The Trial of Seals

The Hall of the Throne inside the Royal Chancery of Burgos was packed with fifty grandees of the realm, gowned appellate judges of the High Bench, and delegates of the common guilds of merchants and fullers. Beneath a Mudejar timber roof gilded with fine leaf, the viceroy held court upon a crimson velvet chair flanked by guards in polished plate armor with pikes at salute.

Don Beltrán de Vivar commanded the prosecution dais in his scarlet chancellor's robe bordered with white ermine, the heavy links of his gold chain resting upon his chest. In his hands he flourished the draft decree of confiscation against the Valdelobos mills, ready to press the heavy leaden seal of the crown that would formalize the ruin and exile of three thousand yeoman families.

"My liege," Don Beltrán proclaimed, his pompous voice filling the vaults with solemn echoes, "the yeomen and millers of the northern borders have defaulted upon their imperial dues in open contempt, refusing to yield the corn rents required to pacify the Oakhaven rebels. I petition the court to pronounce the writ of seizure and pass their freeholds to crown factors and court creditors."

Several nobles and magistrates in the chancellor's pocket nodded in assent, fingering the gilded hilts of their Toledo small-swords with arrogant contempt.

Tomás de la Torre waited at the foot of the dais in his plain clerk's tunic, guarding the lectern of official rolls with the stony calm of a man who knows his neck rests an inch from the headsman's axe.

The viceroy lifted the goose quill to sign the warrant of destruction. But before the nib touched the sheepskin leaf spread upon the walnut board, the great double doors at the foot of the nave crashed open with a shock that stunned heralds and advocates into absolute silence.

Beatriz de Vivar entered the Hall of the Throne alone, unattended by duennas or halberdiers. She wore unadorned black mourning broadcloth, stripped of pearls or court gold, holding aloft a rolled sheet of vellum bound in black hemp ribbon.

"That warrant cannot be sealed, Your Highness!" her voice rang out, clear, cold, and striking as a bronze church bell at prime.

A roar of astonishment and disbelief broke from the assembled grandees. Don Beltrán turned the color of grave-dust beneath the weight of his robes.

"Daughter, return to your chambers this instant!" the chancellor roared, shaking with venomous fury and public disgrace. "This is a royal court of justice, not a hall for domestic hysterics or familial mutiny."

"It is indeed a court of justice, father, and for that cause I have come to impeach the highest traitor of the realm before his peers," she answered, stepping down the center carpeted nave until she halted beside Tomás's lectern.

Beatriz unrolled the parchment plucked from coffer seven, spreading it before the stunned eyes of the viceroy and the imperial prosecutor.

"Here is the secret instruction my father drafted in his own hand, ordering foreign mercenaries to lay fire to the Valdelobos mills and frame the frost clans of Oakhaven. And here are the bills of the Antwerp factors proving Don Beltrán diverted one hundred thousand imperial ducats into his private ledgers in the Low Countries to enrich his house upon the misery of the people. And if Your Highness doubts his hand, let him ask the prince of Oakhaven for the invasion order my cousin Íñigo took from this very archive a month ago. The signature is the same."

Silence crashed across the great hall like lead falling into wool, so deep the flutter of a sparrow trapped in the timber rafters carried end to end.

The imperial prosecutor scrutinized Don Beltrán's flourish through a Dutch magnifying glass, cross-referencing it with the official rolls Tomás presented with a calm and respectful bow.

"The sign-manual is authentic, my liege," the prosecutor declared in funeral tones that froze the blood of the benches. "And the deficits tally to the last maravedi with the fraudulent bonds of seizure."

Don Beltrán stumbled back against the tapestry of the dais, clawing desperately for his captains, but the sergeants lowered their pikes and barred his retreat with stone faces.

"Guards," the viceroy commanded with icy finality that brooked no appeal. "Strip Don Beltrán of his collar of office and convey him to the Tower of San Juan under charge of high treason against the realm."

As the watch disarmed the ruined chancellor and stripped his chain, Beatriz and Tomás locked eyes across the roaring floor. No one was looking at them. For the first time in a month, there was no need to hide.