The Sisterhood (17 page)
The Abbess says that to begin, we must imagine a stranger to the order opening this book, perhaps many years hence. To introduce such a reader to the matters contained in the Chronicle, she thinks it helpful if I begin with my own consecration into the order, the reasons for my appointment as scribe, and the particular circumstances which led to the keeping of this book. Otherwise I would never venture to write of my unworthy self, first or indeed at all, but it is my duty to obey the Abbess in all things.
After three years as a novice following the birth of my daughter Salome at the convent, I took my final vows and the name Sor Beatriz on Salome’s third birthday. She shared the joy of the day, and sat by my side at the feast of welcome in the
sala grande
. The other sisters fed her tidbits and sweets like she was a baby bird.
Salome shares my cell. The Abbess will not permit my child to be separated from me to live among the orphans, saying in her forthright way that at least one child in the convent shall have her mother. I hardly dared hope for such indulgence. The child keeps a nun’s day, waking briefly when I rise in the early hours for Terce, then joining us in the chapel for Mass. She is very obedient, understanding that her mother and the others must have quiet at certain times as they examine their consciences or meditate, and that at other times we are very busy, so that she spends most of her waking hours with the orphanage children sharing their dolls and toys as I go about my work. The rest of the time she is petted and chided and prayed with and told stories of the saints by all the sisters. I share her with many mothers.
I expected to be assigned the lowliest tasks in the convent, but the Abbess wished me to assist elderly Sor Angela, who had presided over the scriptorium for thirty-five years. Though strong in her faith, Sor Angela was a fierce guardian of her domain. Under her direction I cataloged and dusted books and scrolls and manuscripts, mixed ink and prepared quills, trimmed candles, kept the seals and wax in their places, made sure there was clean sand for blotting, and saw that each child in the orphanage had her own small missal and lives of the saints. The one thing which earned Sor Angela’s grudging approval was my handwriting—she repeatedly said it was a blessing I had at least been taught to write quickly and neatly. When Sor Angela died in her sleep a month ago, the Abbess said that I was best placed to assume her duties.
Until now the scribe dealt mainly with convent correspondence—business matters and requests for methods of preparing medicines or the arrangements in our infirmaries, as well as overseeing the records and books and documents stored in the scriptorium. Our Abbess, who is young and likes order and efficiency, has never liked the keeping of our records in a haphazard method
on scrolls, and has always believed the convent should have a proper Chronicle, especially so there is a meticulous record of the times when our beloved Foundress has appeared to the convent in a vision. On these occasions the Foundress has always appeared for a particular purpose—to give advice or a warning. Her words were always dictated meticulously to the scribe, that they might be consulted when necessary.
The scriptorium was of course open to all the order—it has been our rule since the community’s earliest days that knowledge is shared and all the nuns are educated, able to read and write, to know arithmetic and Latin. But Sor Angela allowed no one else to touch the scrolls, insisting that they be stored in a particular order that only she understood, in a certain alcove, behind a curtain. Even the Abbess hesitated if she wished to consult the scrolls, both because of Sor Angela and because locating anything was difficult. But while Sor Angela ruled the scriptorium nothing could be done.
Sor Angela did not know that it was also my duty to keep watch on her, as she occasionally knocked over a candle without realizing. Alas, had she set the scriptorium aflame, it could have done no less damage than her method of storage.
Last week as I was mixing ink to answer a letter, the Abbess came and wished to read the account of the Foundress’s words when she last appeared in a vision, an event that had taken place over thirty years earlier. She would not have me stand and fetch it, so I directed her to the alcove where the scrolls were kept, and had just dipped my nib into the ink when the Abbess’s screams shattered the peace. I dropped my pen and hurried to her as fast as my bad leg allowed, fearing she had disturbed a nest of vipers and had been bitten. Instead, behind the curtain, the alcove was a mess of ragged pieces of chewed sheepskin and shreds of vellum—the work of rats! The Abbess and I were quite overcome by the horror of it and wept together for the loss.
“Perhaps,” said the Abbess, drying her eyes with her sleeve, “it is not quite so bad as it looks.” But it was. Even without the rats, many scrolls had disintegrated, brittle with age or mildewed and illegible. Some crumbled to dust in our hands.
As we sifted through the mess the Abbess sighed. “A letter has come from the Holy Office of the Inquisition that makes me uneasy and I was seeking the Chronicle entry of the last time our Foundress appeared. I believe it was shortly after our Catholic monarchs Isabella and Ferdinand married, and she warned they had vowed to unite Spain under the Christian faith, drive the Moors out and, with the pope’s blessing, would strengthen the Inquisition’s powers to purge the country of heretics and infidels. The Foundress warned of terror to come and advised how to protect the Gospel. That is what I need to know. Because the letter says they will begin a systematic examination of religious houses like ours which enjoy the patronage of the royal family, as ‘the involvement of the royal family requires regular confirmation of the purity of the faith and the absence of heretics.’ They are looking for Muslims and Jews of course, and even if there are none, the Inquisition has methods that will discover them, or at least
conversos
who are automatically suspect. Bah! It is an evil thing the Inquisition does, to sow division among those who serve God and help the poor. Our order has lived peacefully under Romans and Visigoths and longest of all, our Moorish rulers. We have always held the Prophet Muhammad in great respect, and like both Jews and Muslims, the first Christians attributed all things to God’s will. We have much in common, whether Jew, Muslim, or Christian, only God can judge among us. And yet the church sows dissention and bloodshed. And we must do what we can.” She had made a pile of scraps while she spoke, but it was impossible to see how one of these shreds joined to one another.
Then I made a happy discovery—the most recent scroll, being newer, had fared better, chewed but still partly legible. “Here is something, Abbess. This piece fits with that one. See…one can make some sense of the writing…
In the reign of Abu l-Hasan Ali, Sultan of Granada, our Foundress came to us…
”
The Abbess exclaimed, “A miracle!
Deo gratias
. I believe it was in the reign of Abu l-Hasan Ali! Is the rest legible? Can you make it out?”
“Not yet. I will try and copy out what is legible and find the sense of it. But Abbess, I have an idea. Why not use this opportunity to begin a proper Chronicle of our order, as you have always wished? We could use the Abenzucars’ gift.”
The Abenzucars—a bittersweet name, even now—had sent us a very fine gift for the scriptorium: a large book of blank vellum pages, beautifully cured so they were almost translucent, superior to the old scrolls, which stank of goat. It is bound in leather and gold, and even has a gold swallow on the cover. It was sent in thanks for a healing balm of herbs from our garden, herbs that will not grow at a lower height, supplied to the Abenzucars when their youngest daughter would not heal after childbirth and they feared for her life. The girl recovered,
Deo gratias
. Salome’s aunt. “The book will be easier to protect against rats than the jumble of old scrolls and will last for many years.”
The Abbess nodded and rose to her feet, brushing the dust off her hands. “We must remember, God sends even disasters for a purpose. Yes, use the Abenzucars’ book. It is large, and if you write small and close, it will hold a great deal. And of course, a single book can be protected—and transported—in a way the scrolls cannot. And I see another advantage. Our Gospel is disintegrating; it could be copied into the new Chronicle before it, too, is lost.”
The Gospel! I had not thought of that, but the Abbess was right. Although the rats could not damage it where it is kept in a silver casket, time was destroying it. Though the nuns of course know the Gospel by heart, it is a custom of the order that on the eve of a nun’s consecration, she has a special audience with the Abbess to receive the Abbess’s blessing and words of welcome, and is shown our great treasure, the ancient Gospel. When my turn came I watched nervously as she lifted it from its silver casket. The precious document resembled a bundle of dry leaves, crumbling with age so that flakes of it fell on her lap. In truth its condition, even unchewed by rats, is little better than our poor destroyed scrolls.
The Abbess was right, our Gospel must be copied soon or it will be lost. But it must also be kept from the Inquisition, for the same reasons they must not find this Chronicle with its mention of the Foundress’s appearances and the Abbess’s medal. Both undermine the doctrines and power of a church where men have refashioned God in man’s image, and denied women’s true spirituality. Discovery would doom us all, and the destruction that would follow would prevent the truth ever coming to light, as the Abbess believes will happen someday.
The Abbess rose to her feet and brushed her hands together briskly. “Copy the Gospel into the middle of the book—in Latin, just as it is now—and let our Chronicle be written around it to symbolize our order’s embrace of the holy book. And if everything is together it will make better sense if someone is to read it many years hence. Let the maid tidy the scriptorium, and tell her to put the scraps on the fire when you have finished with them.”
Obedient to the Abbess’s wishes, I worked by day and by candlelight to recover the following account of the Foundress’s last appearance:
1470 Anno Domini. Peace…all who read…reign of Abu l-Hasan Ali, Sultan of Granada…the Abbess a vision…Foundress…news…Infanta Isabella of Castile defied King Henry…Infante Ferdinand…of Aragon…Spain…God’s kingdom…Moors crushed and banished…Queen Isabella…pilgrimage to Las Golondrinas…the Carthaginian road…Beware the Inquisition will…remember the fate of the Cathars…Carcassone…Gran Canaria…a mission the Gospel…the medal.
The Abbess and I interpret this as a warning of the Inquisition’s interest in Las Golondrinas, on the queen’s account. Queen Isabella did make a pilgrimage here after the final defeat of the Moors, and vowed to be a patron of Las Golondrinas to honor the courage of a Christian order that kept the light of faith alive through centuries of the Muslim darkness. Royal ladies are still our patronesses and protectors, but the Foundress surely intended to remind us of the fate of the “heretic” Cathars when the “Catholic” army destroyed Carcassonne, burning and hanging all who would not recant. Was the Foundress warning us that to protect the medal and the Gospel we must establish a mission in Gran Canaria?
But when? And how?
Summer 1509
In spring and summer, when the road up the mountain is passable, the children come. We received two today. They have very fine clothes and are both about one year old. I record the amount of their dowries in the Dowry List. We have no more information to add to the records; they have no names other than the ones we give. They say arrangements are made for the children’s removal
from court in great secrecy through a chain of wretches who act as go-betweens, so that none will know the children’s ultimate destination. Most come in the care of peasant nurses who can tell us nothing of their true identities.
Poor nameless innocents. Do the mothers, if living, long for their daughters? I think of being separated from Salome in this way and give thanks to God every day for our refuge. Word has reached me that my father now believes—possibly informed by one of the servants—that I was with child when he left me here. He has sworn to be revenged, but I trust in God’s protection.