A/N: Hello again, dear reader. As promised, here is the second update. We'll get back to normal weekly chapters after this. As always, enjoy!
Chapter Seven
"God help the outcasts,
Or nobody will."
'God Help the Outcasts', The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Morning in Paris: A new day rose on the city and the ever-watchful towers of Notre Dame. A few miles away from the cathedral, a sentinel at the city gates was roused by the rumbling of approaching carriages. The guard blinked and tried to rub the mass of colours from his eyes, certain he had stood up too fast.
When he realized the colours belonged to the carriages – No, the caravans – he couldn't help but smile.
"It's about time," he murmured as he signalled for his partner to raise the portcullis.
XXX
Although it was Sunday, Sancha and Quasimodo were working. After Mass, they had retreated to the bell tower to get some last-minute chores done before lunchtime.
Sancha didn't mind the extra labour. Back in Toledo, she often alternated sabbaths, with one week being dedicated to church with her mother, and the next attending the synagogue with her father on Saturday. She also altered her chores accordingly, and this weekend was no different. In fact, she found the bell tower to be a surprisingly peaceful domicile in which to work. She sat by the spare bell, mending one of Quasimodo's tunics as he hopped from rafter to rafter above her, polishing the bells. As she worked, Sancha quietly sang a verse from her favorite song.
"Mi madre'sta cuziendo, mos oyera,
Mi madre'sta cuziendo, mos oyera.
Pedrelde la aldejecka'si se dormira
Pedrelde la aldejecka'si s'echera…"*
She held up the tunic for scrutiny. The garment's sleeve had been ripped at the seam, but it was now perfectly repaired. Sancha thought her mother would've admired the small and neat stitches and allowed herself to feel a small measure of pride.
When she lowered the tunic, she found Quasimodo smiling down at her from the nearest rafter.
"That's beautiful."
"You are sweet," Sancha laughed, rising to her feet. "My mama always said I was better with a needle than a kitchen knife."
"Oh, yes, the tunic looks wonderful now. Thank you." Quasimodo lowered himself to her level and added softly, "But I was talking about your singing. I didn't know you could sing."
Sancha's cheeks seared. "You were hearing me from all the way up there?"
When Quasimodo nodded shyly, she covered her eyes with her free hand. "Guay de mí!* I am not the greatest singer…"
"I liked it," he insisted. "You sounded… happy."
Sancha's expression softened. He was right. Though she wasn't good, she loved to sing. Today was the first time since fleeing Toledo where she felt the urge to sing. And to think, she felt it in a Catholic cathedral, in the company of only the gargoyles, bells, and the kind bell ringer that stood before her.
As she searched for something to say, a soft voice broke the fragile silence.
"Quasimodo?"
Sancha started, as she was under the impression they had been alone. Her companion, however, broke out into a surprised smile. Turning in the direction of the voice, he called out, "Esmeralda?"
"Qué…?"
Before the girl could ask what was happening, Quasimodo caught her hand and beckoned her towards the stairs. "Come! I'll introduce you."
Sancha followed her friend down the stairs, bewildered, but froze on the last step.
Standing in the middle of the mezzanine was a young woman, perhaps a year or two Sancha's senior. She had a mane of curly black hair, sun-kissed skin, and the most brilliant pair of green eyes Sancha had ever seen. Her clothes were bright shades of white, purple, and turquoise, a stark contrast to the greys and browns of the tower. And, the clip-clopping of little hooves announced the presence of a Nubian goat that circled her bare feet.
And Quasimodo all but ran to the woman.
Sancha stayed on the step, watching as they embraced. A prickling heat caught in her chest and spread up to her face. She had never received a greeting like that from him, even when she was gone all day.
"I thought you'd never come back!" Quasimodo said to the woman. "I've missed you so much."
"It's so good to see you again, my friend." The stranger released him when her arresting gaze fell on Sancha. "And who is this?"
She didn't ask unkindly, but she did sound mildly surprised. Sancha was paralyzed by her gaze, hardly hearing Quasimodo introduce her.
"I – Oh! I'm sorry I forgot... This is my… This is Sancha. She's a visitor here from Spain. Sancha, this is Esmeralda, my friend."
Friend? Sancha's eyes went from the stranger's bright clothes, to the gold jewelry, to the band in her hair before murmuring to herself, "Una gitana?"*
Esmeralda cocked an eyebrow at her. With a knowing smile, she crossed her arms and said right back, "Una sefardita?"*
Sancha wasn't sure what dropped faster, her jaw or her heart. How could she know? How could this woman, who she had known for not even five minutes, figure out her most guarded secret?
Sensing the tension between the two women, Quasimodo cleared his throat and asked, "Wh-where's Phoebus?"
"He's hitching up the horses in the square," Esmeralda said. "I was on my way to the blacksmith to commission some new shoes for them, but I wanted to say hello first." Then, she eyed Sancha with a little grin. "Perhaps your friend would like to come with me. I'll need some help haggling a price."
"Ay, but I…" Sancha started uncertainly, imaging what her mother would say if she knew her daughter was keeping the company of gypsies.
But, Esmeralda was waiting, and Quasimodo said quietly, "Go on, Sancha. Don't be shy."
She glanced at him, then back at the smiling gypsy girl. Even her pet goat had stopped pattering about and seemed to eye her expectantly.
Well, what other choice did she have?
XXX
Esmeralda walked ahead of Sancha, leading the way to the blacksmith's shop. The latter couldn't help but be mesmerized by her companion; whereas Sancha walked with a straight back and a demure gaze, cast down slightly (just as Jeanne had taught her), Esmeralda held her head high ad proud. Her stride was purposeful, unapologetic, and her hips swayed with the grace of a trained dancer. It was hard not to admire her, and Sancha even tried rolling her hips as she trailed behind the gypsy.
"So, tell me," Esmeralda said, stopping and turning suddenly. "How did a Sephardic Jew end up at Notre Dame de Paris?"
Sancha shushed her in a panic. "Someone will hear!"
"Relax. No one in this city knows what that is."
"But how do you know?"
Esmeralda offered her another knowing smile. "I heard you say 'guay de mí.' I've never heard that come out of a Spaniard who wasn't at least part Hebrew."
She must have seen the terror in Sancha's eyes, because she added, "I don't know what you're so worried about. Jews don't bother me, and if you can trust Quasimodo with your secret, you can trust me too."
Sancha's panic immediately melted away to something worse: Guilt. Any words of protest she might have had prepared died on her lips, and her gaze immediately went to her feet. She could feel Esmeralda's piercing gaze on her, and she was afraid for a moment she might melt under it.
"Wait, you didn't tell him?"
"Not yet…." Sancha muttered, perfectly ashamed of herself. She looked up to find Esmeralda glaring at her, arms crossed.
"I never knew Quasimodo to be someone who couldn't keep a secret," she said. "What reason did he ever give you not to trust him?"
"Please, it isn't that," Sancha insisted, her chest growing tight. "Allow me to explain…"
They resumed their walking, and with a bowed head, Sancha explained in a hushed voice what happened in Toledo and why she was currently at Notre Dame. She barely listened to herself as she talked. It sounded strange to hear her trial spoken aloud, since she had kept it quiet since Tavera had swept through her neighbourhood.
And to think, her first attempt at honesty in this city was with a gypsy woman she barely knew.
Sancha didn't regret her decision to come clean, though, because Esmeralda's expression softened considerably when she was done. She looked much more pensive, turning the girl's story over in her mind.
"I always knew Spain as an unkind place. Your people were accused of blood libel; mine were accused of cannibalism in Zaragoza. We left the city when I was ten because of it," Esmeralda said. "I'm surprised you and your family stayed in Toledo for as long as you did."
"It is our home," Sancha said with a shrug. "Bueno, it was our home until things became… very bad."
They walked in contemplative silence for a moment longer, with Djali trotting at their heels. After a moment, Sancha murmured, "I lost my mother and father, as well as my friends for what we are… I couldn't accept the thought of losing another friend…"
Esmeralda observed her companion for a moment. The little Spaniard hugged her arms as she walked, watching her feet carry her down the street. She didn't have to ask to know that she was talking about Quasimodo. The gypsy shook her head, wanting to both pity and scold her for being so secretive. Did she not know the bell ringer at all?
"You wouldn't have," she told her. "Quasimodo is a kind man and a friend to the gypsies. Your heritage wouldn't matter to him."
"I know that now," the girl said miserably, pinching the bridge of her nose. "But it has been so long since I did not tell him, and when I tried, it… It wasn't right."
Esmeralda nodded, almost feeling the conflict in Sancha's heart. Although she never had the drive (or desire) to hide who she was, Esmeralda understood the plight of the oppressed all too well. While she faced it head on, Sancha had opted to self-preserve by hiding. She couldn't fault her for it, especially under the circumstances. Though Esmeralda was protective of Quasimodo, she couldn't deny her growing empathy for Sancha.
"Well, you should tell him soon," she said, gently but firmly.
"I know I must," Sancha said, swallowing down hard. Clearly, she was still nervous about the idea. "I hope only that he will forgive me. He was the one to take me in when I lost my place to sleep in the church… He is deserving to know…"
Esmeralda cocked an eyebrow. She had been under the impression the girl was just visiting Quasimodo, not living with him. "And how did that happen?"
Sancha smirked and nodded towards something over Esmeralda's shoulder. "It happened when she stepped on me in the middle of the night."
The gypsy turned to see a stiff-backed noblewoman with greying blonde hair and pinched lips glaring at them from across the street. The woman shook her head in disapproval at the girls and turned back to the butcher, who she was purchasing a pound of veal from. The lady was Paris's most devoutly religious widow, Marguerite de Beaumont, and Esmeralda wasn't the least bit surprised Sancha had had a run-in with the old bat.
"Oh, her." Esmeralda returned Sancha's covert smile. "She once tried to empty her chamber pot on me during a dance."
"Were you hit?" Sancha gasped.
"No. The wind was strong that day and everything that was in the pot blew back onto her."
The two young women laughed aloud and continued on their way, pointedly ignoring the nasty look Marguerite threw at them.
Upon arriving at the blacksmith, Sancha realized that Esmeralda did not need her help at all for haggling a price. She knew exactly what a fair deal was and didn't budge until the smith relented and accepted her offer. Sancha had only ever seen her father bargain so competently, and she fought to push away the sad memory as they left the shop.
"By the way you never told me," Esmeralda said, "how did you meet Quasimodo? When the old woman caught you sleeping in the church?"
At the mention of her friend, Sancha's heart lifted and she broke out into a wide smile. "No, it was before that. Now to look back on it, it's quite funny…"
Sancha told her companion of how she had wandered unknowingly into his living quarters and how they became friends. As Sancha spoke, she didn't notice Esmeralda watching her face, observing with curiosity and amusement how Sancha's eyes lit up and her lips pulled into a smile whenever she said Quasimodo's name. It was a look she had seen on other women before, and it told her everything that Sancha wasn't saying out loud.
And, seeing that look on her face melted the last of Esmeralda's suspicions towards the little Sephardi girl.
XXX
The doors of the torture chamber flew open, and the screams of a woman in terrible pain startled the pair of guards at the entrance. Tomas de Tavera paid them no mind as he swept out of the room, wiping the back of his hand with a kerchief – A speck of blood dappled the back of his hand.
Without turning back to observe the abject suffering he had caused, the cardinal snapped his fingers. At the command, one of the guards, Gomez, ran to the clergyman's side.
"Sir?"
"The girl is hiding out in Paris," Tavera told him. "Her mother confirmed it not two minutes ago. I have no doubt in my mind she was finally being honest with me." With a cold smirk, he added, "You'd be surprised what the promise of leniency means to these heathens, Gomez."
Gomez nodded, his gaze still unsure. "And… what are we to do with this information, Your Eminence?"
"We leave for France as soon as possible," Tavera said. His gaze was hard, and his tone matter of fact. "Ready your squire and pack lightly. And bring the prison carriage."
An uneasy silence fell in the dark hallway, broken only by the woman's quavering screams from the chamber.
"Cardinal Tavera," Gomez started slowly, "the executions will take another four days at least. With all due respect, sir, what purpose would hunting one escaped Jewess serve? She's out of Spain, and not our concern anymore."
Tavera glared at the guard, and for a moment, Gomez thought the inquisitor might strike him. "The Jews of Toledo are responsible for the death and mutilation of an innocent. God will not absolve our nation if I let even one wicked heart go unpunished. And if you value your station, Gomez, I would ready the carriages as soon as possible."
With that, the irate cardinal stormed off, letting the door at the end of the hallway bang shut behind him. Gomez stared after him for a moment, completely bewildered by the cardinal's orders. If there was any doubt left in his heart about the rumours of Alfonso's parentage, it was purged now.
Still, an order was an order, and he was to obey his master. He turned back and ordered his subordinate, Diego, to fetch the prisoner for execution. The younger guard disappeared into the torture chamber and emerged with the bloody, broken form of Jeanne de Beaumont. The bodice of her dress was wet from the water of the tormenta de toca,* and her eyes were red with bitter tears. She murmured feverishly to herself as she was dragged past Gomez, her words tumbling like a prayer from her cracked and pale lips.
"Oh, Sancha, I am so sorry… God, protect my girl… Let her find Marguerite, please... Please…"
* Mi madre'sta cuziendo, mos oyera: My mother is sewing, she will hear us
Pedrelde la aldejecka'si se dormira: Hide the needle, and she will sleep
Pedrelde la aldejecka'si s'echera: Hide the needle, and she will lie down
*"Guay de mí": "Woe is me" (from what I understand, this is the Ladino version of "oy vey")
*Una gitana: A gypsy (female)
*Una sefardita: A Sephardic Jew (female)
*Tormenta de toca: Waterboarding
Phew, that was a lot of translation notes! One more thing, though: The song Sancha is singing at the beginning is known as "Avrix mi galanica", and it appears to be a Sephardic folk song. I couldn't find how far the song dates back, though, so let's just pretend it existed in the 1480s! Anyway, thank you so much again for reading (and for all the reviews and comments)! Until next week :)
