the laity, but I’ve received permission for him to stay there.”
* * *
Diego would have preferred to be left on the gradas where he could have watched the people on the steps. Instead, he now sat in a little sunken garden at a corner of the cloister where shrubs and trees bordered a covered walk-way that ran along the inside walls. The little garden was cool and well-hidden, sheltered by copious orange trees and tall, downy palms motionless in the still air. The floor of the recessed garden was set with small, flat stones and ringed with a tangle of roses and stork’s bill, red and white. The roses of this early spring perfumed the air and the splash of water into a moss-green pool made the speech of those around him unintelligible except for that of a small group of novitiates who were at his elbow.
Black-robed men in twos and threes made a circuit of the cloister. Each of these men was dressed in a long black tunic with winged sleeves, belts, scapulas and hoods. The look of them reminded him of the priests at the cathedral in Toledo and of the priests’ procession up the stone corridor to his grandfather’s home. That walk, however, had been conducted at night and had been lit by candles. As Diego watched the priests, he, too, placed his hands before his face in the manner of rendering a prayer.
The novitiates—children, really—wore the dress of their order and were seated around their superior discussing the nature and most important qualities of prayer. “Prayer,” their superior said, “is an art to be learned, and may be one of four kinds: adoration, thanksgiving, penitence or petition.” They nodded in apparent understanding of his words and he continued. “Our practice of praying for the dead,” he said, “falls into the category of prayers of petition, and is based on our belief that those of our Church who have died, but not yet arrived at the Beatific Vision, the final destiny of the redeemed, can be helped by the prayers of those still alive.”
“Members of our Church only?” questioned one. “What of the others, Father?”
“Heaven is the dwelling place of God, and the angels,” their superior said, “and only His faithful disciples, members of our Church, will reign with Him in His glory. The rest? Well, they’re lost.”
“No matter their innocence, Father?”
“Well,” he responded, “if they have a positive disbelief in the Christian faith can they really be said to be innocent?” he asked of the children as he looked quizzically from one to another. “No, my sons,” he said with finality, “if they don’t believe in our Catholic faith, they’re infidels and can’t be saved.”
Diego listened to all of this and understood it as babble. Members of the Church? Beatific Vision? These were concepts that were beyond his comprehension. Leaving the sunken garden, he wandered into the cathedral and was overwhelmed by its majesty. He watched as others dipped the tips of their fingers into the holy font and did the same. He then sat in a pew beside a tier of votive candles and again assumed the posture of one in prayer.
He had been brought up a Catholic, and had only been introduced by osmosis to the secrets of his faith, for his family’s beliefs were, to a large extent, rules of life, rather than a creed. He knew but one prayer—The Lord’s Prayer—and he had no idea where among the four categories it belonged. He wondered whether he should have washed his hands before entering the cathedral, and thought how, at home, his parents’ one candle (“the candle of the Lord,” his mother pronounced it) would have been placed within a pitcher to conceal it from prying eyes.
His prayer was not one of those presented by the priest but was more in the form of a question. “Why? Why Ana and Luis?” he asked, as he began to sob quietly to himself, the tears of regret running down his cheeks. He could not reconcile himself to the fact that he had lived while they had died, and he would forever be haunted by the look in Ana’s eyes as she slipped from his grasp, for she too appeared to be asking a question: “Why Diego? Why?”
“I don’t know, Ana,” he said aloud, startling those who sat around him. ‘”Why did I let go?”
Who Does Not Venture Forth Does Not Cross the Sea
The Passage
The fleet within which the Robledos were to sail was made up of several dozen vessels, merchantmen, and armed galleons. These were berthed at the docks alongside the river where cargo was being loaded into their holds. One of these ships, the Morning Star, on which the Robledos had gained passage, was a fully rigged sailing vessel carrying broadsides of brass and iron pieces, both ship- and man-killers, some of great weight. On this ship, and on the many others that lined the stone quay, a representative of the Casa de la Contratacion was inspecting registros or bills of lading.
Also on board were commissioners from the Office of the Inquisition who arrived to see that no books forbidden by the Holy Office were smuggled aboard. Pedro had made a decision regarding the Holy Office and hoped it would serve him well. His fear of the Office had resulted in tragedy and he was no longer going to conduct himself as a fugitive, hiding in the shadows and living in fear. If the Office had been commanded to detain him, so be it. He would return to accept whatever fate was presented him. If not, however, he would conduct himself as would any free Spanish citizen.
Among the books given to Pedro by his father-in-law was The Works of Charles V which was bound in parchment. He had also received the libretto of a long musical work published that year which preserved several folk tunes, and two curious works about the Jews. The Holy Office apparently had no instructions regarding him. Since the possession of Jewish works even in translation might have exposed him to persecution, however, these were left with his agent. The additional literary works in Pedro’s possession were deemed not to contain anything contrary to good morals or to the Catholic faith. They were not among those written by heretical authors or listed in the Index of Prohibited Books. They were, therefore, not confiscated and with a payment of an obol, he was free to proceed.
* * *
Amid a chorus of pealing bells and the boom of cannons being fired as a salute from Seville’s beautiful alcazar, everyone massed on the banks of the Guadalquivir River to watch the ships put to sea. With the Robledos’ ship armed and outfitted, and with the last cask stored, the Morning Star slid into the irresistible current of the river and began its journey to the sea.
Traveling with the merchant fleet for the initial portion of the 20-league-trip to the mouth of the Guadalquivir were many fast and armed cruisers, the zabras, fragatas, and patajes of Spain’s Mediterranean fleet. These vessels, which could be rowed, were used for scouting and for pursuit. They were low in the water, faster, and hardier than were the bigger ships and would have less difficulty at the mouth of the river where beyond the roadstead, the protected place near the shore where ships could anchor, there was a syrtis, the name given by the ancients to shoals or sandbars in the sea. After successfully crossing the sandbar, which was now a fury of white water, the Mediterranean fleet turned south toward Cadiz and the transatlantic fleet entered the open sea.
The immediate plan was for the fleet to drop down to the Canaries, a group of 13 islands in the Atlantic Ocean about 60 miles off the coast of Northwest Africa. From there, they would be borne across the Atlantic Ocean to the West Indies by southwest trade winds. It was a voyage that had been accomplished many times. This passage, however, would prove to be anything but routine.
* * *
The Robledos, like the other passengers of the Morning Star, were appalled by the area below deck where they were to spend the next three months. Led down the ladder of an aft hatchway when they first boarded the vessel, they were escorted to a gloomy and grimy space between decks.
