That very same day, on the hill of Valparaíso in Granada, two of the many treasure hunters who roamed the area in search of the valuable possessions the Moriscos had left behind in their hasty flight from the mountains found in one of the caves of an abandoned mine directly above the Albaicín a strange and useless lead plate with inscriptions on it in an almost indecipherable Latin.
Finding no use for their discovery, the treasure hunters soon handed the plate over to the Church. Eventually it came to the attention of a Jesuit priest who, after translating the inscription, concluded it was indeed a valuable treasure. It was a funeral inscription declaring that this was the burial site of the ashes of Saint Mesiton the martyr, who had been put to death during the reign of Emperor Nero. Mesiton’s remains had never been found. The archbishop of Granada, Don Pedro de Castro, immediately ordered that all the ashes found in the cave be gathered, and that the entire mine workings were to be excavated and cleaned in order to facilitate further explorations. In March of that same year, another plaque was found, this time referring to the burial of Saint Hesychius, together with more ashes and some charred human bones. Before the month was out, The Book of the Foundations of the Church and shortly afterwards The Book of the Essence of God were also discovered. On 30 April, in the midst of the religious fervour of Holy Week when the people of Granada experienced the passion of Christ in their own lives, a young girl by the name of Isabel found the plaque confirming the martyrdom of Saint Caecilius, the patron saint of Granada and the first bishop of Roman Illiberis. Alongside the plaque appeared the ardently desired and sought-after relics of the saint.
The whole of Granada exploded in an outburst of religious joy.
Following his visit to the mosque, Hernando seemed to Miguel like a changed man. He was smiling again, and his blue eyes sparkled as they had done in the past. Miguel was desperate to talk to him: Rafaela’s situation had become impossible. Her father, the magistrate Don Martín, was on the verge of coming to an agreement with one of the many convents in the city. One evening after supper, Miguel struggled upstairs to the first-floor library. He found his friend and master absorbed in his calligraphy.
‘My lord, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about for a long while.’ He remained on the threshold out of respect for this space that he considered almost holy. He waited for Hernando to raise his eyes from his writing.
‘Well? Is something wrong?’
Miguel cleared his throat and came limping into the room. ‘Do you remember the girl I told you about before you left for Granada?’
Hernando gave a sigh. He had completely forgotten the promise he had made. He had no idea what Miguel might want of him, or why the girl was so important to him. He could tell, however, from his friend’s worried face, so different from his normal happy expression, that it must be something serious.
‘Come in and sit down,’ he said, smiling. ‘I can sense this is going to be a long story . . . So tell me, what is the problem with this young girl?’ he added, watching Miguel fight with his crutches so he could sit on a chair.
‘Her name is Rafaela,’ Miguel began, ‘and she is in despair. Her father the magistrate wants to shut her away in a convent.’
Hernando spread his hands. ‘Many Christian girls end up wearing the habit quite happily.’
‘But she has no desire to do so,’ Miguel retorted, laying his two crutches down beside the chair. ‘The magistrate does not want to give the convent any money, which means all she can look forward to is being a maidservant to the other nuns.’
Hernando had no idea what to say; he studied his friend’s face. ‘What do you want me to do? I don’t think I have any—’
‘Marry her!’ Miguel cried, not daring to look his master in the face.
‘What?’ Hernando’s expression was one of utter incredulity. He did not know whether to laugh or be furious. When he saw from Miguel’s face that he was struggling to hold back tears, he decided neither was appropriate.
‘It’s a good way out!’ the cripple argued, encouraged by his master’s silence. ‘You are alone, she has to get married if she doesn’t want to be shut away in a convent . . . it would be perfect!’
Hernando listened to him in utter astonishment. Could he be serious? He realized he was. ‘Miguel,’ he said slowly, ‘you, more than anyone, know this is not an easy matter for me.’
The young man held his gaze defiantly.
‘Miguel,’ Hernando said again, trying to find an adequate response. ‘Even supposing that I were willing to marry this young girl – whom I do not even know – do you really think that an arrogant city magistrate would agree to it? Do you think he would allow his daughter to marry a Morisco?’ Miguel started to reply, as if he had the answers, but Hernando cut him short. ‘Wait,’ he said.
He had suddenly realized what was really going on. He had been so caught up in his own thoughts of late that he had not noticed the transformation in his friend.
‘I think there’s another problem which is even harder to solve,’ he said, his blue eyes fixed on the person who was possibly his only friend. He paused, then went on: ‘You . . . you are in love with that girl, aren’t you?’
Miguel stared down at the floor for a few seconds, but then raised his eyes and looked Hernando directly in the face. ‘I don’t know,’ he said with determination. ‘I don’t know what it means to love someone. Rafaela . . . Rafaela likes my stories! She calms down when she strokes the horses and whispers to them. As soon as she comes into the stables she stops crying and forgets her worries. She is a sweet, innocent creature.’ Miguel’s head dropped again. He shook it, and then cupped his chin in his hand. Seeing his friend’s dismay, Hernando did not have the heart to protest. ‘She’s . . . very delicate. She’s beautiful. She’s—’
‘You do love her,’ Hernando asserted. He cleared his throat several times before he went on. ‘How could we all live together in this house? How could I marry a woman I know you are in love with? We’d see each other every day, be around each other. What would you think or imagine at night?’
‘You don’t understand.’ Miguel was still staring at the floor, and talked in a whisper. ‘I don’t think anything. I don’t imagine. I don’t have desires. I can’t love a woman as a husband. They have never had any respect for me. I’m nothing but the dregs. My life is worth nothing.’ Hernando tried to protest, but this time it was Miguel who stopped him. ‘The most I have ever hoped for is to have a bone or a hunk of stale bread to put in my mouth. So what does it matter if I love her or not? What does it matter if I desire her? Throughout my life all my hopes have been crushed, like my legs are. But now I have a new hope. And it’s the first time in my wretched life that I believe, with your help, that I can see it achieved. Do you realize what that means? In the nineteen years I think I have been on this earth, I have never – never! – had the chance to see one of my desires fulfilled. Yes, you took me in and gave me work. But I’m talking about my dearest wishes. Something that is all mine! All I really wish for is to help that girl.’
‘Does she love you?’
Miguel looked up and grimaced. ‘Love a cripple? A servant? It’s you she loves.’
‘What?’ Startled, Hernando rose from his seat.
‘I’ve told her so much about you that, yes, I think she does love you; at the very least, she has a great admiration for you. You were the knight in all my stories, the rescuer of young maids, the tamer of wild beasts, the snake charmer—’
‘Have you gone mad?’ Hernando’s eyes seemed about to start out of his head.
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Miguel, his face flushed. ‘It’s a madness I’ve been living with for some time now.’
That same evening, Miguel climbed up to the library again. Hernando was busy making another copy of the gospel of Barnabas, as his friends in Granada had requested. If they were so insistent that he sent them the original he kept hidden in his library, he would need to make another transcription. He had managed to convince
them that the time was not ripe for him to send it to them, but he might not be so lucky on another occasion. Hernando could not help but have his doubts about the Sultan. Would the Great Turk be able to help the Moriscos? This time all he would have to do was make known the gospel that the Mute Book announced. He would not be expected to launch his armada against the King of Spain’s realm, but simply to be the king of kings the Virgin Mary spoke of and reveal the lies of the popes through the ages.
‘Hernando,’ Miguel said from the doorway, ‘I’d like you to come and meet Rafaela.’
‘Miguel . . .’ the Morisco began to complain.
‘Please, come with me.’ His voice sounded so imploring that Hernando could not refuse. Besides, deep down he was also rather curious.
Rafaela was waiting next to Estudiante. She had one hand entwined in his long, thick mane, while with the other she stroked his muzzle. The stables were only dimly lit by the light of a single lantern hanging well away from the straw. Hernando could see the girl had her head timidly sunk on her chest. Miguel stayed back, as if to give the two of them room. Hernando hesitated. Why was he nervous? What had Miguel told her, apart from making him the hero of all his stories? He went up to Rafaela, who was still staring down at the straw. She was wearing a petticoat tucked up at her waist, which revealed underneath an old skirt that reached down to her shoes. Her upper body was covered by an open bodice with sleeves on top of a blouse. All her clothes were a dull brown colour, and hung from her body as if they could find nothing solid to give them shape. What had Miguel promised her? Perhaps . . . Could he have gone so far as to tell her Hernando would marry her before he had even mentioned it to him?
All of a sudden he wished he had never come down to the stables. He turned on his heel to leave, but found himself confronting Miguel, standing firmly on his crutches in the doorway.
‘Please, I beg you,’ said Miguel.
Hernando relented, and turned back to Rafaela. He found her staring at him with bright brown eyes that even in the semi-darkness spoke eloquently of her distress.
‘I . . .’ he began, trying to excuse his attempt to leave.
‘I thank you for what you are willing to do to help me,’ Rafaela interrupted him.
Hernando jumped. He was startled by the gentleness of the girl’s voice: but what was it she had said? Miguel! He had told her . . . He was about to turn accusingly towards him when Rafaela went on:
‘I know I am not much to look at; my parents and brothers tell me so the whole time, but I am healthy.’ She smiled as she said this, revealing perfectly straight white teeth. ‘I have never been ill, and in our family we are very fertile,’ she went on. Hernando could hardly believe his ears. The sincerity and vulnerability in her voice took him aback. ‘I am a good, pious Christian and I promise you I will be the best wife you could find in all Córdoba. I will repay you a hundred times for the fact that my father cannot offer you any dowry,’ she finished.
The Morisco did not know what to say. He waved his hand and fidgeted uneasily. Yet . . . the girl’s innocence aroused his tenderness. Her sad brown eyes radiated such desolation that even Estudiante, standing strangely peacefully beside her, seemed aware of it. The only discordant note came from Miguel’s wheezing breath behind him.
‘I’m a new Christian,’ was the first thing he could think of to say.
‘I know you have a pure and kind heart,’ she said. ‘Miguel told me so.’
‘Your father will not allow—’ stammered Hernando.
‘Miguel thinks he has a solution.’
This time Hernando did wheel round to look at the cripple. He was smiling! His jagged teeth, so different from Rafaela’s, were exposed. Hernando looked at both of them in turn. They seemed to be drilling him with their eyes. What solution could Miguel have in mind?
‘It’s not against the law, is it?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Nor against the Church?’
‘No.’
How could Don Martín Ulloa possibly allow his daughter to marry a Morisco who was the son of someone condemned by the Inquisition? It was completely inconceivable. He did not even have to apologize to Rafaela, because her father would be the one to prohibit the marriage. That meant he could listen to whatever it was that Miguel was planning without there being any possibility of him being the one who dashed their hopes.
‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk about it tomorrow, Miguel. Good night, Rafaela.’
‘Wait, please,’ Miguel implored him as he brushed past him.
‘What do you want now, Miguel?’ he asked in a weary voice.
‘You have to come and see for yourself. I’ll only keep you from your rest a few moments longer.’ Hernando sighed again, but Miguel’s insistence made him give way once more. He nodded. ‘Follow me,’ said the cripple, ‘we have to go up to the first floor.’
Saying this, he turned on his crutches and made to leave the stables.
‘What about Rafaela?’ protested Hernando. ‘She is an unmarried young woman. She cannot come to my house.’ Miguel paid no attention, as if he took it for granted she would wait for them where she was. ‘Go back home,’ Hernando urged her.
‘She can’t do that now,’ he heard Miguel say as he hopped towards the door. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She can wait for us here, with the horses.’ His words floated into the air as he rushed out across the courtyard.
Hernando turned back towards Rafaela, who smiled at him. He set off after Miguel. Why could she not go home? What danger was she in? Miguel was already climbing the stairs, clinging on to the handrail. Hernando caught up with him near the top.
‘What’s this about, Miguel?’
‘Quiet,’ his friend warned him. ‘They mustn’t hear us. You’ll soon see.’
They walked along the upper gallery to the corner where Hernando’s house gave on to the alleyway at the stable exit. Miguel hobbled along, trying not to make any noise. When they reached the corner, both of them flattened themselves against the wall and peered down.
‘I think they’ll be here soon,’ Miguel whispered as they stood shoulder to shoulder against the wall. ‘This is when they usually come.’ Hernando could not bring himself to ask what this was all about. ‘Congratulations,’ Miguel also whispered. ‘You are taking the best woman in all Córdoba. And more than Córdoba – in all Spain!’
Hernando shook his head. ‘Miguel—’
‘There they are!’ the young man cut in. ‘Now be really quiet.’
Hernando leant forward and in the darkness saw two figures halt outside the gate that Rafaela always escaped through. Now he understood why she had to stay in the stables. After a few moments, a man carrying a lantern opened the gate from the magistrate’s side. The light shone on the faces of two women as they went up to Don Martín Ulloa, whom Hernando immediately recognized. The women handed something over to him, then they vanished back up the alley. Don Martín closed the gate, and the glow from his lantern gradually died away.
Hernando spread his hands in bewilderment. ‘Well? Is that what it was so important for me to see?’
‘Two weeks ago,’ Miguel began to explain as soon as he judged that the magistrate must be back inside his house, ‘while you were away in Granada, Rafaela and I almost bumped into those two women and her father one night. Every night since then I have had to check they have left before Rafaela can get back home.’
‘But what does it mean, Miguel?’ Hernando stepped away from the wall and confronted his friend.
‘Those women are beggars, like many others who turn up at the house. I recognized one of them once; Angustias, they call her. I went out into the streets and mixed with . . . with my people. I wasn’t given a single penny, not even a fake one.’ He smiled in the darkness. ‘I must have lost my touch.’
‘Oh, get on with it,’ Hernando protested, ‘it’s late.’
‘All right. So I asked a few questions here and there.
Those two you saw tonight are called María and Lorenza. Lorenza was the shorter one . . .’
‘Miguel!’
‘They hire children to beg for them,’ Miguel exclaimed.
‘From the magistrate?’ Hernando asked after a shocked pause.
‘Yes. It’s a good deal. The magistrate is a member of the guild that looks after foundlings. He’s the one who decides which family they should go to. The orphans are handed over to women of Córdoba who are paid a few ducats a year to wet-nurse them if they are still suckling, or to bring them up if they are a little older. Those women in turn hire them out to the women you saw so that they can go begging in the streets with them. A lot of them die . . .’ Miguel’s voice failed him.
‘What does the magistrate have to do with all this?’
‘Everything,’ said the young man, encouraged by Hernando’s interest. ‘The statutes of the guild stipulate that an inspector should periodically check that the foundlings are living with the family who are being paid for their services; and if they are alive and well. Don Martín and that visitor are in league with each other. The magistrate chooses the women, and the inspector turns a blind eye. Every week the beggar women come to pay Don Martín his share; they do the same with the inspector. Rafaela has told me her father needs lots of money to pay for all his luxuries and to appear to be as rich as the other councillors. I could tell you the names of the last dozen children handed over in this way, the names of those they were given to, and the names of the beggar women who drag them around the streets with them.’
The Hand of Fatima Page 80
