He’d spend hours with my father exercising the birds and, unlike the other nobles who were only interested in hunting with them, he was eager to learn every aspect of their care. He and my father had high hopes that the pair of gyrfalcons would breed next season. They’d been excitedly planning how the chicks might be hatched beneath a bantam hen and then hacked to teach them to return, a method my father had not often had cause to try, since most falcons and hawks, except the royal gyrfalcon, could be so easily replaced by trapping wild adult birds in migration.
Motherless and fatherless, all the lonely little boy’s affection was poured into those white falcons, and I believe also into my father whom he treated like a wise grandparent. I confess to feeling a pang of jealousy sometimes when I saw the two of them together. Little Sebastian so absorbed in helping my father to mend a broken feather. My father smiling down at him in the way I could imagine he might have smiled at his own son had he been blessed with one. My father would have denied it vehemently, but I knew I could never make amends for not being a boy.
‘But Father, surely little Sebastian won’t be there today? He’s only a child.’
My father grimaced. ‘His great-uncle, the Regent, insists he witness the auto-da-fé. He says Sebastian must learn to recognize and hate the enemies of the Church and of Portugal. I only hope for the boy’s sake he will be able to do what is required of him. It is something no human being should have to see, let alone a child. And you …’ He stroked my hair sadly. ‘Isabela, please believe me, if I could have brought your mother instead of you, I would have done so, but we both know …’ He trailed off miserably.
I tried to smile. ‘I know. Mother is too …’ It was my turn to grope for the word. ‘Sensitive,’ I finished lamely.
There was a whole bible of words you could use to describe my mother – beautiful, volatile, caustic, bitter – but sensitive certainly wasn’t one of them. What my father meant, what we both meant, was that she couldn’t be trusted not to open her mouth. Whatever thought slithered through her mind seemed to wiggle its way out between her lips without any attempt at censor. And most of her thoughts were vicious ones. Not that I blamed her, not really. Her husband, me and her whole life had been a constant disappointment to her. We’d all let her down, as she was forever reminding us in her sighs, her clenched-teeth humming and the crashing of pots and pans.
When she had married a man newly taken into royal service, she had expected a life of luxury at Court, of dancing and entertainment, of pearl-encrusted gowns and jewelled necklaces. Everyone said she was certain to be chosen as one of the ladies-in-waiting to the queen herself, for my mother had been strikingly handsome in her youth. But instead she was dealt a life scarcely better than a peasant’s, exiled to Sintra and married to a man who, she said, cared nothing for his family or for bettering himself, but only for his lousy stinking birds.
My father, faced with one of my mother’s furious tirades, would always gently reply that he was simply more content to spend his years peacefully among his falcons instead of having to tiptoe his way through the spiteful intrigue and rivalry of the Royal Court. And I didn’t blame him, though, of course, I never dared say so in front of my mother.
Father took both my hands in his. ‘Isabela, listen to me carefully. You must not look at any individual in the procession for too long or it will appear to others as if you are taking an interest in them. These things will be noticed. Try to let your gaze wander indifferently over the penitents as if they were a flock of sheep being driven to market. If among the penitents you should see anyone you know, a neighbour, a friend even … don’t let your eyes meet theirs. No one must see the slightest flicker of recognition in you, not for any of them.’
I gaped at him. ‘But we don’t know anyone who is a heretic.’
I could just imagine my mother’s outrage at the very suggestion. We were Old Christians from good Catholic stock and proud of it, as she never ceased to remind me.
Father gnawed at his lip. ‘No one knows who will be brought out of the dungeons until the procession begins. But what I do know is that they will have planted spies everywhere amongst the crowd. They will be watching everyone who comes to witness the spectacle, looking for any sign of sympathy or pity, and if they see it they will report it to the Inquisition. The auto-da-fé takes many hours, but no matter how tired and hungry you become, you must not relax your guard for an instant.’
‘Do try to keep up, child. We must hurry if we want the best seats.’
Senhora Dona Ofelia peered anxiously behind her to ensure I was still with her. But much as I would have liked to lose her, it would have been impossible, for that vast billowing scarlet gown was surely visible even to ships far out at sea. Dona Ofelia was the wife of a Court official and my father had persuaded her to act as my chaperone, for he was required to attend upon the young king’s pleasure.
I stared glumly at her massive backside as she deftly squeezed her hoops between the benches on the raised platform. I was still struggling to force my skirts to walk in a straight line in the street without knocking over small children or dragging stray dogs and startled pigeons in their wake.
Dona Ofelia sat down, then immediately stood up again, moving along the bench before sitting and at once bouncing up again, trying half a dozen positions until she had assured herself she had secured the best possible view not only of the square, but of the royal dais to the side of us. Opposite us a great altar had been erected, on which stood huge fat yellow candles and what I guessed must be a cross, though it was covered with a heavy black cloth.
The benches around us were filling up fast with families of Court officials, town dignitaries and wealthy merchants. The ordinary populace of Lisbon was gathering along the other two sides of the square and lining the streets beyond. The air throbbed with chattering and laughter, and with the bellows of the street vendors offering wine or cooling sherbet drinks; and for those who were hungry there were oranges, olives, cheese, almonds, custard pastries, roasted sardines and hot spiced bread fresh from the ovens. Friars and priests were trying to drive them away, for the auto-da-fé was supposed to be witnessed while fasting, but the standing crowd had come determined to enjoy themselves and no disapproving priest was going to stop them.
Dona Ofelia snapped her fingers, attracting the attention of one of the vendors who was renting out well-stuffed cushions. She rejected the one he proffered and insisted on pinching and poking almost a dozen until she found two that she considered worthy of our posteriors.
‘Some of these cushions have more lumps than a cobbled yard,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to get one that’s been sat on by a great fat sow like her, ruins them,’ she added, nudging me and gesturing to a woman two benches down from us, who looked as thin as a whippet compared to Dona Ofelia.
Finally settling herself with a sigh of contentment, she drew out a long fan and flapped it vigorously, though the morning sun had barely risen above the great buildings.
The banners of the Holy Office of the Inquisition fluttered from the roofs and balconies around the square. On each flag was painted a bright green cross flanked by an olive branch and a sword, to reassure everyone that the Inquisition dealt equally in forgiveness and justice, mercy and punishment.
I peered around, trying to see my father, and glimpsed him standing among the throng of courtiers behind the royal dais. His head was bowed slightly as he listened to the chatter of the man beside him. He wouldn’t say much, he never did. Mother said he was a fool for not pushing himself forward. She complained that he made no attempt to ingratiate himself and win friends who could help him rise.
Dona Ofelia nudged me and gestured towards the royal dais itself. A line of soldiers stood guard in front of it, their breastplates polished until their own nostril hair was reflected in them. At the slightest movement of their chests, dazzling bursts of sunlight bounced off the metal and darted about the square like dragonflies.
‘There’s King Sebastian himself.’ Don
a Ofelia levered herself up for a better look. ‘See how regally he holds his little head. Bless him. Poor little mite, he’s the whole weight of the kingdom on his tiny shoulders. But he’s going to be a heartbreaker, that one. When he was born, the astrologers said that every noblewoman in the world would throw themselves in his path. Not that you need the stars to tell you that – who wouldn’t want to be his queen?’
I craned around the head of the man in front. A small blond child sat on a great gilded throne that would have dwarfed even a fully grown man. His tiny feet, clad in red leather boots, rested on an embroidered footstool. I had never seen him in his royal robes before or looking so clean. It was hard to believe it was the same little boy who would emerge from the mews covered in bird muck and blood after feeding the falcons with scraps of raw meat.
But there was no look of rapt attention on the young king’s face today. He was fidgeting and leaning over the arms of his throne, peering down at the soldiers below him as if he’d much prefer to be standing guard with a sword in his hand than sitting on a throne. Two priests dressed in severe black cassocks stood just behind him. One of them bent down to whisper something to the king and the boy jerked upright, evidently obeying an order to sit still. It was the first time I had seen these two men among the young king’s retinue and they certainly did not seem to behave with the deference most of his other courtiers showed towards Sebastian.
‘Those two priests,’ I whispered to Dona Ofelia, ‘who are they?’
‘The king’s new tutors. Jesuits, very devout men. They fight against the heresy of the evil Protestants. I hear they keep a strict hand on the young king, as they should.’ She pursed her red lips and nodded approvingly. ‘Boys, even kings, must be taught to –’
But what boys must be taught I never learned, for Dona Ofelia was interrupted by a fanfare of trumpets, and she struggled to her feet, pulling me up with her. Everyone rose, except the boy-king, as another figure mounted the royal dais. He was a tall, gaunt-faced man dressed in the scarlet robes of a cardinal. He turned to face the crowd lining the square, repeatedly making the sign of the cross in blessing over them, as his imperious gaze swept over the throng. As the raised hand moved in their direction, the people bowed their heads, hastily crossing themselves as if his blessing was more like a curse to be warded off. Only when the robed figure took his seat on the empty throne next to the boy did those of us lucky enough to have benches sink back down on to them again.
‘Ah,’ Dona Ofelia sighed with satisfaction. ‘That’s who we were waiting for. Now the procession will begin, you’ll see. That’s Cardinal Henry of Évora, the King’s great-uncle. He used to be the Grand Inquisitor.’ Dona Ofelia suddenly raised her voice so that her words must have been audible at least three rows in front and behind us. ‘We’re fortunate to have such a godly man as Cardinal Henry for Regent.’ Then, in case there should be any doubt where her loyalties lay, she declaimed, ‘There is none more dedicated to purging Portugal of evil than the Regent.’
A cry of Viva la fé, Long live the faith, rose from the crowd as the first glimpses of the procession were visible, approaching the square.
‘What kind of monks are those?’ I whispered, as a phalanx of hooded men in black bowed low to the royal thrones. They each carried a wooden rod.
‘Monks!’ Dona Ofelia echoed indignantly. She looked at me through narrowed eyes as if she wasn’t sure if I was mocking the procession or was just extremely ignorant. She evidently decided on the latter. ‘They’re not monks, child. They’re the Guild of Charcoal Burners. They provide the wood for the fires, so the cardinals have given them the honour of leading the procession. Has your father not described the procession to you?’
I was spared the necessity for a reply, as Dona Ofelia was distracted by the entrance into the square of a man bearing the red and gold standard of the Inquisitor-General. The Inquisitor-General himself strutted behind his flag bearer, flanked by two lines of his own soldiers and followed by a long procession of priests and monks from many different orders, all anxious to prove their support for the Inquisition.
Some of them staggered under the weight of the crosses, icons and reliquaries they carried reverently in their hands. The remainder shouldered biers on which rested life-sized statues of saints. A bejewelled statue of the Holy Virgin followed them, smiling distantly at the crowd below her as if she wished herself anywhere but here. Sunlight flashed from the gold and silver crosses and from the many precious stones that encrusted the reliquaries and the robes of the wooden saints. Many of the crowd sank to their knees, stretching out their hands in supplication, and wailing out their prayers as the holy objects were whisked past them.
But they rose just as quickly to their feet as the Dominican friars entered, and the pious prayers of the crowd turned to hisses and shouts of rage, for the friars carried ten life-sized wooden figures into the square. These were not hung with jewels or crowned with halos. The monks stood them in a neat straight row before the altar, like children lining up toy soldiers. Each crudely carved wooden figure had what looked like words inscribed on its chest. I leaned forward trying to read the letters, until I realized Dona Ofelia was watching me.
‘You recognize one of the names, child?’
I snapped upright. ‘No, I was … I just … the statues, they’re not saints, are they?’
Dona Ofelia closed her eyes and crossed herself. ‘Those are the likenesses of the wicked men and women who escaped before the Inquisition could bring them to mercy,’ she whispered in awed tones, as though running away to avoid arrest was too heinous a crime even to be spoken aloud.
I could see her lips moving, but whatever she was saying now was drowned out by the renewed hissing and shouted obscenities of the crowd as several more friars appeared bearing small coffin-shaped boxes.
Dona Ofelia thrust her face so close to me I could smell what she’d eaten for breakfast – spicy morcela blood-sausage, judging by the stink of her breath. ‘Those coffins contain the bones of the wicked heretics who died in the Inquisition’s dungeons,’ she bellowed down my ear, ‘and those who’ve been found guilty of heresy after their death. Their bodies have been dug up, so they can be punished. They needn’t think that dying will let them escape,’ she added with grim satisfaction.
As the tiny coffins were borne past, people began spitting and throwing clods of excrement and rotten vegetables at them. But they seemed to be exceedingly bad marksmen, for most of the missiles hit the friars instead of the coffins, much to the amusement of many young lads in the crowd, who whooped with delight and slapped one another on the back. The friars glared furiously, but could do nothing.
A sullen silence now descended as forty or fifty men and women limped and shuffled into the square, each one flanked on either side by two black-hooded familiaries, the lay agents of the Inquisition, who in some cases were virtually carrying the prisoner between them, for these emaciated figures could hardly stand, never mind walk. I felt my heart begin to race. This was the moment my father had warned me about. I dug my fingers into the palms of my hands and fought to keep my expression blank.
The prisoners were all dressed in the sanbenito, the uniform of the heretic. It was a broad yellow tabard reaching below their knees on which was painted the cross of St Andrew, with single, double or half cross-pieces according to the severity of their crime. On their heads they wore a tall hat, like a bishop’s mitre, painted with flames and grinning devils. Nooses of thick rope hung from their necks and in their hands they carried unlit candles. Some of these cowering creatures were aged, their hair grey, their faces the colour of a blade of grass that has been kept too long from the light. Others were as young as the boy-king himself, their cheeks sunken and wizened like tiny goblins who dwelled deep in the earth.
I told myself that I mustn’t look at the faces, but I couldn’t help it. They stood in a miserable huddle, some gazing around them at the other prisoners or at the crowd, desperately searching for a glimpse of their family members
who had been arrested with them. I watched their eyes dart to the little coffins. I knew they were heretics and I should be glad they’d been caught. But I just felt so sorry for them, and then I felt guilty for feeling sorry.
The hissing in the crowd began again, like a fire racing across a field of grain. The final little group was dragged in. A dozen or so men and women, they too wore the yellow sanbenito, but their tabards as well as their hats were painted with leaping flames and devils. All of them had leather gags tied tightly over their mouths.
Dona Ofelia was on her feet, shouting along with the crowd – Heretics, blasphemers, Jewish pigs, sons of the Devil!
She turned to me, her eyes glittering with excitement. ‘They’re the ones who are to be burned. There’ll be no escape for them. They’ll burn in this world as their souls will burn in hell.’
I glanced over at my father. He was staring anxiously at me. Our eyes met and he gave the briefest jerk of his head. I knew he wanted me to stand and join in the jeering. But I wouldn’t. The crowd opposite were howling and throwing every piece of dung and filth they could lay hands on at these broken, terrified wretches. And for the first time in my life, I felt my mother’s anger at Father’s timidity – Behave like everyone else, don’t draw attention to yourself. Why should I? The Inquisition couldn’t arrest you if you hadn’t committed a crime, and certainly not for refusing to behave like a savage ape.
The crowd were trying to surge forward now and vent their fury on the prisoners. The guards fought to hold them back. Then suddenly a young boy in the first group of penitents seemed to recognize one of the condemned. Before his two familiaries could stop him, he had dropped his unlit candle and stumbled towards the group, his arms held out. ‘Mother! Mother!’
The Falcons of Fire and Ice Page 3