Page 79 of The Familiar

He sat down across from Víctor. “I don’t believe Teoda Halcón was responsible for what happened last night.”

Víctor’s brows rose. “She is the only one calling Pope Gregory the antichrist. Her father has connections in Cologne, and even to the Anabaptists in Poland.”

“I don’t deny that she’s a heretic. But why create such a spectacle at the second trial? Why not wait for an audience with the king? Or entrench herself in his service?”

Víctor shrugged. “Perhaps she never intended to go as far as she did. Maybe she meant for the blame to fall elsewhere. On Luzia or one of the other competitors.”

“If that’s the case, how was her heresy discovered? Who betrayed her?”

“Why does it matter to us or our cause?”

“Because that accusing finger could just as easily point to Luzia.”

“And that would bother you, wouldn’t it?”

Santángel wasn’t fool enough to snap at that bait. “Teoda Halcón is too convenient a villain. Fortún Donadei is nearly as ambitious as you, and the Inquisition is an excellent way of eliminating competition—whether you’re opening a spice shop or trafficking in miracles.”

“If your spies had done a better job, Donadei would be my champion and we’d have no cause for concern.”

The chance that he might not have met Luzia felt like a fissure in the earth. If fate had chosen that course, Donadei would be the sacrifice that undid his bargain with Víctor. A clean choice, barely a betrayal. He’d be free of this mad desire and the decision to damn Luzia. She would be safe with the Ordoños or competing for some other noble. If he had met her first at La Casilla, would he have recognized her wit, her talent, her beauty? Would he have bothered to look closely enough to discover her? Or would she have been just one more obstacle to destroy in pursuit of Víctor’s glory and his own goals? Could he afford to let her be more than that now?

“Luzia is more powerful than the farmer could ever dream of being.”

“I certainly hope so,” said Don Víctor. “Do you truly suspect Donadei, or do you just not like him?”

“Both things can be true. No one should have so many white teeth.” But regardless of his facile charm, it was obvious Donadei had the most to gain. Teoda and Gracia were both gone from the tournament and Luzia had nearly been killed. What tragedy had befallen the Prince of Olives? Had his head of curls been singed?

He refilled Víctor’s glass, knowing these little gestures pleased him. “Pérez claims the king is insisting the torneo proceed.”

Now Víctor frowned. “But if so … why not open El Escorial to the hopefuls? It may mean nothing. Philip has never been one to make a fast decision. He’s kept Pérez on a long tether for years now.”

“Something is wrong here,” said Santángel. “La Casilla could have burned to the ground last night. Someone could have been killed.”

“You think Pérez is playing a deeper game.” Víctor leaned his head back, as if contemplating the frescoed ceiling. “In the streets and salons the talk against the Austrian is growing louder. Trouble in the Netherlands, raiders in our own ports.”

The Austrian. When Spain was strong, its people were happy to claim Philip. But reeling from loss of blood and treasure, he was the Austrian again, a Hapsburg interloper who would never belong on Spanish soil no matter his native tongue, or how many palaces he built.

“Pérez won’t act against Philip,” said Santángel. “Not directly.”

“Perhaps not. But the torneo serves as a kind of advertisement, doesn’t it? The king isn’t ready to relinquish the opportunities these trials may yield, even if it burnishes Pérez’s reputation. But who says Pérez isn’t open to other offers? If Philip won’t act to seize the power our holy champions offer, maybe someone who wishes to challenge the king will.”

Was that what Pérez hoped for? A real rebellion that might lift him even higher than he had been? The king was sick with gout. He grew frailer every day. His son had none of the makings of a ruler. But a weak king was still a king. The comuneros had tried to act against Philip’s father and failed. That memory was not so old.

“We could withdraw,” he said.

Víctor peered at Santángel as if trying to see through a fogged window. “I can scarcely believe what I’m hearing.”

Santángel couldn’t quite believe it himself. But he had to say it, had to at least offer up the chance. “It’s the prudent choice. Step back, let Luzia hone her skills in private, see whether the king is healthy enough and strong enough to stave off Pérez and his detractors.”

“Very sensible. Is that what you really want?”

He no longer knew. Hundreds of years of servitude, of the yoke around his neck keeping him bound to the name of De Paredes. He had endured cruelty, caprice, and relentless boredom. Could he consign Luzia to that? It would be her choice, just as it had been his, but Víctor would find a way to force her decision, and Santángel’s luck would help him do it.

Maybe Víctor was right and he did fear freedom. He would be mortal again and he was still the same fool who had run from death so long ago. He would have but one life to squander, to fill with his own mistakes. The first would be leaving Luzia.

As if Víctor could read his thoughts, he said, “You will forget her in time. The world is wide and full of women. The torneo will continue and Luzia will win. Her power will be mine, and you will go live your life and find your death and forget about us all.”

And Luzia would go on and on.