Afonso looked at the place where Jandira had vanished: a lonely spot that would never again look complete. The captain came and bent his knee and said that Pedro would be honorable—a thing which Afonso already knew.
Afonso reached out and tried to grab that place on the road which had swallowed Jandira and left only haze as reminder.
“He weeps for the bitch,” the captain said as he got to his feet.
Father de Melo dipped his head to the captain and whispered, “I doubt he even knows it is his get, but one brown bastard more or less will not threaten Pedro.”
Then the captain stood close and peered directly into Afonso’s eyes. “Sire? Sire, calm yourself. She’ll be back soon enough.”
And indeed, Afonso soon saw through the dust on the road a colorful dot, a dot all the hues of God. Then the dot was closer and he could see that it was she, and he could see how she walked: head down and too slowly, her hands clutching her swollen belly.
He stood there while the guards dispersed to their duties, while the captain ordered the cavalry to unsaddle their mounts.
Afonso waited a long, long time. And when she finally reached his side, she did not speak. She went into the tent and lay down on her pallet and turned her face to the wall. When he asked her to tell him a story, she said she had no more stories to tell.
REQUESTING an audience before the tribunal, Cândido Torres, age forty-two, vintner, and familiar to inquisitor Fr. Pessoa. The witness defended the jailed Guilherme Castanheda, saying that Sr. Castanheda was a good enough man for any, and braver than most. Sr. Torres said that he himself had been busied by battle for a few years, but that, all in all, Sr. Castanheda had fought in the bloodiest; battles such that a dog should not see. He said that war changed Sr. Castanheda, that he had left one man and come back another. Worse, he came home to the bosom of the family only to find his wife dying. Sr. Torres stated that grief for his wife had so crazed Sr. Castanheda that afterward the man could see no wrong in his children. Sr. Torres was of the opinion that Marta was pretty enough not to hide under the covers, but that the girl was far too sharp of tongue to ever wed—lest she find herself a man who was deaf. He said that Sr. Castanheda let her grow up untamed, for he had not the heart to chastise her. The witness begged that clemency be shown, since Sr. Castanheda’s mistake was one of maudlin fondness, and he asked that the prisoner be set free from prison in order to care for his son.
Msgr. Gomes thanked the witness for his testimony, and said that there were more heresies charged against Guilherme Castanheda, and that the prisoner could not be set free until all the accusations could be satisfied. He excused the witness.
CALLED before the tribunal, Rodrigo Castanheda, age eight, son of Guilherme Castanheda …
Bernardo saw the boy and his script halted on the page, words failing. Soft of eye and face—Plena Dei pulchritido—the boy was so startlingly beautiful that Bernardo, lest he find himself blinded, looked away.
He heard Monsignor’s grating voice. “Do you know the heresy of which your sister is accused?”
And the boy’s melodious “I know that she talks all the time of the Virgin.”
“And what does she say?”
“She won’t tell me what the Blessed Mother says, as if I would care to hear girl-talk. I can’t see the Virgin saying anything important to Marta.”
There followed a weighty quiet. Bernardo noted how the afternoon light caressed the brass ink pot and the blinding white barbs of the quill. And then he heard Monsignor say, “Notary? Asleep already? Or have you broken your hand?”
“Sorry, Monsignor.” A dip of the quill. He made a few quick scribbles, his hand unsteady. “Just thinking, Monsignor.”
“Dear God, Bernardo. Notaries don’t think! Boy! You—what is your name again?”
“Rodrigo Castanheda.”
“Rodrigo. Yes. And do you know why your father is jailed?”
He said, “Because you are wicked.”
Bernardo looked up. A mistake. He was so enraptured by the boy that his hand forgot again to move. His head swam. Bernardo was put in mind of a dove, and he imagined how it might be to cradle such a small soft thing; to feel against his own chest the throb of such a chaste heart.
Father Manoel said kindly, “Rodrigo, I do not think—”
“It is all a wickedness, the Inquisition.” The boy sat in judgment like the cherubs in their cell—small in stature, an immensity in his eyes.
Monsignor snorted. “No doubt that is what your father tells you. Make a note, Bernardo.”
“No! Father doesn’t tell me! He doesn’t have to. I’m old enough. You think you’ll scare me into crying like you did the tailor Magalhães, like Gregorio Neves. I’m not afraid of you.”
Monsignor’s palm slapped the table so hard that he rattled the ink pot. “You had best! God Himself has charged me to protect Holy Mother Church.”
The boy said, “I don’t believe the Blessed Mother talks to Marta; and I don’t think God talks to you.”
“Jail him,” Monsignor ordered. “Excuse the remainder of the witnesses. The inquiry is finished for the day.” Then he leaned over, whispering into Bernardo’s ear: “Have the marquis’s men seize the Castanheda house without delay. See they take care with my feather bed.”
Pessoa watched Berenice rise and leave. He heard the seculars walk away, embroiled in an argument not of wonders, but some obscure point of law. He watched Monsignor stride from the room, and Bernardo stand to set his journals in order. Outside the windows, the sun began to set.
“He cannot hold the boy,” Bernardo whispered to his quills. Precise little movements, an ink pot set just so. “For it is no heresy to doubt someone speaks with God.” A quill was nudged in order. “But just the opposite.”
How dull could his mind be not to realize? Or had Monsignor’s behest caught him unawares? Pessoa brushed past Bernardo, giving him a cautious and mumbled “Thank you.” He walked from the room, leaving the young priest alone with the twilight.
On the way to the inn, Pessoa saw soldiers in the streets; and when he sat down in the smell of roast pork and potatoes and wine, he heard the gossip. Castelo Melhor had fled. Afonso was deposed by his brother. Pedro would kill Afonso. Pedro would not. Words flew over his head like arrows—no smile or friendly greeting struck. He ate alone while history roared about him. A shoving match started, one man championing Castelo Melhor, the other defending Pedro and the rebellious nobles.
Castelo Melhor was despot; he kept the country in order. The count would ride to France and return leading a victorious army; he would lay Portugal waste. One man laughed and said that he would easier believe the count arriving on a Bethlehem star, leading hosts of angels. At that, the inn grew quiet and all eyes flew to Pessoa.
Pessoa sopped the last of the gravy with the last of his loaf. He finished his wine. He left two brass coins for the serving girl and walked out into the night. When he reached the street, babble and laughter erupted behind him.
He shoved his hands into his pockets against the wind. He walked, dodging the foul hail of that evening’s tossed garbage. Eggshells and potato skins splattered the cobbles. Rats came swarming. Cats emerged from alleys.
He walked through the stench of boiled salted cod and cabbage. From an upstairs window came a cacophony of baby’s screams. Where was Maria Elena’s infant? What would become of the kingdom, what would become of them all?
He rounded a black corner, taking a shortcut through a garden until he was in sight of the rectory. Soares was in the open doorway, clucking to his cats.
Pessoa stopped on the other side of a wattle fence to watch. The Franciscan’s long gaunt shadow eclipsed the hanging lantern: one side of him bright, the other mystery. Pessoa thought to tell him the news—a change of kings—but it was not so important after all. He was torpid of mind, bone-achingly exhausted. Instead of joining Soares in companionable light, Pessoa returned to darkness.
He passed the fountain, the square, the Teixeira hous
e, shuttered as if already in mourning; then by the Castanhedas’, where armed guards stood outside, and wagons.
He went to Marta Castanheda’s blighted tree. Under a quarter moon, he walked the meadow. He sat down in the center of that barren circle and waited for vision to come. He wrapped his arms about himself, and when the moon did not descend, when he heard no angel voices and saw no blue-clad Queens of Heaven, when he could no longer stand his own helpless shivering, he got up and left.
Where was Maria Elena’s baby? What was the nature of the strange beings?
He stepped on a pebble, collected a stone bruise, and walked on, limping. What—other than reason—was to say that miracle had not happened?
No. She had birthed it, and smothered it, and her mother had dug the small grave. They would never find the body, for the women would rather burn than have the town know their shame.
And the creatures? Perhaps more like animals, perhaps not even conscious. But from where? Easier to believe that they were fashioned of the women’s dreams, a nightmare turned flesh. And when the tribunal had run its course, and the women were dead, the beings would vanish.
And afterward, Pessoa would make himself forget, for it was fruitless to wonder and ever be denied answer. Inquiry should lead to conclusion, that’s what his order taught. If asked, he would say that he imagined that he had seen something like a star fall. That he thought he had spied something once in a cell, but that it was a trick of the eye, the mind, the light.
Pessoa found himself at the jail. Just inside the door a group of Monsignor’s men were gaming dice. One man noticed him enter, and that one noticed him but barely. Pessoa stood in the gloom beyond the lamps and listened. They laughed about Castelo Melhor’s hurried escape and of how Monsignor would bring Afonso to heel—that is, unless his brother slew him. They talked of new laws. And over and under their talk, Pessoa could hear from the downstairs jail a music so fine that even conversation of kings became chatter.
A well-played lute, with two voices in harmony weaving the same soprano range. Quietly, Pessoa made his way to the stairs. Halfway down, in the wash of the voices, the monsignor’s secretary sat, back to the wall, face uplifted, his closed eyes leaking tears. Pessoa’s footsteps must have startled him, for he hurriedly wiped his face with his sleeve.
“O, it is you,” the boy said.
Pessoa sat beside him. The music rose and fell, the voices cutting the silence like a sharp prow would the sea. Marta Castanheda played her lute at the women’s cell bars. Across the way Rodrigo sat in the straw of the men’s cell, flanked by two attentive cherubs.
“Palestrina,” Bernardo whispered. “ ‘Sicut cervus disderat au fontes aquarum.’ ”
Pessoa nodded. He closed his eyes and let the music take him. “Psalms. ‘So as the hart yearns for springs of water.’ ” Stunned, he felt Bernardo’s hand clasp his own. He dared not flinch. The determined squeeze of those fingers that would never pluck magic from a lute, never bring a woman groaning to pleasure. Meticulous little ink-stained fingers that would know aught but quill. Was it love the boy felt, and not simple admiration? The song ended. The fingers slipped from his.
Pessoa put his hands in his pockets. A chord from the lute, and Rodrigo’s sweet piercing soprano. Regina caeli.
“Who brought them the lute?” Pessoa asked.
Bernardo said. “I did. For the monsignor has seized the house, and he and the seculars and the state executioners already moved in. I wanted to save what personal belongings I could before inventory was made.”
“Um.” Pessoa’s eyes felt grainy, his lids weighted. “I will perform my legal magic and see if I can save the boy tomorrow.” He caught sight of Guilherme Castanheda sitting by himself in a corner. He shook his head. “At least,” he whispered, “save the boy.”
The two strange beings had gathered about Rodrigo to listen. Their large heads were tilted, their expressions blank yet attentive. And—was he imagining it?—devoted. Pessoa turned to remark upon it, but words forsook him when he saw in Bernardo the selfsame ecstasy.
DAY 10
Jandira would not get up from her pallet, no matter how loudly Afonso called, no matter how roughly he pulled on her arm. She would not speak, she would not bring him breakfast.
Father de Melo came in from the rain, his cassock dripping. “What is it, sire?”
“She is lazy! She is drunk!”
Father de Melo went to her. Then he rose up and called loudly for the captain.
“I need to use the chamber pot,” Afonso said. “She needs to dress me.”
A damp breeze blew through the tent. It rattled the supports and made the lanterns flicker. It blustered under the tent skirts and moaned louder than Jandira, who did not moan loudly at all.
A guard came and helped Afonso to piss. He gathered the royal garments and dressed him. “She is lazy. She makes no sense whatsoever. Make her talk to me.”
The captain hiked his cloak over his head. He dashed out into the rain and came back with the company surgeon. The surgeon arrived, shaking the wet from his tunic. He knelt beside Jandira, putting his palm first to her face and then to her swollen belly. He threw up his hands. “I know nothing of women.” And he withdrew.
Afonso held himself and rocked from foot to foot. “Make her talk to me,” he ordered.
The captain opened the flap of the tent and called for a soldier to gather the midwife. “And be quick! We’ve a dying woman here!”
Not dying. Afonso stamped the carpet. “Not. Not.”
“Sire,” Father de Melo said.
“Not! Not!” He pressed his hands to his ears and spoke loud enough to drown out all other words. He looked to where Jandira lay, her robes bright, her eyes glazed, her face hectic.
Father de Melo tried to make him sit, but Afonso lunged up and ran to the flap of the tent. He opened it wide and let the rain pepper in. He shrieked, and his word billowed clouds into the cold, “Not!”
Under the shelter of their cloaks, soldiers whirled to stare. It drenched his tunic. Water poured from his eyes. Not Jandira. Not dying like his father, his wet nurse, his nanny.
Father de Melo gathered him up in a cloak and led him from the rain. Afonso sat, wrenching his body back and forth in his chair. He shivered. He looked to where the captain sat on the floor beside the pallet. “Jandira is playing a game.”
Father de Melo knelt by Afonso’s side and held his hand. “Say after me, sire: Munda cor meum ac labia mea, omipotens Deus.…”
“Make her get up.”
“Shhh. Bless you, sire. Will you not go with me, and kneel before the altar?”
“You tell me that she will get up now! You tell me!”
Father’s white-faced pity frightened him. “Shhh. Gloria Patri…” His fingers were cold against Afonso’s forehead. “…et Filio et Spiritui Sancto…” A touch, one shoulder to the other. “Amen.” He brushed his thumb against Afonso’s lips and said, “All things that live must die.”
Not Jandira. He got up and went to her. “Don’t play. I don’t want to play. Tell me a story.”
He rang the golden bell that Salvador de Sá had given him.
He rang it and he rang it and he held himself and wailed. After a while a dark-haired woman ducked in from the rain. She sat down by Jandira. She put her hand under the blankets. She called for the cook to make an infusion of white willow and barley. She ordered onions to be peeled and cut and blanched until they were soft. She ordered all the men to stand outside. Afonso said that he would not, that it was his tent, and that he would not leave Jandira with strangers. He asked who she was to order him out. Father de Melo took Afonso’s arm and led him into the gray morning. Behind him, Afonso heard Jandira scream. Afonso did not want to hear that, did not want to hear; and then the screaming stopped and Father de Melo stood staring at the tent, wiping rain from his face. The captain stood, too, letting the cold wet roll down.
A cook’s boy, carrying a fragrant pot of onion, went to the tent to inquire, and was
ordered in. Suddenly the morning was frantic with cooks running and servants calling. When Afonso said that he wanted to go to Jandira, Father de Melo said he could.
Inside the tent, by the pallet where she lay, sat a brass basin and tiny bloodied sticks. The dark-haired woman was washing Jandira’s face.
“Will she recover, then?” the captain asked.
“I know not.” The woman shrugged toward the basin. “She thought to abort herself, and the reeds she shoved into her womb have caused a poisoning of the blood,” the woman said. “I packed her with onion to draw the infection.”
Jandira’s eyes were closing. She would go away. She would fall to sleep without him. “I want her to tell me a story. Make her talk to me.”
“Your servant is too tired now, sire,” the captain said. “Let her sleep for a bit, and she will talk to you later.” Then he spoke to the woman. “Do what you can, midwife. As you can see, he is attached to the bitch, and the child she carries is royal.”
“No matter the parentage.” She dipped rag into water basin, wrung it out. “It no longer lives.”
CALLED before the tribunal an unnamed creature of unknown age. The being was put into a chair, but immediately rose and began to wander the room. It was ordered to sit, but did not obey, and so a guard seized it by the shoulder and sat it down again.
The creature was asked its name and origin, to which it did not reply. Msgr. Gomes warned the creature against silence, lest it be taken into the other room and its feet be put to the coals. Fr. Pessoa was of the opinion that the creature might not speak the language of the tribunal, at which time Msgr. Gomes addressed the creature first in Spanish and then in French. A secular addressed it in English, another in German. Fr. Pessoa asked of the tribunal if any of them spoke the language of Heaven.
At that, Msgr. Gomes became agitated and swore unlike a priest and warned Fr. Pessoa against more jesting tricks. A secular spoke up and said he had heard that the parish priest might act as the creatures’ translator.
The parish priest, one Luis Soares, a Franciscan, was called. The dilemma was put to him, and the Franciscan explained that he was not sure if he could help, since the creatures spoke not in words, but in passionate emotion.
God's Fires Page 24
