by Helen Bryan
The New Year
January and February 1552
On many dark winter evenings, when the mountain winds howl and we gather with our workbaskets and mending by the fire, Sor Serafina enlivens us with her brothers’ stories of Spanish America. She speaks so vividly that looking into the flames, we see flying serpents, gardens of gold and jewels, wide muddy rivers, endless green forests, bright-feathered birds, and in the midst of it all, the shining new cities that the Spanish settlers have built, with broad streets and churches and fine houses, and beyond them, haciendas that stretch to the horizon where mountains rise into the clouds. For us who are bound never to leave our convent, this is thrilling.
Sor Serafina also has a fund of more shocking stories, about the natives and their custom of taking many wives, and the Spanish settlers who, lacking Catholic Spanish women to marry, take mistresses and concubines among the mestiza women, who are very beautiful, and their children who go unbaptized unless the Spanish nuns or priests intervene. She insists brothels and divorce flourish. I scolded Sor Serafina for such frivolous speech, and she was silent for a moment, and then said that she had a better story, about nuns this time. I sighed and nodded. I have never been very strict with the novices.
She said that after Francisco Pizarro and his conquistadors captured and executed the emperor of the Incas, the Spaniards went rampaging, pillaging the great stores of native gold and silver and jewels wherever they could find them. Drunk on riches, they went farther and farther from the coast seeking more. Finally, in the shadow of the great mountains, the conquistadors sacked a palace belonging to the so-called Virgins of the Sun, whom her brothers said were a sort of pagan nuns. The Virgins disappeared, carried off as spoils of war to undermine Inca resistance, because people there believed the Virgins were sacred. But local people insisted that the Virgins had fled to a holy fortress in the mountains, where they passed through the portals of a magic gateway into the land of their gods.
The novice mistress interrupted to say that was quite enough about pagan nuns. Sor Serafina said she was coming to the part about Christian nuns and a mystery. This of course was too interesting to resist, and we put down our sewing to hear.
Surely God sent Sor Serafina to us. Her next words were like the sun blazing in a dark winter night!
Because the king and queen wished the natives would convert to Christianity to save their souls, a Spanish bishop with a party of Franciscan friars soon followed Pizarro. He approved of the destruction of the house of the Virgins of the Sun, and insisted that to purify the place of pagan worship, the stones be reused to build a convent, complete with a grand chapel at the gate. When the bishop traveled inland to consecrate it, he was astonished and angry to find that an order of Spanish nuns had already taken possession, without his knowledge or permission. He had no idea how this could have happened, but behind his back people said the ways of the church authorities were mysterious. The only explanation was that the nuns had been conveyed in a secret hold in a ship of Pizarro’s fleet.
Pizarro never disputed the rumor. Sor Serafina’s brothers said it was probably that Pizarro feared looking a fool. He was illiterate, and if there were documents that might have shed light on the matter, he could not have read them and he was too vain to admit ignorance. The bishop never protested either, lest people think he was not in the confidence of the ecclesiastical authorities. If anyone mentioned the nuns, he assumed a tight-lipped expression, and later died waiting for an official explanation.
But according to Sor Serafina’s brothers, there was another reason for the nuns’ presence. Older sailors in the seaside taverns said that once Moorish navigators from Spain had crossed the terrible Sea of Fog and Darkness, blown by storms to a strange land. It did not do to speak of this in case the Inquisition heard of it. Catholic Spain wanted the triumph of discovery to belong only to Catholic explorers. But the sailors who knew the vagaries of the winds and the currents—the unpredictable and ferocious storms made the sea passage to the New World dangerous—believed such a thing could have happened to any ship that strayed into the Atlantic. Though nuns could scarcely have set sail themselves…it must remain a mystery!
Sor Serafina had laughed and called her brothers’ suppositions fanciful nonsense. They protested that they had not yet told her the best part. By coincidence the convent on the site of the Virgins of the Sun’s palace soon attracted great flocks of swallows, just as their sister Sor Serafina’s convent. At first it was known simply as “the Spanish Convent” and the order of nuns, the Sors Santas de Jesus de Los Andes. But later, because of the swallows, the convent came to be known as Las Golondrinas. Sor Serafina was just excusing herself saying it was perhaps untrue but a charming story nonetheless, when I stood and let out a cry.
The workbasket in my lap rolled to the floor, and I stared at Sor Serafina as if the mountain itself had spoken. Then I grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to her feet so roughly that her workbasket went flying, too, and the others looked at me with shocked expressions. It was unnecessary to discipline a novice so violently, even for such a ridiculous story. “Come with me, at once,” I ordered and began to pull her out of the room.
There was a protest from Esperanza. She must have thought I meant to slap Sor Serafina, and cried, “No! Sor Beatriz, don’t! Sor Serafina is not making it up. I, too, have read of such things…”
“Then you come also,” I ordered and dragged Sor Serafina, now sobbing that she only repeated what her brothers had said and meant no harm. The three of us went straight to the Abbess’s parlor. The Abbess looked up from her missal and frowned at the stormy interruption.
“Sor Serafina, repeat the story you told us.”
Mumbling and tearful, Sor Serafina did so while Esperanza waited, fidgeting and nervous, too. The Abbess had Sor Serafina repeat it twice more, then Sor Serafina was assured she was not in trouble and dismissed. Esperanza went to follow, but I ordered her sharply to stay.
“Now explain why you believe Sor Serafina tells the truth.”
While Sor Serafina is somewhat giddy and excitable, Esperanza is not, and her memory is both good and precise. And now she said that the tenth-century historian Al-Masudi wrote of Moorish sailors who had disappeared across the great Sea of Fog and Darkness. Years later, they reappeared with treasures and stories of a strange land where there were meadows of gold and quarries of jewels.
“And have you seen this book?”
“Of course. In my father’s library,” answered Esperanza.
“And therefore, what Sor Serafina said about conquistadors finding Spanish nuns already present in Spanish America, may be true? The ship carrying our mission party might also have been blown west?”
“If it is possible for some, why not for others?” Esperanza replied.
The Abbess dismissed her, too.
The Abbess looked as shaken as I felt. “Spanish nuns in New Spain? Our mission not drowned or captured by pirates. And the name—Sors Santas de Jesus? And the bishop knew nothing of it?”
We sat and considered the impossibilities. Finally the Abbess said that if it were true, it was a miracle. Such news, after thirty years of mourning! We dare not hope, and yet we do. As soon as the road is passable, the Abbess will send a letter to the convent that bears our name.
At Sor Serafina’s welcome feast there was much rejoicing, and more wine than usual was allocated. And drunk.
Let all who read this pray for the Holy Sisters of Jesus wherever they may be. God is great!
CHAPTER 19
From the Chronicle of the Las Sors Santas de Jesus, Las Golondrinas Convent, Andalusia, Spring 1553
It has been a year since the Abbess wrote to the convent of the Holy Sisters of Jesus, Las Golondrinas in New Spain near the Andes Mountains. The road is passable again after the winter. Last week we celebrated Easter and now we are busy preparing the convent to receive the pilgrims who come after Semana Santa. The infirmary has been scrubbed from top to bottom, lay sisters in charge of
the hostels for men and women have a storeroom of fresh straw mattresses, while pilgrims’ cells with beds, fresh linens, and candles are prepared for our more important visitors. The shutters have been opened; the spring winds have swept the winter fug of woodsmoke away and the convent smells of beeswax and lavender. In the cloister, the herbs and roses have been pruned and the paths swept. In the pilgrims’ garden the orange trees are in bloom, and the shell basin below the little spring has been scrubbed clean. The jasmine that has grown over the fissure in the rock wall is in bud and the rosemary and lavender are putting forth new green shoots.
Luz has completed the queen’s gift that she worked on all winter—a most exquisitely worked altar cloth on a fine piece of linen, with swallows darting in flight, and a delicate swallow’s nest bearing the queen’s initials and trimmed with lace. It was packed with sprigs of rosemary and a respectful letter of thanks for Her Majesty’s gracious patronage and assurance of our continual prayers for her spiritual and bodily welfare and for the conversion of the natives in Spain’s American colonies.
The sister in charge of our chickens and goats rubs her hands with satisfaction at their increase, and many new lambs were fattened for the Easter feast. In the kitchen the smell of polvorónes mingles with the baking of our plain everyday bread. The silver in the chapel has been polished, the altar linen washed and mended, and the villagers have brought us two casks of last autumn’s wine. A supply of communion wafers is wrapped in linen in the vestry. In the infirmaries the sisters have prepared a supply of clean bandages, salves, ointments, cordials, and tinctures. Illness in winter prompts many a pilgrimage in summer.
Today when I went to join the Abbess I was startled to find a very dirty and rather wild-looking man with shabby clothes held together by a rope around his waist on the other side of the locutio. I supposed it must be one of the hermits who make their way to us from time to time for a little company and proper food. The Abbess beckoned me to her side and murmured, “The portress opened the gate to him this morning, and he spoke wildly, insisting he must find someone, must tell the Abbess. The portress suggested he go first to the pilgrims’ quarters, to have a meal and rest, and they would see what he wanted then, but he began raving that he must find a young girl who might have been brought here. At the same time he was unwilling to be parted from his donkey, which had a large pannier on its back. The portress was surprised to see it was full of brushes and paints and canvases. The man’s accent and courtier’s speech were at odds with his rough appearance, and she began to think he might be the father of one of the orphan children, returned to claim her. The portress made a bargain. A beata would take him to the Abbess if he would leave the donkey at the gate.
“I asked him the name of the girl and his reason for seeking her but—” The Abbess raised her eyebrows and tipped her head toward the locutio. Her expression indicated the man muttering on the other side was mad. And indeed, he was muttering about the crown prince Don Balthazar. Even before Marisol came, we knew of his rages and fits, and the rumor the king had changed the order of succession. But the madman was insisting that Don Balthazar had been killed on the orders of the king, and now some people were prepared to rally behind the martyred prince’s heir.
“People grumble against the crown,” the disheveled man said. Rumor flourishes where secrets are kept. Don Balthazar’s supporters say that he sired a child, a girl—and she is the rightful heir to the Spanish throne. The child disappeared two years ago…The king has ordered her to be found.”
“But what have you to do with this child?” asked the Abbess.
“I must find her before the authorities do. Because I am responsible. I must tell her the truth and ask her forgiveness,” he answered. Behind the locutio all we could see of him were his wild eyes as he pressed his face against the bars. “And to warn her she is in danger.”
“Forgiveness?”
“I have done a great wrong, Abbess. I was blessed by God with talent, but abused it. I loved women beyond anything and used my gift to paint their portraits in such a way that stirred desire. I was successful because making a portrait was like making love—women revealed themselves to me, confided in me, surrendered to me. Beautiful women have many possible likenesses, the countenance they wish the world to see, and usually, the face they keep hidden. Portraits, like love, demand an exposure of self. I could discern vanity and cunning and avarice, and disguise them as elegance or vitality. I knew of their lusts, their greed, and above all, who had a shameful secret child in circumstances that must never come to light. Because those were in my debt. I helped conceal those children. And took the payment I desired of them in return.
“I was commissioned to paint the betrothal portrait of a very young girl. She was shy and modest, untouched by an evil or calculating thought. I began intending to seduce her like the others, and instead ended half in love and anxious to do her no harm. But I felt obliged to paint her as sensual and desirable—her husband-to-be who commissioned the portrait was a man of the world, very powerful and rich, and himself a great lover of women. I used all my artist’s tricks, a suggestive expression of the eyes, fullness in the lips to paint her as she might appear—if she were some other woman. The husband-to-be was greatly pleased and paid me double the fee.
“The portrait was much admired at court but it had the most powerful effect on the crown prince. When I was ordered to make a copy for the prince’s private apartments I was uneasy but dared not refuse a royal command. I was relieved when the girl was married and gone from court to her husband’s home, together with the portrait. But I could not forget her lovely face and trusting expression, and I began to regret painting the portrait in the way that I had, feeling I had betrayed her in some way. But I was to regret even more making a copy for the prince. I was unused to feeling guilt, and to avoid it, I threw myself into work and women. I painted and painted and became richer and more successful with each passing year.
“When I learned that the girl had become the mother of a family and lived quietly, that her husband was devoted to her despite his long absences, I was relieved. I had done her no harm after all. I do not know how the gossip started, that this lady was the mistress of the crown prince. True, he had lusted after the lady’s portrait, but the lady herself was safely out of his way. But the gossip continued, spread by the prince’s faction, who claimed despite the evidence that he was a normal man and fit to inherit the throne. Then they whispered that the lady’s husband had repudiated her because she had born the crown prince one child and was about to bear him another. I believed none of the gossip, but knew my accursed portrait had fanned the lusts of the mad prince, enough to make him dangerous. Then I learned the lady’s husband and most of her children had died in mysterious circumstances and the lady was again with child. The queen did not believe the slander and offered her protection, asking the lady to come to court for her lying in. There was no denying the queen, but fortunately for the lady, the crown prince died suddenly as she was on her way to Madrid.
“Months later I received a message begging my help for the usual problem—the discreet removal of an unwanted female child. I set the usual process in motion to have her taken away to the usual place, whose exact whereabouts I have never known. Only afterward did I learn that child had been the daughter of the only woman whose goodness ever touched my soul, the only woman I ever loved. She must have sought my help when she discovered I helped send children away and knew how dangerous her daughter’s position would be if she died.
“She, poor slandered lady, died with her baby in childbirth, just as Don Balthazar’s supporters fanned the flames of the rumor that Don Balthazar had been murdered on the king’s orders, but had sired a child, a girl who was the rightful heir to the Spanish throne. They would rally behind her and claim her as queen of Spain in the name of the martyred prince. Two English spies were caught, tortured, and confessed to seeking the same child. They were executed, and the search for the girl intensified. The king orders her
to be found before she becomes a weapon in the hands of Spain’s enemies.
“I understood what I had done, bringing ruin and death to a sweet lady. My talent deserted me, my portraits ceased to breathe, and everything I attempted was flat and lifeless and dull. My commissions dried up; my debts mounted. I drank heavily until I did not know night from day, gambled desperately, and when I was no longer successful and the ladies began to shun me, I sought out prostitutes and embraced the meanest pleasures of the senses to forget what I had done.
“The burden of my guilt grew, until I could bear it no longer. I went to confession and repented of destroying a blameless woman and her family, save for one child. For penance, the priest said I must find the remaining daughter, obtain her forgiveness, and perform some act of contrition for her. I began to search for the convent where I had helped send so many unwanted girls. But although I had set the process in motion many times, the location remained a closely guarded secret, and try as I might, I could not penetrate that secrecy. All I could learn was that it was a convent in the mountains, a place of swallows. I gave away my possessions and what I had not squandered of my money to the poor, and kept only my artist’s materials. I vowed that if God would guide me to the girl, I would paint a masterpiece for His glory. For two years I have traveled as a mendicant and a pilgrim from one religious house to another. But I am ill and I despaired of finding her and absolution before I die.
