Pessoa took the rabbit haunch, and feeling the grease on his fingers, smelling the garlic and thyme, his appetite came roaring back. “Badly,” he said between chews. “Gomes believes we have birthed the Antichrist.”
Soares’s eyes flew heavenward. He crossed himself, kissed his fingertips.
The rabbit haunch was quickly dispatched. Pessoa plucked a cod cake from the napkin. “The seculars are appalled, but what can we do?” The cod was expensive and well prepared—the cake tasted more of potato and onion than of salted fish. Pessoa ate it in three bites and took out another. “He looks ill to me, Gomes does, as if he is not sleeping. And his voice has an edge to it that is entirely lunatic. I tell you, Luis, he frightens me. If I would have held an illegal tribunal, this one is insane. Today, hearing Berenice’s testimony as to Maria Elena’s maidenhood, his voice went shrill, and he would not leave the question alone, no matter how many times she answered. I expect to look up at any time and see the man barking like a dog, frothing at the—”
There. Like an apparition. Gomes’s young secretary stood at the foot of the stairs. Pessoa stepped away from Soares so hastily that he nearly dropped his half-eaten lunch.
The secretary, hands clutching his beads, came shuffling forward. “I have spoken with the seculars,” he whispered, “and they do not yet dismiss the claims of miracle. What leaves them doubtful is the reported violence of the angels and the whereabouts of the child.”
Pessoa grabbed his arm and spun him toward the cherubs’ cell. “Look there!” he commanded. “Do you see evil?”
He saw the instant when the boy’s timid gaze was captured. “No,” he breathed. “O no. Angelicis virtutibus. O, never evil.”
“And yet a strength that is so powerful that—”
“Yes! I see what you mean. A holy power so fierce that it terrifies, that it causes pain. Yes. I will point this out to the seculars. Your suggestion today that the world may not yet be worthy for such a miracle affected them greatly. As it did me.”
“Is it enough?” Pessoa asked.
Bernardo shook his head. “They still question. And their necks are yet under Monsignor’s boot. But, father? I would speak with you concerning something else.” Through those pale lashes, Pessoa could see pale blue eyes dart. “Not here. Some spot that is private.”
As arranged, Bernardo came upon him as if by accident. Father Manoel was sitting at the fountain, his elbows braced on his knees, his hands entwined. Bernardo thought of those hands pulling open the Pinheiro woman’s thin shawl, lifting up that ill-made blouse; those fingers sliding over passion-fevered skin, tweaking nipples to firm pink arousal.
He tried to chase the thoughts, yet they returned, sweated and inflamed. No wonder the cherubs had taken back the child.
“Pax tecum,” Bernardo said.
Father Manoel looked up. His gaze was harsh, as if he had read Bernardo’s thoughts. “Sit down.”
Bernardo dug his fingernails into his palms until his mind was clean. He took a place beside Father Manoel on the ledge, in the music of the trickling water, in the smells of damp and moss.
“What is it?”
No. The story could not be true. Not Father Manoel. Not lechery in such a man as this. Bernardo lost courage. He took out his rosary. Jesu pie. He had not expected irritation.
The question came quick as a thrust, and knife-sharp. “What?”
“Concerning the vow of chastity…”
Out of the corner of his eye, Bernardo saw Father Manoel’s head snap around, saw his hands clench.
“Me,” Bernardo whispered.
Those strong hands relaxed.
“I come to beg your help, for by age fourteen I had lain with girls thrice, and then began study for my vows, and have never since been tempted—at least not greatly. And yet after arriving here, I think of it all the time.”
Father Manoel leaned toward him. Their shoulders touched and Bernardo thought he could feel, under habits, skin spark to skin. He whispered, “No one said that you could not think upon it. Has no one ever talked about this to you, boy?”
He held his beads so tightly that his fingers cramped. He shook his head.
“To not think about it—especially at your age—would be an impossibility. Christ doesn’t ask the impossible, He merely asks the difficult. Chastity becomes easier with age. In the meantime, pray. Go for walks. Visit the sick. Busy yourself into an exhaustion. I remember that I would run the rear stairs of the seminary at night, up and down, until I could barely stand.” He chuckled. “Sometimes I would quite literally run into other novices.”
“They say you lie with Berenice Pinheiro.”
Father Manoel sat back, his warmth going away, leaving Bernardo’s shoulder cold. Behind them the fountain splashed. A thrush lit, warbling, on a pomegranate branch.
“Who says?”
“Two doubtful witnesses: a tailor, Magalhães; an implausible woman named Inez.”
The thrush trilled again.
“Did I not tell you,” Father Manoel said, “that the angels will not converse except with the pure of heart? And thus they will not speak with me?”
Bernardo ducked his face into his hands and could feel the pressure of his beads against his cheek. O immaculata castitas. All purity gone.
“But I will tell you of another thing.”
Father Manoel was quiet for so long that Bernardo raised his head. The Jesuit was sitting, staring across the plaza, hands braced on his knees. His toe tapped a fast and troubled rhythm. “My sin…” He cleared his throat. “My sin which has been confessed and absolved—was not one of lust, but of affection.” The Jesuit looked to Heaven. “I love her, Bernardo.” And Bernardo heard a jarring of ardor his voice. “She is a thorn in my heart.”
Bernardo looked up as well, to blue sky and a curdling of buttermilk clouds. He could sit thus forever in the lyric of the fountain, in the scent of damp stone.
Father Manoel asked, “Can you forgive me?”
“No! I mean—please. I am not one to … I thought I was of a virtuous nature, but no more. You are so much better than I, for it is not affection I feel, father, but base lust, and not even lust toward a woman of sweet voice and sweeter nature, but everything. Anything. If the world has been judged by the cherubs and found guilty, why, I am most guilty of all. And seeing the woman herbalist’s timid looks, well, I can fully understand how you could come to…”
“It is her sweetness I crave,” he said. “For it is sweetness I lack.”
“O, but—”
“It is true. And I tell you what I have never told anyone else. It is a revelation, in fact, to speak to you of things which have never yet crossed my lips. It is a great freedom.”
“Yes! Yes, father. I feel the same!”
“And so I tell you this, trusting that you will understand. I once scourged myself to banish lust. And then when I arrived at an age when passion should dampen, this great affection came upon me. I confessed it and was shriven and swore a sacred promise to give her up—O, what a hardship! Then I understood that God Himself had sent her to me, wishing to reveal my stem sins by her very gentleness, for from lack of her, I became harsh with others, and that was not an answer, either. Can you see that?”
“Yes. Yes, indeed.”
“And so to test my faith, I at times lie with her in my arms, but do not otherwise touch her. Desire stings worse than lash ever did; but as we lie, nakedness to nakedness, lust becomes a white-hot purifying pain. It sweeps me away more wildly and more freely than scourging, for scourging was merely of the body, and this is a pain of the heart.”
Suddenly Father Manoel reached out and seized Bernardo’s wrist. Bernardo would feel underneath his skin a divine inferno.
“This must be our secret,” he said.
Bernardo nodded.
Then came a startling request, humble and contrite: “Bless me, father. Mea culpa, mea culpa…”
Bernardo gently caught the Jesuit’s fist before it could again strike chest.
“Indulgentiam, absoluntionem, et remissionem peccatorum nostrum…”
Thus they prayed together in the trill of the thrush, in the trickle of the fountain.
CALLED before the Inquisition, Marta Teresa da Penha Castanheda, age fifteen, to be asked concerning her claim of conversations with the Blessed Virgin Mary. She said that the Holy Mother had charged her never to divulge these secrets to men, and therefore she was obliged to silence. She was then forcefully admonished by Msgr. Gomes and cautioned that she would be compelled to loosen her tongue. When she still refused to speak, he called for a state executioner to take her to a place of punishment, and for coals to be prepared for her feet, at which time Fr. Pessoa said that such a strict enticement could be used only after all other avenues had been tried, and that he was of the opinion that the accused had not yet been thoroughly questioned. The seculars agreed, but also pressed her to answer, at which time she replied that she would rather obey the dictates of the Mother of God than she would the orders of sour men.
A secular pointed out that arrogance was unseemly, since the accused appeared to imagine herself a saint; an indictment to which the accused had no reply. She was asked by Msgr. Gomes if, since Christ was a man. He would not be privy to the words of His own Mother. The prisoner had no reply.
Fr. Pessoa sternly warned the prisoner to search her heart once more, and to trust in the wisdom of the Inquisition, since they were given this charge by God. He warned her that if she refused to give a full statement, the tribunal would have no choice but to lay her feet to the coals until she confessed. He ordered her to be taken forth and clapped once more in jail and he admonished her further that she should recite her prayers and ask for guidance. He said that the Blessed Mother was not only wise, but good, and that she would not allow her daughter to languish or to be put to torture by forcing her to keep such an improper silence. The seculars agreed with Fr. Pessoa’s decision, and she was taken away.
GUILHERME Castanheda, age thirty-eight, father of Marta, and man of commerce, was brought before the tribunal. He was asked concerning his daughter’s claims, and he replied that she was a good girl and not given to lying. He was asked if he had direct knowledge of her dealings with the Virgin Mother, and he said that he did not, but that his daughter had explained to him that he was not deserving of the Blessed Mother’s words. He said that this was understandable to him, since he considered himself a rough man, although now retired to a life of quiet commerce. Once he had been a soldier, however, and had killed many, and was probably not worthy of any consideration by God at all.
He was questioned by Mgsr. Gomes concerning a statement made that God did not reside in Spain. The witness then spoke at length, stating that in his opinion war was fashioned by the devil. He said that battle was a thing of noise, of shouts for mercy and the explosions of cannon, and of horses’ screams. He said that even after conflict had ended, the terrible shrieking continued, so that the survivors, no matter how wearied, could not find sleep. He said that sometimes soldiers stole onto the field or into the surgeons’ tents. And there, despite the danger and despite the darkness and despite the sin, they slew their comrades who lay slowly and too loudly dying. He said that he himself had been driven thus, and that no amount of confession or shriving could ever cleanse him. He said that he had seen men with skulls cloven in two who were fortunate, and men who had had arms and legs blown away, who were not; for the latter were compelled to lie, their bodies pumping out life, while all about them battle continued. He said that in Spain, no one took heed of the dying. No priest came to offer extreme unction or comfort. The witness said that to die surrounded by battle was to die alone; and that even six years after, he often awakens in the night, clutching at his blankets as he would at the soil, for he dreams that, in full sight of a crowd, he is being buried alive.
The witness spoke eloquently, saying that war soaked Spain’s earth with the stink of gore and vomit, that it looted its towns and left its trees blasted by curses. He said that God had no place there.
When the witness was finished speaking, the tribunal sat for a while in silence. And then Mgsr. Gomes asked how the witness could say that God had no place in Spain since God resided everywhere, to which the witness had no answer. At that time Mgsr. Gomes told a jailer to come forward, and imprison the witness in a cell.
Afonso had just sat down to luncheon in his tent when outside sprang up a bedlam of running and shrill commands and screams. Jandira jerked him up from table. In a nook between the bed and the travel dresser, she made Afonso sit. She wrapped him in her arms and told him to be very, very quiet.
Afonso didn’t know why he should when all around him was noise. Three guards with muskets rushed into the tent shouting for Afonso to stay hidden.
“A game, isn’t it, Jandira?” he said.
She must have been cold, for she was shaking. She held him so tight that he could scarcely breathe. “Yes, sweetling. Just a game.”
Cries of “to horse, to horse,” and “Hold them, you ass-lick cowards, or fall where you stand” and “bring up the muskets.” Then a tumult of hoofbeats and a bellow from the captain to “Hold! Hold fast!”
A familiar voice said, “Will you shoot me and end this?”
In a blink, Jandira had pounced to her feet and run from the tent. Freed, Afonso crept from his cubbyhole and, under the watchful eyes of his guards, peeked through the flap.
Before the tent was a bristling line of standing pikesmen, one of kneeling musketrymen. And facing them all was Castelo Melhor, with a band of soldiers and packhorses. The count sat astride his white Andalusian stallion; and the captain of the royal guard stood beside.
“Did you think I would harm him?” Castelo Melhor looked tired. “I have done my best to save the boy.” His mustaches drooped, and his tunic was dirty. The white stallion was lathered and blowing. “Bishop Dias says in doing so, I safeguard my soul.” He laughed. “It is enough, I suppose, that Pedro lets me save my money.”
He sat up in his saddle and peered over the heads of the pikesmen. He waved to Afonso, and Afonso waved back. “You remain king, sire!” he called. “For that is the peace I made—that your brother agreed to.” He spoke to the men with the muskets. “Can you not point those away? Do you not see that I and my men are unarmed?”
The captain ordered his men to stand down. The pikesmen sat on the grass.
Castelo Melhor said, “I have heard some confusing news from this place.”
The captain came closer. He put his hand to the white stallion’s neck. “There have been some confusing happenings.”
“So, angels or demons?”
The captain laughed so that the stallion shied and tossed his head. “I wouldn’t know. I’m a plain man, and a soldier; and there are four degreed lawyers in Quintas who cannot decide.”
“Well, captain, you may tell that obese, flatulent excuse for an inquisitor-general that Pedro leaves the title with his brother. Pedro might rule, but he orders Afonso to be treated with the deference due a monarch.” He snatched his hat off and threw it down. “Pôrra! I still cannot believe it! Me, who has killed scores of Spaniards, who has gone face-to-face with Death itself—I turn my back for an instant only to have a boy stick it in me.”
Afonso spied Jandira standing beside the lounging musketrymen. He waved to her, but she wasn’t looking. Her hands were folded over her belly, so that anyone could see the melon child that grew inside. She cried out to Castelo Melhor, “My lord! My lord!”
He nodded to her. “My lady.” Then he said to the captain: “Pedro sends you a request: to keep Afonso here until his leadership is fully settled and the ministers changed. He bids you guard the king with your life, as he knows you will. And he thanks you for your devoted service.”
Jandira smoothed her robes over her belly and cried, “My lord! Will you not heed me? I cannot remain here!”
Castelo Melhor’s eyes swept over her to the flapping banners, to the encampment of tents. “I will miss it,” he said, a
nd Afonso was not sure if he would miss tents and soldiers or royal banners and bright flags.
“Where do you go, then?” the captain asked.
“Um. First to Oporto where my ship awaits, then to England, if you will credit that.”
Jandira started across the clearing, but one of Castelo Melhor’s men kicked his horse forward and barred her way. “My lord!” she called out. “Can you not see? I bear a royal burden, as you commanded. You cannot leave me here!”
Afonso would have gone to her, but one of the guards held him back.
“Well.” The count nodded in Jandira’s direction, but Afonso could tell that he had not truly heard. Then he looked dismally about the camp. To cheer him, Afonso waved again. The count sighed and waved back. “Well, so. I will have gold enough, God knows. And the English are not so dour now as they were under Cromwell. There is a queen there who may not care for me overmuch, but who at least speaks my language. Best, there is no Inquisition.”
“Will you stay and dine with us? Your horse and your men seem weary.”
“Ha! I think not! Pedro gave me little time to quit the kingdom, and he proves himself neither fool nor someone to be thwarted. To his credit, though, he is kind enough. I warrant—somewhat against my will, mind—that he will rule well.”
Then Castelo Melhor cried out. “Grant me Godspeed!” He wheeled the stallion and spurred him down the road, his soldiers and packhorses galloping behind.
Jandira’s scream startled Afonso. It made the captain whirl in surprise. She ran headlong and barefoot down the road after the horses, her hair loose and streaming, her robes flying. Afonso left the tent and watched as the horses drew farther and farther away, as their dust shrouded her. Then she was lost from sight as she went over the lip of the next hill; and he grew frantic with wondering if she would come back, if she would run so far that she would lose her way.
So he held himself and wept. Father de Melo told him not to fear, that the news was good, that Afonso would remain king with Pedro to help him. He patted Afonso’s arm and asked if that wouldn’t be nice.
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