’ He coughed again, louder this time, as if to emphasise the point.

The apothecary reached for an orange jar decorated with a complex geometric pattern. Setting it down next to the pestle and mortar, he measured a precise quantity of white powder on a brass weighing pan, tipped it into a square of cloth, twisting it closed with twine.

‘Put a pinch of this hyssop into a glass of wine twice a day. You will feel better within two or three days.’ The apothecary placed the small parcel on the counter.

The man rummaged in the leather pouch hanging from his belt, put twenty maravedies on the counter, pocketed the cure, but did not leave.

‘Can I help the señor with another remedy?’

‘Yes, I would like some arsenic.’

‘Some arsenic?’

The man gave a curt nod.

The apothecary hesitated. ‘Señor, I’m required by the authorities to enquire for what purpose?’

‘Of course, it would be remiss of you not to ask. I need it for vermin.’

Ali Sina held the man’s eyes for a few moments. The sun had crept into the shop and he could now definitely see glints of blue glimmer in the man’s unblinking, pale eyes.

‘We have a problem with rats. It’s the only thing that keeps them at bay.’ He moved his right hand to cover the grip of the rapier sheathed at his side.

The apothecary pushed a set of wooden steps that ran on wheels to the end of the counter. Climbing to the top, he reached for one of the highest jars. It was covered in a blue leaf design, a beautiful container for such a vile substance. Placing it on the counter, he cautiously removed the stopper. There was no scent – arsenic was both odourless and tasteless. The ideal poison. He tipped out a small pyramid of the shiny, silver-grey crystal into the weighing pan. He glanced at the man, who raised his index finger to signal a larger quantity. The apothecary doubled the amount; the man nodded. He poured the crystals into a glass vial and stoppered it with wax. The man reached into his leather pouch and placed one hundred maravedies on the counter, double what the apothecary would have charged. Ali Sina took half of the money and pushed the rest back. The man gave a sardonic grin as he scooped up the coins and returned them to his pouch.

Ali Sina kept hold of the vial.

The man stared at him.

‘I will have to insist you sign the register for the arsenic, señor. It is a requirement of the authorities.’

‘The authorities?’ The man rolled his eyes.

He moved the vial down to his side. With his right hand he opened a large book, took a quill pen, and wrote the date and the amount of arsenic provided. He held out the pen. The man grabbed it, scrawled a signature, and slammed the register shut. Ali Sina placed the vial in the man’s outstretched hand.

‘Thank you, apothecary. If the rats prove stubborn, I trust you have plenty more?’

The apothecary narrowed his eyes. ‘You already have enough arsenic to kill a hundred rats, señor.’

‘Seville is teeming with vermin of all varieties. Some larger than others.’ He arched an eyebrow and grinned.

‘I have already given you the maximum quantity regulations allow. Señor.’

‘Damn the regulations,’ said the man as he again touched the grip of his rapier.

‘As an apothecary, I have to abide by them. I’m sure you can understand.’

‘How is business?’ the man said, turning to survey the empty shop.

Ali Sina did not respond.

‘You must be the last of your kind left in Seville?’

‘If you mean the last apothecary, then yes, I am.’

‘All the other Moors have run off to Granada.’ He scowled. ‘You’re very brave to stay.’

‘Thank you, señor.’

‘Or perhaps, stupid.’

He forced himself to remain silent.

‘That front door of yours is not secure. It would be a great shame were anyone to enter while you were asleep and vandalise your fine establishment. Or perhaps even harm your good self.’

Ali Sina tapped the stopper of the jar of arsenic and held the man’s gaze. ‘It’s been a pleasure to help you this morning, señor. I look forward to your return.’

The man grunted in apparent satisfaction and turned to leave. He ducked under the lintel and left the door ajar behind him. Ali Sina opened the register of poisonous substances. The signature would have been difficult to decipher, even without the ink being smeared by the man closing the book so violently. Was that an A? But why write his real name? At least there was a record of the date and a description of the man in his mind. That might prove useful should a poisoning occur that the authorities investigated. He was sure it was not the last he would see of the stranger. He would need to be prepared. Perhaps Isaac knew the man and could advise the best way to handle the situation. He had many contacts in his position as adviser to King Ferdinand. His old friend would know what to do.

Chapter 2

Isaac’s eyelids flickered as the early morning sun crept through the shutters of his bedchamber. Had he dreamt of Juan or Maria? Deciding he hadn’t, he enjoyed the gentle warmth a few moments longer. Snapping his eyes open, he was dazzled by splinters of sunlight. He got up and relieved himself in the chamber pot. After scrupulously washing his hands in the earthenware bowl, he checked that his bedchamber door was locked.

He hauled a wooden chest from beneath the bed. Caressing the smooth mahogany, he felt the coolness of the inlaid ivory. The ordered geometric patterns of the design soothed him. Using the key he kept on a chain around his neck, he unlocked the chest and took out the Bible and set it aside. Removing the false panel from the base revealed two books lying side by side. The Torah required both hands to lift and held the secret of his true faith. Maria’s Book of Hours could nestle in his palm. Possession of one would get him killed, possession of the other would earn Isabel’s anger. One he would keep hidden in the chest, the other he would return to the prayer stand before his daughter noticed.

Isaac unwrapped the Torah from its linen shroud, enjoying its heft, and brought it to his lips. He read softly, so that no one could hear. He traced God’s words to Moses in the wilderness with his right index finger:

I will espouse you forever

With righteousness and justice,

And with goodness and mercy,

I will espouse you with faithfulness:

Then you shall be devoted to the Lord.

A reassuring balm to the beginning of every day. He kissed it once more and carefully returned it to the chest.

He cupped the Book of Hours in his palms, feeling the rough texture of the dark-blue leather binding. It had been his gift to Maria on their wedding day – he’d borrowed half the money from his father. He leafed through the delicate pages until he found her favourite image: etched in golden letters, the Archangel Gabriel announcing to Mary, ‘Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with you.’ Had Maria imagined the thrill of being the woman chosen above all others to conceive God’s only son? He closed the book and brushed it with his lips.

Buttoning up his doublet, he secured a dagger at his waist. The household was stirring: creaking floorboards, coughing, the malty aroma of Catalina’s rye bread, Isabel chivvying the children. Maria’s voice a faint echo.

* * *

Isabel shivered as she clutched the iron balustrade of the roof terrace at Casa de la Felicidad. She looked across the Guadalquivir River towards Triana. Her stomach clenched at the memory of her flight from that damp, sun-starved den of thieves — feeling the darkness build inside her. The sun’s ascent lifted her mood for a moment. Then it silhouetted the towers of the Castillo San Jorge. Her time there at the Inquisition’s headquarters as Torquemada’s ‘guest’ with Gabriel still burnt in her imagination. Her gaze settled on the Torre del Orro – the tower of gold – Torquemada’s torture chamber. Where her mother died. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of these thoughts. The children must come first, not memory. There would be a time, in the dead of night, for that unforgiving scorpion to sting her.

The river was placid, the sunlight shimmering across its glassy surface. Soon it would rise, bringing the sea’s salty scent. The smaller barques would arrive from Cadiz or Lisbon. As the Guadalquivir filled its banks, the tall-masted galleons would make their way to port and unload sugar, silver and gold from the Indies. She was troubled by all the money flowing into Seville and Papa’s involvement in it. Wealth distracted people from their moral duty to study the Bible. Too many peasants came to the city, seeking the good life but ending up as vagrants. She would like to help them. But her time was full with her responsibilities at home. Perhaps she would go to the cathedral and ask Father Gutiérrez what she might do.

Isabel forced her mind to the day ahead. She felt the weight of her responsibility as governess for three children – her brother, Gabriel, and Juana and Martín — Juan and Ana de Mota’s orphans. She was delighted when Papa became guardian to the ten-year-old twins after Juan’s execution and their mother’s apparent suicide. It was, she thought, the least he could do after their parents’ passing. Papa harboured suspicions about Ana’s death. She would not have deliberately orphaned her children. He held Torquemada accountable for her murder. Papa had no proof, but the belief fuelled his quest for revenge. Its intensity was frightening. Where would his burning need lead them all?

Papa was still in mourning for Mama – three years now – but she feared that what really kept her memory alive was his thirst for vengeance. The Inquisition claimed to have had evidence to arrest Mama as a crypto-Jew. Ironically, Papa was the guilty one, but her mother paid the price. He read the Torah in his bedchamber and in his heart was a Jew. What did that make her? The heretic’s daughter? She’d come to terms with losing Mama, but couldn’t quite forgive Papa.

She hoped Gabriel would pay more attention to his lessons. At fifteen, he was old enough to set a good example, especially to Martín. With his father dead and Papa often away at the palace, he needed a good male role model. She had no fears for his sister, Juana, so attentive, bright and quick-witted. Doors slammed from the bedchambers below, disturbing her train of thought. Martín and Gabriel. Why did boys have to be such louts? Papa would be getting dressed and on his way to the Real Alcazar soon. She’d better go downstairs and ensure that Catalina had everything ready for breakfast.

* * *

The children were sitting around the trestle table as Isaac entered the dining room. Isabel sat at the head of the table, overseeing the children and supervising Catalina. He kissed the top of his daughter’s head. He was proud of the way she had grown into her responsibilities. Catalina bustled. He was grateful the maidservant had stayed on after Maria’s death. Gabriel and the twins smeared hunks of bread with butter and quince jam. Four children. It was still surprising to find himself responsible for so many. Juana and Martín returned his, ‘Good morning,’ enthusiastically. Gabriel sat opposite them – remote, stern and feigning maturity. He was a young man now. Where was the young boy who used to run into his arms?

He tore a hunk off the fresh loaf and put it in his pocket. He would eat it later at the Real Alcazar. Saying goodbye to his children, he kissed each of them on the forehead, Gabriel shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Hurrying through the courtyard – he was late – he brushed his fingers through the stems of the sky-blue agapanthus and smelt the woody musk of jasmine. The white flowers had been Maria’s favourite. He hastened past the plashing fountain and the bench where they used to sit and headed into the calles of Seville.

After closing the heavy outer door behind him, he was affronted, yet again, by the derelict house opposite. The shutters were off their hinges, the main door was cracked and pigeons flew in and out of the holes in the roof. The neglect was disgusting and made a poor start to his morning. He must inform the owner he was ruining the reputation of the barrio.

Turning right he walked quickly down Calle Abades, towards the Real Alcazar. When he’d first arrived in Seville, it had taken him a year or more to walk these streets with confidence. The narrow, winding calles confused you into following their gradual tangents, and before long, you were standing befuddled at the nexus of five streets, turning this way and that, searching for a way home. But now he paced the streets with assurance – he liked to think with authority. At least half the men he passed raised their hats to him – as senior adviser to the King he had dealings with many of them – but not one of them stopped to talk. They knew his nature.

Isaac turned into Calle Arfe and strode past the Apothecary. It was dark, the windows dirty. He should consult Ali Sina soon; there was no time now. The willow bark the apothecary prescribed for his backache seemed to have little effect. He should pay his friend a visit on his return from the Real Alcazar.

He weaved through the crowded, narrow lanes. He stepped around a gang of children – none more than six years old – splashing in the stream of piss wending through the cobbles. The streets were not normally so full this early in the morning. But then Semana Santa was only a week away. Why was so much effort put into celebrating the rebirth of Jesus Christ? As a converso, he could never utter such a thought out loud. It would be heresy to question his adopted faith.

The celebrations became increasingly lavish with every passing year, he thought. Families spent more and more on decorating their homes, buying new clothes and contributing to the ever more elaborate pasos. He was disturbed by the large wooden sculptures of a grieving Virgin Mary or a crucified Jesus Christ, carried on the shoulders of the costaleros. A shiver ran through him as he recalled what happened to Isabel during the procession three years ago. The family would do all that was expected of a good Catholic household – give up meat on Fridays for Lent, attend the required services at the cathedral and walk with the purple-hooded penitents as they accompanied the pasos. The children, at least, would do it with a good heart.

Approaching the royal palace, his thoughts turned to the day ahead. What mischief would Queen Isabella create? How would King Ferdinand involve him in it? But, most of all, would he have to be civil to Torquemada when all he really wanted to do was slit his throat? He saluted the soldiers at the Hunting Gateway and slipped into the palace of intrigue.

Chapter 3

After Papa left, Isabel decided it was warm enough to conduct the morning’s lessons on the roof terrace. She sat at the head of a long wooden table, with Gabriel to her left and the twins to her right. They were waiting for her to begin. She’d become distracted by thoughts of Papa’s deputy, Alejandro de Cervantes. She longed to see him again.

Gabriel thrummed his fingers insistently on the table. She resisted the urge to express her irritation. ‘Children,’ she glared at her brother, ‘write two important things about Seville on your tablets.’ The twins scratched with their styluses; Gabriel