My own bag of gold florins is safely hidden on my person. Did Mama know of Sebastian’s carelessness with money? Is that why she gave me this great sum, as means of protecting myself ? And for the first time I am truly grateful for her gift.
“The world is not always kind to women,” Maria says, as though reading my thoughts. “And men do not always understand our need for security.”
I watch Sebastian guzzle wine and fling more gold coins across the table.
“A woman . . . I know, of low birth and no skills, was forced, after the sudden death of her husband, to work as a prostitute in order to care for her young children.” Maria’s face is tight; her eyes study me. “People say unkind things about her, but what could she do? There was no one to help her. Though I tried . . . I did try but could do little . . . not enough . . . no not enough.”
My forehead knots. “A relative?”
“My sister.”
When I suddenly think of Beatriz and see her as she was after returning from the Holy House, my heart aches. And by the look on Maria’s face, I know that is how she feels about her sister, too.
“Many times I worry that this could be my fate. If God is not merciful I could . . . .” Maria stops in mid sentence when I shake my head.
“No, never,” I say, covering her hand with mine. “For we must . . . we will look out for one another.”
We are on the road again. Had we not been tossed out onto the street like the contents of a chamber pot, we would still be in the tavern, with Arias and Sebastian drinking and gambling. But a fight ensued when Arias accused one of the men, surely a sharper, of using crooked dice. Sebastian, too, joined the fracas and cut one of the men’s ears with his sword, removing half the lobe, while Arias kept the other two sharpers at bay. Arias would certainly have run them through had not the tavern keeper and five other men intervened. Amid shouting and scuffling and drawn swords the tavern keeper was able to put an end to it all by promising he and his men would lower their blades if Arias and his party left immediately. And so we did. Otherwise, I am certain that more than an ear lobe would have been lost.
We head for Lebrija, a two day’s journey. From there we will go to Jerez, another day’s march, then on to Cadiz, which is an additional day. Five full days in all if you count today, which is almost over, for soon the sun will set.
There is little between Dos Hermanas and Lebrija except open country. I dread having to sleep on the road tonight with just our small party, for I know the highwaymen are everywhere. And just as I send up prayers to the Merciful One for protection, I spot a large group of pilgrims resting by the roadside, and I can barely contain my joy.
The pilgrims greet us warmly. There is only one woman among all the men, and she travels with her husband. She is perhaps Mama’s age, and as wide of girth. But I suspect, by the way she walks and the manner in which she carries her large bundle, that she is as strong as any of the others. She looks pleased to see us, and at once, as though desperate for female chatter, falls in beside Maria and me. And soon we are off; Arias in front with the pilgrims, Sebastian asleep in the oxcart, and the women behind.
I learn the woman’s name is Teresa, that she and her husband are returning from their pilgrimage to Roc Amadour, and that her home is in Jerez. She babbles endlessly but I find both her manner and voice pleasant.
“. . . naturally I was grieved,” Teresa drones, hardly taking time to draw breath while removing the bundle from her right shoulder to her left as easily as if it were a shawl, “grieved that I could not climb the hundred and twenty-six steps on my knees as my husband and all the other men did, but how could I strip to my waist then bind my bare chest with chains? What do the friars care that they break an old woman’s heart by creating pilgrimages only men can make?”
She finally takes a breath, then sighs. “I had to content myself to mount the steps of the Chapel of Our Lady on foot—hardly a feat of consequence since I could not bloody my knees. But later, when my husband arrived and stood beside me, and the priest uttered the prayers of purification before unfastening my husband’s chains, what joy I felt! What holy joy! For I, silly as it may seem, envisioned he was praying these prayers over me as well.
“My husband has not removed the medallion of the Virgin from his person since the priest gave it to him.” She laughs gaily. “Nor has he been slow to show his official certificate to anyone who cares to see it. I tell him this is prideful, and that he is sorely in need of another pilgrimage.”
Maria bobs her head in admiration. But I see nothing admirable in any of it. This desire to strip and be chained, and to rip open one’s knees on rough stone chapel steps baffles me. How can this please God when the Savior Himself said, “It is finished”? What sacrifice can compare with His? Or what more needs to be done in order for one to be acceptable? But I say nothing. Instead, I listen to Teresa talk endlessly about other pilgrimages where she and her husband saw dozens of holy relics including a piece of the True Cross, the skull of St. Philip and the arm of St. James encased in silver, and all the while I wonder if Mama was right in saying that I will never really be one of them.
This is the fourth day of our journey. Last night we stayed in Lebrija at an inn that was full of bedbugs, making everyone scratch till dawn, though I was hardly bothered due to my taffeta lining. I have not stopped blessing Mama for her kindness in sewing it.
We all slept in one room—the Vivars, the two servants, Arias Diaz, all the pilgrims, Sebastian and I, as is the custom in most inns. The straw was so filthy it reeked, and more than one rat scurried by. And so many in our company snored it sounded as if a herd of animals had been trapped inside with us.
My consolation is that Sebastian and I could not “use the bed”—Mama’s expression for when a husband and wife join flesh. And oh, how great is my guilt for feeling this way! Is it not the Creator’s wish that we be “fruitful and multiply”? Still, I cannot bear the thought of Sebastian touching me again or whispering Beatriz’s name in my ear. Worse still, I am certain it will be some time before Sebastian and I can come together in this way since it will take many weeks to reach the Indies and build our home, and this fills me with joy. I have confessed my sin over and over to the Merciful One, but nothing changes. My desire remains the same: If only I can stay in Spain while Sebastian sails to the Indies.
The sun bakes my head as I trudge along the dusty road to Jerez. It has been baking my head for hours, and I pull off my hood to allow the air to dry my damp neck, leaving bare my braided hair. A Jewess, once betrothed, never uncovers her hair in public. I glance anxiously to where Sebastian sits bouncing up and down in the ox-cart, but he has not noticed my actions. I should not be so concerned about following tradition and ritual law, but it is still difficult for me to leave the old ways behind. Also, I have no wish to upset Sebastian. Unlike me, he is a crypto-Jew, and uncovering my hair will offend him; though these days nothing seems to arouse any feelings in Sebastian, neither good nor bad, unless it is a game of dice or a goblet of wine.
Maria walks ahead with her husband and sons, while Teresa strolls quietly beside me, surely a miracle from heaven since she has not been silent for three days. Perhaps she has just come to the end of her pilgrimage stories. Even so, I like this kind, talkative woman, and will miss her when, at Jerez, we will part ways.
I have never been to Jerez, but Papa has told me of its high Moorish walls opening to four gates and overlooked by fifty towers, and of the ancient palace in the southwest corner of the city with its imposing “tower of homage.” I am about to ask Teresa to tell me about it—for I doubt we will have time to see the tower for ourselves—when all of a sudden I hear piercing shrieks, and see a large cloud of dust. In seconds, we are surrounded by a dozen men, who, judging by their fierce cries and raised weapons, have come to rob us.
Immediately, Arias unsheathes his sword, and to Sebastian’s credit, he, too, pulls a weapon and jumps from the cart. Meanwhile, the pilgrims have drawn their own swords. When the band
its see they are outnumbered, they scatter. And as they do, one of them notices me and Teresa. Seeing we are not protected by any of the men, he runs toward us in obvious hopes of obtaining some booty before making his escape.
“Surrender your valuables or I will run you through,” he says, reaching us and placing his blade against my throat.
I do not move so much as an eyelash for I am paralyzed with fear. And suddenly everything looks as though it is suspended in honey, slow moving and opaque: Sebastian and Arias scrambling past the other highwaymen trying to reach me; the robber’s eyes flashing and his chest heaving as he readies to thrust his blade into my throat; Teresa pulling the bag from her shoulder and swinging it at the highwayman’s head, hitting him so hard the dagger flies from his hand onto the dirt and he with it; Teresa’s foot appearing from under her cassock-like garment and kicking the bandit in his chest, making him unable to rise; the other thieves scurrying away without so much as a backward glance at their companion. And all the while I am thinking how it really is a miracle of heaven that Teresa was by my side, and how she is so fearless. And then I think of my new life and the possible dangers that await. Oh, how I wish I was more like Teresa. But even as I think it I know it will take another miracle to make me that brave.
The Bay of Cadiz sparkles like Mama’s stone of Zebulun, and forces me to shield my eyes. Maria Vivar stands beside me. All morning we have been on this rocky promontory watching boats row to and fro between shore and the anchored fleet that bobs in the distance. We have been coming here for days, and know this is the fleet that will take us to the Indies.
“The innkeeper’s wife claims that all the ships will be overcrowded with goods and passengers,” Maria says, “that not one more person could fit on the decks.”
“Not surprising for we know how men love adventure. And surely there are aristocrats and knights enough to fill all the ships of Spain. Each seeking his fortune.”
“And leaving his woman to bear the burden of it.”
I glance at Maria. “Most of the women will bear it at home, for I fear there will be few of us on this journey.”
“I know . . . but it pleases me that I am here with my husband and sons. At least they will have someone to care for them.” Maria opens her small homespun bag which is filled with empanadas purchased from the vendor outside our inn. She offers me one. And when I take it, I think not of Jewish law, even though I know the empanada is full of pork.
We find a smooth spot, and sit. Below us, fishermen spread their nets over large boulders near the sandbank to dry. They and their families have been fishing these waters for centuries. Oh how I wish I could join them in their simple obscure lives, to be hidden among their nets and boats, hidden from Fray Alonso, Columbus’s fleet, the Indies, and . . . Sebastian. Surely there is room for one more in their humble dwellings, for one more to live safely and peacefully there in the shadows?
My eyes drift to the sailors who congregate along the bank. Columbus’s men, to be sure. They are everywhere. Just as talk of his new voyage is everywhere. No escaping it. Unless you were a gull and could fly up to the clouds and . . . where? I turn to look behind me. To the left an earth-and-stone wall runs parallel to the shoreline, and behind that, the clearly visible naves and Tuscan columns of the Church of Santa Cruz. How well it reflects the realities of my life. Behind me lies the Inquisition and possible imprisonment, and that has propelled me to this vast empty space of which nothing is certain. Yet here I am, with nowhere to go but forward. There can be no more thoughts of running away. No more thoughts of another life. This is the life I have been given. This is the life I must live.
I shove the last bite of greasy empanada into my mouth, then rise. “Come, Maria. We must be off. Tomorrow we sail, and we still have much to learn from the innkeeper’s wife.”
Cadiz to Canary Islands
The long wooden oars slap the water like hands striking the soft cheeks of a child, and my stomach lurches. Another slap, and it lurches again. Perspiration dampens my hair and runs in rivulets down my forehead and neck. The hood of my traveling cloak has become a suffocating barrier to the plentiful breeze, and I consider removing it until I remember Papa’s warning. “Be discreet. Avoid attracting attention when boarding the ship.” For according to Papa, “the sight of a beautiful woman might arouse suspicion.” Papa was always kind and tended to exaggerate my virtues. Even so, I leave the hood in place.
The slapping oars bring me ever closer to a large nao anchored between another nao and a smaller caravel. The innkeeper’s wife, who was once married to a sailor, has told me there are three naos in Admiral Columbus’s fleet, all with deep drafts of six feet, and that naos, according to her deceased husband, lumber like oxen. Also, there are fourteen caravels which are more maneuverable and better in the shallows. But aside from the size, my eyes discern little difference.
As is the custom, there is no name on the vessel toward which we row, but sailors on shore have nicknamed her Tortoise, for they say she is the slowest ship in the fleet. To me, the looming round–bellied vessel with furled sails is both beautiful and terrifying. And though I have spent the last four days learning all I can from the innkeeper’s wife, I feel ill-prepared for what lies ahead. And so desolate.
If only Maria were sitting next to me. But she and her husband and sons trail in the boat behind. Sebastian’s presence gives me no comfort, or even Arias’—with all his fierce abilities as a knight—for they barely look at me, and talk only amongst themselves. The sudden sight of a white flag fluttering atop the mizzen mast, with its green cross, prompts me to pray for courage.
But the Merciful One has little time to answer, for presently we—our two oarsmen, Sebastian, Arias and I—and all our trunks, tie up alongside the Tortoise.
“You will have to climb Jacob’s Ladder,” says an oarsmen pointing to a long ladder hanging off the side of the ship. He leers at me much like the Keeper of the Fair leered at Beatriz, and it is plain he expects some reward in watching my assent.
The ladder is rope with wooden plank rungs, and appears frail and oh, so high. I have on fresh traveling clothes, and the skirt, which is voluminous, will be difficult to control if the wind grabs it.
Sebastian offers me his hand, which I take to steady myself in the rocking boat. Then I lunge for the thick ropes of the ladder, and clutch them firmly while I make my climb. My palms sweat as I move slowly from one rung to the next. And a wind does come, but fearing to release the ropes, I ignore it and let it take hold of my skirt. Finally, at the top, two ship’s boys help me board.
I can only imagine the perverse pleasure I have given the oarsmen. Not surprisingly, I see them grinning when I peer over the gunwale. But I am surprised to see Arias grinning, as well. And when I realize he does so without fear of offending Sebastian, I feel shame. I have been told sailors are superstitious and dislike both women and priests aboard their vessels, for they believe nothing summons the devil faster against a ship. Still, were women not respected at sea? And what of Arias Diaz? What was his excuse? Or Sebastian’s?
I wait by the gunwale as Sebastian boards, followed by Arias, and then our trunks, which are hoisted up in nets with block and tackle. And as soon as all our trunks lay piled near the waist hatchway, a man with thinning gray hair and ears the size of oranges, appears. In his hand he holds the passengers’ list. A ship’s boy, barefoot and wearing only a pair of wide-bottom pants that comes to his knees, whispers to me that this man is the ship’s master. I know from the innkeeper’s wife that it is the ship’s master, second in command to the captain, who manages the everyday administration of the ship, including the stowing of cargo. I am relieved, for this is the man whom Papa has bribed.
“Only two trunks each.” His face is firmly set.
Instantly, Sebastian pulls out a bag of coins, unties the string and produces a florin. “I believe there is some error. I have three trunks, and they all must go.”
“Your name, Señor?”
I am stunned
when Sebastian replies, “Don Sebastian Villarreal.” Were we not supposed to be discreet? And not use our names?
The ship’s master appears flustered as he fumbles through his papers.
“Perhaps it is under the name of Vivar,” I quickly add, and see instant displeasure on Sebastian’s face. But Papa has told me we would be listed under the Vivar name and why. Though the corrupt Bishop Fonseca took bribes from eager adventurers desiring passage, and though he ended up listing two hundred souls on his registry as unnamed “gentlemen volunteers” Papa did not approach him with a bribe. “Better to ply my money at the port of Cadiz,” he told me, “far from Fray Alonso and his spies.” So he paid the ship’s master on the Tortoise to write on the passengers’ list the following: Vivar, Gonzalo—native of Seville, with his wife, Maria Heredia, native of Seville, and their sons, Enrique, Juan and Luis, and three servants; we—Sebastian, Arias and I—being the servants.
“Please check under Vivar,” I say again, ignoring Sebastian’s glare. Though Señor Villarreal, too, has instructed Sebastian on these particulars, he seems determined to pretend otherwise.
The ship’s master clears his throat, “Yes, here you are, but still there is a limit, two trunks only. And yours, Señor, are so large I could rightly count each one as two.”
Without a word, Sebastian takes the ship’s master’s hand and shakes it. I suspect he is palming the coin. I am sure of it when the ship’s master quickly slips something into his pocket.
“Ah, what is this?” he says, pointing to his papers. “You are most fortunate, Señor. Most fortunate. It appears I carry less baggage than originally thought. You may take one more trunk, but only one.”
Six trunks lay at our feet: Sebastian’s three and my three. Sebastian frowns, then looks at me with distant eyes, and shrugs. “It will not be my codpieces or doublets or jerkins that are dumped into the sea.”
The Salt Covenants Page 10