Torquemada Read Free

exaltation about a trip to Seville in the company of Prior Thomas de Torquemada, and yet he lacked the courage to withdraw. He was somewhat afraid of Alvero but he was much more afraid of Torquemada, and this fear was something that Alvero could understand. It often occurred to Alvero that in the strange land that Spain had become, one of the strangest things was his own friendship for the Inquisitor, Thomas de Torquemada. But friendship transcends fear. This was axiomatic, he thought to himself. He was a Spanish knight, and he had small patience with fear. Deep inside him he suspected that Juan Pomas was a coward, but this was something which he suspected and which he had not dealt with. Even in his thoughts he refrained from dealing with it – because he sensed a complexity that went beyond the simple premises of knighthood. Alvero recognized such complexities as the increment of age. The older he became, the less simple were the answers to problems, and the problems themselves were increasingly complex.
    They had left the city behind now and, as they mounted the dirt track to the high road, Alvero saw Torquemada sitting on his horse at the lip of the hill and waiting for them. There he sat on his big horse, grimly and stiffly, wearing his monkish habit, the pearl-grey luminescent sky of twilight making a backdrop for him, and the last rays of the sun behind him. He was a firm and angry servant of God, and for some reason it pleased Alvero to see him cast in this light – while the sombre mood of the darkening twilight covered Alvero like a comfortable cloak and soothed his Spanish soul.
    They all sat their horses together for a moment on the high road, looking back at Segovia beneath them – at the old Roman aqueduct looming over the city, disappearing into a hole of night; and then, in the city, like a single candle, a finger of light came into being. Alvero looked at Torquemada, who nodded.
    â€œAn act of faith,” Torquemada said. “A woman is being burned at the stake. I thought of it when I walked through the streets of Segovia this morning. They looked at me and they said, there is Torquemada who burns men and women at the stake. God help me if I burn their bodies. Their souls live naked and clean.”
    â€œI would lie to you,” Alvero said, “if I did not tell you that I take no joy in the sight of what you call an act of faith.”
    â€œDo I find joy in it, Alvero? And tell me, my friend, what do you call it if not an act of faith?”
    Alvero shook his head and spurred his horse up to the road. Juan and Julio followed him and then, behind them, Torquemada.
    An hour later they stopped at an inn. The landlord, a man whom Alvero had known for years, recognized Torquemada and out of this recognition the innkeeper became taciturn and withdrawn. They ate in the common dining room of the inn, but whispers walled them off from the other men who were present there. Alvero realized that it was the first time he had been together on a journey of any kind with Torquemada since the Prior had become an Inquisitor. He felt a curious pity for the priest – who ate sparingly and remained silent.
    The following day was cool and sunny, with blue skies and a soothing wind. Alvero’s spirits revived and, together with Juan, he sang a song to his horse as they went. Torquemada listened and smiled. They stopped to eat at the roadside and made a meal of wine and sausage that they had brought with them from the inn. Then they continued along the road.
    Half of the life of Spain flowed along that road from Seville to Segovia. They met merchants with long trains of pack horses and with armed guards, five men in light armour to guard each pack horse. They met monks and priests and friars and once a bishop, riding in great majesty with over thirty attendants gathered around him on horses and donkeys and mules. They passed tumblers and jugglers – and once a party of two hundred of the