Iacobus (26 page)

We descended with great caution, fearing that the ground would fall beneath our feet, that a stone would come loose and fall on our heads, or that an unexpected trap would enclose our bones forever inside that tomb. But nothing happened. We reached the bottom without any unpleasant surprises. By the light of the candles we could see a small, circular room with the walls and ceiling covered by great slabs of stone. We couldn’t see the floor, because it was covered by huge chests filled with gold and silver, by mountains of gems on which lay pieces of embroidered cloth, crowns, tiaras, pendants, earrings, rings, goblets, challises, crosses, candelabras and countless scrolls of various scriptures brought from the East. And that was just minor treasure, a little part, a tiny pinch of the total! Silently, and dazzled by the reflection from the light on the jewels, we walked around, looking, touching and assessing the priceless rosaries, the marvelous relics, cruets, chalices, pyxes and pendants, until, unexpectedly, the boy broke the silence.

“I have a bad feeling, sire. Let’s get out of here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know, sire …,” he hesitated. “All I know is that I want to leave. It’s a very strong feeling.”

“O.K., boy, let’s go.”

Life has taught me to respect those inexplicable signs. More than once I had found myself in serious danger because I hadn’t listened to my instinct, because I had ignored those mysterious warnings. So if my son had that feeling, we had to go … and fast.

On a mother-of-pearl table was a common wooden lectorile with rough edges, placed in such a way so as to catch our attention and on it, laying abandoned, was a leather parchment tied with ribbons that were sealed with the Templar sigillum
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. I didn’t think twice and grabbed it, tucking it between the folds of my cloak as I chased the boy up the steps at full speed.

There was nothing strange outside. Apparently, the church was just as quiet, cold and deserted as when we had gone down into the crypt.

“Sorry to have ruined your investigation,” apologized Jonas, upset.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure that you felt something and I don’t blame you for that. Quite the opposite.”

I hadn’t finished uttering the last words when a clicking sound made us jump and turn our heads towards the tomb. A small murmur followed a bang, and we heard the sound of something dismantling and sliding, and the roar made the floor creak. The slabs of St. John of Ortega’s tomb caved in and fell into the hole, producing a cloud of dust that climbed to the top of the sanctuary, mixing with the yellow cloud of poison. The noise was deafening. It felt like the church was about to fall on top of us at any moment.

“Run, Jonas, run!” I shouted, pushing him towards the door.

But I don’t know what was worse, because outside, with his sword raised, Count Joffroi of Le Mans was waiting for us with all his men.

“Speak!”

“I’ve already explained it to you a hundred times!” I said, letting my head fall heavily between my shoulders. “I had to see what was down there before you took it all away. What else do you want to know?”

Le Man’s men worked hastily at the bottom of the crypt. They had already taken out all of the treasure (which they stacked under the same capital of the Annunciation that had hinted its existence) and they were now busily repairing the damage caused by the collapse. From what we had seen, rather too late, the lid of the tomb was actually the piece that held the entire structure of the secret chamber together, and by removing it, we had caused an avalanche, just as somebody had methodically calculated would happen. What detail had I missed? Where was the error?

“If I don’t kill you right now it’s because you have begun to fulfill your mission of finding the gold,” bellowed Le Mans, “but the Pope will be promptly informed and you can be sure this will not go unpunished.”

“I already told you, Count, that it was necessary.”

“My men will repair the damage and there will be no sign of the disaster by daybreak. But if the Templars begin to suspect what you are dong, neither you, nor your son, nor that Jewish woman who is traveling with you, will live to see another day.”

“And the friar, what will you do with him?”

“Forget about him. He no longer exists. Tonight someone else will take his place.”

Why had I asked about his destiny? The poor man had been wrapped up in a plot that was too big for him through no fault of his own, and had been crushed without mercy.

“Collect your things and leave,” continued Le Mans. “And remember that next time you decide to act upon your own initiative without speaking to me, your work will have ended forever.”

“There is nothing I would like more,” I replied, knowing that his way of ending it and mine were completely different.

In the middle of the night we gathered our things and continued our journey to Burgos, crossing a wooded area of oak and pine trees. The moon was our light and the cries of the wolves our background music. We had nowhere else to go other than that marked by destiny and that’s where we were headed. The Mendozas, brother and sister, were waiting for us.

CHAPTER V

At midday, with the sun high in the sky, we entered the magnificent and proud city of Burgos, capital of the kingdom of Castile. Already from a distance, due to the bustle of carriages, people and animals, and due to the number of pilgrims that were coming and going around us, we could tell that we were approaching the greatest of the main towns along the Camino. We had to push our way through in order to cross the bridge that, together with the Church of St. John the Evangelist, spanned the moat and gave way to the gate in the wall. Although there was very little control, as it was market time, the guards asked for our passes and only let us through after examining them carefully. The long cobbled street that crossed from one side of the city to the other and that formed part of the actual Way of the Apostle was flanked by noisy taverns and bustling inns, numerous shops selling all kinds of merchandise and small stalls with Christian, Jewish and Moorish crafts. The smell of urine and excrement was strong and penetrating, and hung over the city like a thick emission of unhealthy stench. Needless to say, the city’s doctors could not keep up with all of the chest and stomach complaints.

Instead of looking for accommodation like most of the pilgrims in one of the many inns that surrounded the Church of St. John the Evangelist, Jonas and I were going to seek refuge in the sumptuous Hospital of the King, an opulent inn run by the Bernadine monks from the nearby Royal Monastery of Las Huelgas. Sara, who had barely opened her mouth since we had left the village of San Juan de Ortega, would bid us farewell in the large and prosperous juderia of Burgos where she planned to stay with a distant relative, Don Samuel, Rabi of the aljama, who had been the head tax collector for the deceased King Don Ferdinand IV.

We passed by the many beautiful churches that lined the street but only stopped in front of the perfection and the splendor of the cathedral, unmatched by any other building along the sacred Camino, and were left dumbstruck and in awe, as if we had been gifted with a heavenly and glorious vision. Perhaps the centuries will know Burgos for its heroes, such as Knight Ruy Diaz of Vivar, of whom the chronicles and minstrels already spoke but I’m sure that it will be much better known for its cathedral, an example of beauty in stone that man can create with the intelligence of his mind and the ability of his hands.

Unfortunately, just a few steps later, we came across the aljama. At the door we bade farewell to Sara, possibly forever. It was a moment that had been buried by the events in Ortega and by those of us who were coming closer to the Mendozas, and had lacked importance until this very moment. It was as if the time would never arrive, as if it weren’t possible.

“I don’t want us to part on sad terms,” whispered Sara, decisively throwing her bag over her shoulder. “Life has brought us together twice and might also reunite us one day. Who knows?”

“And if it doesn’t?” asked Jonas, worried. “Life can also decide that we never meet again.”

“That won’t happen, my handsome Jonas,” promised the Jewish woman, brushing her hand against the side of his face. “Important people always come back. Everything goes around in the universe, everything spins, and on one of those paths we shall find each other again. I wish you all the best, sire Galceran,” she said, turning towards me. “It is very possible that I will not see you again.”

“It would be difficult, that’s true,” I agreed, trying to reject the truth of her words, “because when all of this is over I will return to my home in Rhodes. But if you ever go to the island, look for me at my Order’s hospital.”

“No, sire, I don’t think I will ever go to Rhodes. Using that as consolation would be absurd. Be happy. May Yahwey guide your path.”

“And may heaven guide yours,” I muttered sadly, turning around. I could feel how my heart was tearing, how my nerves tensed. “Let’s go, Jonas.”

“Goodbye, Jonas,” I heard Sara say, moving further away. “Goodbye, Sara.”

Shortly after passing through the gate of St. Martin, descending towards the Hospital of the Emperor — located close to the Hospital of the King —, Jonas spat out what he was thinking.

“Why did we have to leave her?”

“Because she loves a man in this city and we cannot interfere in her life.” I wanted to be on my own so as I could scream out the pain I felt in my chest. “If she prefers to stay in Burgos, that’s up to her, don’t you think …?” My voice was cracking in my throat. “We can’t drag her to Compostela. Anyway, you and I have our own matters to deal with in Burgos, so get a move on.”

“What matters?” he asked curiously.

“Something that is too important to tell you here.” We were now walking within the walled compounds of the Hospital of the King, along a wide path between tall trees that guided us towards a building that looked more like a fortress than a holy monastery for ladies.

Since we had started our journey, we had not rested in a place as luxurious as the Hospital of the King, where our false passes were opening doors for us everywhere. We stopped feeling like poor pilgrims and began to feel like courtiers of a long-established nobility: sumptuous chambers pleasantly warmed by good fires, soft canopy beds, tapestries on the walls, fine fabrics, bear and fox fur on the chairs, and large portions of well-prepared food, enough to feed the Castilian armies of Alfonso IX. The lay brothers who were looking after pilgrims like us, that is to say, noble people who had come from all parts of Europe, were clean, conscientious and attentive, not like the ones we had come across before and the most amazing part of all was that this praiseworthy mix of lavish charity and prayer represented only a small part of the Abbey of Las Huelgas Reales which also included numerous churches, convents, monasteries, shrines, villages, forests and meadows ruled by the iron hand of one woman: the almighty abbess of Las Huelgas, Madam, Superior and Prelate with absolute and quasi-episcopal jurisdiction.

After lunch, feeling a cold sweat all over my body, I made myself look as good as I could (I even cut my long beard with the help of Le Man’s dagger), left Jonas sleeping at the inn and went to the hall of the monastery which was the purest expression of Cistercian military art. The hall was a large nave whose elevated friezes displayed clarions carved along the edges, atauriques, and a long Latin text painted onto the plaster reciting verses from the Psalms. A low-level lay sister came to greet me with much fuss and great shows of respect.

“Pax vobiscum.”

“Et cum spiritu tuo.”

“What are you searching for in the house of God, sire?”

“I want to see the mistress Isabel of Mendoza.”

The old nun, whom I must have just woken up, looked at me in surprise from under her black wimple.

“The mistresses of this monastery do not receive visits that have not been authorized by the High Lady,” she said, referring to the abbess.

“Well, tell the High Lady that Don Galceran of Born, papal envoy of His Holiness John XXII, with authorization signed by the Holy Father himself to enter this monastery of mistresses and be received at any time by Doña Isabel of Mendoza, sends his respects and best wishes.”

The lay sister was alarmed. After giving me a long, suspicious look she disappeared behind a carved oak door which her weary hands pushed open with difficulty. Shortly after she reappeared, accompanied by another Reverend with a refined, stately look to her. Given their duties, they must have both have been free from confinement.

“I am Doña Mary of Almenar. What do you want?”

I knelt on the floor and ceremoniously kissed the beautiful crucifix on the rosary hanging from her girdle.

“My name is Don Galceran of Born, my mistress, and I bring an authorization from Pope John XXII to enter this monastery and meet with Doña Isabel of Mendoza.”

“Can I see those papers,” she said politely. Whatever that nun’s origin, she was definitely a woman of high standing. By her manners I could tell that she had spent most of her life in the court.

I held out the documents and after looking over them she disappeared behind the same door that she had come through earlier. This time her return took longer than it should have. I suspected that a turbulent discussion was taking place behind those walls and that the High Lady must have been looking for comparisons to the signature left and right, fearing a hoax or a forgery. However, in that specific case, and despite the fact that lying is my great specialty, the authorization I had given her was completely authentic, signed and sealed by John XXII himself on the night he entrusted me with the sacred mission that I was carrying out for both him and my Order along the Camino de Santiago.

Doña Mary of Almenar returned with a grim expression on her face.

“Follow me, Don Galceran.”

We went out into a large, beautiful cloister which we quickly exited, turning left twice along a path that took us to another smaller cloister that looked much older.

“Wait here,” she said. “Doña Isabel will be out in a minute. She will meet you in the part of the monastery we call ‘The Claustrillas’. It was the ancient mansion’s recreational garden which the kings of Castile used to escape the problems of the kingdom. This is why the monastery was called Las Huelgas, or The Repose.”

I wasn’t listening to her and didn’t notice her absence when she left. Staring at the flowerbeds, I was busy trying to slow the rate of my beating heart. I was just as afraid, if not more, than during my long-ago days of battle when, armed to the teeth and covered in armor, I galloped towards the enemy following the path of my gonfalon. I knew that I had to kill — and die if need be —, but my legs and my hands didn’t shake as much then as they were now. I would have liked to have been wearing new habits, to have a clean beard and combed hair, to be armed with my sword and covered by the Hospitallers’ long white cloak with the black octagonal cross. However, unfortunately I was just wearing the clothes of a poor pilgrim, and that wasn’t much for a mistress like Isabel of Mendoza.

Isabel of Mendoza … I could still hear her childish laughter echoing through the corridors of her father’s castle and see the glow of the flames reflected in her beautiful blue eyes. Unfortunately, I could still remember the velvet touch of her young skin and the shape of her body, and without trying too hard, I could relive those times when she gave herself to me, both of us caught up in the passion of youth. On one of those scarce times, we were caught by her old nursemaid — she was called Doña Misol, I will never forget her name —, who ran off to tell Isabel’s father, Don Nuño of Mendoza, a great friend of my father’s, whose house I was serving in as a squire. That could have ended my chances of being knighted (Don Nuño asked the Bishop of Alava for a judgment of honor against me) but thanks to my father’s intervention, I was lucky enough to be able to profess in the Military Order of the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem. I was separated from Isabel and from my family and sent to Rhodes at the age of seventeen, without anyone ever telling me about the birth of Jonas.

“Sir Galceran of Born …,” said a voice from behind me. Was that the voice of Isabel? It could have been but I wasn’t sure.

Fifteen years had passed since the last time I had heard her and this voice sounded more high-pitched, more strident. Was it Isabel who was behind me? It could have been but I couldn’t be sure until I turned around, and I didn’t have the strength to do it. I felt suffocated. With a strong will, I managed to subdue my fears and turn around.

“Lady Doña Isabel …,” I managed to say.

Blue eyes were looking at me with curiosity and awe. Surrounding them was the stout oval face of a stranger, although distantly similar to that of Jonas’, framed by thin, plucked eyebrows on a large forehead and sharp cheekbones that I did not remember. Large quantities of make-up, powders and colors distorted her appearance. Who was that woman?

“It is a pleasure to see you again after so many years,” she said dryly, with her tone belying her words of welcome. Her black robes, in line with the Bernadine rules (covered, though, in beautiful jewels), and the wimple that hid her hair threw me off balance. I didn’t recognize her. Older and larger, she looked nothing like my lovely Isabel. No, I didn’t know who that elderly mistress with the sour demeanor was.

“Likewise, ma’am. Indeed, many years have passed.”

As if by magic, my fears, my worries and my pains disappeared. All of my anguish went up in smoke.

“And what is the reason for your extraordinary visit? You have really stirred up the monastery, and the High Lady doesn’t really know what to think of you and your documents.”

“Let the High Lady know that the documents are authentic and in order. It was very difficult to acquire them but it was worth it.”

“Let’s walk, Don Galceran. As you can see, Las Claustrillas is a peaceful place.”

I could hear the sound of water coming from a fountain and birdsong in the background. Everything was peaceful and serene, even in my heart. We began by walking through the galleries, whose arches, sober and devoid of ornaments, rested on twin columns.

“Tell me, sir, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

“To our son, Doña Isabel, the young Garcia Galcerañez, abandoned at the Monastery of Ponç de Riba a little over fourteen years ago.”

The mistress suppressed her shock, covering her confusion with a dry smile.

“That son does not exist,” she lied.

“He does exist. And what’s more, he is currently resting in the neighboring inn of the Hospital of the King, and I can assure you that nobody in their right mind could deny the obvious: He has your face, accurately reproduced by nature down to the tiniest details. The only similarities to me are in his nature, his voice and his build. I found him, ma’am, not long ago in the place that you had ordered for him to be left.”

“You are wrong, sir,” she refused obstinately, although the shaking of her ring-covered hands gave her away. “We never had a son.”

“Look, mistress, I’m not in the mood for this nonsense! Three years ago,” I explained, “a poor beggar, devoured by leprosy, was brought to my hospital in Rhodes. He didn’t have many hours left to live and I ordered for him to be transferred to the room of the dying. The man recognized me as soon as he saw me: It was your servant, Gonçalvo. Do you remember him? He was one of the swineherds at the Mendoza castle, the youngest. It was Gonçalvo who told me of the birth, at the beginning of June 1303, who told me that Doña Misol and yourself had handed the boy over to be taken to the faraway Monastery of Ponç de Riba, in exchange for which he obtained his freedom (I assume your father was behind the matter), and who told me that you had professed as a Bernadine mistress at this monastery in Burgos.”