40

I spent most of my days praying, pacing, counting, playing backgammon with Hamdun, and missing the littles.

Once, Hamdun asked if I had decided against accepting baptism.

“I don’t know. Since God made me, which do you think He’d like better, that I usurp His power and unmake myself or that I convert and worship false gods?”

“Or pretend to worship them. I don’t want you to die. There are enough martyrs.”

By Monday, July 23, eight days remained until the final one. If the charges against me were miraculously dropped, there still might not be time for me to reach the coast. But despite Samuel’s promise to wait until the last day, our ship might already be underway. Masters, as I had learned, sailed by the winds.

In the afternoon, I had visitors: a handsome, serious-looking young man, whose expression and apparel were too somber for him to be a secretary, and Don Solomon, or the converso who used to be Don Solomon, whose name had become the grand eight-syllable Alonso López Salazar. The young man held a bulging linen sack. When they entered, the guard closed the door, but the lock didn’t click.

My heart pounded. Had Don Alonso won my release?

“Loma!” Don Alonso’s eyes were merry, as if we were in our living room with Belo before any of this had happened.

I curtsied.

He held his arms out, and I went into them. No need to say how much I hated him until I knew his purpose. He smelled of garlic, onions, and saffron. I remembered how the room stank and how, by now, I must reek, too. He murmured, “I miss your abuelo,” and let me go.

I stepped back.

The young man bowed, straightened, and smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. He was more than handsome: clean-shaven with cheeks like satin, a firm chin, full lips, clear brown eyes, a straight stance, and—God forgive me!—shapely legs in blue hose. After he smiled, his expression became gloomy again.

I was wearing my rose-colored gown with the gray pleated sleeves. It was one of my best, a Sabbath favorite, but I’d been wearing it for twenty-four days.

“May I introduce my great-grandson, Fernán Pérez Salazar?”

Was this the great-grandson he’d mentioned five years ago as a possible husband for me, whose Jewish name had been Nattan?

“Isn’t she lovely, Fernán?”

“Very lovely,” he said, holding the sack out to me. “For your enjoyment.”

I took it. Why were they here?

“Please open it,” Don Fernán said.

I untied the velvet string, but I knew its contents by weight and softness. When I emptied the sack on my table, there were, as I expected, figs, six of them, nice, but not perfect, like the ones Hamdun brought me every day.

“Thank you. You’re very kind.”

“We’re happy to present them.” Don Alonso widened his stance. “We guessed you haven’t tasted figs in a while.”

“Please share them with me.” I gave one to each.

We were silent while we ate.

“Delicious!” Overripe. “Please sit.” I gestured at my bench. “I regret not having a chair with a back.”

“This is fine.” Don Alonso lowered himself stiffly.

Don Fernán sat easily.

I sat on my bed and leaned toward them. “Don Alonso, no one has told me the charges I face.” I couldn’t help sounding resentful. “My lawyer hasn’t visited me.”

“Don Joseph is charged with usury fraud. The court considers you his agent.”

Usury fraud meant charging someone too much for a loan and hiding the extra charges. The accusation was nonsense.

“He never committed fraud! You know that. Who’s accusing him?” I calmed a little. Usury fraud had to be a lesser crime than crucifying a child. “On what loan?”

“For a house and an olive orchard near Mérida.”

I remembered. The borrower was Señor Mejía, an Old Christian, who hadn’t paid Belo back—along with all the others who also hadn’t paid us.

The accusation may have reached royal ears and set my imprisonment in motion.

“Señor Mejía is lying.”

I thought Don Fernán would think me unwomanly for saying it so baldly, but he smiled briefly before his face became grave again.

“No doubt,” Don Alonso said. “We came when I heard of your trouble. Fernán accompanied me as you used to go with Don Joseph. I hope the journey lightened his grief.”

I turned to him. “I’m sorry for your sorrow.” Whatever it was.

“His wife died giving birth to their daughter, who is healthy.”

Mention of the baby captured me. “How old is she?”

Don Fernán said, “Six months. She’s with my good sister, who has a son her age.”

They were so sweet at six months! “What’s the baby’s name?”

“Regina.”

A Christian and Jewish name. “Pretty.”

If I converted and married this handsome man, as I believed Don Alonso (and possibly his great-grandson) wanted, I would have a baby instantly. And I would certainly be released. A lump formed in my throat.

The littles would be lost to me, but they probably were anyway.

Don Fernán might never care for me. He may have doted on his dead wife, but that didn’t matter. I might never care for him, either. I’d love his child.

“She needs a mother,” he said.

Ah, he did want it.

Don Alonso added, “She needs the kind of mother you’d be. Fernán needs your kind of wife.”

An educated converso woman who adored children and knew Jewish law.

“I’m divorced.”

Don Alonso chuckled. “We’re told your husband was just past childhood, and he was supposed to protect you.”

Don Fernán opened his hands the way Belo did when he was about to bribe someone. His voice was soft. “I’d protect you.”

No one could protect anyone. Only God could, and He hadn’t so far.

Don Fernán sprang up. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

I saw the queen and the princess behind all this. But how important could I—just a woman—be in their plans? Did they think Belo would return to Spain and convert if I stayed?

Don Alonso may have put that idea in their heads.

It made sense, especially if they believed that boatloads of Jews would follow him.

No one knew if he was still alive!

Don Alonso loved him. The queen seemed to, too. They hoped he was alive—but not nearly as much as I did.

While Don Fernán was gone, Don Alonso said, “Your children with Fernán will be, if not kings and queens, the powers behind kings and queens, the wealth that keeps Spain rising. Our blood will have its revenge for what was done to us.”

Us, the Jews? Revenge by strengthening our enemies? By becoming our enemies?

Don Fernán returned with a scroll tied with a silk ribbon. My writ of divorce had been tied with plain twine.

He gave it to me with another bow. “Please read it.”

The document proved to be a bill of exchange for 17,600 maravedis.

I looked in wonderment at Don Fernán. “What does it mean?”

“I bought Señor Mejía’s debt. There was no usury fraud. Señor Mejía just wanted to avoid paying. The money is yours.”

They wouldn’t have called it buying me, but they were trying to.