by Paula Wynne
Like La Reina Isabel, the queen María admired so much, she wanted to journey to new places. Unlike the queen, she didn’t have the means to see new towns and learn about the people. And like the monarch, María had blue eyes and chestnut hair. But she kept her clothes simple. The looser the garment the easier it was to run through the fields and woods. When at home with only Madre around, she didn’t worry about her appearance. Her mother sewed gowns with trailing sleeves that hooked onto branches when María collected wood. Or dipped into the water buckets at the well and became drenched in the washing tub. But even Madre had not given in to the scandalous fashions of tighter-fitting garments with lower necklines and lace to create a form-fitting shape that girdled at the waist or hips.
María usually preferred to wear a smock and hose, and refused to wear a girdle and a bonnet or hair caul, but she had no choice when they went to church. Otherwise the town people would frown on Madre’s unruly daughter.
Delighted she could discard her woolen garments in place of a lighter linen for the coming warmer months, she had thrown her tunic beside the pond. One day she would write a story about a girl who fashioned easier garments for women to wear, much like those men wore. For a moment she imagined how Queen Isabella would look dressed as the king.
A shiver tickled María’s spine. Her uncle had taught her about a French martyr, Jeanne d’Arc, who had been burnt at the stake because they couldn’t understand why she dressed as a man, even though she helped the French defeat the English invaders.
María didn’t want to reject the gender roles; she simply wanted to dress in a manner that gave her more freedom for country life. Girl’s garments didn’t suit that.
Annoyed, María shook herself to stop her thoughts running away with nonsense. Dressing in men’s clothing carried a death sentence.She wasn’t about to be caught for such a foolhardy perversio. Besides, she had to start gathering the sticky herbs for Madre.
She leapt to her feet. The only way to cross the grotto was to swim. As she stepped to the edge, she focused on the blue iridescent gleam right in the middle where she dived in. A slimy surface covered the water’s edge, where it escaped through the cave and over the grass verge into the pool below.
A distant sound startled her.
Her head snapped from side to side as she glanced around and listened. A strangled bleating cut through her secret world and sliced into her.
Without hesitation, María dived off the rocky ledge and plunged into the green underground lake. Her head shot out of the crystal clear pool. Gasping from the cold current, she swam a few strokes across the shimmering water and climbed out over a natural stone wall. She ran through the rocky tunnel and clambered down the cliff into the shallow pond below.
After wading across the stream, and clawing over the mossy rocks, María grabbed her linen tunic off a dangling branch and pulled it over her head. Holding up a hand to shelter her eyes from the sun, she listened for the direction of the animal’s cry. As she leapt across the river cobbles and up the opposite riverbank, María spotted a baby mountain goat struggling to break free. He strained his rear hoof between two sunken boulders. Blood caked its front right leg.
María skidded to a halt and crept closer. The goat veered to the left, away from her. ‘¡Hola, guapo! What a handsome little goat you are.’
It didn’t know what to fear more: her or the rock trap that snared its leg. María cooed reassurance. ‘Shh. Quiet now. María is here to take care of you.’ She winced at the sight of the goat’s mangled leg. Its head reared as it bellowed for its mother to help. María grabbed the goat’s tiny horns and held its head in a vice-like grip. She reached to hold its leg still. The little goat had incredible strength as it bucked around in her arms and bleated.
Dropping to one knee, María leaned forward and lowered herself over the goat, forcing it to the ground. Whispering to keep it calm, she lay on top of it with her back raised in an uncomfortable arch. With both arms now free, she tugged on the rocks, pulling them apart. Her natural lithe build had blessed her with the strength of any young man.
Still tucked under her, the goat started trembling. Its eyes rolled back in its sockets, a sign of death. With one final wrench, the skin lacerated along her fingertips as she lifted the mangled hoof from between the rocks.
Using her teeth, María tore a strip off the bottom of her tunic. As she wrapped it around the wound, the goat’s warm blood spurted over her hands and slithered down her arms like a nest of baby red snakes in flight.
Still whispering to keep the animal’s spirit alive, María stood. The poor creature probably wouldn’t survive. The wound was deep, and the leg dangled at an awkward angle. She had no-one to turn to. No-one except Madre.
Even though her mother went to church every week, the priest condemned her for healing the sick and helping peasants who couldn’t afford to see a doctor. So Madre practised in secret; her herbal remedies had saved thousands of their local people from suffering.
Since Madre had started picking rizado off the rocks beside the pond, her fame had grown and now people travelled many days to consult the medicina. If anyone could help the goat, Madre could.
By using the grotto’s secret.
17
María’s stomach grumbled. The smell of onions braising in the pot with freshly picked herbs and a chunk of wild boar made her mouth water. Madre had been paid well for helping another baby into the world last night.
She watched Madre mash the rizado into a pulp. Next, she smeared the green, sticky pulp on the goat’s wound.
‘Ana-María, you must stop bringing these animals home.’
‘We can milk this one.’ She gave Madre a coy smile.
‘We barely have money to feed our own mouths. Pray tell, how can we feed these?’ Her arm flung wide. Outside, a menagerie of rescued animals clucked and sniffed at the door.
‘One day I will be paid for my writing, then we will have plenty of money to feed them all.’
‘That is another thing you must stop.’ Madre washed her hands and without wiping them dry, clapped them on the layers of wide skirts hiding her hips. ‘Ana —’
‘Mama, call me María!’
Madre threw her hands in the air. ‘I pray you! Why do you make life difficult for yourself?’
‘I know what you are going to say. I do not want to get married and stop my writing.’
‘If you refuse to marry you can take refuge in a convent where at least you could enjoy being a clever woman. The nuns at Abadía de Torcal would love you to write for them.’
As María crossed her arms, her stomach muscles tightened. ‘Madre, being with child or being cloistered in a monastery are unacceptable to me!’
‘It is a humiliation for our family. Padre would want to see you married.’
Padre’s death had resulted in her remaining unmarried — much to her relief. Thinking of Padre made her blurt out, ‘When Padre did some work at the abbey he told me strange things go on there. And strange creatures walk the night.’
‘¡Hé! Alas, I shouldn’t have allowed Tío to put that nonsense in your head.’
‘Not nonsense, Madre. Learning.’
‘Learning indeed! When he took you under his wing to give you an education, it was supposed to teach you to be a good wife to a wealthy husband.’
‘Mama! I am a good maiden with upstanding virtues. I don’t need a husband to make me any better.’
Long ago Tío had given her history lessons. Saint Catherine of Alexandria stuck in her mind the most, mainly because she’d refused to get married. María knew how she’d felt.
‘You miss the point, mi querida, I was hoping because his family are money lenders, he could find you a husband amongst the wealthiest, most powerful families of Spain.’
‘Madre, you of all people know I am not in need of a wealthy
man to make me happy. It is absurd! If they gave girls books and taught us what Tío has shown me, women would be as knowledgeable and as happy
as men.’
‘Ana-María de Carbonela! You cannot talk like that. If someone hears you …’ Madre shook her head. Her voice dropped to a whisper, ‘I know you are writing about this. Do not give Tío any more of those manuscritos. Your writing will get us thrown into prison. The monarchy would not like to hear the things you write.’
María swung around. ‘He betrayed me!’ So Tío had told her mother about her last manuscrito. She had asked him to send it to people in Barcelona who would listen to a woman’s voice.
‘No, Ana-María. He would not betray you. He wants to protect you, but he is proud of you. He sent it wherever you asked without my blessing.’
María exhaled and stared at the fireplace where more of her work lay hidden. She wouldn’t give it up. Not for anyone. Not even Madre.
‘As you will.’ Madre snorted and lifted the goat off the kitchen table. ‘But take heed, your thirst for learning will bring problems on your head.’ She dumped the goat into María’s arms and inclined her head towards the back door.
Instead of taking the goat outside, María ambled to the fireplace. She placed the goat on an old rug in front of the fire, tugged the hairy little beard under the goat’s chin and patted his head. She rose and turned to her mother. ‘I will not give up my writing Madre, like you will not give up your medicine.’
For a long moment, mother and daughter glared at each other. Both defiant, both trying to force the other to consent. Finally, Madre huffed and wiped her hands on the apron covering her fleshy belly. ‘If you must do this writing, confine it to religious matters. Or write a journal about my medicine so you can learn about things that will one day be useful to you.’
A spirited bleat echoed around the room. They spun around to see the goat trying to stand on his wounded hoof. María’s jaw dropped as she watched the little goat already putting pressure on his hoof and limping a step or two. Could Madre’s rizado work that fast?
‘Ya está!’ Again Madre’s hands landed on her swaying hips. ‘You see; he will walk soon.’
María’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes, Mama, he will walk soon.’ She stepped forward and hugged her mother. ‘Gracias. Now too, I have seen what many of your patients tell me. You are a miracle worker.’
‘No, Ana-María.’ Madre wagged her finger. ‘We do not want to offend the Church. I am not a miracle worker. I only use natural remedies to help people. That is all.’
‘I will write a manuscript about your medicina.’
With a rough hand, Madre cupped María’s cheek. ‘You are a good girl, Ana-María. One day you will make a good wife and a good mother.’
‘One day, maybe. But now I will start with this rizado plant.’
They glanced at the goat again.
María smiled.
He had been cured by the grotto’s secret.
18
Barker’s thoughts ran wild in anticipation. If only he was there to see the terror in Piccoli’s eyes as the tyre burst and she couldn’t control the beast. He wanted his face to be the last the bitch ever saw.
Making money had been exciting at first, but the gloss had soon worn off and for the past few years he’d had his nose to the ground, sniffing out something to rock his socks.
Slowly his plan had formed. Of course, he’d mulled over it with many cups of camomile tea on countless nights trying to figure out how he’d remain anonymous. It had turned out to be easy although setting up the show had tested his patience with Teresina constantly bitching at him. That’s why she had to be the first. And for other reasons he preferred to forget.
A thought suddenly struck him and he grinned. He had the perfect solution to make her think of him before she died.
Barker called her mobile.
19
Teresina’s head pounded. ‘Majella, turn that music down!’
Majella fiddled with her phone and instead of the monotonous drone lowering, it filled the car with a deafening beat.
‘Majella!’
‘Sorry, Mamma. Wrong button.’
Within seconds Majella lowered the volume, but it still thumped in Teresina’s ears. Her nerves prickled. She was late for Nonna and nobody, but nobody was ever late for Nonna.
She switched on the air-con and breathed in the instant blast of cool air. She hated the Italian heat; it exhausted her and made her listless. And she preferred to keep up her fiery and passionate reputation.
‘Call Inez and tell her to make sure we have adjoining rooms.’
‘Mamma, don’t badger her. She will do that anyway.’
‘Okay, carino.’ Teresina glanced at Majella. ‘Can you send a text for me?’
Before Majella lifted the phone, it started ringing through the speakers, filling the car with more chaos. Teresina glanced at the dashboard and grimaced at the caller’s ID.
The Bastardo.
She barked into the phone, ‘Don’t tell me you’re not coming.’
‘Of course not, I’ll be there. How’s the car handling?’
‘You think I can’t handle this car? I’ve been driving this sexy beast for years!’
‘Oh, you’re capable. That car becomes you.’
‘Esatto, exactly! I don’t know why I’ve been asked to assess the show’s stupid devices.’
‘You know the drill. We check the products entrepreneurs’ pitch to the show so we can see which are suitable for the next series.’
‘Bene, okay! I’ll see you in Rome. We’re going there straight after visiting Nonna.’
‘How’s Majella?’
‘Why the sudden interest?’ Teresina prickled. He had no idea what would be handed to him in Rome.
‘I thought I heard music in the background.’
‘Yes, some stupid hip-hop.’
‘Ahh, nothing like the good ol’ tunes.’ He broke into song with a piece of the chorus from Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive.
‘Listen, you may have nothing better to do with your time than sing to me, but I have things to do.’
Teresina gripped the steering. Annoyed at him for making her remember the past, she struggled to concentrate on the hairpin bends coming into Serramonacesca.
‘I’ll see you later.’ She hit a button and cut the call.
20
Kelby frowned, confused by the information about herbs and ruins. Impatiently she asked Marina, ‘What has this got to do with what you found on your farm?’
‘It’s the same woman.’
‘But you said the documents weren’t named.’
‘I went to the Bibliotecas Públicas del Estado and other archives in Madrid. Herbal de Carbonela is still in print today. I took the herbal guide I’d found in the cellar and matched the two. They’re identical. It’s been rewritten and reproduced, and many new authors have taken the information and published their own herbals.’
Doctor Robson said, ‘Strangely, we found lots of information about a sailor named Carbonela who was associated with Christopher Columbus, but not much about Ana-María. She disappeared late in 1492 after her herbal journal was published.’
‘Have you tried to contact an expert?’
‘¡Dios! It’s more than that. I think the skeleton we found in the ruins is Ana-María de Carbonela’s! If it is, she deserves to be honoured but I don’t know how to go about it.’
Roy patted his sister’s hand again, ‘More important is finding out more about this plant. The herbal journal names a herb called “rizado”.’
‘Which,’ Marina interjected, ‘has never been found! I spent hours on the internet reading documents and days in libraries and museums.’
Doctor Robson nodded. ‘Carbonela�
��s herbal says rizado was mixed with other traditional remedies. It speeds the healing process. Carbonela’s stories —’
‘¡Eh,’ Marina slapped his arm, ‘call her Ana-María. Don’t refer to her by her surname.’
Doctor Robson turned back to Kelby. ‘Marina’s right. Ana-María’s chronicles reflect the healing process. Take one of her stories archived in Madrid. It’s about a woman herbalist who concocts a potion with incredible healing powers. She does this inside some kind of secret grotto near an underground waterfall.’
Marina said, ‘Maybe this herbalist was her mother.’
Doctor Robson cut in, saying ‘The herbalist in her story was named Carmen. She may have been Ana-María’s mother.’
‘Why do you think that?’
Marina flipped the book closed and pointed at the symbol again. ‘The two C’s are back-to-back. They could stand for Carmen Carbonela.’
Kelby stared at it. ‘Hmm, I see the two C’s now. When Gary gave me the pendant I thought it was an elaborate X.’
Doctor Robson said, ‘It could be either.’
Marina shrugged. ‘If it’s two C’s I wonder if that was Ana-María’s way of honouring her mother’s knowledge.’
‘Marina thinks Carmen named the herb. The first mention in the journal is listed as “rizado”, which means “curly”, so it must be a funny looking plant.’
Marina shuffled more research documents. ‘I found an old book on the Spanish Inquisition. A woman from the Granada area called Carmen was condemned as a witch. It doesn’t give her family name because they didn’t know much about her.’
‘But you said you lived near Malaga. Granada is miles away.’
‘Lo sé, I know, but in those days the whole of our area fell under Castile de Granada. That was eventually divided into Andalusia, and later Malaga got its own province.’
‘I see. So, this Carmen was a witch?’
