From what she could gather from Don Rafael, that most discreet of Arms Men, it seemed that her brother◦– presumably in a fit of Quixotic idealism, a dangerous thing that he had always been prone to◦– had placed his sword at the disposal of Queen Sophia, another Aragonese usurper, at Aranjuez because ‘the Christian soul of Spain’ was imperilled by traitors to the best interests of the Mother Church and the State.
Even her third-party conversations with Alonso tended to be conflicted, unsatisfactory affairs; as had this most recent encounter with Don Rafael, conducted at the main gates to the Monasterio de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción by the flickering light of shielded candles in the rising wind and spitting rain of the coming storm. Up here in what foreigners lazily◦– incorrectly if one was being pedantic◦– called ‘the Mountains of Madrid’ in their verse and songs, winter was still upon them and often, it delivered one last frigid blast before it surrendered, coldly to the inevitable spring.
Alonso knew that she could not refuse sanctuary.
Isabella de Guzman, born the daughter of the House of Medina Sidonia, had renounced her titles, wealth and earthly privileges of her birth in mid-life. She had not come to Christ as a virgin supplicant but originally to make sense of the grief and despair of losing her husband, Miguel, to a stupid hunting accident and her son, Carlos, to a dreadful, inherited wasting illness. She had loved Miguel, they had abjured the customary civil restraints upon marriage between first cousins, turning to the Mother Church to bless their union. And in the end God had sundered them, as if to mock the happiness of their time on earth together. Her life had become a penance, an atonement to ensure her husband’s and her dear son’s souls rested easy in the arms of their Lord. That she had eventually become Sister Isabella, La Superiora of the sublime house consecrated in the time of la Reconquista, had followed with the inevitability of night following day.
That evening the two bedraggled, dirty, footsore, near-exhausted, hungry, thirsty New Englanders swaying unsteadily on the cold stone floor of Sister Isabella’s bare-walled, dungeon-like unwelcoming ‘day room’ found themselves under the relentless, hard-eyed scrutiny of a woman who customarily had no patience whatsoever for human frailty.
“You,” the old woman said eventually after a long, horrible silence as she appraised the newcomers, “are self-evidently not what Don Rafael or my well-meaning but feckless brother claim that you are?”
Melody had hissed at Henrietta: ‘Leave the talking to me,’ as they had stood, shivering outside the monastery while La Superiora berated Don Rafael in clipped, mightily vexed Castilian before that dignified, but harshly chastened gentleman was finally dismissed.
Don Rafael had departed without a sidelong glance at them.
“I beg your pardon,” Melody had begun in French. Smiled apologetically, re-started in halting Catalan, “my Spanish is,” she shrugged and held out her arms in what she hoped might pass for Gallic confusion. ‘Not good, I…”
“SILENCIO!”
Melody swallowed hard.
Okay, that did not go as well as I had hoped…
“You,” the old woman spat at her, “you, I can see could be one of my brother’s mistresses. You’re his type.”
Melody recoiled, opened her mouth to defend the accusation that she was anybody’s ‘type’, but thought better of it the next moment.
The other woman had already turned her piercing, hawk-like stare onto Henrietta who was doing her best, and failing, not to wilt under its merciless glare.
“Whereas, you, are not Alonso’s type. Whatever else, he is no ravisher of virgins!”
Henrietta took offense to this.
“I’m not a…”
“Silencio!” Sister Isabella moved around the ancient, less than flat and much knotted table at the centre of the room and stood directly before the women. “My brother rarely asks me for anything. Now he sends me you two. Marija,” she looked to Henrietta, “and Carmen,” this to Melody. “So, although you cannot possibly be what you seem to be, yet my brother has assumed a debt of honour to you both.”
The silence deepened.
“What do you expect us to say, La Superiora?” Melody inquired, too tired to hide her irritation. She had spoken in Spanish, deliberately mimicking the accent and subtle dialect of the peoples of the mountains separating the Community of Madrid from neighbouring La Mancha. “We are strangers in this land who must trust our lives to the kindness of,” she shrugged, “other strangers.”
The old woman appeared not to have heard her then relented, shaking her head.
“Yes,” she sighed, letting down her guard momentarily, “are definitely my brother’s type.”
Melody quirked a grimace of acknowledgement.
Alonso’s sister probably had a point but this was hardly the time to be discussing the complicated◦– actually, messy◦– ins and outs of her sexuality.
Sister Isabella was stone-faced again.
“Has Alonso’s infatuation with that harlot in the Royal Palace of Aranjuez caused,” she gestured with an angry hand, “all this?”
Melody hesitated.
“I don’t think so. Or rather, I’d be very surprised if it had anything to do with… well, whatever is going on… I know nothing of Alonso’s influence in Queen Sophia’s Court but whatever seems to be going on in Madrid, or elsewhere, is much bigger than just court gossip or intrigue. Men came to Chinchón to capture or kill us, I don’t know which. Alonso went away, we think to Aranjuez several days ago. Otherwise, like you, we know only what Don Rafael was able to tell us, La Superiora.”
“So, who are you?”
“I’m nobody. Not in the big picture of things,” Melody replied.
“Nobody but my brother’s favoured mistress?”
Why were nuns always so obsessed with sex?
“That is none of your business, My Lady,” Melody retorted, baring her claws Minx-like, replying as if she was speaking to the woman as an aristocrat not a maid of God.
“So, are you nothing?” The old woman snapped at Henrietta.
“Hen,” Melody pleaded.
Too late.
“I am Lady Henrietta De L’Isle, the daughter of the Governor of the Commonwealth of New England…”
She might have added ‘oh, bother’ or something more descriptive of her sudden foolishness in allowing herself to be so easily provoked. However, by then Henrietta had worked out that she should not have risen to the bait and it was already far too late to take anything back.
“We are both fully accredited members of the British Diplomatic Mission. Unfortunately, that does not seem to count for anything in this country anymore.”
Sister Isabella’s eyes had widened a fraction.
She folded her arms across her chest.
She sighed.
“Listen to me very carefully,” she declared quietly, “you are the harlot Marija, and your friend is your partner in shame, Carmen. As such you will be treated accordingly by this House. You will live like my lowliest noviciates, you will eat, work, dress and deport yourselves in atonement without complaint and obey every instruction you are given without protest.”
Melody had no idea if this was good or bad news.
Luckily, she was beyond caring.
“I will leave you for a few minutes. There are things I must arrange if you are to be inducted into our community. You will not be with us very long but it is important that you do nothing to betray your true identities. When I return you will speak only in French or Catalan, the latter badly, I think…”