A/N: Hello again, dear readers. Before we start, I just want to thank you all for the reviews, comments, and PMs. They really make my day and let me know I'm on the right track!
Chapter Nine
"Amores que prohibio
La lei del Dio
En pekado vas a estar
No te va a pedronar."*
'Esterika Serfati,' Al-Andaluz Project
When Sancha woke up the next day, she could hardly open her eyes. They were nearly swollen shut, still puffy and red from last night's many tears. She rubbed her face, wincing at the sting behind her eyes, and blinked away the last cobwebs of sleep. Beside her, a body stirred and mumbled something sleepy and unintelligible.
She glanced over to see Quasimodo stretched out next to her, his hunched back facing her, his tunic bunched up underneath him. Sancha watched the rise and fall of his uneven shoulders, trying to remember who fell asleep first last night. They had stayed up talking past Matins, and the last thing she recalled was lying on her side, telling him something about the goings-on at the synagogue before she left Toledo.
Careful not to make too much noise, she pulled the blanket over Quasimodo's shoulders, found her shoes, and snuck off the church.
Notre Dame was empty. Not even the archdeacon was puttering around the altar. The vast silence was nothing short of intimidating, but there was a kind of peace in the incense-laden air as well. Sancha was also just glad to be alone for a moment.
The young woman made her way over to the line of devotional candles near the nave and took a matchstick from the nearby box. She lit a candle and stared into the immobile yellow flame.
She had been unburdened from so much yesterday, but she was not yet free from the grief of losing her parents. She had become adept at living in denial, but that simply wouldn't serve her anymore. Acceptance was the only way to go now, and the journey began with the lighting of a candle in memory of Lady Jeanne de Beaumont.
The candle flame blurred as tears stung Sancha's eyes. She knelt, clasped her hands together, and whispered a little prayer for her mother's soul. She asked the Christian god to show Jeanne mercy, and to consider the martyrdom she suffered to save her only daughter.
When she was done, Sancha rose, wiped her cheeks, and lit the tallest candle she could find. She wasn't sure if the one she chose would last the requisite 24 hours, but it would have to do. When the flame caught, the girl dropped the matchstick, folded her hands, and let the warmth of her makeshift yahrzeit candle* bathe her face. Quietly, she recited her father's favorite Torah verse as best as she could remember, hoping Avram's god would forgive her for forgetting a few lines. When she was done, she silently asked Him to keep her father's soul close and unite her parents in the afterlife again.
After this, Sancha took a seat in one of the empty pews and waited for the wave of grief to recede. She knew she had to move on with her life now, but she didn't know how. She had no one to guide her anymore, and no access to any familial wealth. Pawning off her jewelry would only grant her so many meals, and she didn't like the idea of living off the church's charity for the rest of her days. Now that she was alone in the world, Sancha had to fend for herself and earn a living somehow. And, she had to find it before she'd be forced to part with her emerald ring, which had been a gift from her mother on the day of her baptism. Sancha would sooner cut her hair off.
Looking up at the vaulted ceiling, she thanked whoever was listening for the magnificent roof over her head. At least she could count on having a place to rest in the bell tower.
Despite her sadness, the memory of who she left sleeping in the tower coaxed a smile from her lips. Never in all her eighteen years had she acted so boldly. And yet, she didn't regret the first kiss, nor the many that followed.
Sancha touched her lips, warming her fingers. She had never kissed anyone before. She imagined she was just as surprised at herself as Quasimodo was. Still, after accepting the truth about her family's fate last night, she also accepted another hidden truth about herself: She had wanted to kiss her companion for a long time. She couldn't say when, or why, but somewhere in the past few weeks, she had come to see Quasimodo not as a monster or a creature worth her pity, but only as a man. Something she couldn't quite name had started to blind her to his outward appearance, and whatever that 'something' was, it was the reason she kissed him. And, despite her nervousness about making the first move, it felt nice.
It felt right.
When she made her way back to the bell tower, Sancha found Quasimodo was already awake and sitting at his worktable. He was handling a half-finished figurine when he turned around at the sound of her approach. His eyes were wide and bright, despite the dark circles underneath.
"Oh, you're back!"
He sounded surprised and almost a bit relieved. Sancha grinned and folded her hands behind her back, scuffing her toe in feigned meekness.
"Did you think I ran off?" she teased.
"Well… Maybe…"
Her face fell when she realized he was serious. Her footfalls echoed through the tower as she walked over to him. To his more-than-apparent surprise, she didn't stand before him or even sit down next to him. Instead, Sancha did something she had seen depicted in romance manuscript illuminations: Knelt down in front of him and rested her arms over his knees, whereupon she leaned her chin. She caught his incredulous gaze in hers and held him captive there. Had this been any other situation, with any other man, her forwardness would have been shockingly unladylike. But, she wanted him to see how serious she was.
"If you were ever to hurt me, or treat me cruelly, then I will run off," she murmured. "But until that day arrives, I will never run away from you."
Quasimodo's expression immediately went from shocked to horrified. "I would never – !"
"Then you should not worry," she interrupted gently. "I will stay here until you wish to be rid of me."
"I… I don't want you to go," he said quietly. Sancha inclined her chin a little and offered him a smile.
"Good. I don't wish to go either."
She turned her head and rested her cheek on her arms, eyes fluttering closed to enjoy the tranquility between them. After a moment, she felt Quasimodo relax, and she couldn't keep her smile from widening when she felt a large, gentle hand caress the back of her head.
"I did not mean to frighten you," she whispered after a moment. "I meant to pray for my parents downstairs before you awoke."
"Oh…" There was a sad note of realization in his voice. "I-I'm sorry, Sancha…"
She shrugged and gave the side of his leg a reassuring squeeze. "It was a malentendido.* I hope you understand I would not simply run away after…"
She trailed off, unsure of how to finish the rest of that sentence. What was she supposed to say? After she kissed him? After he kissed her back? After she realized she wanted to stay with him for as long as he would have her? She raised her head just in time to see Quasimodo avert his gaze from her, a telling colour in his cheeks.
"What is wrong?" she asked.
He shook his head, still not looking at her. "I thought… maybe you would. And I thought I wouldn't blame you if you did…"
Sancha looked up at him, a pang of sadness cutting through her. Was he still so unsure of her feelings for him? She thought back to the story he told her of his upbringing, and she silently cursed Claude Frollo for raising his charge to feel so unlovable.
"I was not lying last night," she told him gently. "I said those things to you because they are true. It was not an accident that I kissed you, Quasimodo. I wished for it."
Finally, he looked at her but seemed at a loss for words. It was as if he had no idea what to do with this information and thought it better to disbelieve her than get his hopes up. As the silence dragged on, a troublesome idea came to Sancha, and she suddenly sat a little straighter.
"Ay… Did you not wish to kiss me?"
"What?" The very suggestion seemed to worry him. "N-No, I-I did… Of course I did. I just don't know why…"
"Why you kissed me", Sancha finished for him in her head. The worst part about this was that there was not a hint of self-pity or manipulation to be found in his voice; Quasimodo genuinely couldn't understand why Sancha wanted to be close to him. With a sigh, Sancha leaned on his legs again and chose a different approach.
"I may ask you the same," she said. "Why did you not run from me?"
He looked at her as if she had just asked him what colour the sky was. "Why would I? You're…"
"A Jewess accused of ritualized murder," she offered.
"But you're not a murderer. I know you're not."
Quasimodo took her hands, covering them completely with his own. "I don't care what anyone else says about your father's people. I know who you are, and I don't see you as Spanish, or French, or Catholic, or even Jewish... You're..." He searched her face, as if the words he was looking would be in her eyes. "You mean a lot to me."
"And so I feel the same of you," Sancha told him softly. She brushed his bangs out of his good eye, her fingertips grazing his forehead. "You look at me and see only Sancha. I look at you and see only Quasimodo."
She rose up on her knees and made her point with a soft kiss. When she drew away, she added in a husky voice, "And that is the answer to your 'why', cariño*."
He didn't say anything in response, but the lopsided smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth and the slight haze in his eyes spoke volumes. Satisfied, she winked at him and got to her feet.
"Bueno, I am going to make breakfast. Do you want any?"
"I – uh – y-yes, please… Thank you."
As she gathered their plates, Sancha turned the exchange over in her mind. She was happy with their talk, but she was a little sad Quasimodo had needed to be convinced of her affections. Anger towards his foster father rose in her heart and heated the back of her neck, but she forced herself to tamp it down. Frollo was dead, and Quasimodo was free of his tyranny. There was no use getting angry at the past, now.
When she could think clearly again, Sancha silently resigned herself to the fact that years of isolation and torment would not be undone with one night of closeness. She accepted it would take some time for Quasimodo to really believe she wanted to hold his hand, embrace him, kiss him, stay with him…
Sancha decided she didn't mind, though. She was happy to demonstrate her feelings as often as he needed reminding.
XXX
Night had fallen over Toledo, and from his balcony, Tomas de Tavera could see the smoke rising from the pyres in the square. He watched the tendrils curl and disappear into the evening air, blotting out the first stars that appeared in the lavender-blue sky. He inhaled deeply and sent a silent prayer up to the Lord on that smoke, hoping He was watching the good work Tavera was doing.
Travel preparations were nearly complete, and once the last of the executions were done, he would leave for France. Tavera gripped the balustrade, his nails digging into the wood. The image of Jeanne de Beaumont's daughter, peeking clandestinely around the corner, was burned into his memory. She was a small thing, not much taller than his own palfrey, and yet she had outrun two of his best men. Impotent rage and restlessness burned his stomach and boiled his blood. The little Jewess might have bought herself time, but just as the hand of God smote Sodom and Gomorrah for their sins, so too would Tavera bring her to justice for her complicity in Alfonso's murder.
The cardinal's fury melted away and pooled in his legs, a stinking swamp of sullenness and sorrow. Weak in the knees, he leaned his elbows on the balustrade and closed his eyes. In the darkness, he saw the small, blonde head of his son, tottering off in the courtyard to pick flowers and chase the sparrows. How long had it been since he saw that image? How long since he was able to pick the child up in his arms and look upon a face that bore his nose and Leoncia's eyes? He could almost hear the last words his son said to him…
"Papa, look at the clouds!"
Tavera raised his head and blinked away the tears that threatened to fall. He looked down beside him, and through his blurry vision, he could have sworn he saw Alfonso's bright blue eyes looking up at him, his chubby little finger pointing to the sky.
"My boy…" he murmured. "Oh, Alfonso…"
Tavera reached out, bending over to touch the back of his son's head, when the sound of approaching footsteps broke him out of his trance. He straightened immediately and turned his back to the patio doors, indescribably irritated with the wretch who dared to disturb him.
Watching the horizon, he said to the intruder, "You have one minute to tell me why you are here, or I'll have you thrown on the pyre with the rest of them."
"Is it true that you're leaving for Paris?"
Tavera spun around, only to see Leoncia de la Vega standing in his doorway. The woman of five and twenty years stared unblinkingly into his eyes, her blue gaze blazing with a fury he had never seen before. Her hands were balled into fists at her side, as if she intended to strike him at any moment.
Tavera wasn't sure what surprised him more: Her appearance in his apartments or the fact that she was up by herself.
"Leoncia – "
"Is it true?" she repeated through gritted teeth.
Tavera glared at her. He never liked it when women took such a tone. "Yes, it is. I leave in two days, and that will be the end of it."
"Why?" she demanded.
"Why do you think?" He turned back to the horizon.
"I've heard rumours," she said, striding up next to him. "They say Cardinal Tavera has lost his mind, that he's dragging his soldiers and the Inquisition up to France for the sake of one Hebrew girl."
"Let 'them' talk," Tavera said, his eyes fixed on the billowing smoke. "I walk in the footsteps of the Almighty. I won't be deterred from this."
"It is one Jewess," Leoncia barked. "One left the kingdom, and you insist on going after her? Why, Tomas? She is out of Spain and out of our lives. She's as good as dead to you and me."
Tavera turned and grabbed Leoncia's wrists. He forced her to back up from him and said in a snarling voice, "Do not test me, woman. You know as well as I why I must do this. Our son was murdered, and if I let even a single Jew go – "
"You've got them all!" Leoncia bawled, her eyes filling with tears. "Look" – she gestured to the billowing smoke – "You have done your duty, Tomas. This runaway won't make a difference. For God's sake, you haven't stopped since Alfonso…"
The tears spilled over and Leoncia's face crumpled. She bowed her head and sobbed, loud and unrestrained. With a sigh, Tavera dropped her wrists and gathered her in his arms, hushing her patiently.
"Mi alma*, it is my penance walk," he whispered.
"I don't want you to go," she managed. "Stay here… Stay with me… I've missed you, Tomas…"
Tavera nodded and held her close, inhaling her light, airy scent. "It's a cross we must bear. We have sinned, and God has shown his displeasure. I have to go and make things right."
The two parents stayed on the balcony for a moment, locked in each other's arms, trying desperately to quell their grief. More stars appeared as the sky grew darker, but neither were able to see; the smoke all but covered Toledo now.
"Go if you must," Leoncia muttered eventually. "Whatever you do, do it for the sake of my son's soul. I sometimes fear he never made it to Heaven, and I… would rather die than see him suffer eternally for what we've done."
Tavera raised his head and set his dark gaze North, where the smoke had not yet reached. "Yes," he said slowly. The image of the doe-eyed Jewess arose in his mind again. "If anyone is going to die for our son, Leoncia, it will not be you."
*"Amores que prohibio: This love is prohibited
La lei del Dio: By the law of God
En pekado vas a estar: You are living in sin
No te va a pedronar": This won't be forgiven
** Please note there is no English translation for 'Esterika Serfati' on the internet (as far as I could find, anyway), so this translation is a concentrated effort between myself and Google Translate. It's probably a very loose/slightly inaccurate version of what the song is trying to say.
*yahrzeit candle: A candle lit in a deceased person's memory as part of the Jewish bereavement process
*malentendido: A misunderstanding
*cariño: A Spanish term of endearment similar to "honey" or "sweetie" in English
*Mi alma: literally means "my soul", but is used as a term of endearment similar to "beloved" or "my love"
Also, I think it's worth mentioning that I know the Jewish bereavement process is rather complicated and has multiple steps. I may not have accurately represented what a Jewish girl in the Middle Ages would have done in the face of a death in her family, but I tried my best with the information I could gather. If I've really missed the mark in the scene where Sancha lights her memorial candles, I invite my more knowledgeable readers to tell me. I'll update the chapter if need be.
As always, thank you so much again for reading!
