Sleeping under the Cross 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