by K. C. Dyer
Twisting and turning through a series of tunnels, Darrell concentrated on keeping upright and quiet. For what seemed like hours the friar made no sound but hurried along with one hand held lightly to the wall and the other clutching Darrell’s arm. Suddenly he stopped short, and Darrell found herself unceremoniously pushed against the cold stone wall.
“Be still,” he hissed. Darrell, heart pounding, did her best to comply.
A door creaked, and her companion gave a sharp intake of breath. Moonlight, bright as day after the stygian tunnels, poured in molten silver through the open doorway.
Darrell felt the breath of his voice once more in her ear. “Stay close beside me. We must melt into the shadows.”
She nodded, and they slipped through the stone doorway into the chill night.
Not a single tree or bush grew near enough to the portal to offer any protection in the clear moonlight. The fingernail moon cast weird shadows through the wind-strewn branches of a large tree that grew at some distance from the door, and it was toward the tree that they hurried. Turning for a look at the building that held her captive so long, she watched too late as the heavy door from which they had emerged swung free, pushed by a gust of wind. The door slammed with a bang.
“Alto ai!” The voice came from somewhere outside the door and above. Darrell thought her heart would freeze in her chest.
Her companion pulled Darrell into the shadow behind the broad trunk of the tree and swore quietly. “We are undone.”
Darrell raised her eyebrows. No ordinary priest, this.
A crash of armoured feet mingled with yelling voices. Light blazed as a dozen or more torches were raised on the parapet of what Darrell could now see was an old fort or castle. Among the soldiers, a figure in a scarlet cloak appeared and leaned over the edge to peer down into the trees.
The friar’s hood fell back as he clutched Darrell by both shoulders and the moon gleamed off the pale skin of his tonsured scalp. “Do you think you can run on that contraption? It is our only hope.” He gestured at the wooden foot.
Darrell felt numb to fear — there was nothing that would make her return to the cell. “Just watch me,” she said, teeth clenched so they wouldn’t chatter.
“Then let us see if we can make it a race.”
He yanked up his hood and took Darrell’s hand, pulling her around the back of the heavy trunk. Hand in hand, they bolted down an icy path.
CHAPTER FIVE
Running.
Slowing in an effort to haul more cold air into already burning lungs and then running again. Tree branches whipping her face. Countless stumbles, three bad falls, and Darrell still didn’t know who she was running from. All she knew was that she did not want to go back to the cell. The air outside was cold, but it tasted of freedom and was enough to give her tired limbs the strength to push on a little farther. Mostly she ran, clutching tightly to her companion’s hand, with little time to wonder about anything but where her next breath was coming from. The treed area around the fortress had quickly given way to tightly crowded buildings and homes, and they ran through the dark streets of a city asleep.
If Darrell had felt lost in the underground passage she was positively baffled now as they wove in and among lanes so narrow that in many cases they were forced to run single-file. The air had a rank, stale odour, as if no wind was strong enough to blow the smell of humanity away. The footing was uneven, and Darrell was glad of the dark because she did not want to see some of the things she knew she’d stepped in. Houses and buildings gave way to lean-tos and shanties and then back to large houses again. In this night, black as a raven’s wing, it was hard to distinguish one building from another. Most of the doorways they passed were barred and dark, but the occasional gleam of light through a shutter was apparently enough to allow the priest to find his way through the tortuous route.
A new smell floated in on the fetid air, and Darrell’s head snapped up in alarm.
Fire.
Something was burning — something big.
Sounds of pursuit had long faded into the distance, and Darrell was about to gasp out her need for a rest when the priest stopped running and slipped through the open doorway of a small cottage.
The place was empty, though a low fire burned in a central pit on the floor. The priest closed the door behind Darrell and dropped a heavy beam into the scarred wooden supports on either side.
He smiled at her grimly. “You must not be fooled by the present lack of pursuit,” he said quietly. “The Dominican brothers have been making speeches in the market today, and I fear they will stir the rabble against your people. And I do not like the smell of the fire in the air. Anything more than the whiff of small kitchen fires is unnatural at night and brings fear into my heart. It is imperative to keep you away from public view just now. I must leave now to fetch your friends.”
Relief coursed through her again. “Are they nearby?”
He nodded. “One of my — colleagues — took them for beggars when they were found wandering outside the Tower of Belem. It would seem they worried as much for you as you do for them. But I must leave explanations for another time. The Jewish population of the city is being gathered together, and I fear the worst.”
“Who are you?” she asked curiously.
“It is better that you not learn my true name,” he replied. “But you must know that I am sworn to keep you safe as I am able until it is possible to get you over the border and into Spain.”
“Spain?” Darrell began to feel lost again. And yet — perhaps this was where Gramps’s lessons came in. She ventured a guess. “How can it be safe there? What about the Inquisition?”
The priest stepped quietly over to the single window and peered outside before shutting and barring it as tightly as the door.
“Spain is much calmer these days now that Torquemada has been dead these seven or eight years,” he said quietly. “And as you must know, the Inquisition has been in abeyance here in Portugal under King Manuel.”
Well, I know now, thought Darrell, with some satisfaction that her guess had proved right.
“He is a just man,” the priest continued, “though I suspect he values the physical properties of the Jewish community more than their spiritual souls. Still, I fear the Dominican thirst for blood will rise once more. You may not know that before he was the Spanish queen’s personal priest, Tomás de Torquemada was a member of the Dominican order. And here in Portugal, even though his influence has passed, they are relentless in routing out conversos.” He folded his arms into his sleeves. “Our escape from the fortress did not go unnoticed.”
“But I keep trying to tell you,” Darrell protested, “I’m not Jewish. Why would the Dominicans care about me?”
He raised his eyebrows. “You need make no denials to me, Señhorita,” he said gently. “I have been finding sanctuary and a means of escape for members of your faith for many years, since even before the Inquisition took hold in Spain.” He smiled. “If you are not Jewish, how did you find your way to the grotto? It has been my primary meeting spot for conversos for the past several years.”
Darrell struggled to find an answer. “I cannot really explain,” she said at last.
He wiped his hand across his forehead. “And I do not want you to, menina. Nothing is safe these days.” He looked at her piercingly. “Even if, as you say, you are not Jewish, anything that connects you with those who facilitate escape for others puts you at risk.” He gestured at the cloth bag. “Before you on that table is evidence enough to ensure us both a trip into the flames.”
“What kind of priests burn people to death?” whispered Darrell.
The old man looked incredulous. “It is common knowledge that the Holy See has granted the Inquisition power to impose the ultimate sacrifice on unbelievers,” he said. “Torquemada said it first: ‘Convert, leave, or die.’ His idea of the route to heaven was often through the flames. Since the great Spanish expulsion, Jews have come to Portugal for sanctuary, but I am a
fraid those days are over. The route east across the water to Turkey is the safest now, in spite of the small dangers provided by pirates and their ilk.”
“I have never thought of pirates as being a small danger,” said Darrell.
The priest laughed bitterly. “Compared to the dangers to those not baptized into the Catholic Church, pirates are as fearsome as a child’s doll,” he said. “My own brethren, the Franciscans, believe that fire purifies the soul. The Dominicans and priests of other orders share those beliefs. And those who will not recant their heathenish ways must burn.”
“But why are you different?” asked Darrell. “Why aren’t you out collecting victims for the new Portuguese Inquisition? You are a member of the Catholic faith.”
He smiled gently and gestured towards the doorway. “I have tarried too long already and to answer your questions would delay me even further. I must send word that Lisboa is no longer safe for those seeking sanctuary from the Inquisition,” he said. “I promise to return as soon as I am able, and I will try to help you understand a little more at that time.”
“But what about my friends?” Darrell asked, stalling. “Soon enough,” he replied. “I must go.” The priest leaned toward the table and collected a small tallow candle that he quickly lit. He rummaged in the cloth bag and removed the menorah, slipping the candle into one of the slots. He clasped one of her hands in his own and looked at her closely. “Perhaps the story you have told me is true and perhaps not. You certainly seem unlike any young woman I have met before. However, it matters not at all — I would still see to your safety.” He smiled wryly. “I am sure my Jewish friends, be they your people or not, will forgive our use of their menorah. They would understand your need for a light in the darkness.” He wrapped the remaining items in the cloth bag and tucked it under Darrell’s arm.
Darrell clutched it tightly. “I’ll bar the door behind you,” she said, “but how will I know when you return with my friends?”
He knocked swiftly on the tabletop — two sharp raps and one long. “This will be my sign. Do not open the door to any voice but my own, and if you hear soldiers, climb through the window and take refuge on the roof. They haven’t time to search every rooftop, and there is no other place to hide.” He pointed at a sideboard. “Please refresh yourself and eat. There is sweet water, bread, and cheese. I will return as soon as I am able.”
Darrell slid the heavy beam across the door as it closed behind the priest and drank deeply from the pitcher on the table before sitting down to wait. Though it was still only an hour or two after midnight, noises and shouting came from near and far as the city roused around her. The smell of smoke was pervasive, and she could hear voices from the surrounding houses raised in concern.
She put another small piece of wood on the central fire in the cottage and sat down at the table, making short work of the bread and the piece of hard cheese the priest had left under a linen cloth.
Stomach full for what seemed the first time in days, she walked over to stand beside the shuttered window. Resting her face against the rough wood, Darrell could peer through a large knothole for a view out front. People were on the streets now, some running, others walking; almost all headed for an area behind the cottage and out of Darrell’s visual range. She watched, barely breathing, searching for her friends and the only man who could bring them their freedom.
Vermilion dawn streaked the sky, and Darrell found herself close to panic. She pried her eye from the knothole and paced the room in an effort to both keep warm and decide what to do next. Soldiers were now marching through the streets, and it seemed that the whole city had come awake. Whatever was happening was spreading like wildfire, perhaps literally.
She held her small candle aloft and looked around. The floor was just tamped earth but was clean-swept and free of the straw and rushes that so often harboured fleas and disease. Darrell sank down on to the stool and gazed at the back wall of the room. It was fitted with shelves, each heavily laden with clay jars and baskets.
Looking for something to take her mind from her fears, she shook the contents of the priest’s bag onto the rough tabletop. “He didn’t say I couldn’t look,” she muttered. Inside the bag were two leather-bound volumes — one large and heavy, the other smaller. The first proved to be a ledger with pages of row upon row of letters and numbers written in a neat and careful hand. Darrell found it completely indecipherable.
“Not exactly a John Grisham,” she said dejectedly.
The second book looked less promising still. It was small and very worn — little more than a notebook with a creased and heavily water-stained cover of russet leather.
She flipped it open anyway and was rewarded with more of the same. The first several pages overflowed with neat rows of letters, singly and in pairs, though this time the entries appeared to be dated. Darrell traced her finger along the rows for several pages, speculating idly.
Letters — consonants and vowels both, but no words. Always in pairs — initials, perhaps? A code? Whatever it was, it worked, because Darrell could make nothing of it after half an hour.
She closed the book and went to return the ledgers to the bag when the back cover of the smaller book snagged on a rough board from the tabletop.
Inside the back cover were more letters, but this time not only in pairs. Words. The handwriting near the start was the same as that in the ledger lists, but after a page or two, a new handwriting began. Curious, Darrell drew the candle closer, tracing the letters with one finger.
The words seemed strangely shaped and yet familiar somehow ...
She scrabbled in the pocket of her skirt. After a moment her fingers closed on the broken stick of charcoal that she had found in her pocket near the grotto. She flipped open the larger ledger and ripped a blank page out of the back. The candle burned lower, but daylight was starting to creep through the cracks in the shutters.
Darrell bent her head began to transpose the letters carefully on to the scrap of paper. Her writing grew more feverish with every word.
After a time, writer’s cramp knotted her hand and she looked up with alarm at the nearly guttering candle. Full daylight was evident outside the shutters now, so she let the candle burn itself out. Rubbing her hand, she held her tattered page to the light and began to read aloud.
Darrell had managed to read only two or three of the sentences transcribed from the back of the small book when there was a sudden pounding on the door. It was definitely not the priest’s secret knock.
“Abra! Abra a porta!”
Darrell jumped up with the ledgers in her hands. After what she had just read she could not bear to throw them in the fire, and the leather covers would not burn in any case. She looked around desperately for a hiding place.
“In the name of the king, we demand entrance!” Another resounding crash on the door. Darrell wrapped the ledgers hurriedly in the cloth bag and jammed them behind a large clay jar of pickled fish. A third crash splintered one of the boards in the door, and Darrell could see a face looking through the crack.
“Marranos!” roared a voice and a hand punched through the splintered board of the doorway. “Swine!”
Darrell realized too late that all the exits to the small cottage were at the front. She stood beside the table, waiting for the final blow to fall. Instead a quiet voice crept through the cracked and broken door.
“Tem calma meu, amigo. Calm down, my friend.”
The priest!
The rasping voice that had shouted though the door took on a sudden obsequious tone. “Mil perdões, Father. We were told this place was a secret sty for marranos.”
“A forgivable error, my friend, considering the part of the city,” said the priest. “But there are no Jewish people here. This is the humble abode of my dear departed aunt, with only her daughter, minha prima, inside.”
“Rosita!” Darrell could see the Franciscan’s face as he called out through the cracked door. “Rosita minha querida, there is no need to be afraid.
Open the door and I will show this good fellow that those whom he seeks are not to be found here.”
Darrell hurried to the door and lifted the heavy board. Without the support of the bar the rest of the door collapsed under its own weight in a shower of splinters.
The Franciscan friar stepped in over the splinters and motioned inside. “You see? Only minha prima, my young cousin.”
The soldier stepped into the room. His armour was tarnished and soot-stained, and Darrell was surprised at his tiny stature. His voice had sounded much bigger through the door. However, her eyes were torn from the soldier by the two figures standing behind him. She flew through the door and into Kate’s arms. Brodie squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, and Delaney wagged happily at her side.
“I can’t believe you are safe,” said Darrell, blinking back tears of relief.
“Don’t say a word,” whispered Kate. “We’ve got to get out of here now.”
The friar slapped the soldier on the back and smiled serenely. “Go ahead, look around. You will see all is well.”
Darrell widened her eyes at the Franciscan and he moved gently to her side. “The bag is behind the jar of fish on the wall,” she hissed. “I didn’t have time to hide it anywhere else.”
He nodded and said in a loud voice. “You must run to the market for me, my dear. I remember now that I am quite out of wine, and my good friend here may need to pause in his labours and share a glass with me.” In a low voice he added, “Pay close heed to your sister and her good husband. They know the way.”
Darrell nodded and then watched in horror as the soldier picked up the menorah from where it sat, with its single stub of a candle, right in the middle of the table.
“Off you go, my dears,” the priest said, and he gave Darrell’s arm a quick squeeze before he pushed her away. He turned back to the soldier.
“I see you have found that old candlestick. It was a gift from my ...”
Brodie grabbed Darrell’s arm, and she found herself being hustled up the street with Kate on her other side and Delaney at their heels. The roads were full of men and soldiers running. A few children skipped alongside the soldiers but most clung to their mothers’ skirts in the shadows of darkened doorways. It was hard to read the atmosphere — part celebration, part mob action. There was no time to stop and find out more.
