by Helen Bryan
Sanchia clung to Pia’s hand, turning her head this way and that, staring at everything. I came last, feeling very beata-like in my brown dress and heavy shoes amid so much vigor and life and color.
We stood with our trunks and I took out the Abbess’s letter of introduction we were to present when we arrived. “We must go to the Convent of the Holy Sisters of Jesus of the Andes,” I said to the captain. “Can you tell us how we would find it?”
“Ah, so many convents,” he replied, waving a hand in the direction of the town. “Often convents and monasteries here are known simply by their local name.” He shook his head and shrugged. I steeled myself to ask one of the priests and friars making their way through the noisy throng, but just then someone roared, “Move aside!” and we were all four sent sprawling by a large wagon loaded with fruit, driven by a rough character waving his whip.
Two fine gentlemen in black silk hurried to our rescue, followed by their servants. We were helped to our feet and the men took in our shabby beatas’ gowns and our disreputable appearances and I felt it best to explain that we were bound for a convent, and I asked if they knew the convent, known as Las Golondrinas.
The older of the two, a dignified man of about forty with dark piercing eyes, introduced himself as Don Miguel Aguilar and the younger as Don Tomas Beltran. Don Miguel was courteous, but the younger man was the impudent fellow who had kissed his fingertips to Marisol, and who now stared at her with open admiration and winked. Marisol fixed a disdainful gaze on the horizon.
“The swallows’ convent, yes!” To my dismay he pointed into the distance where I could just see the mountains and white-capped peaks in the mist, explaining that the convent was in a fine new Spanish city a week’s journey inland. Don Miguel said that if we would allow them they would escort us to another convent near the quay where we could stay while travel arrangements were made. It was dangerous for young women to be abroad without servants, and they could see we had none.
Of course we accepted their help. They summoned their carriage, saw our trunks put on, and gave directions to the convent of La Concepción. Don Miguel explained that he had two cousins who were nuns there, and when we reached it he sent a maid to fetch his cousins to the locutio.
His cousins were two sweet young nuns who welcomed us cordially, saying we must stay and rest, and that the convent would help procure us wagons and drivers and guards in a few days’ time. We asked why the necessity for guards and were alarmed when they told us that the journey was dangerous. Travelers were often attacked by brigands, escaped slaves, or renegade natives, they said.
A young servant girl came and led us to a courtyard with a fountain where she pointed out a quarter for visiting women, with cells and rooms allocated according to wealth and importance. Wealthy ladies in the best apartments, narrow dark cells for women of lesser standing. There was also—she pointed to a barred section in the corner—a women’s jail. The courtyard was full of women, children, servants, visiting female relatives, and lapdogs. In the shade by the fountain, two girls were practicing their music with a lute and a guitar.
We were given a plain whitewashed room big enough for three, with coarse linen on the beds. The maid brought water with rose petals for us to wash in, and insisted on taking our traveling clothes to be laundered. She wrinkled her nose as she carried them away. We washed and changed and the maid returned to lead us to a section of the refectory where other visitors were seated at long tables. We helped ourselves from dishes of fish, small flat cakes made of a coarse yellow meal, and strange vegetables in a spicy sauce. The sauce was so fiery it made us gasp and choke, but strangely, after eating it we felt less oppressed by the suffocating atmosphere.
Two older ladies at the table were looking at us with frank curiosity, so I ventured to speak to them and asked if they knew of our rescuers, Don Miguel and Don Tomas. This brought a flurry of eye rolling and exclamations. Don Miguel Aguilar, they said, was a wealthy widower. A very proud man, a cacique. We did not know what that was, but before we could ask, they were shaking their fingers warningly, saying to beware of Don Tomas Beltran, who was Don Miguel’s godson. Don Tomas—their faces grew long with disapproval—has a dreadful reputation. “A rich young man but given over to vice and licentious ways,” whispered one lady. “A frequenter of taverns and brothels. He is the despair of his mother.”
“His father has been dead for six months, and Tomas is the eldest son. He should assume his responsibilities as head of the family,” said the other, “but so far he has shown no inclination to do his duty. His mother is anxious for marriage to steady him, and she is a lady of some determination. They say she has arranged a good match for him, a girl from a Spanish family. Not pretty, but with a sound bloodline. It is Don Tomas’s duty to get a legitimate heir. So far he has perpetuated the line only with mestiza bastards. A great many of them!” Here both ladies shook their heads and tutted again.
Marisol said nothing, but I could tell she was listening closely to this exchange.
A few days later, much restored, we thanked the kind nuns for their hospitality and set out in a hired carriage, our trunks following on a mule-drawn wagon, with armed outriders and a middle-aged laywoman from the convent accompanying us as chaperone. We began to climb above sea level to a plateau where the air was drier and it was clear enough to see the mountains. The guards told us the Incas had built the road, as they had built many others throughout their kingdom. We saw many Inca peasants on the road, wide-faced people with copper complexions burned by the sun and wind, leading long-necked beasts of burden. Their fields of crops were terraced high into the hills, and as we went higher still, great birds soared overhead in a bright-blue sky. “El condor,” our guides said and crossed themselves.
We stopped the first night just before the sun began to sink, and the guards busied themselves making a campfire. The moment the sun disappeared it grew bitterly cold and we were quickly chilled to the bone. We were given heavy blankets that smelled of mutton and our guards brewed a drink over the campfire. “Chicha,” they call it. Though we grimaced at the bitter taste, they insisted we drink it. Afterward we felt light-headed and ceased to feel the cold. When we lay down to sleep, there was a haunting sound, like the music of the wind. Our chaperone told us it was the drivers’ native pipes.
Three afternoons later we had reached a broad plateau and were dozing from the rocking of the carriage when a shout from one of the guards woke us. There was a sharp crack of his whip and we felt the carriage begin to go very fast. “Look, Marisol, that man from the quay is following us on horseback,” exclaimed Sanchia, hanging out the carriage window. “The handsome one who bowed to you and laughed when you would not look at him. He is waving his hat. But I do not think he will catch us; we are moving too fast.”
“Enough, Sanchia! Don’t wave back or I’ll box your ears!” Marisol pulled Sanchia inside. “Yes, I think he has gone,” Marisol said. She looked out the window a long time to be certain.
On the fifth day we were approaching a narrow pass through some rocks. The carriage halted to let the baggage wagon go through. All the guards but one followed. Then “Banditos!” the driver shouted, and looking out we saw a party of mounted men galloping from behind the rocks toward us. The remaining guard drew his musket, but the bandits were upon us, throwing the guard to the ground and wrenching open the carriage door as their horses reared and plunged. They all had scarves across their faces and pushed Sanchia and Pia to the floor. Then their leader pointed to Marisol and beckoned. When she shook her head, in the blink of an eye he reached in and pulled Marisol from the carriage, shrieking, kicking, and biting. He flung her easily onto the front of his saddle, and off they all rode with Marisol’s screams ringing in our ears. The guard took aim but could not fire lest he hit her. “Banditos!” he spat, and shook his head. “Very bad men!”
They had come and gone within minutes. The chaperone began to wail and supplicate the saints, one by one. The three of us burst into tears, stunned b
y the horror of what had happened. The guards who had left us came back to see why we had not followed. When they heard what had happened they swore and spoke of going after the bandits—though it was plain they were reluctant, and would not follow very fast.
In the following days we prayed sorrowfully for Marisol and kept an anxious watch for the brigands’ return. The mountains seemed no closer, though we had been traveling for days. Finally Sanchia shouted, “I see it!” The driver pointed to a great gate with a cross above it rising above a cluster of buildings, against a background of snow-capped mountains and a very blue sky. “Look lady and young ladies! The convent of Las Golondrinas!”
CHAPTER 23
From the Chronicle of Las Sors Santas de Jesus, by the pen of Esperanza, the New World, Autumn 1552
I presented the Abbess’s letter of introduction to the portress and she sent a servant to inform Mother Superior. Our chaperone was anxious to return with the driver and guards as soon as the mules had been fed, but two beatas came out to press her to come in for a meal and a rest first. A barefoot girl came to lead us across a wide courtyard, with a fountain in the middle decorated with patterned tiles, surrounded by earthenware pots with bushes of bright pink and orange flowers. The courtyard was even livelier than the one where we had stayed on our arrival. There the ladies and their servants had a decorous air. Here it was much noisier and busier, thronged with women and their servants walking here and there, calling to each other, stopping to exchange greetings, give an order, or deliver a scolding or quarrel loudly. Children scampered about. Several maids talked and laughed animatedly as they scrubbed clothes at the fountain. Nuns and novices went to and fro herding groups of chattering little barefoot girls from the chapel to the schoolroom.
We were led into a large room that was blessedly cool after the heat of the sun. The white walls were hung with great rectangles of woven stuff, like tapestries, with colorful patterns instead of pictures. There were heavy silver candlesticks as tall as Sanchia and thick as a man’s arm, with fat beeswax candles and a large silver-and-gold crucifix on the wall. We should have been relieved that we had reached our destination, but we were too sick at heart about Marisol. A maid with a long braid down her back brought us a tray with hibiscus water and biscuits. We perched on the edges of our chairs sipping our water, feeling dusty and sad.
“Listen,” said Pia suddenly, putting down her half-eaten biscuit. “Swallows!” And then we all heard the familiar chattering and scratching under the eaves. “Just like in Spain.” I tried to think of something cheerful and encouraging about it being a good omen, but the words died in my throat. All I could think of was Marisol suffering horribly at the hands of the bandits and we were in the middle of nowhere, unable to help her.
There was a sound of footsteps on the other side of the locutio and we stood and curtsied to the commanding woman who appeared rather out of breath. A young nun hovered at her elbow. The commanding woman said, “I am Mother Superior and this is Sor Anna. I have read your Abbess’s letter. My dear girls, welcome to Las Golondrinas! From Spain! What a journey you have had!”
Sor Anna had placed a high-backed chair murmuring, “Please sit, Mother,” and we pulled stools over to the grille and sat, too. I meant to be circumspect about the medal and the Chronicle until I had asked the questions the Abbess and Sor Beatriz had specified. I could see they had been wise. There are so many convents here, and I had to be sure this was the right one.
After polite questions about our health, Mother went straight to the delicate topic of the purpose of our trip. “In her letter the Abbess explains that you are orphans, of good birth, and have come from Spain to find husbands. I hope for your sakes you will find men worthy of coming so far. But why are there only three of you? The letter says four; where is Maria Isabella?”
Sadly I explained what had happened to Marisol.
“Ah!” Mother was shocked, but less than I expected. Shaking her head she said the Abbess had been right to send us, that the civilizing influence of good wives was much needed. They would pray for Marisol. “And the Sor Emmanuela, who is mentioned here—where is your chaperone?”
“Sor Emmanuela, alas, died at sea. As the eldest, I assumed charge,” I answered.
“You are most welcome here, of course, but there are many convents closer to the port. All, I am sure, would have given you shelter and helped you find husbands. I am curious to know why you chose to come here.”
I asked if I might have a private word with Mother but before she could reply a bell began to ring and she stood. “Tomorrow perhaps. Sor Anna, show them the chapel. I must go now.”
We went back across the crowded courtyard, attended vespers, then followed other women into the noisy refectory for a simple meal, again drowned in spicy sauce. Night came quickly and the chapel bell rang for compline, but we were too tired. We fell into our beds and slept soundly.
The next day I followed the girl with the long braid to the locutio parlor, where, to my surprise, she slipped a large key into the locutio lock, opened the gate, and led me to a parlor full of dark heavy furniture where Mother was waiting. She gestured I was to sit on one of the heavy carved chairs.
Mother wasted no time in pleasantries before saying, “Now Esperanza, tell me, why the need to speak privately?”
I nodded. “Forgive me, Mother, but may I ask you a few questions?” Mother raised her eyebrows but nodded.
“The names of the sisters who founded the order here?”
“Let me see, I think there was Mother Maria Manuela, Sor Inez, Sor Fidelia, Sor Anselma, Sor Blanca, Sor Lucia, Sor Emilia, and Sor Estephana.”
Don Miguel had been so sure this was the one! I looked at her. The names were right, but they were hardly uncommon Spanish names, and there were not enough of them. Nine, not twelve. No Sor Salome. Oh dear, this was the wrong convent! My heart sank at the thought of setting out again.
Mother frowned and continued, “There were three more of the party. I cannot recall the names of the two beatas who died when their raft capsized crossing a river, and one novice chose to leave us and marry—the novice Salome.”
I sat upright and exclaimed, “The novice Salome married?”
“She had not yet taken her final vows, and I assure you that she married with the convent’s blessing. There were good reasons for her decision.”
“What reasons?” I knew I should not sound so disapproving—my own mother had done the same thing—but still I was shocked.
Mother overlooked my rudeness. “I could explain, but it is a long story and it would be best for Dona Salome Aguilar to tell it herself. She is a great benefactor and patroness of our convent, and has donated generously to our school for Indian girls. She is in mourning for her husband who died a year ago. She rarely leaves the family’s estate now, which is run by her eldest son, Don Miguel. Besides Don Miguel, the couple had a younger son, Don Matteo, and a daughter, Dona Beatris. Don Matteo Aguilar went into the church. Dona Beatris married a cacique and had seven children. Don Miguel Aguilar…”
Don Miguel, the gentleman on the quay who had picked me up…Salome’s son! I interrupted to say that we had met Don Miguel when we landed. Mother looked surprised. I hastened to add this was because he and another man had come to our rescue and taken us to a convent where his cousins were nuns. Cacique, ladies at that convent had called him. What did that mean?
“It is the term for Inca noble,” said Mother. “The Inca nobility are as proud of their limpienza sangre as any Spaniard with an ancient Christian family line. Generally convents only admit purebred Spanish girls, the daughters of the hidalgos, as nuns, but exceptions are made for caciques. Native women of other classes enter the convents as servants, sometimes beatas, never nuns. Much importance is paid to birth and blood and family honor here, my dear. A daughter who is a nun is proof of the family’s importance, good breeding and faith. I think it is the same in Spain, no?”
I nodded.
Mother frowned. “His father was a
descendant of the last Inca Sapa. Don Miguel inherited his blood and his pride, and broods over the iniquities of the Conquistadors, their cruel treatment of the Indians. There have been rumors that he is seditious, and has lent his support to rebellious factions in the mountains. That is a serious matter. There have been many revolts against the Spanish, God knows for good reason, and the landowners who live surrounded by slaves and Indians live in constant fear. Revolts are brutally suppressed.”
I gave the medal to Mother, of course, as the gift of the convent in Spain. It was a great responsibility and I am relieved to have delivered it to its destination. Mother was very moved, saying that of course she knew of the medal, but had never expected it to come into this convent’s possession. I told her about Sor Beatriz and the Abbess, about the Inquisition, at which she nodded and said that the Inquisition was also established here, but…She shrugged. Like many other things here, it sounds as if it may be less efficient than in Spain.
I told her of the periodic letters from the Holy Office and how they irritated the Abbess, and Mother said they had their own difficulties with the church authorities. However, the church relies on convents like Las Golondrinas for many useful functions, not least of which are the school and orphanage that absorb the embarrassing number of mestiza daughters fathered by Spanish soldiers and settlers. The governing authorities and the church fight a constant battle to prevent Spanish men succumbing to native vices, but are visibly unsuccessful, so both church and the civil authorities are anxious to teach the girls Christian values, in the hope they will eventually exert a civilizing influence as good Catholic wives.
I have many questions to ask, but a nun came to summon Mother to some emergency or other. Mother is rarely able to sit for long—the convent is an excitable place. I said nothing about the Chronicle because Mother mentioned that the convent has no scribe. I will keep this last link to Spain and to Sor Beatriz for the time being. I do not know whether it is wise to try and send a letter back to the convent in Spain. I cannot bear to think what may have happened.
