A/N: Hello, dear reader! Thank you for being patient with me while I wandered around Europe for two weeks. We'll get back to regular updates, now that I'm back home. Excuse the length of this chapter - I know it's short but I'll be adding another one later on this week to compensate. Nevertheless, enjoy!
Chapter Six
"The world is cruel.
The world is wicked."
'Out There', The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Sancha and Quasimodo returned to the bell tower in silence. Neither looked at the other as they ascended the stairs. The atmosphere up on the mezzanine was so oppressive Quasimodo couldn't stand it. All he wanted to do was hide himself away and forget the ugly encounter in the street.
After a beat, he awkwardly cleared his throat and said, "I have – There's a-a- bell I have to – I need to go rig one of the bells…"
He silently cursed himself for stumbling over such a transparent excuse. He turned away and stepped towards the nearby ladder but paused when he saw Sancha's face. Her eyes had grown wide, her brow furrowed, and her mouth slightly parted.
She looked, in a word, hurt.
"You do not wish to speak to me?" she asked.
Quasimodo searched for something to say, frozen in place. What was that supposed to mean? Did she think he was angry at her?
"I want to tell you I'm sorry," she continued, her voice soft but sorrowful. She looked down at her hands, where her fingers worked at her two remaining rings. "I didn't mean to cause such trouble. My papa always told me I am too loud… I think sometimes maybe he is right about that…"
The floorboards creaked slightly under Quasimodo's feet. He approached the young woman carefully, almost afraid she would run away. When she didn't recoil, he took the risk and captured her busy hands in his. Her fingers immediately stopped fidgeting and curled into his palms.
"Don't say that," he told her gently. "I… I just didn't want you to get hurt."
"But what of you?" she asked, raising her head to look him in the eye. "Are you not hurt?"
"I'm okay." He gestured to the length of his crooked body to make his point.
"Not there – Here." She pressed her palm to his chest, her face threatening to crumble at any moment. "Do you never hurt here? With what that woman said today?"
Quasimodo tried to answer but found himself short of breath. The longer Sancha pressed her hand against him, the lighter his head became. A tense moment passed before he managed, "Things are better than they were…"
"But it does not make it all right to say these things." Sancha bit down on her lip and crossed her arms. She turned a walked a few paces towards the worktable, presenting her back to him. "I am… fed up of the cruel words, and the fighting, and the hatred… And it only happens to people who are different, not people who are bad…"
Her voice broke a little. Quasimodo watched helplessly as her shoulders began to shake, her fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeves. Though he didn't blame Sancha for getting upset, it broke his heart to see her like this. Cautiously, he reached out and touched her shoulder.
"Sancha…"
Without warning, the girl turned and threw her arms around him. She nearly knocked him back, the element of surprise unbalancing him. Her cheek was warm against the dip of his neck, and her grip was tight, protective. It took him a moment to understand what just happened before hesitantly wrapping his arms around her trembling body.
"You're the kindest man I have met in all my life," she whispered. "I don't wish to see you hurt like everyone else I have known."
Quasimodo's heart leapt into his throat, stifling any words of comfort he had prepared. No one had ever said that to him before, let alone held him so close. Rooted to the floor, he stood in silence as Sancha's body shivered against his with suppressed sobs. She didn't raise her head, and Quasimodo was glad for it; she would have seen his own eyes filling with tears.
The scent of rosewater clung to her and filled Quasimodo's senses as he tightened his arms. He raised a quivering hand and touched the back of her head, hoping it would covey the words now stuck in his throat.
I promise I won't let anything happen to you.
XXX
Cardinal Tomas de Tavera prided himself on his thoroughness. As a novice, he had studied and understood the works of every theologian he could get his hands on. In his sermons, he was steadfast in his interpretation of Scripture and would even summarize his points in the common language if he deemed it necessary. And, when he had been appointed as Grand Inquisitor by Queen Isabella herself, Tomas de Tavera accepted the title with every single righteous responsibility it conferred.
Now, as he sat at his desk, reviewing his notes, he realized he did not know the true meaning of thoroughness until now.
After Alfonso's disappearance, he had been rendered completely immobile, physically and spiritually. The child's mother, a servant woman named Leoncia, had taken a particularly bad shock and collapsed in the papal apartments. She had yet to rise from bed, even with Tavera visiting her every day.
Despite his efforts to comfort and console his mistress, Tavera's conscience continued to be wracked with guilt. Sleep evaded him ever since the day his boy went missing, and many futile pleas to God for mercy ended in bitter tears and a confrontation with what he knew now to be true: Alfonso's death was God's judgement on Tomas for his relationship with Leoncia.
And, the only way to atone was through some grand and holy gesture.
Tomas leaned back in his chair and massaged his temples, attempting to beat back a threatening migraine. He was tired and irritable, but he could not stop. He had sworn himself to this metaphorical penance walk and refused to slow down until he had taken the very last step.
"Your Eminence," one of the soldiers murmured from the doorway, "if you're ready for the next one…"
Tavera waved his hand. "Send him in."
He had been wrong about the next prisoner, for the soldier dragged in a woman. She was of middling age, with sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, and a straight nose. Despite the woman being caked in dirt and grime, Tavera recognized her immediately.
"La Cristiana…"
Jeanne de Beaumont did not move or speak. Instead, her wide, scared eyes found the rack of interrogation devices behind his desk. The sight of her trembling body brought a rueful smile to Tavera's lips.
"I was wondering when I would get to you," he continued. "You present a rather curious case for me."
Jeanne asked, "Where is my husband?"
Tavera thought for a moment. "The physician?"
"Avram, yes."
The cardinal spread his hands in a gesture of feigned ignorance. "I don't concern myself with anything that takes place beyond the walls of this office, señora."
It might have been amusing to tell Jeanne the last time he had seen her husband was from the floor, gazing up at him writhing on a rope as his arms separated from his shoulder sockets. He might tell her later, if she decided to be difficult, that after the strappado, Avram wept like a babe as Tavera's men dragged him out to the pyre in the courtyard. Maybe he would bargain with Jeanne for a more dignified death than her husband had, if she was willing to cooperate.
But, it was too early in the game for such tricks. Jews were sneaky, and just because Jeanne was nominally Christian, Tavera could only imagine what years with the enemies of Christ had done to twist her mind.
"Now," Tavera said, rising from his seat. "You know why you are here, don't you?"
"I am here," Jeanne replied, "on a false accusation."
"And tell me, what accusation do you think that is?"
"The kidnapping and killing your only son, Your Eminence."
Footsteps echoed through the chamber as Tavera approached Jeanne. He twisted his fingers in her matted hair and pulled down hard, forcing her to look up at him. The woman didn't scream, and that only made Tavera angrier.
"Watch your tongue, harlot," he snarled. "That boy was the natural son of Leonica de la Vega, and that is only how you will refer to him."
"That child," Jeanne said through gritted teeth, "was called to God by tragic circumstances that neither I nor my family have any knowledge of."
Tavera shoved her away and strode back to his desk. "Very good. You just earned 'telling of falsehoods' to the existing charges of kidnapping, blood libel, and Marranism.*"
He hastily scribbled on a sheet of parchment and added, "You are accused of all these things, as well as concealing and enabling the escape of a suspect. Do not for a moment think I didn't see you daughter leave out the back of your house that day."
For the first time since entering his chamber, a flash of panic alighted on Jeanne's face. A victory!
"My daughter is innocent."
"Your daughter is a fugitive, and her fleeing from authorities does not bode well for her. Pray tell, Señora de Beaumont, why did she run if she has nothing to hide?"
The emptying of Toledo's judería and its surrounding neighbourhoods had been mostly successful. However, there was one mouse who had evaded the trap: Sancha Bat Avram had escaped arrest and disappeared out of the city. Tavera nearly hung the guards who lost her that day. Her absence meant his promise to God to rid the world of Toledo's heathens continued unfulfilled.
"Your Eminence, she's just a girl – "
"Her running away is proof enough of her guilt."
He came around the desk and stalked back towards her. Jeanne was trying and failing to keep a neutral expression, and Tavera was finally feeling like he was getting somewhere.
"You will tell me where she is," he said, slowly and dangerously. "Or you will rue the day you ever decided to come to Toledo."
Jeanne moved her mouth silently before managing, "I-I do not know where she went."
"She told you nothing?"
"I don't remember."
That was a typical response. The Jews were skilled in willful ignorance, and they had taught Jeanne well. Nevertheless, Tavera couldn't help but to smile.
"That's quite all right," he told her, before gesturing to the rack over his shoulder. "I shall help you remember."
Marranism: The act of practicing Judaism in secret.
Once again, excuse the length of the chapter, but another is coming very soon - Thank you, as always, for reading! :)
