Mendoza, the archbishop of Seville. These persons will be involved in assessing your proposal for the court. I myself am on the staff of Friar Torquemada.'
'You work for the Inquisition, then,' Grace said.
'Yes. But I have good relations with both Friar de Talavera and the archbishop, as well as Friar Torquemada, and so he passed on your request to me as a suitable first point of contact.'
This politicking among holy men baffled James, and dismayed him obscurely.
Grace bowed. 'I'm sure we will be able to do business together, brother.'
'That's what I'm here to find out,' Ferron said slickly, quite coldly. 'For it is business we are talking about, isn't it? You are here to sell arms to the monarchs. These weapons, the Engines of God as you refer to them.'
'There is more to it than that-'
'We have arms. We have cannon, we have arquebuses.'
'But nothing like the weapons I can offer you,' Grace said urgently. 'The engines are founded on the words of a prophecy, retrieved by my ancestor Joan of the Outremer from a cache beneath the mosque of this very city. The designs have been developed in secret for two hundred years by Franciscans, followers of the sage Roger Bacon – perhaps you have heard of him. Brother James here has studied the developments closely and can tell you all you wish to know.'
Ferron's glance flickered over James. 'I already know the most salient fact. That these weapons of yours are decidedly expensive.'
'Decidedly better than anything you have. And decidedly what you need for the coming war. I do not mean the conflict with the Moors of Granada. I mean the war to end wars that will follow.' She paused, her face intense, beautiful. 'Brother, I know of this, deep in my bones. My family is of the Outremer, the Holy Land – we lived in Jerusalem itself. We were expelled by the Saracens in the same decade as Seville fell to the Christian armies. This was over two hundred years ago, and we still bear the scars in our souls. They are scars of the long war with the Muslims which has been waged since the death of Muhammad himself. And it is a war Christendom is losing.
Ferron sat back, startled.
She had seized control of the exchange, James saw. They were the same age, roughly, Grace and Ferron. Both strong, both determined, both combative. They would be formidable enemies, still more formidable if they became allies.
James knew, though, that any cold-eyed observer of history would draw the same conclusion as Grace. Ever since the loss of Jerusalem in Joan's day, Christendom had been on the retreat.
The problem was the rise of the Turks. A decade after Seville fell to the Christians, the Mamluk Turks defeated the Mongols – the first significant defeat suffered by the nomads across three continents. It was a turning point for the Islamic empires. The Mamluks, rampant, marched on; within decades they had obliterated the last trace of the old crusader states. Eventually the Mamluks fell to new waves of Mongol invaders. But out of their shattered polities rose a new nation of Turks called the Ottomans, who dismembered what was left of the old East Roman domains. The last Roman emperor died fighting for Constantinople, when the old city fell in 1453. A jubilant Sultan Mehmet crowed that Rome itself was next, that soon he would be feeding his horses on oats from the high altar of Saint Peter's. And in the year 1480, just a year ago, as if making good that promise, Mehmet had assaulted Italy.
'Thus from Jerusalem to Rome Christendom is in retreat,' Grace said relentlessly. 'Only here in Spain are Christian armies taking the fight to the Muslims. Only here, under Isabel and Fernando, are Christians winning. And that,' she said, 'is the key to the future.'
Ferron considered. 'But the monarchs are barely at ease on their own thrones. Their marriage united the Christian kingdoms of Spain, but they must deal with over-mighty nobles, empty coffers, a mixed population of Christians, Jews and Muslims – and, of course, the great canker of Granada, whose emir has refused to pay his proper tribute for fifteen years. The final war against Islam?' He smiled, languid. 'Let's be rid of the Moors in Granada first and then we'll see.'
Grace said urgently, 'Friar Ferron, I accept what you say. But time is short.'
'Tell me what you mean.'
And she told him briefly of another prophecy: her family's legend of the Testament of Eadgyth. Of the mysterious, crucial figure known by his three titles, the Dove, the spawn of the spider, and the Christ-bearer. Of warring destinies, which must be resolved 'in the last days' – which might come as soon as the year 1500.
'We have two decades, then,' Ferron said drily. 'Not long to conclude a war that has lasted for eight hundred years! But why do you want this, lady?'
'This is my destiny. My family's destiny, as we have perceived it since the days of Joan of the Outremer.'
Ferron pursed his lips. 'And you are unmarried. No husband – no children.'
'My life has a single purpose, friar. As I said, that has been the case since I was twenty. What need have I of children when I have the Engines of God?'
James shared a glance with Ferron, one of the few times the two of them communicated. Even Ferron looked disturbed by her intensity.
But he steepled his fingers and pressed the tips against his lips. 'What first? We must discuss the provenance of your various prophecies. But it occurs to me that the time is so short that this Dove of yours, if he exists, must already have been born. The Holy Brotherhood is rather good at finding people. I'll pass this on; we will find your Dove, if he lives.'
A young monk came into the room and apologetically whispered in Ferron's ear.
Ferron stood. 'We will continue our business later. For now, please, join me. I asked you to delay our meeting until today because I thought that you, as guests in our city, would like to witness the first triumph of the Inquisition.'
Grace stood with polite eagerness. 'And what triumph is that?'
Ferron smiled. 'We call it the Act of Faith.'
Auto-da-fe.
VII
That February day, the procession formed up before Seville's unfinished cathedral. At its head was a company of Dominicans, barefoot, with their heads covered by black and white cowls like Ferron's. They bore the banner of the Inquisition, a knotted cross flanked by the olive branch of peace and the sword of retribution. Behind the monks walked magistrates, then soldiers carrying wood for the fires.
And then came the condemned – seven of them, six men and a woman, flanked by soldiers bearing lances to ensure they could not escape. More hooded monks followed, chanting for repentance, and finally drummers who hammered out a heavy, doleful rhythm.
Ferron led Grace and James to join a gaggle of other notable citizens who trailed the drummers. They passed along narrow streets crowded with people who came to stare at the condemned. Some of them were foreigners, James thought, Portuguese explorers or Italian merchants, ambassadors from an entirely different world, who watched this gruesome parade with sneers of disgust – and yet they watched.
James himself was horribly fascinated by the faces of the condemned. They wore yellow gowns, carried candles, and had nooses around their necks. They were influential conversos – Jews converted to Christianity, or even the descendants of converts – whose treacherous reversion to Judaism had been rooted out, tried and sentenced. One young man looked frightened, and he continually crossed himself and mumbled prayers; if he was secretly Jewish he didn't look it now. The others merely looked stunned, or disbelieving.
The procession snaked out of the city walls to an open field. Here bare wooden stakes had been set up in a row, their purpose blunt and obvious. The condemned were tied to these stakes. One man struggled, another wept, and that younger man crossed himself until his arms were pinned. The rest bore the procedure in stoical silence.
Ferron pointed out one Dominican, a tall, pale figure with a flattened nose, like a boxer's. 'Torquemada,' he murmured. 'Your first contact, madam. Not yet an Inquisitor, actually, but his soul yearns for the good work. Ferociously pious and yet a master of organisation. Perhaps every cleansing needs a cool mind like his!'
