The Sisterhood (13 page)

“OK, let’s see what you look like.” Menina started on the face with another piece of softened bread, pressing gently. Heavy eyebrows over dark eyes and the bridge of the nose emerged, then slowly a face, dark eyes staring into hers. Menina moved from side to side and saw the artist had been skillful enough to paint eyes that followed the viewer. Definitely worth seeing the rest of the portrait.

As the dirt came away, Menina was surprised to find it was not a saint or the Virgin Mary, but a young woman in fine clothes. Under the dirt she could just make out an elaborate sleeve, a smudge of a flower in her hand, a sort of embroidered shift, and jewelry. And though muted by grime, the colors were crude enough to make an impact—red and black and green and blue. Obviously a portrait of a wealthy young girl, there was something exotic or
primitif
about it that made Menina doubt it was European.

“Where did you come from?” Menina asked the portrait to break the silence and jumped when Sor Teresa’s voice cackled,
“Aha! There you are!” Menina whirled around. “You should not be here, is only for nuns,” said Sor Teresa accusingly from the doorway. “When is visitors, women from the village, they come and sit there.” She pointed to the grille. “All people not nuns, they sit on the other side. What are you doing?” There was no mistaking the suspicion in her voice.

Menina felt like a naughty child caught off limits. “It was Captain Fernández Galán’s idea! He said I must look for paintings that might be valuable, to sell, and we can take them to—”

Sor Teresa drew herself up, and there was an indignant rapid-fire response in a mixture of Spanish and English. “How dare you accuse Captain Fernández Galán! Alejandro is not thief! It is you who want to steal from us! Bah! You must leave the convent!”

“No, no, no! We don’t want to
steal
anything. The captain thinks the convent needs money and he wanted me to find a painting you could sell.”

“Humpff!” There was another torrent of Spanish and English about Alejandro and his bad ways, she never knew what to think of him nowadays. Menina was startled to see she had hit a nerve. Sor Teresa had a lot to say about the captain, the life he led, that he had been…something disgraceful…ever since he was a little boy, not to mention he was no better now…something, something in fast Spanish about chasing shameless girls who spent their lives attracting attention and enticing men. Alejandro attracted exactly this kind of girl. They threw themselves at him; no wonder he wasn’t married—all he knew were
putas
. Menina’s eyes opened wide in surprise. Sor Teresa had just called the captain’s girlfriends
whores
! Including Menina? Well, she was just sick to death of people calling her that!

“I’m
not
a
puta
or a girlfriend! I only met him yesterday! He made it clear he thought I was an idiot to take the wrong bus and have my things stolen—he was really rude. But since you let me
stay here, I thought I should try and help like the captain asked. Sorry about being in your private area, but I couldn’t find anybody to ask. But why not let me see your paintings? Like I told the captain, I’m only studying art history at college. I know a little but not much. What I can do is clean some of the dirt off, with stale bread, and make a note of anything that looks valuable. Then a real expert can take a look and advise you about selling.”

“Humpff! We will see. Maybe we do not like to sell our paintings. Now come. You must eat and I must return to the chapel.”

“Was this room the library?” Menina asked, following her to the door.

“Old scriptorium,” said Sor Teresa.

“Scriptorium? A writing room?”

“Yes, a nun was always writing there. Convent always had a writer—a scribe. Many books, was a library, too, very special, because is not so many books then, books very precious. Not so many people could read. But in this convent all the nuns were educated, could read, so is many peoples come, want to know what books say, the scribe will find the books and tell them what they want to know.”

“Look it up,” said Menina.

“Yes. First people must get permission from the Abbess but if she give they can go to scriptorium. You see there is a
locutio
in here, just like in the Abbess’s parlor. The church says nuns must keep behind the
locutio
. So there is bars, like prison to keep nuns and the world apart. Is long time ago. Now we don’t write but sit there and work. Not too many windows broken. And fireplace is good, nice and big because scribe cannot write if too cold. Scribe is good job I think!” Unexpectedly Sor Teresa chuckled.

“I found a portrait of a girl. She didn’t look like a nun. Why would her portrait be in the convent?”

“A girl?” Sor Teresa chuckled again and shook her head. “Of course is girl! Is many girls come to Las Golondrinas long time ago. People do not remember now, but once so many girls come, we help them, save their lives sometimes,” she muttered, leading the way down the corridor. “The world was dangerous place for girls if they are alone. But it is a long story. Everything at Las Golondrinas is a long story. And old. Too old. Soon all our stories, about the nuns, about our order, about the girls, are forgotten. Unless is a miracle, no one will know what happened here. You are the last girl, I think. Ha! Maybe you can tell our stories, no?”

“Maybe you can tell me the old stories and I’ll do my best,” said Menina, hoping to placate Sor Teresa. What sort of stories would those be, she wondered.

Madrid, Winter 1504

The household of the Defensor del Santo Sepulchro family was in mourning. In the center of its great hall stood an elaborate bier draped in black and gold and surrounded by thick beeswax candles. On it lay the body of a woman in her thirties, her waxy face just visible under a shroud of black Brussels lace. A rosary of large black pearls with a diamond-and-gold crucifix was wound in her fingers. The countess had died a week after her stillborn son, and his tiny coffin with a lamb on its lid lay by her side. The bodies had lain in state for nearly three days, surrounded by the family and a host of nuns, friars, and priests who maintained a continuous vigil, praying for the souls of the departed. The next day there would be a procession to the Church of Saint Nicholas de los Servitas for a requiem Mass, followed by internment in the family vault.

The only daughter of the family, fifteen-year-old Isabella, knelt alone on one side of her mother’s bier, her father, six brothers, and the priest on the other. If her clothes indicated wealth and her posture piety, it was her face that made her interesting—attractive rather than beautiful, intelligent and alert, with regular features and dark-blue eyes beneath heavy brows. In the flickering light shed by the tapers and candles, melancholy shadows devoured Isabella’s black mourning dress, throwing her pale face and stiff
white ruff into relief. The pearls dangling from her ears glowed softly in the light, as did her dark-gold hair beneath the mantilla covering her bent head. Once or twice her gaze flicked up and she saw the priest watching her narrowly. She dropped her eyes again to her clasped hands, her heart and mind racing.

She knew that her father and the priest were locked in a battle of wills over her future. Her family was an ancient one, and her pedigree outweighed even the huge dowry she would bring to a convent or a husband. Isabella was a vessel of
limpieza de sangre
, a pure Catholic bloodline untainted by intermarriage with Moors or Spanish Jews throughout the hundreds of years Muslims had ruled Spain. Since the
Reconquista, Cristianos Viejos
, Old Christians like the count’s family, had risen to even greater wealth and prominence. Their name meant “Defender of the Holy Sepulchre.” For centuries the family had secretly channeled money under the noses of their Moorish rulers to reclaim Jerusalem from the infidels. When their Catholic Majesties Isabella and Ferdinand swore to return the country to God and the Catholic Church, their plan to purge the country of unbelievers—Moors, Jews, and heretics—was a cause already dear to the count, whose pride in his bloodline was equaled only by his devotion to the church.

Three of his sons, none very robust, were destined for the church and already at the seminary at Valladolid. The other three were betrothed to the daughters of other Old Christian families. Only Isabella’s future still hung in the balance. She was lame from birth, and the priest had repeatedly urged the count to install her in one of the elite convents in Madrid, reminding him of the advantages to the family of having a daughter placed among nuns who had royal blood and close connections to the court.

This was true, and yet…the count suspected the priest’s rise in the church rested on his ability to steer human prizes of wealth and breeding into its arms. But the matter of the bloodline had
made the count hesitate. The family’s ancient noble title could be inherited by female descendants. Should his sons die without issue, the title would pass to Isabella and through her to her children.

Shortly before being brought to bed with her last child, the countess had urged that Isabella’s marriage would be an extra safeguard for the family name, and the count had begun negotiating for her betrothal with several families. Now as he knelt beside his wife’s bier he vowed to conclude negotiations quickly. As soon as his choice was made, the marriage would take place without waiting for the end of the mourning period. The priest’s machinations were beginning to tire him.

Isabella swayed on her knees, feeling faint. The bodies had lain in state for two days and she was sure she could detect a whiff of decomposition. Her sense of smell was keen these days and her stomach heaved. She quickly put her handkerchief to her mouth to stifle a retch and fumbled for the pomander attached by a gold chain to her waist. Holding it to her nose, she breathed in the scent of dried orange peel, cloves, and anise. But now that she had noticed it, the smell of death seemed to enfold her in its cloying embrace. She had to get away or she would be sick in front of everyone…She began to lever herself up from the velvet cushion on which she had been kneeling. Allowances were made for her disability and no one would censure her for withdrawing.

She shook her head at the servant who came forward to help her. She crossed herself again and turned toward the door, holding herself upright with an effort, demonstrating that she could manage without help, that she was stronger than she appeared. She knew that Alejandro was watching. From his place among the friars chanting in the shadows, she felt his eyes following her with love and concern though the hood was pulled low on his forehead. By this time tomorrow they would be gone. Together.

That the daughter of the proud Defensor del Santo Sepulchro family would link her fate to that of a tutor in the household was something that no one would have thought possible. That was why the two young people were able to fall passionately in love beneath the eyes of everyone.

With the countess too ill with her pregnancies to attend to her daughter’s education, from an early age Isabella was sent to the schoolroom with her brothers. Their tutors were elderly scholars from a nearby monastery who tut-tutted at the presence of a little girl. What need had females for education? But the count was powerful enough to have his way in most things, and Isabella, hungry for attention and praise, proved the most conscientious student of the siblings and gradually won over the tutors by her studious application. They even forgot she was a girl.

Then, just before Isabella’s fourteenth birthday, a new tutor joined the family.

Fr. Alejandro Abenzucar was a seminary student at Valladolid, a young man of twenty-four who had demonstrated a brilliant grasp of mathematics, and Greek and Latin philosophy. His reputation as a promising Catholic scholar had reached the ears of the count, who insisted on the best for his sons and prevailed upon the young man’s superiors to postpone his final vows so that he might spend a year or two teaching the count’s sons. The seminary’s superiors felt nothing would be gained by revealing that the Abenzucar clan had been a Moorish family of influence and wealth with a large valley fiefdom in Andalusia, who had converted—most of them—to Christianity after the
Reconquista
, and that their youngest son had entered the church as proof their conversion was genuine.

Fr. Alejandro’s superiors failed to take into account that the
converso
scholar was a handsome young man blessed with the rare combination of good looks and a kind heart, nor had they any notion how much he detested the idea of the priesthood and
inwardly rebelled at his family’s humiliating forced conversion. He was also desperately lonely. Few of the other seminary students went out of their ways to befriend a
converso
, prodigy or not.

As for Isabella, no one paused to reflect that she was no longer a child, but of marriageable age and, save for her limp, a lovely girl starved of affection a daughter had never merited in a family of boys. And no one asked themselves what use Fr. Alejandro’s mathematics and logic would be to a fourteen-year-old girl. Isabella’s presence in the schoolroom had long been taken for granted, and like any well-born girl, she was always chaperoned. Her duenna, a stern elderly woman, sat by Isabella’s side and sewed or told her beads during lessons. Only Isabella knew the old woman had grown deaf as a post and often fell asleep bolt upright in her chair or on her knees. Isabella helped conceal her frailties. She nudged the old woman awake when it was necessary for her to appear alert, and in the cold months slipped a shawl over her shoulders when she slept.