`They hate the French.’
`But they love their King. They need firm leadership, strong example, from Church and nobles. From you and I, my Lord.’
The Marques nodded. The future was suddenly golden. His wife, whom he had married for lust, was willing to do penance. She would come back to him chastened and humbled, loving and loyal, to be the helpmate of a man who would assist his king steer Spain into a brilliant, holy future. And to help the Marques, to steer him, comfort him, support him, there would be this grim, tough Inquisitor with his subtle mind and sharp purpose. Suddenly the events of the day, the abortive duel and the Marques’ escape from death, seemed trivial compared to that future.
The Inquisitor smiled. `You did us all a service today, my Lord.’
`A service?’
Father Hacha stood. “The Englishman backed down from you. You are a, hero to the army, you beat the Englishman in their sight. Where you lead, my Lord, others will now follow.’
The Marques saw himself leading the army away from the British alliance. He saw himself welcoming King Ferdinand VII at the gates of Spain, he saw glory.
He bowed his head for the blessing of the Inquisitor who had been offered, and who had accepted, the bedroom next door. The hands of the priest were firm on the Marques’ head.
The Inquisitor, who had told lies all night, pronounced the blessing. He meant the words he spoke. He wished God to bless this man who had married so disastrously, and who was now a pawn in the struggle to defend the Inquisition. He blessed the Marques in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, and he hoped that his Lordship would sleep well.
`Thank you, father.’
`I bid you a good night, my Lord.’
In his own room the Inquisitor knelt and prayed God’s forgiveness for the lies he had told and the deception he had practised. God would understand. What Father Hacha did this night he did to preserve God’s church. There was no more noble purpose. He rose from his knees, opened his missal, and settled down to wait for the witching hour when his brother, who was thought to be the Inquisitor’s servant, would play his part to restore the glory of God’s kingdom of Spain.
The Marques’ private chaplain was forced to be up every morning at half past four to waken his master at five o’clock. Then, until half past six, the two men would share private devotions. After that the Marques would take breakfast, then go to his first Mass of the day. The chaplain’s dream of heaven was a place where no one stirred from their bed until midday. He yawned.
He kissed his scapular, then draped it about his neck. He wondered if the Inquisitor would join them this morning, and hoped not. Father Tomas Hacha rather frightened the Marques’ private chaplain; there was too much force in the man. Besides, the Inquisition was frightening anyway, its power secret and pervasive, its judgments harsh. The chaplain preferred a milder religion.
The servants who slept outside their master’s room jerked awake as the chaplain’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. One of them sat up, rubbing his cheek. `Morning, father.’
`Good morning, my son.’ The chaplain opened one of the shutters on the landing and saw the grey dawn spreading up from the dark hills. `It’s going to be a fine day!’
Dogs barked in the town. Somewhere a cockerel crowed. The chaplain could see, dim in the shadows of the street, the shapes of the British guns. The Spanish and British armies collected here, waiting to plunge into French-held Spain. He was glad that it was none of his business. Fighting the rebels in the Banda Oriental north of the River Plate had been bad enough, but the thought of those great guns bellowing at each other was terrifying. He turned to the Marques’ room and knocked softly on the door. He smiled at the servants. `A quiet night?’
`Very quiet, father.’
He knocked again. One of the servants unbuttoned himself above the chamberpot on the landing’s corner. `He was up late, father. He’s probably still asleep.’