Nobody's Saint (17 page)

“A monastery?” Mary Kate asked Diego, standing next to him on the ship’s deck. A glance through the spyglass had revealed several buildings on the mountain, not merely one church.

He nodded. “It is called La Popa.”

She pointed to one of the fingers of land that protruded into the water. “Another fortress?”

“Cartagena is often plagued by pirates. Even with the wall and the new Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas,” he pointed to the fortress atop the flat tiers, “many feel we are not adequately defended. Cartagena relies upon the protection of the Virgin of Candelaria. Her image is housed at La Popa, surrounded by a solid gold altar.”

Mary Kate nodded her understanding. How did the Protestants survive without the Catholics’ close ties to their saints?

True to his word, even before he sought his friend Don Juan to arrange her ransom, Diego led Mary Kate to the cathedral to meet with a priest who spoke English. In her hands, she held tight to four years of notes bound in her ledger. In her pocket lay her rosary beads. On the way there, she peered around her at narrow, winding streets. Ornate wooden balconies, spilling lush, brilliant hibiscus and bougainvillea, kept the stout plaster buildings on either side from being austere. Windows and doorways were cut in graceful arches. Cartagena was as beautiful as Havana, but far more orderly in the conduct of its citizens. High officials of the Church and Spanish government and military men replaced the pirates and ne’er-do-wells she had seen at the Cuban port. The women wore gowns of worn cotton or the best silk, depending upon their station, but all were completely covered. No prostitutes with plunging necklines walked the streets here.

As in Havana, the slave trade was brisk, but Diego had told her that, because of the work of a Jesuit named Pedro Claver, there were strong sentiments against slavery among many in the city. “He has been dead for twenty years,” Diego said, “but his legacy lives on. I wonder how much longer we Spanish will continue to commit sins of cruelty and murder upon these innocent Africans.”

“You disapprove?” Mary Kate had never given much thought to slavery. She had never seen a black-skinned person in her life until Havana.

“I met a Negro woman. Rather, she was part Negro. And I got to know her quite well. She was to have become the property of a procurer.”

“Well, that would be wrong no matter what her color.”

“The whole thing left me feeling that the Jesuit was right. Slavery is a vile thing. Spain’s greatest sin.”

It shocked her to hear him speak ill of his country. So far, his loyalty to Spain had been as fierce as hers to Ireland. “Was she like us?”

Diego grinned a little. “She was nothing like us. She was English! We are almost there.” He pointed to the imposing structure that was their destination.

The outside of the cathedral reminded Mary Kate of the fortresses she had seen when they had sailed into the harbor—severe and imposing. Inside, she sucked in her breath at the sight before her. Never in her life had she seen so much gold! And the pulpit was of the purest, smoothest marble! Heavy, leaded-glass windows dimmed the brilliant tropical sunlight pouring through them.

“Saints preserve us, ‘tis true. You Spaniards are all rich as sin!”

“This is not ours, María Catalina. It is God’s.”

“Well, God has a house or two in my village, and a bit of gold besides, but I don’t think there’s so much gold in all of Ireland as there is on that altar.”

“God has been very good to Spain in Tierra Firme, this new land. We would shame ourselves not to give some back.”

He broke into a wide grin and beckoned to a priest. The priest was a slight man, swallowed up by his brown robes, whose face bore the many lines of a long life. Mary Kate was pleased to discover that she could understand some of the Spanish between them before Diego asked that they switch to English.

“Father Tomás, this is Mary Katherine O’Reilly, from Ireland. We rescued her from pirates on the high seas.”

Father Tomás smiled at her. “You are blessed to have been allowed to share in Diego’s uncommon good fortune.”

Diego glanced around him. “Not so uncommon, Father.”

“Quite uncommon, but well earned, my son.” He looked at Mary Kate. “He is a good man, our Diego.”

“A very good man,” she agreed.

“Mary Katherine has been living in England for four years, and has been unable to practice her religion. She would like to make her confession, and certainly, she will attend Mass with me.”

“Welcome home, child,” Father Tomás said. “Will you wait for her, Diego?”

“She tells me she will be a while.”

Mary Kate held up her ledger with a sheepish grin. Father Tomás eyed the book, and his brows shot up in puzzlement. “I kept track. It
has
been four years,” Mary Kate explained.

“If it is not an imposition, I thought to visit with Juan Gallegos Lucero y Esquibel de Aguilar. I should be back in an hour or so. If she finishes earlier, perhaps some time in prayer would be good for her.” He gave Mary Kate a stern look, one that said, “Do not even think about running away.” Mary Kate blinked back innocently.

Father Tomás watched the exchange. Unless he was mistaken, he was quite certain that he would be hearing Diego’s confession in short order, and there would be some repetition between that one and Mary Katherine’s.

Diego stepped from the dark cathedral into the bright sunshine, and Mary Kate and Father Tomás moved farther into the sanctuary. Before entering the confessional, Mary Kate knelt on the tile floor and bowed her head. Softly she whispered her prayer to God, begging Him to make her feel the full sorrow she ought for her sins and imploring the Virgin Mary to help her make a good confession. She needed all the help she could get.

Once inside the booth, she had to squint down at her notes in the dim light that trickled through vents in the door. Her writing skills were poor at best, reading not much better, but she had done her best to keep a thorough record. Crossing herself, she began.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been four years, three months, and nine days since my last confession. These are my sins—”

The confessional was hot and confined. The closeness was familiar and comforting, but the heat was alien to a girl who had gone through this ritual in cooler climes. Maybe, if she talked very fast, she could get out of there in something less than an hour.

“I have taken the Lord’s name in vain approximately nine hundred and twenty-three times.”

Father Tomás choked. “Nine hundred and twenty-three?”

“In various forms, and more some days than others. Whenever I could, I didn’t blaspheme at all,” she assured him, “but there were days when I was forced to press all limits.”

“I see. I think yours is a tale I must hear more fully when we have finished.”

“Oh, I’ll tell you all, Father, but I’ve quite a list. I wrote it all down as best I could, so I’d be sure not to leave anything out. If it makes you feel better, I added an extra fifty on the taking the Lord’s name in vain, just in case I missed some.”

Father Tomás’s lips twitched, and he fought to keep his amusement out of his voice. “Well, then, we must get back to your list.”

“Aye. If my father sent me to live with my grandfather, and I disobeyed my grandfather, is that the same as dishonoring my father?”

“It is nearly the same.”

“I was afraid of that. Well, I dishonored my grandfather three thousand eight hundred and forty-one times. But for the record, the man has no honor.”

“Did you say three thousand?”

“That’s both direct and indirect disobedience, plus calling him names. Should I have also counted when I only called him a name in my head or in my room, all alone?”

“No, I do not think we need to include those times. They are venial sins.”

“Thank goodness, for I hadn’t written any of those down. Let me see, what’s next…”

Father Tomás pulled at his robes. These confessionals were often quite hot and stuffy, and it looked like he would be there a while.

*

Three of Diego’s crewmen followed Enrique Sánchez into the relative dark of the cathedral. They had debated briefly whether they should come here first or go straight to the Palacio de la Inquisición, but Enrique’s cooler head and authority had prevailed. It was not for mere seamen to decide whether this was a matter for the Inquisition. They would speak to a priest first.

A young man in the robes of a neophyte approached them. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon. Is a senior priest in?”

“Father Tomás is here, but he is busy. Perhaps you can come back?”

One of the men tapped Enrique on the shoulder. “I have carried these suspicions with me long enough! If we cannot speak to a priest, then it is a sign that we should have gone to the Palacio de la Inquisición!”

At the mention of the Holy Office, the novice’s face paled. “B-but the bishop is in. Perhaps you should speak to him.” With quick, unfaltering steps, he led the men out of the sanctuary and through the stone hallways to the bishop’s office.

*

Don Juan took one look at Diego’s face and said, “Another woman?”

One side of Diego’s mouth tugged upward. “It is good to see you again, too.”

“Sit down, Diego.” Juan Gallegos Lucero y Esquibel de Aguilar invited him in and gestured toward the chair across the desk from his. His office was large and well appointed with mahogany furniture and richly died wool rugs. It suited its occupant perfectly. Juan Gallegos was a man well into his fifties, but there was a robust vitality about him. The strands of silver that shot through his thick, dark hair lent him an air of dignity, and his expensive clothing hung perfectly on his fit form.

He gave his aid curt instructions to bring refreshments, then sat in his own chair and studied Diego. “How is your family?”

Juan and Diego’s father had been friends before Juan had left Spain, so Diego spoke of him first. “Father’s business is good, certainly. He just purchased a new building—much bigger. My brother Andrés is a big help, and Rico is—well, he is Rico.” Juan laughed, and Diego continued. “Pablo is well. The bishop feels he should not serve so close to home, though.”

“If they send him away, it would make your parents most unhappy.”

“That is putting it mildly.”

“Perhaps you were able to visit Francisco?” Juan asked, referring to his son, whose life Diego had once saved.

“I am sorry, Don Juan. I did not have a chance to see him. My mother says his wife is looking well. It should not be too much longer.”

“What should not be too much longer?”

“You do not know?” Diego beamed. “Then I do have news for you. You will be a grandfather!”

Juan leaned back in his chair and laughed. “That is news! You must convince my son to settle here the next time you are in Spain, my friend.”

“I will try. He loves Spain, though.”

“We all love Spain, but Tierra Firme is good, too, no? So tell me about this woman.”

Diego shook his head. “It is not what you think.”

“You are not going to ask me to free another pirate so you can give up another woman that you love?”

“I am here to ask you to arrange ransom for an Irishwoman who had been captured by pirates whom I, in turn, defeated.”

“You do Spain great honor. Where in Ireland is her home?”

“Ulster. To the north.”

“I know Ulster. We will make arrangements through the English, then.”

“There is a small complication. She is betrothed to a man in Jamaica.”

Juan dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “That is no complication. It simplifies things. I will send word to Port Royal.”

“Perhaps a small complication,” Diego said. “She is very Irish.”

“So?”

“She is a Catholic.”

“That is a good thing.”

“Yes, a very good thing. So you can see why she might not be very happy with the arrangement. Her betrothed is English and a Protestant.”

“Diego—”

“If we could deal with the Irish government—”

“Is there a contract between her family and this man? A dowry paid?”

“There is, but such contracts have been broken, and her dowry is in my hold.”

“We will keep the dowry, certainly. The contract cannot be broken by us.”

“Perhaps you should read the letter her English grandfather wrote and speak to the woman. There was much enmity between the two of them, and I worry about the kind of man to whom she has been pledged.”

“Diego, you have done it again, no? You have fallen in love with another Englishwoman.”

“She is Irish, Don Juan.”

“So you deny that she is English, but not that you are in love with her?”

“I am not asking for this for myself.”

“No, you never do, do you? Perhaps it is time you should. Have your parents choose some nice girl from Cádiz. Your father has good taste.”

“And what of Mary Katherine?”

“The Englishwoman?”

“Irish.”

“Part Irish. You say she has an English grandfather, and being from Ulster, she is entirely under English law.”

“If you would only speak with her, Don Juan—”

“I am a happily married man, Diego. I am not as likely as you to be swayed by a pretty face. I assume she is pretty.”

“That is not why I am asking for your help.”

“I know several suitable young women here, and I think your father would trust my judgment—”

“I have no wish to get married,” Diego said. Not to anyone but Mary Kate, and that was impossible. Perhaps this situation was not so very different from the last time Diego had begged a favor of Don Juan. He was once again trying to grant the heart’s desire of a woman he loved but could not have. Suddenly the thought of a bit of tarnish on his sterling honor did not seem so terrible. For the first time it occurred to him that honor may actually have made him weak.

“It would make your life and my job easier,” Juan continued. “You may be in the business of coming to the aid of England’s fair maidens. I am not. If this Mary Katherine is betrothed to a man in Jamaica, then we will arrange her ransom and she will be delivered to Jamaica.” When Diego would have protested further, Juan raised his hand. “That is the end of it. Where is she? On board your ship?”