Sleeping under the cross, 2.13

The virtue of Piety had found a good home in the heart of the Governor He was loyal to the Church of his father and his father, and to the Holy Father in far away Rome He asked his wife, if this was not the case. She with her little hand on her heart looked him in the eye, and told him he was.

Tempering his piety was Loyalty, for he had served the King with all his heart, wit and strength. He had served a King he would never meet, or even share the same continent as for all his life. From the exactitude of tax returns, and harbour dues to the terrible haste of keeping the peace between, the Portuguese and the Irlandessa the Governor as a servant of Catholic Majesty would die to uphold his Sovereign laws in Buenos Aires and enforce against the Indio’s against the heretic,

He remembered a grey day. It had been after he was sworn in, as the Kings first servant in the town. There had been a feast, and some dancing.

If one day, he was to ride out, to the plains, or take his place at a barricade by the docks, and never return. His son would do the same if it was called upon. As his son would, and his son. Until the dawning of the day of the last judgement. Dutiful as servant and husband as had told her early in their marriage and she had wept and bawled as women were wont. His mother scolded him for saying such. The serving girl and the neighbours had made a great fuss, of his wife too that day. Scolding him, and talking low just in earshot. His fair Cecile tears having carried from the plaza to the docks, and some way out to sea he would wager. Yet he had persisted, despite her tears, despite her curses, her feints and her wiles in time his wife accepted it as part of her duties. Bearing it with not a little grace and courage

He loathed heresy. As all true men, did. He feared it he feared the horrors it wrought in this world. Yet it was nothing to the eternity of agony that would be the finish of Heresy. Better never to have been born, than to suffer the justice of the almighty. Yet while the fate of heresy was certain, it still existed and he would give up his life to prevent it, and punish it.

For a heartbeat the Governor felt kinship with the Men across from him. There were many times when he would have hanged them all. Buenos Aires often reminded him of a chessboard The Portuguese were the whites. Carved from pine and brushed with varnish The Irlandessa were of course, as black hearted as any of the opposing pawn. Yet today all pieces were united. The petty game put aside.

They did not need the Inquisition, The Irlandessa once again reminded him, that they had killed the heretic king. In case the event had slipped his mind, in the long period between drawing breaths

The Portuguese spoke of their ancient rights. They did not play the one tune, as the Irlandessa did, but knew their chorus well enough. One of their Kings, before the union of crowns had dispensed with the services of the holy office. The sons of Lisbon had claimed the right throughout the Empire. Depending on their circumstance luck and persistence sometimes they had kept it

This had been the way in Buenos Aires on the silver coast. Perhaps it had been an accident. The Church had overlooked them, as a small chapel in the plains which may go a season without seeing a Priest Perhaps it had been the trade and taxes the fruits of the ports harvest

A harvest sweetened with the hides and swordsmen that were the bounty of the plains. Was it that these things were sent north? Thus the Bishops and lawyers at the Escadorial willing to oblige their southern subjects

There was the danger of heresy among their homes and heath The Spanish Netherlands, had been lost to the faith. Not only the Netherlands. Once all Europe from the frozen north, to the Islands where crafty Odysseus had ploughed his furrow had been true to the Mother Church Now her children had turned against her. The house was divided whilst the strangers plotted The Sultan’s legions pressed and forayed from the south. Hungary had been lost. The gates of Vienna were spared the ram, only by the King of Poland

Now they had a case of heresy. A public display of contempt for the Host. Oh such things happened now and then. Last summer they had flogged a vile youth who with the devil in his heart had started to shout and curse during the homily at our Lady of Victories. There were the thieves who would try to make off with plate and the blackguards who loathed the laws of man and God.

Then there were the bands of renegade Indio’s. They always struck at chapels. They hanged for it. Screaming out the names, of the demons they had made sacrifice and paid honour before the coming of the Christians but now it was coloured by their brute view of the Church

He had heard that the same was true of slaves, in the great plantations of the Sugar islands

This was more this was an act of propaganda. It was a strike in the very breast of Buenos Aires. Indeed like a thorn or a splinter it would become putrid, and the smell and foulness would kill the body. The body politic of Buenos Aires would not only die but it would be dammed. Better to be cast into the lake

Who could look into the heart of every man? A man could say he was from this town or that village, or that he had been persecuted for his faith by the heretics, and when he was alone in his room, could be reading the bible in French, or singing Psalms in Navarese. Some would in their cups deny the Holy Trinity. Others would curse the Holy Father in Rome, call him a whoremonger and an Antichrist

The Indio’s were better. They at least had the excuse of ignorance. A rabid dog, was just a dog after all, its malady was to be pitied, even though it was to be destroyed

The whip would remind them of their place and their duty. The whip was a kinder master than hunger, or the horses and dogs of the Irlandessa. Those huge dogs half wolf that followed the horses of the Irlandessa they could easily tear apart a man. Once the Governor, heard the Irlandessa boast that they threw the body of the heretic King they slew, to their dogs. The Irlandessa had not repeated the boast, but said it, quietly in their cups, one day during a Christmas feast. So there was perhaps a ring of truth in the boast

An Indio, would get the consolation of the church, and fed. His barracks would have a fire. It was better than living as a fox on the plains, or begging at the port. Before the constable caught him, and made an example

One thing was as sure as winter following the harvest, there was heresy amongst them.

The Men of Buenos Aires had been in council for a long time. A boy had come into the chamber to start a fire. In the street the lanterns were being lit. The governor was about to ask if he should have bread and meat brought in, or would his compatriots prefer to recess until tomorrow Yet the day had gone well. No threats no curses, just talk. There was word of petitioning the King and the Viceroy. There would be a fast. The Great houses of the town and all honest men would make efforts to stamp out heresy. They would send honest men, to stand watch over the churches. They would listen for hints of heresy in their households. The Governor and all of the leading men of Buenos Aires would invite the fraternity of Jesu to establish a house here. They were ferocious in the struggle against heresy. They had been the shield that saved Poland

They also agreed to draw the funds, from the public purse for a carpenter who would get a commission to build a pair stout gallows. A gallows for the plaza of St James the very centre of Buenos Aires, and one at the docks.

Heresy would be seen to be opposed in the heart and face of Buenos Aires

The fire was lit, the flames, drew the governors eyes. Those would be the ultimate and eternal reward after the hangman, had been paid.

It was the Old O’Neill, who coughed politely. His people called him, Mor. They said it meant great but a few scholars insisted it really meant big. The younger son had a strange title. Oh si the Taniste. The O’Neill Mor was the Dragon, whose teeth had been reaped, and they had caused season, after season of grief. All of this from a grey man with hands as large as a blacksmith or indeed the senior magistrate of Buenos Aires. Such mischief inspired from such a melancholy man somewhere, outside Bilbao there was a village missing a widower. Had he seen him, leaving Mass on a Sunday, than the Governor would have nodded and made his way home without a second thought.

The Old Irlandessa begged leave of them all, as he was an old man, and needed to make his way home before darkness and cold, took their toll on him.

The Portuguese rose as one, and bade him a polite and for well meant farewell. The Irlandessa bowed, to their for once colleagues. Made their leave, and departed

The Governor was sated if not satisfied it was not a happy task, that they had gathered to share but they would prove themselves equal to the demands of God and the King

He told the boy, to fetch, the head servant. They would begin the Rosary.

The day’s work would belong to God. As the Grave diggers or the coffin makers did.

The cockerel stood sentinel and victor over the lighting of the fires. Telling all of his triumph as the town of Buenos Aires roused itself. The day’s work would begin.

Sister had risen, with her sisters, to join the second service of the day. She had woken for Matins and prime then she had broken her fast with her sisters. After the farewells and being given leave to venture outside the convent Eloise and her companion inside the gates, for there guides.

She smiled at the Irony and whispered it to sister Innes. They would guide the young lady’s soul from the dangers of ignorance and heresy. Whilst the kinsmen and clients of the lady would protect their bodies from insult and injury the Sun and the moon worked in harmony

Oh the faces were friendly and welcome. It was the pious husband and wife, who had provided her escort, to Buenos Aires. They were being escorted by a pair of rider, were waiting to take her to the caravan. A nephew, apprenticed to the Uncle. The Irlandessa had a word for it, which Eloise spent a few seconds torment trying to remember and his servant. A few years older than his young master! Walking quietly behind someone who walked quietly behind

The nephew was slightly less talkative than the mare he rode, but seemed twice as strong. He doffed his cap, and bowed. His eyes did not trace the Sisters form. If he had the laconic manner but their virtue of readiness. On his introduction, he let his hand move away from his hilt, noticeably but returned her swiftly. The nephew who barely spoke was the talkative one of the pair. His servant, would made a fine statue, had that been a trade.

They had brought her and her sister a pair of honest mules. A lad earned an honest wage in there service. it would be him, who drove the mule which the Brides of Christ rode A stout stick would determine the mules place in the great chain of being, after his service the lad would dine on beef today. Eloise gave thanks the Youth could not conceal the fact that he missed more than one meal of late

Eloise took a moment to point out the convents kitchen she was a slave to charity. The sisters were well known to the poor. Yet a good teacher always repeated the lesson when she could

They set off, the boy walking a little in front of the procession. It was not the swiftest route to the house of the young O Neill, but it was the safest and most decorous and therefore the conveyance that they would take.

The caravan set off. They reached the house of the young O Neill, with neither insult nor injury suffered. The Nephew, bid them wait, for a moment, while his servant announced them

The steward of the house, came and made them welcome, offering water and wine. The boy was directed to the Kitchen the rest of the party were brought in off the courtyard to a room. There was a man, coming back from the stables, talking with a very pretty housemaid. She curtseyed and hurried away to her duty. Her suitor, by his colouring was Galician. Hawk like he surveyed the men in their party. Finding them agreeable he turned and went towards the servant’s quarters, his apparel dusty his musket, spotless. A guard dog,

The O’Neill’s aunt would receive them. It should have been, Karoline, alas now she was in a greater house. The steward at the gate of that house, was of much more renown too

The younger O Neill entered the room. He bowed to his guests and introduced himself

Alas again Eloise would have to remember the momentary failing of her sex, to her confessor. Their thanked them, for coming, begged forgiveness for the rudeness of his house, and his manners.

The Aunt, than asked that the womenfolk, to retire with her, to another room. The Men were to discuss some of the pressing matters of the days. The Indio’s had been restless. Like youths they were trying to intimidate a few ranchers and villages a mornings ride away from the town.

The Younger O Neill had been riding out amongst them. Showing the savages the teeth of his dogs and the power of the muskets of his sworn men. Cold steel and Christian discipline brought the savage to bear

Eloise nodded and rose. She was offered refreshment but declined. The Aunt, and the Matron, spoke of their families, inquiring after sons, and nephews, daughters and nieces, and their issue.

Eloise offered polite acknowledgement a nod or when that was too much a slight tilt of the head, and a quiet prayer for those resting in purgatory whilst she waited to be addressed, in conversation.

The young lady she has tutored was mentioned, and the aunt inclined towards her. The child needed to continue with her, studies. Eloise, would be soon to join her former charge and her guide her through her letters

Then a revelation, the Aunt, would be sharing their journey, to the house of the O Neill. She would be guardian, of her niece, the daughter of the younger O Neill. The one the Irlandessa called the Tánaiste Eloise would assist in the upbringing of the child at a remove from Buenos Aires and its dangers moral and physical.

Eloise and Ines would recite the matins as the sun rose over the plains

chapter 12

It would soon be midday the church bells, would ring and betray the hour as had the cockerel the guilt of Peter. Juan made his way to the coffee house by the strawberry market. Juan was wearing a leather cloak which made him sweat, and he was wearing the hood high on his head despite the sunshine so he may move with more discretion amongst the ports folk.  The Galician also changed his gait, he set himself the strides of a nervous man, a servant or a day labourer, one with little position in society, one whose bread was earned at others pleasure. To this end, he had borrowed a servents tunic too. The gold he carried, however, would win the affection of the King and the Pope. The Gold would open doors, and hold or loosen tongues

The errand boy had reached the stables, Just as the bells pealed for midday, people would be taking their lunch now, the Portugese and others would be sleeping The place was at least respectable, at least at this hour. No wenches or cut throats were being served. There were some men, sitting at the far end, talking about the trade winds. They were Navarese men by their accent and dress.

The Coffee house keeper nodded to him, as Juan slipped in quietly and a serving girl, offered him, a bowl of coffee.

Juan waved away the beverage. He had never seen the point of it, let alone the taste. Why would anyone work all day, and then force themselves to drink something hot and bitter? Only a madman would to Juan’s mind, but if a madman claimed they did it in Madrid and claimed to have a title. Then the whole world would try to bark at the moon.

The Young Lord served coffee to some of his guests from time to time. His late wife, the mistress of the house, had a taste for it. The Portugese shipped it south from their countrymen’s Plantations to the North in Brasil. Caroline’s dowry had been grown there, with the sweat of slaves, and the trade winds as the principal investors.

Coffee was what the Portugese and the rest of the port set, The lawyers and the well to do and the odd traveller from Europe drank. If he ever made a honest women, of Gabriella, she would be forcing him to drink the swill in company. As well as moaning if he cleaned a musket by his fireside, such was the way of women Coffee apparently made one alert, why should that endear it, it to people. Did it make the heart gladder? No. No more than bowl of hot soup when it was cold. Did Coffee, win the hearts of the maids? Did a penitent abstaining from Ash Wednesday till Easter call for Coffee? Neither did a squadron of troopers who had chased the Indio’s into the plains for a fortnight. Coffee was an affection, not unlike a red ribbon Or a youth trying to make the feeble spray of hairs on his cheek appear a beard. It was a pointless one It was like most pointless things an annoyance

Come to think of it, the Governor had been brewing coffee, that day when the Master and his father had gone to see him. Before the heretics had burned the port, the Governor had been brewing coffee for his more respectable guests. The vile drink was unlucky. The Heretics had smelled it, and believed they were welcome

The serving girl could bring him some water and a little wine. He was still a Galician... for a moment his thoughts stumbled. He paused. The thought had vexed him. Once the priest had forgotten his place in the service, and the whole chapel felt a chill. He, Juan was still a proud Galego, but here he was sitting in a coffee shop, waiting for intelligence, on a woman, from God knows where. In the service of a great house, who had the origins in an Island, across the sea from the realm of the King. An Island, at the edge of Europe merely an brief memory

For a moment, he stumbled again, like a sailor on the quarter deck, in the swells, or a drunkard coming out of a tavern at the dawn. Another strange thought troubled him. Juan found himself in consideration of the Irlandessa. They looked a bit like Basques. They could be fair and ruddy. Strangely enough they blended best with the Basques. The two nations spoke gibberish The Irlandessa spoke Spanish, but they still fetched nursemaids, and though not the Master but the lesser branches of the family had sent for an occasional bride, from their ancestral Island. They were good Catholics even the ones who had just stepped of a gangplank, and were crossing themselves in thanks Men and Women who often spoke better English, than Spanish. They didn’t speak the tongue of the Irish at all.

It was than Juan remembered Maeve and not kindly, that nursemaid, of the Masters sometimes troubled him. She was too strident, and at least half a witch. The master and even his father seemed to tolerate her. She would give them advice, speak out of turn, and even rebuke them! The leaders of Irlandessa, with sworn men, with guns and horses, veterans of battles in Europe and the new world would smile weakly

It was a plain truth that the Irlandessa where more tolerant of their women, than Castilians. Even the Portugese, Irlandessa woman, did not hide from society. Juan had heard some idle gossip directed at his master's womenfolk and kin and normally replied by kicking the cur in the crotch and producing his pistol. Their woman had braved the winds and storms, of the sea crossing.

They were the first of many Buenos Aires, mixed blood, at first, but the Irlanda had been the first drops of rain that heralded a deluge from all over faithful Europe. Not just landless sons, and treasure seekers as in Peru, or Nueva Espanaga, not monks and mercenaries but here maids, and their families. Women with babes at their breast could be seen, walking gingerly down the gangplank, from the dock.....Followed by tradesmen.. A world on the move. 

Where was the wine and water?

The Irlandessa were something new, something different, perhaps they were never supposed to be here? Perhaps if the Irlandessa had pressed onto Londres, Juan might be riding there, stealing kisses from pious English Maids and riding by the Thames, rather than the by the Plata

It was God’s plan after all, and they were his masters, they had prospered, as did he

The serving girl smiled and brought his wine and water, she bowed and produced a newssheet

It was the rough local version, of the Gazetta. Juan had picked up his letters something that surprised even the master sometimes. He had made a point of reading everything he could get his hands on. Or at least attempting to read everything, the master paid people good silver, to write in tongue of his ancestors. He had to make an effort to keep his hand of his hilt, when the master spoke to that nurse in that unholy cant

Besides, there were only so many times you can sharpen a sword. He could not play dice all day. Indeed he had to set an example. The stable hands, and the kitchen boys and the servants all looked to him. 

Juan’s eyes, followed the words across the paper, as a ploughboy followed his beast The news spoke of The King in Madrid, sitting in the Escadorial. Praying and dispensing Justice. The Moors were causing trouble, as were the Heretics. The twin plagues on the faithful There had been a battle near Biarritz. The heretics raiding and then returning to their ships

This was all for the good, Juan mused. Yet they were here, so far away from Spain. The Heretics had attacked them, and they had burned the town. The Master and the Portugese had attended to it. They might as well, as asked the Emperor of Cathay for help, fighting the flames.

There was news of the burning of the port. This was news to whom?

Perhaps more wine? he looked at the serving girl. Not a bad looking lass it must be said. No he would have to wait for his intelligencer, and that meant keeping his wit.

 In this fallen World, Juan would have at least the consolation of tobacco.

Smiling as he inhaled, as the blend they sold at the coffee house was rich. Probably smuggled from the Ingles plantations which were somewhere between Spain and the Port. No matter what the ills, a smoke and  the World seemed a much better place. The rhetorical musings that had troubled him evaporated, and he smiled his face, sunburnt his teeth yellow, but he smiled

The man he was waiting for arrived. Like all good intelligencers anonymous.taciturn and discreet  The Spy would have made a good monk. A better matchmaker and a fine chaperone. Even the man’s mother would have had trouble remembering his face.

Juan watched as his guest walked over to the bar, and ordered a drink, rather than waiting for the serving girl to pass. But on his way to the bar, the informer walked up the Galego whence he stopped and spoke quietly

``The woman you speak of arrived last month on Le Luna, she found respectable lodgings, accompanied by her widowed mother. There is a crazy rumour she killed a man, who tried to kill the young O Neill.

She has money, from somewhere. I would wager she is the paramour or the illegitimate daughter of some blue blood across the sea. The story about her shooting the man is false though. That’s what everyone is saying.

Gracias’’

Swiftly Juan, exchanged some gold pieces, with his source. The intelligencer offered brief and noisy thanks, for remembering his Father, and continued on to the bar. Where he enjoyed a coffee. Truly a professional, noted his paymaster. Whom had to go and speak with the young lord. Sighing and reaching for his purse gave the serving girl, a bit of silver, and fetched up his cloak. Something was afoot.

The coffee house was situated at the corner of the Church of St Colon. The Master called it by another name. Shaded by some pines the square in front of it was where the Strawberry vendors earned their  daily bread. It being summer the fruit was in season. The square was host to a herd of carts. The maids, giggling and modestly smiling at the youths The barrow boys calling out, who would buy their wares? There were womens buying the leaves for washes, the old wives told that strawberry leaves made maiden’s fair. Even if it didn’t umblemish the blemish, and pretty the plain the smell of a strawberry wash was sweet 

Here and there a parent treated their children  and a suitor bought a sweetheart a gift from the heart

The merchants smiled and doffed their hats. The strawberry sellers and growers were Irlandessa men. Juan had never understood why this was. Goodness know the Irlandessa knew nothing about Wine, so why did the grow strawberries, he had heard that Ireland was too cold for a good vintage. Yet the master, sent strawberry jam and hides to Madrid, every year, to the King and Cardinal's pantry

The Galego hastened on through the streets. Leaving his thought at the square. If his master had wanted a philosopher, he could have had a Jesu chaplain.

Irlandessa!!!

Juan turned his hand on his hilt, his other reaching for the dagger he kept concealed on his person. As a greyhound darted after a hare, the Galician sprang,

It was a man, an old man, a priest, who had called him. The man was in his cassock and hat, Juan stepped back.

 Buenos Aires could be a vipers nest, but the Portugese, would not stoop so low, as to murder him, dressed as a priest. A trick even the Moors would distdain

Surely, if this was the case, then it was time to send as many of them to hell, as possible.

The man, pleaded with him. Begged him for help, he was on his knees. He was hysterical, Juan moved back, from the padre, but didn’t loosen his grip. Something terrible had happened, he had been recognised as the sworn man of a great house. That may save him, or may damn him

A crowd gathered. Juan turned ajar slightly to face them. His eyes travelled along the faces of the strawberry sellers, meeting the eyes of many as he could Looking into their eyes squarely and honestly As a storyteller would to his audience in a Taverna. Juan hoped to move the passions of the theatre of the street, and to send the spectators home before the last act. The families among the throng were dragging their wayward sons, home, and hurrying their daughters along home. Some of the smaller children were crying. The older men were limping away,

God would have to protect, Juan and the small children from the drunks and fools

Then there were the usual idlers. The thieves and troublemakers were always present for a lynching but rarely got the rope they deserved

The Portugese were not the only people who could kill him. Neither were the heretics the only men with such capacity. A street rat or an Indio, could do the job, with a well aimed stone or a lucky blow.

One of the wives, ran to the priest carrying her skirt, she sprinted with a haste that Juan would envy in 20 summers time, she was a relative of the priest. His niece Juan guessed, she pointed them towards the Chapel. As a skilled fisherman she had baited the crowd’s curiosity.

For a moment, the crowd did not trouble Juan, as much as the thought that

The cold touch of horror traced its fingers down his back. Like the venom of a spider could not allow himself to feel it

He hoped there would be men, who feared God. Whom would hear his word’s To be the first to die in a riot, was not an honour Juan craved. If it was just thieves they could hang them and be done

``I am a sworn man of the O Neill. You know his name. He has been as a friend and a kinsman, to you. You know my master fears, God. As I do. I call upon the honest men, and their sons. I call upon the God fearing men, and their sons to rally to listen to me.

Something terrible may have happened! Look to your families’’

The crowd began to thin. Yet how did it thin? Juan did not want to see maids violated, and houses burned. The nieces, brothers and kinsmen, were approaching’’

``Listen to me, my friends. Listen to me, honest men, and my compatriots. The Fathers family are here My friends, look the Father’s kin are here. To not disturb them, in this time of grief for them, give them peace and respect you would wish. Will you stand around here, as gossiping women would? ‘’

The people dispersed. Some of the strawberry sellers began to persuade the onlookers and idlers to move along. To go to their homes, they were free to go elsewhere to Cathay or Rome if they must, but not to stay here. Others began to call out the virtues of their wares. One of the priests' kinsmen, stood glaring at the crowd.

Father, what is wrong..?. The Father’s niece read aloud the the words written across Juan’s face and mind. The Priests nerves were spent and he had to make a real effort to keep his wits He was old enough if not to have remembered the flood, to have gone to Mass with those who did.

A man who shepherded the flocks of Buenos Aires, did not blush like a maiden or a nun. He would have given penance to whores, to footpads, and wild shoeless Indios, and yet the priest was shaken

The chapel,

They would find something foul there. An affront to God,

He could not enter a chapel with a drawn blade. It would be wrong.

He closed his eyes, and prayed. With his eyes closed, he remembered the first time, he had fought. The heretics, had raided his village. The Ingles or perhaps the Netherlanders, it might have even been French heretics. There were rumours later it was Navarese men. Who had supported the heresy in their heart’s but feared the King and the Inquisition too much

They had ran, and ran, he had ended up hiding, in the inn. He had never been there before. His mother had always boxed his ears, when they walked passed there. Now he was upstairs, cowering in a small room An old man had passed him an even older musket, and sternly told him to point it outside a hole in the roof. he remembered the noise the shock of its report. The flash when he fired the musket, his aim wild and blind. He remembered the people praying. There were people running mad, and some struck dumb. They were throwing stones at the heretics, at the end. Then the storm passed by, the church candlesticks gone the chapel and barns burned, a virgin or two raped.

Juan had walked home, from the inn. The next day the Priest came and read the funeral rites for his parents. Juan walked two days to join the Army. There was nowhere else to go. 

A change of the winds the heretics would have hit another village or town and he would have been a farmer like Papa. Attending to vines and praying for sunshine and rain, rather than attending to muskets and intelligences

There was no fragrance. When he entered a chapel, which may just be the largest shack in a fishing village, or in the grandest of the churches of Buenos aires, the fragrance, of incense, and a feint residue of soap and perfume. It was not a modest building. The strawberry sellers were pleased to worship with good wax candles. There was a statue of St Anthony , in an alcove. Expertly formed in wood, shipped from the great forests to the North. Juan smiled. The Portugese had brought the wood, which the strawberry merchants had commissioned from the mighty Northern forests. The sight of the state stirred Juan's heart and heart alone to smile , St Anthony was as strong as St Jorge, or the Columba, that the Don remembered every summer in this Church. 

This may not have been the heart of the Buenos Aires, but a blow was stuck here, it could kill the man still

Juan was uneasy. His sword was a comfort, but would he draw it in the house of God, would he act like a heretic? He had heard it said, even the Moors might respect a chapel.

``Sacred Mother, the star of the sea...

The tabernacle, had been broken into, the host, cast on the floor. Someone had scrawled on the altar

``Scriptura sola, La papa est Antichristo, Iesus sola est ri’’

It almost unmanned him, trying not to vomit

 Later her remembered speaking with the Master, the master excused him from his duties. Several priests asked him, again and what happened. The Governor and the younger Don exchanged words, quietly and hushed like parents talking of illness in front of their children.

Garbiella asked after him, when he came home, he nodded, and went to his bed, and the next morning to confession

Chapter 11

The sisters were proud of their library. As a mother would take pride in her children. They rejoiced in inviting visitors to inspect their collection. The sisters showed their books to everyone. They as close to shameless as nuns could be. There would be nothing lewd naturally. The sisters would die for their vows. A fate alas shared by too many of their cousins in Europe It was rather the brass neck of a wife who had married new money, and was trying to introduce her husband to society, did the wits of the town compare the sisters in their pride over their library

Like all good jokes. The target saw the truth in them. If the sisters had an excess of pride in their library they were humble in the eyes of their God. So they amused themselves with the thought that the armies of his most Catholic majesty did not dragoon with the skill of the Sisters, in bringing their collection to the attention of the learned and the good.

The Governor had pretended poorly to look interested at their priceless books He was but young in office and the last Mother superior had never forgiven him for such a slight. She was muttering afterwards. Of the more choice terms to fall from the Abbess lips were `` A mere clerk!’’. ``A sailors son!’’ ``Manners that would make even the Wilde Irish blush’’

The Order had begun the library, when they had expanded the convent a generation before. In those days the Irlandessa lived clustered in rough homes amongst their great house. As the first trickle of newcomers made it inland from the harbour. Their passage booked on the ships of the Portuguese who were but a few families who made their living from a few ships. There were the Indio’s, and the grasses. Yet before that, had the land changed since the flood? The strange Pagan chiefdoms of Mexica and Peru, were a long way away from Buenos Aires. Buenos Aires could have been part of Europe. Or perhaps a mirror to the colonies of the English further North. They were something of the Old world, in the New. Yet something New too

The Library had once been the main dormitory where the sisters would have slept. Now there was a score of shelves. Good strong southern pines. They were still women, and knew how to shame a merchant into the respectable price.

There was the old Bible from Seville. A legacy from a ship’s captain who had made a goodly profit selling cattle hides to Europe and then southern pines to the port. The man had spent his life following the North Star and compiling ledgers. Yet the devout Captain had not forgotten the prayers and works of the sisters. The sisters remembered his soul, on the anniversary of his passing

There were primers that had come from Nice. They had been worked on by men who had seen the dust of crusaders riding on their great steeds The Portuguesa had deposited with the sisters some works of Aristotle from Lisbon of great providence. The whispers were that it had been owned by a family of Jews, whom the inquisition had exposed and punished. The Portuguese had discovered that the Sisters loved books, as other women liked fine dresses. Like an adulterer learning a trick of womanly character, they had exploited it again and again

The Mother superior had been most attentive to their wives spiritual consolations afterward. The Sisters read to them lessons of Thomas A Kempis. ``The wisdom of Mother Julian of Norwich’’ a work from a land lost to the lord. In return Eloise had listened to the stories of little ones left to sleep in the earth forever. She had wept with their mothers she wept for their children, and tried to remember them always in her prayers

The Irlandessa, had returned the favour not to be undone, by their rivals. The Irish section of the library had been established. Works that St Patrick may have scribbled on his mountainside. Such tomes where now safe in the charge of the Sisters of Charity.

The lore and legends of a nation had been reduced to a few books. All which had been saved from the Regents armies. A copy of the Gospels which had once been the boast of a fine monastery, it had been hidden from the Vikings. The Normans had left it in peace. Though offered a stern correction to its scribes. Then the heretic’s had made it homeless. A brave soul had rescued it, and brought it aboard a leaky ship. From there it had been mouldering in the ports of Spain, it had been wrapped under a cloak, or stowed in a chest. It was a mercy it had not been sold for bread. Or not rather rudely tossed into a fire for warmth. The rats in several ports had been robbed of an easy meal. As had the fishes

After such trials and tribulations The manuscripts were now guarded by adobe wall and stout southern pines. Would they be safe here? Was she safe here? The war in the old world had finally come calling on Bunos Aires. They had have rumours of war, and now finally the horseman had crossed there threshold mercifully he had slipped away into the night

There were some secular works. The works of Caesar. Eloise smiled to herself when she saw those leather bound books. Not only did Caesar state that ancestors of the Irlandessa had been cannibals. There was an irony in that the heirs of long haired Gaul. Where now in the service of a Roman father. There was the Iliad of Homer. The tales of Charlesmage alas how Europe mourned him now. Where once a strong song of the Church had brought unity and fidelity there was now division.

There was a work on the recent wars in Europe. An account some hand had sketched of the battles and blood. The Irlandessa did serve in his most Catholic majesty’s armies across the sea.The Portugese had buried sons and lost fathers to pirates and the navies of the enemies of God and the Crown. Many of the new comers had been soldiers or were refugees. From this sieges, or that campaign

Even if the Pope and King should be victorious tomorrow It was the duty of the sisters to give instruction to sons, as well as daughters. The mind was as a garden to be cultivated and kept pure. A garden needed to be protected, against crows, and weeds. The harvest of heresy was war.

The tree that Luther had planted had brought the bitterest fruit.

The task in hand remained. The work she had wished to consult, was kept in the next set of shelves. It was a journal kept by a lady. She was the widow of one of the early governors of the town. She had acted as Grandmother or perhaps Durena in the towns girlhood

She was the midwife that had delivered the great marriage. Working quietly with the blessing of the Viceroy in Peru. His most Catholic majesty and even the holy father in Rome... The widow, as she had been known, had made a match. She had joined the hands of Karoline de Sousa, daughter of a merchant prince, and the son of the great O’Neill.

The union had been quietly happy. As had Buenos Aires. Trade bloomed and the streets were quieter. The contention between the two tribes healed. The Irlandessa flung themselves across the plains. The Portugese attention returned to the wares and ships. The Governor went to his bed, a contented man.

The union bore fruit. Marie the child of the two houses, the great hope of the south.

Who would never know her mother. One of the endless martyrs to the child bed.

Eloise now found herself in full remeberence of the funeral. Like a counting rhyme for children There was the big crowd of mourners a multitude the like of which the port only saw for a riot.

The chapel doors had been open, for the service to be head. An angel dancing on a pin, would have been told to hush, and had its heavenly ears boxed for making a show of himself such was the grief and silence over the city

The tall son of the O’Neill stood weeping at the grave. The day was perversely bright and favoured. Grief belonged with the winter. Some people fainted in the mourning clothes.

As Caesar and Pompey had never been reconciled again after the death of the woman that linked them so had the great houses of Buenos Aires been unreconciled. Mercifully Rome’s fate would not be shared. Fear checked even rumour

That Karoline, whose kinsfolk were born in Lisbon, had issue of the heiress of the O’Neill house indeed the honour of the best attended grave in the hundreds of miles was no comfort for the living.

The sisters had prayed for her, soul. They had prayed for peace. Then they had a pious smith cast a new bolt for their door. The storm passed. The younger O Neill drifted away from society. Preferring the hunt or his discreet mistresses Buenos Aires lapsed into faction.

Sister Eloise closed the book. Replaced it carefully, on its allotted shelf, and went off to pray

She opened the door, quietly. Good Mama was asleep. Indeed she was snoring. Indeed she just ..

Smiling to herself. She closed the door gently, and walked to her room. The rooms were quite pleasantly furnished. The house had been built by a prominent merchant whose love of cards had ruined him. The doors and walls were stout. It was close to the chapel. To one and all, it would quietly announce respectable.

She left her sleeping mother, and returned to her room. Taking her bible she sat down upon her chair. Her copy of the imitation of christ had been at her side, as she crossed the ocean. Along with Mama

She remembered very well the first time she had met both

For a moment she indulged herself. She had not done that since, oh since she was living in a town on that big river. Since what did the barbarians call it? Oh yes The Rhine. She remembered her house. It was always snowing there. Other people remembered their childhoods in summer. But she remembered hers in winter. The land laundered with snow and Papa riding on his big horse. It used to scare her. Oh and her naughty little kitten, Timosha! Her rogue Timosha! Whom would waste his days chasing the hens. Or if Timosha was feeling bolder he would stalk the sparrows. If Timosha had to hunt for his supper rather than wait, he would have been a beggar, a dead beggar

Mother used to scold her, about wasting scraps of herring on that silly kitten. She remembered mother now. Mother’s hair had been the colour of corn. Her skin, milk that still not spoiled, while the other matrons made good with cheese! In her mind’s eye across the ocean and rolling back the winters Her Mother working at her spindle again, Olya would hold the thread, and they would sing. Oh how she loved her sister voice. Olya. All the men, looked at Olya as she walked out of the chapel. Father always went with Olya to the well. For a moment her reverie slipped. Even at her mother’s knee she had learned a hard lesson. Olya was a prisoner of her beauty. The plainer girls could gossip by the well, or take a walk to see their neighbours, and kin. Olya was a like Helen. A quarrel that would one day spill blood.

Like a husband who slipped into the whorehouse, once or twice. Yet kept his virtue, and manhood in thrall for the rest of the year. She ended the indulgence. Her mind raced as her eyed began to survey the works of A kempis.

She had exposed herself, saving the Irlandessa Prince. That had been a necessary evil. The city would have been torn in two, such as it was. Her plans ruined. Scores dead, and thousands beggared. All so someone could claim their account on their vengeance

For a moment she cursed. If she was a man, her plans would have been accelerated and amplified by the act. Respectable ladies did not kill. They were supposed to retain the position of their sex, even in the face of assassins If they had been in a carriage, confronted by bandits

The aftermath of the fire would keep the mob occupied. Society would be attending to its civil a nd sacred duties. Though the horse had long since bolted, the Milita had mobilised. There would be calm throughout the Port The Idle hands were now patching shingles. The more foolish blackguards were swinging from the gallows. The Wives were consoling widows. There were funerals being arranged. Friends and Family were sheltering the homeless and the displaced.

Now was perhaps the time, for some piety and charity. ``Mama’’ would be pleased. There was a convent nearby. The sisters would be busy, but not too busy for the Gold and comfort of a Godly widow

Oh and they would need to buy wine. She would have to talk to one of the maids. The prices would be gorged after the fire. It was two mistakes she had made. She was getting old and careless.

Mama slept soundly if not quietly

Chapter 10

She would have to mention it to her confessor. It was pride. Wicked pride

Pride the oldest sin. The first sin and the hardest penance Adam and Eve were driven out of Eden. Lucifer was cast from Heaven as punishment for his pride.

Would God forgive her, her vanity? Lucifer had been an Angel. Adam and Eve had been formed by the hand of God themselves. They had been subject to wrath

She was comparing herself to the Mother of God simply due to the species of her mount.

Her Mule was clearly more Donkey then horse. As her own form remembered her mother

It still was a mule. So the analogy was not even that accurate. The good Mule would have surely reared up and released itself of its burden. If it had the wit. If for a moment dumb beast had realised what sinner bestrode it.

If she had been born a man she could sit astride.....

Not Mary but Eve. Her pride would be her undoing. Eloise chastened herself. The shame was harder than a flagrante lash.

Was she ungrateful for the gift of life as a woman? Had not Elizabeth and Ann be content? Had not the women of Jerusalem been given the honour of wiping the blood from the head of Christ?

Unlike the Holy Mother or the common mother of all Mankind. She like her Mule would remain childless. They would not

Sister Eloise prayed inwardly for forgiveness, and strove to remember it to her confessor.

The sun was proud. It was not a day for dark thoughts. Her confessor would learn of her sins. He would prescribe her penance for her repentance. She would be forgiven

Her companion Sister Ines was refreshing her soul with the waters of the rosary. Eloise would have accompanied her sister. Her mind unquiet. She had been too long in the sun perhaps.

Two of the O’Neil’s tenants, rode just a little in front of them. A dark haired woman sharing her choice of mount (Eloise despite being able to recite Homer had forgotten her chaperones name.)She was a Vasco though. Like her Husband thus they were both fairer than the multitudes of the town. The Matron was approaching the autumn of her life yet she could look forward to a prosperous feast of the saints. The lady had married well her greying Husband had something of a pot belly. Though the lady’s taste was modest. It was clear she lacked nothing. Excepting conversation Antonio was a touch laconic. Though thoroughly respectable in manner, and breeding. The lady indeed refrained from the deplorable excess of vanity, unlike Eloise.

No, No it was, not the time for that. She would see her confessor in time The Pious Vasco lady was a blessing she should be thankful for. Her companionship had enabled Eloise and Ines to call upon their sisters. Offer there thanks, condolences and service

Thus the honour of the O’Neill and the dignity of the daughters of Christ stood fast

The brief spiritual crisis of its passenger aside, the Mule plodded onward. This traveller had the comfort of her cell to look forward to. There would be more of a welcome for her. Then the holy family had, in the seat of David the claims of the Irlandessa were grandiose yet despite their boasts the Irlandessa’s genealogy did not stretch that far back what they insisted on in their cups was myth and hearsay. Often pagan she suspected. Duels had been fought when such thoughts had been put into words

The caravan made its way to the town. Slowly and surely as the great river made its way to the sea. The herd of horses and their backstairs kin the mules were followed by a few carts, trundled on. Carts full of hides, wool and dried dung Mercifully Eloise was ahead of that cart, and well upwind too

The strong sunshine had one slight unfortunate side effect there. To the van of the travellers there were the carriages with whatever lumber could be found. That was worth more than her mistresses’ wedding ring at the moment. Behind her the drovers followed with a goodly amount of Cattle and sheep. The O’Neill’s tenants and sworn men riding guard kept beast and Indio’s at bay

She prayed for dry weather to last. The Lord had sent rain, to save the port of Buenos Aires. The downpour had smothered the flames of the heretic fireship. Was it one Fire ship or fireships?

In the plains rumours grew as high as corn. There were stories that the English had landed. That the churches were sacked by an invading army. That the Irlandessa and the Portuguese factions of Buenos Aires had fallen into stasis. There were even those who claimed it was the second coming. There had been some fretful hours. When smoke and rumour where the only reference to the events. Than the Vasco, and his old wife, had returned. They brought word from the O’Neill. The news of the terrible fire had lead the port and its people had been saved by the great saviour

Now his mercy would be shown in the broad sunshine. With the sun shining hands could carve and cut, in the open air. Under a generous sun men would be able to climb up onto roofs and thus the burned shingles and slates would be replaced. A dry night would preserve the health of those who slept under blankets of stars. The families sleeping on rushes had no door to protect them from flux and fever. Sunshine meant that the paths to bring cattle and sheep into the town would be dusty and firm, rather than a mire the labourer and craftsman would need meat.

The Irlandessa had opened their hand. Such generosity would be remembered by the King of Kings

Such generosity would be remembered by the poorest of the poor too.

The act was as politique as Constantine after the battle of the Bridge. It did not matter why the little children and peasants came to Mass. As long as they came they could be saved.

The axels groaned as the cartwheels span. The noise unfortunately resembled the sound of the bedchambers of a bride on her wedding night for the more demure ears of a bride of Christ. One of their escort took off his hood, and nodded to her. A pious man paying his respects to his sister in Christ The rider spurred his grey mare to the van of the procession. It was a relieving army in a sense, an army mobilised against want! A general who relived a city was remembered in schoolbooks, and statues

The ram would not strike the wall.

Rather they would feast on the fatted lamb

The drovers sang as they toiled. The song was based on a hymn. Their melody was simple, and the lyrics mercifully modest. The voices betrayed their origins, some were Irlandessa. The oldest and youngest voices, few Wilde Irish slipped into the town.

It was a point of pride for the old Irlandessa families. To have nursemaids who babbled in Erse. Some were the sons, or rather grandsons and great grandson’s of the first shiploads to land here. There lonely cottages and scattered farmsteads being little islands of Irish in the great sea of Spanish.

It was a form of Spanish. Eloise found herself, having to concentrate when she heard the young and common folk of the port speaking. They were as ignorant of grammar, as the millions of Cathay were of Jesus. The shouting and cat calling from behind the convent walls betrayed a great ignorance. The differences between Masculine and feminine speech never having been mastered, were discounted

The chorus revealed Galician and Navarese accents. There was one of two voices she could not place. The blond man, with the snub nose could be heard over the melody. His vowels where sheared when the others singers let theirs grow long

An odd Indio baritone could be heard in the chorus. The man driving the sheep before her was of mixed breed. There cattle would have made Papa sigh the calves were plump and healthy. If they had been women, they would have been goddesses or nymphs. A fitting subject for art

The song of the men Godly and humble inspired Eloise. She offered thanks to her Master in heaven

If nothing else, the cartwheels and cows, was muted. The Sun stood proud in the sky.

They could see the smoke from the town on the horizon. The chimneys smoked the bonfires blazed. The tanneries and bakeries Mankind had not forgotten the gift of Prometheus. The smoke spoke of blacksmiths and coppersmiths sweating and cursing until they could take their lunch. Soon the smell would be overpowering. The dung that witnessed the hundreds of thousands of head of livestock that ended their days at the butchers, and tanneries the stench of rotting fish. The privies, chamber pots’s and piss of a busy port. Industry and squalor were bedfellows.

Alas there was no Hercules to cleanse these stables

The House of the sisters of Christ was towards the outskirts of town. Away from the temptation and troubles of a port. Yet close enough for the duties of charity. It was also under the eyes of the honest men of the militia. In case any Indio’s or the mob, should try to impose themselves on the sisters the house of women that had fallen to the lust of the heretics came to mind. The vengeance of the Lord was doubted by the proud and the Godless.

It would be good, to see her companions in Christ again. Her duties with the O Neill's had not been onerous. Indeed her charge had been blessed with some wit. The rod and a few raised eyebrows dealt with her childish excesses. The Mistress of the house had joined her and Sister Ines in their prayers. She had endeavoured to keep the conversation at dinner from digressing to the horses. The prospects for the corn harvest. The Don Neill’s house was full of music. Before the Nuns retired of evening, their hosts made an effort to keep their choices of song, if not Pious then polite

Her home was among her sisters. She had entered the order, as a novice not long after she had arrived in the port. The long journey had been difficult. Papa had been fearful for her virtue and never let wander too far. The ship was a Babel the seas were rough and the rations worse. She had been but an animated skeleton when they reached the port of Buenos Aires. She smiled remembering her determination to join the sisters. Father had wanted her to sell fish, or become a laundress in the service of some house. For a moment she considered her life. As a path which reached a fork. She had taken one path, the path of modesty of charity and of service. Suppose she had not listened to the voice inside her. Did not Samuel ignore the voice of God, for a few moments repose? What had she been but a mere girl? Suppose she had become a washerwoman for the O’Neill’s. The path of her life would have reached almost the same place. Like a river determined to reach the sea. She would have been here, in Buenos Aires, at the service and in the train of the Irlandessa

The sun shone brightly the song of the drovers began to ebb. They were close to the outskirts of the town. The steeples of the churches could be made out. As could the masts of the ships in the harbour be seen too. The O’Neill’s family seat was close by. It was bare rugged building a block of Atlantic stone defiant against the plains. The Convent where she resided was all the more elegant. She had heard that the O’Neill’s now had a town house. Where the son of the great house received polite society

She remembered he had a daughter... The young prince had mentioned it

Then she remembered

The girl’s s Mother had been Portuguese.