“Yes, we have had dinner,” I said, devastated, and deeply regretting not having left the boy and the old man at the inn. Other than agreeing that we would travel together to Burgos, I didn’t have a good excuse for prolonging my time with Sara; it was clear that right then I couldn’t tell her the reason behind our journey, and she couldn’t tell me the reason behind hers. I decided that the only solution was to arrange to meet up later, when I had managed to get rid of my two companions but luckily Sara had had the same thought because as we were leaving, having arranged to meet outside Judah’s shop door the next day, she surreptitiously whispered in my ear that she would wait for me at the gate to the market as soon as the boy and the old man had fallen asleep.
At midnight, just before the hour of matins, Nobody’s rhythmic breathing and the boy’s incoherent jabbering told me that it was time to leave the room at the inn and go to meet Sara. I had to hide from the night patrols as I made my way there but at last I reached the gates of the market and made out the silhouettes of the two people who were waiting for me in the shadows.
“This is Solomon, Judah’s aydem (33),” Sara whispered, and taking me by the hand she pulled me towards the aljama. “Come. We are in danger here.”
Like three criminals on the run from justice, we stealthily snuck around the walls of the juderia and when we reached a corner hidden by the foothills of the mountain we went through a tiny gate hidden in the bushes.
After a few minutes we were again in Judah’s silk shop, who was patiently waiting for us, fanning the fire.
“Come, Solomon,” he said to his son-in-law. “They must talk alone.”
“Thank you, abba (34),” muttered Sara, letting the cloak that had been covering her head up until that point fall from her shoulders.
“Take a seat, sire,” she told me, pointing at two stools that had been placed in front of the fire for us.
If the world had have stopped then, if that night, that moment had lasted for eternity, I couldn’t have protested or demanded the return of the sun. I had enough to fill the rest of my life just looking at Sara’s face, illuminated by the fire and her white hair, hanging loosely, falling between the folds of the silk.
“Should I start, or you?” she asked with that impertinent tone of voice that I remembered so well from Paris.
“You start, ma’am, I’m very curious to know what you are doing here.”
Sara smiled and entertained herself looking at the red-hot logs. One of them split with a crack and spilled over the others.
“Remember that I had done some favors for Matilda of Artois, Philip the Long’s mother-in-law?”
“I do, you told me so yourself.”
“Well, it seems that her lady in waiting, Beatrice of Hirson, whom I later found out you had spoken to, told Matilda that it would be a good idea to make me disappear. I knew a lot about the King’s mother-in-law, so much that a slight insinuation could open Pandora’s box.”
“I’m sorry to have been the cause of your misfortune.”
“Oh, no, sire Galceran! You did me a favor!” she replied firmly, pushing her hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear. “If you hadn’t have kicked up the dirt, I would have probably spent the rest of my life in that dying ghetto in Paris. When a good friend of mine, who is also a lady of the court, told me that Matilda had ordered the troops to arrest me, I realized that I had been wasting my time, and that it was a sign for me to get a move on and do what I really want to do.”
“And what is that?” I asked intrigued.
“I’m not going to lie to you, seeing as your life is also involved with the Mendozas. But what I’m going to tell you must be kept a secret and your lips must never utter a single word of what I am about to confess.”
“I swear on my son,” I said, and remembered how many times I had made false promises throughout my life to get information, “that I will never say anything to anyone.”
“When Manrique of Mendoza had to escape from France, I promised that I would follow him as soon as I could. I’m sure you already guessed that we were lovers.”
“But he’s a monk!” I objected, shocked.
“And you are a fool, micer Galceran!” she said laughing. “Manrique is not the first or the last to have been with a woman. What world are you living in?”
“Listen, Sara, in the military orders the vote of chastity is one of the most important. The Temple, the Teutonic Order and the Hospital of St. John of Jerusalem severely punish sexual relationships with women. Any monk accused of such will lose his habit and the house, without the possibility of forgiveness.”
“Does your new Order of Montesa also punish as severely?”
She had a sarcastic smile on her lips as she reproached the false identity I had used, badly, when I met her in Paris. I raised my eyebrows and pursed my mouth, with an entertaining grin of apology, and continuing with the joke, I nodded.
“Well, in that case,” she said scornfully, “you are missing out on the most beautiful thing in life. I would happily be expelled from the world if necessary in exchange for the pleasure of love.”
Yes, a long time ago I felt the same way. But things were different then and I was a different person.
“So then, are you going to meet up with Manrique?”
“He told me to look for him in Burgos, that I would find him there. And that’s where I’m going.”
“We are also going to Burgos. You know that Isabel of Mendoza professes in the convent of Las Huelgas. It’s funny that brother and sister, so many years later, are in the same city,” I said, thinking out loud. “I want to see the mother of my child again and I want them to get to know each other. I also want Jonas to find out his true origin while we are there.”
“Is that the reason for your journey?”
Even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t have told her the truth, amongst many other reasons, because Sara was in love with a Templar and I was searching for, without too much success, the Templar gold for the Pope and for my Order. How could I even remotely insinuate the reason behind our pilgrimage? And on the other hand, how could we travel with her while trying to find the treasures without her noticing? In any case, Burgos was only two or three days away so the risk wasn’t that huge. Sara would then stay with Manrique and we would continue on to Compostela.
“That’s right, reuniting Jonas with Isabel, his mother, is the reason for our long journey.”
“Let me ask you, micer Galceran: Was the mission that took you to Paris a success?”
“It was, Sara, thanks to you. Evrard’s documents were really helpful in corroborating the suspicions that led to the investigation.”
“And that strange old man who’s accompanying you, that Nobody?”
“I don’t have a clue who he is. All I know is that shortly after crossing the Pyrenees, he turned up in our lives and we haven’t been able to shake him off.”
“There’s something strange about that man,” said Sara angrily, furrowing her brow, “something I don’t like.”
Just a minute! I told myself, Sara was right. I had felt the same distrust ever since the moment I met him and that feeling came from the fact that something wasn’t right about Nobody’s story.
“What’s wrong, sire Galceran? You look very pensive.”
Who the hell was that old man? Why did he know so much and why had he been so insistent in getting in the way of our visits to the Templar sites in Puente la Reina and Torres del Rio? It’s true, Nobody could be anybody, I told myself suspiciously, he could be anybody, because in actual fact, he wasn’t anybody, as his nickname pointed out but how could I find out his real identity, and above all, how could I confirm my suspicions ….
“Sire ….”
“Don’t worry, Sara,” I sighed, overwhelmed. “I’ve just realized something that may be important.”
“Do you want to tell me?”
“It’s best if I don’t tell you anything just yet but don’t be alarmed. I’m going to resolve thi
s matter very soon. What I need to know is if it would bother you terribly to cover the rest of the distance to Burgos on foot. It’s very likely we will have to do without our horses.”
“I would like to walk with you and Jonas, freire.”
“No, no!” I said alarmed. “You mustn’t call me by that name!”
“Why not? Are you not a monk?”
“Yes, yes I am,” I agreed, “but on this journey, for personal reasons, I cannot assume my real identity. As you have seen, Jonas answers to his real name of Garcia Galcerañez and I by my occupation as a knight. We are traveling as father and son, as pilgrims who are traveling in poverty until we reach Santiago. So I beg you, don’t let our secret out.”
“Let what secret out?”
“Our false identities,” I said surprised.
“What false identities?” she asked sarcastically.
The truth is that that witch had the ability to put me on edge but right then I couldn’t lose time getting irritated with her verbal games: I racked my brains thinking how to get rid of Nobody as soon as possible. There was no doubt in my mind that our traveling companion was dangerous and although I could have been wrong and the man was a saint there was no point in prolonging an association that I hadn’t liked from the start. And much less now that Sara was going to be traveling with us.
All of a sudden, I had a brilliant idea.
“Sara, is there a bowl around here I can use to heat water in?”
She looked at me puzzled.
“I guess so, I’ll have to look in the kitchen.”
“Please bring it, and also have a look to see whether Judah’s wife has rye and red currants.”
“What are going to do?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “You’ll see in a minute.”
While she disappeared inside the house, I opened my bag on the counter and looked for the bundle of herbs I had prepared in Ponç de Riba in case we needed any remedies during our trip.
Sara came straight back with a copper bowl full of water and a couple of cloth bags.
“Do you need anything else?”
“Put the bowl on the fire.”
When the water was boiling, I added the Corinthian currants and the rye, so as the basis of the mixture was sweet and soft. Then, opening a couple of pouches from my bag of remedies, I threw in a handful of Senna Alexandria flakes, and with the dagger, I took a generous tip of the fearsome powdered bark of Rhamnus frangula, also known as dogwood or buckthorn, depending on the region, whose bitter and harsh taste would be masked by the sweet pulp of the raisins. When the rye began to break down, I calculated the time, and after removing it from the fire, left it to decant for a few minutes and then poured it into a handkerchief, letting a bilious and fluid liquid that had the appearance of urine seep into my gourd.
“Well, it looks as though Nobody won’t be able to travel with us tomorrow,” the witch whispered with a mischievous smile.
“You understand my idea.”
“Too well, I’m afraid!”
I went back to the inn and snuck into the bedroom, where a tallow lamp was burning against the back wall in front of a statue of Our Lady. Stealthy as a cat and with all of my senses sharpened so as to avoid any mistakes, I grabbed Nobody’s gourd and poured part of the contents into mine, mixing it with the water. If everything went to plan, Nobody would take a large drink as soon as he woke up like he always did and although he would notice a strange taste to the liquid it would be too late for his intestines. With a bit of luck he may not even notice the taste due to his drowsy state.
And, just as I had thought, with the first light of dawn, the old man drank and shortly after the purgative began to take effect: His cries of pain could be heard throughout the inn while he ran — almost flew — in just his shirt towards the stables, holding onto his stomach. Jonas watched him from his bed with an amused look on his face, amazed at the speed with which the old man moved his legs to go and unload his stomach.
“Is he ill?” he asked, watching Nobody’s new race to the door.
“I don’t think so. It must just be an upset stomach from something he ate last night.”
“Well, he’s already been to the stables four times. No one’s going to be able to go in there to get the animals. Can’t you give him anything to make him better?”
“I’m afraid,” I replied, hiding a smile, “that there is nothing I can do for him.”
Nevertheless, while we were eating our bread and milk soup, the painful look of the sick man moved me, and I recommended that he drink clay well diluted in water three times a day to toughen up his stomach. If he didn’t get better, I told him, it would be best if he went to the Hospital of St. James, on the outskirts of the city.
“It goes without saying that I do not have enough strength to continue traveling,” he whispered.
“We can’t hang about, my friend. Don’t forget that Sara is in a hurry to get to Burgos as soon as possible and she is waiting for us at the aljama as we speak.”
A spiteful look crossed his face.
“The horses are mine and they stay with me, so decide what you want to do.”
“Well, we thank you for your help in finding our friend,” I said, “but I’m sure you understand that now that we have found her we must continue our journey with her and not with you.”
The old man had a look of silent disbelief on his face.
“But your friend is traveling on a horse,” he protested.
“No, not anymore.”
“Well, I’ll catch up with you in a day or two.” It was almost a threat.
“And we’ll be glad to have you back as a traveling companion,” I lied.
We met Sara at the doors to the aljama and headed out of Najera, leaving Royal St. Mary behind and going on towards Azofra. We were laughing and euphoric as we crossed the red earth, full of vineyards which flanked the path. It was like the distance that Nobody had created between Jonas and myself had disappeared as if by magic. The boy went back to being the same smart, clever and intelligent lad he had proved to be during our journey to Paris. The sky was still overcast and the sunlight was sad and gray but our conversation was so up-beat that we didn’t even notice the discomfort that came from treading on the mud that covered the roads.
In Azofra, we headed for St. Millan of the Cogolla to ask for food at midday. We were very surprised to see that St. Millan, contrary to what it seemed, was not just one monastery but two, and rather far apart: St. Millan of Suso — at the top — and St. Millan of Yuso — at the bottom —. The monastery at the top, the Suso monastery, was reached through a small forest which opened up to a courtyard where there was a very beautiful Visigothic and Mozarabic church. I had not seen many places like it in my life. The famous poet Gonzalo of Berceo had been raised there, had lived there, and had gotten his name from being born there. Gonzalo wrote the Miracles of Our Lady, twenty-five poems in which the miraculous intercession of the Virgin saves her devotees by granting them forgiveness. He was also the author of other well-known works such as the Poem of St. Oria, spiritual companion of St. Millan, and the Life of St. Dominic of Silos. His well-deserved fame came from having been the first person to publish his works in the local language, and not in Latin, as he himself explained in the verses: I want to write in Spanish Latin, the one the people, not educated enough for any other Latin, talk to one another in, as good, I do believe, as a glass of good wine
The alabaster tomb of St. Millan, a beautifully carved, black alabaster, was located opposite the entrance to the temple which was accessed through a gallery full of tombs. Once inside, I could see a nave split in two by a strange series of arches, ending in a pair of arches that provided access to two identical chapels at the end of the enclosure.
But the numerous tombs in that place did not end there: towards the apse, a wooden staircase gave access to the remains of the primitive monastery formed by low walls that joined crypts where the bodies of the first monks from that strange chapel were buried. One of t
he crypts in particular caught my attention because it was bricked in by a wall that had bunches of fresh flowers in front of it.
“Who does that niche belong to?” I asked a Benedictine who was passing by.
“This is the cell where St. Oria, our patron saint, was confined along with St. Millan, who came from this sacred place.”
“What do you mean she was confined?” asked poor Sara, terrified, unaccustomed to certain Christian penances and martyrdoms.
The monk acted as if he hadn’t heard her (or seen her) and began to explain to me the history of St. Oria, who had come to Suso in 1052 at the age of nine, accompanied by her mother, Doña Amuña. Logically, she immediately felt the Lord’s call and had wanted to dedicate her life to prayer and penance. However, her desire to profess there was rejected as it was a male monastery and it was not very usual in those parts for a woman to take on the life of a hermit. Even though Oria begged, cried and insisted, she was still refused, so the girl decided to confine herself for life in a cell close to the church where her presence would not bother the monks and the only thing they did for her for twenty years (the time it took her to die) was toss food and water through a tiny window.
“That is the most awful story I have heard in my life!” exclaimed Sara when the Benedictine had disappeared, very satisfied, down the hill. “I can’t believe that a nine year old girl would beg to be confined until death! That must have been her mother’s doing.”
“What does it matter? The fact is that she confined herself,” I muttered distractedly, staring at the wall that covered the cell-tomb. It was a solid wall of stones stuck together with mortar.
Was it my imagination … or was I seeing what I thought I was seeing? I couldn’t believe my eyes. Step by step, I started to draw a semicircle around the wall to make sure.
“What on earth are you doing?” cried the witch in a rather unfriendly tone.
I looked at her, my eyes sparkling and full of enthusiasm.
“Come here! You too, Jonas! Stand here, yes here, like this, so that you can fully appreciate the stones against the sun. What do you see?”
Iacobus Page 20