Authors: Jonah Hewitt
The Second Secret Prologue
The Boy Who Should Have Died
Sister Maria Francesca examined the tiny infant. Unlike most newborns, he wasn’t crying. He was barely breathing. He was small and frail and turning blue, yet she could still feel his tiny, faint heartbeat under her two fingers. He had been born too soon. She turned to look to the other sister nearby, who just shook her head and pulled a sheet over the head of the boy’s mother. She was gone.
They had no idea who she was. She had come to the gates of the convent of the Poor Sisters of St. Clare mere hours ago, frantic, in the middle of labor, arriving just before the storm that was still raging outside. How she had come to be this far from anyone, out in the mountains, pregnant, in the middle of a storm was a complete mystery to them, and it would remain a mystery forever. Sister Maria Francesca looked back to the now orphaned boy. He would not live much longer than the mother.
“Is that the child?”
Sister Maria turned to see the long black robes of the priest approaching down the dimly lit hall.
“Yes Father.”
“Let me see him.”
Sister Maria held the child out for the Jesuit priest to take him, but the priest’s arms remained at his sides. Instead, he merely leaned over to examine the frail child as if he were looking at the carcasses of the dead rabbits brought by the local hunter for stew. He gave no sign of any emotion. Satisfied with his inspection, he turned to go without comment.
Sister Maria, confused, held the child to her chest and called out to the Priest.
“Father?”
The priest stopped and turned around to look at the sister as if she had done something insolent.
“What?” he said, annoyed.
Sister Maria took a step back. Perhaps the Father was unaware of the child’s condition. “The child is very weak Father, he will not live much longer.”
The priest only raised an eyebrow.
Sister Maria was shocked at the Father’s lack of concern. Surely he knew the consequences?! “Father, if the child is not baptized right away its soul will be sent to Limbo!”
“And what of it?” the priest said coldly.
“Father!” the nun exclaimed, stunned, but before she could form a rebuttal the priest cut her off.
“We know nothing of this child’s parentage. This woman could be a harlot, or a gypsy, or a Basque witch for all we know.”
The nun bit her lip. She was half-Basque herself, but knew how to keep her tongue and temper. A lifetime of torment had taught her that. “Even if we knew that to be true, surely the child is innocent!”
“Is it?” the priest retorted. “Placed here with no family, no name, no one to speak for it? This child is obviously cursed.”
“Father!” Sister Maria protested.
“Do not talk back to your superior! It is not
I
who has condemned this child. It is the
Lord
.”
Sister Maria stood open-mouthed, not knowing what to say next when a new voice entered the conversation.
“
Suffer the little children to come to me
.”
The voice was hard and penetrating and unexpected, like a frost on a summer morning. The nun and father both turned around to face the voice, startled. A tall, slender, black figure was walking down the dim hallway. It was so tall and dark, that at first Sister Maria was certain it was Death himself, but as it came closer, she could see that it was actually a tall and courtly woman. Her long black hair was piled up fabulously on top of her head and held in place by a large comb made of black tortoiseshell, making her look even taller and more imposing. Over the top of this was a black lace mantilla, or veil, that concealed her features and fell nearly to the floor. As she swept elegantly into the room, she pulled back the veil to reveal fine Castilian features and beautiful, stunning grey eyes. Sister Maria was entranced and terrified all at once when the strange woman spoke again.
“Isn’t that what your Lord once said, Father? ‘
Suffer the little children to come to me?
’”
“Y-your Lord too, Doña de Portago,” the father stammered, as if he was nervous to correct her.
“Yes, of course” the woman said imperiously. She held out her gloved hand with its massive gold ring limply. The father immediately genuflected, took her hand in both of his and kissed the ring enthusiastically. The woman looked away, as if she could barely tolerate the pieties of such obsequiousness. For his part, the stern father evaporated and became a simpering courtier in the woman’s presence, something the nun would not have believed had she not seen it with her own eyes.
Doña de Portago
. The nun had heard of the Marquesa before. She was the head of a large and powerful noble family. They held estates nearby and in many other parts of the kingdom, and even in the New World. She had no children, but had come into her land and titles mostly through her marriages. She was a widow four times over. There were rumors, of course, that she was a witch, and that she had poisoned them all, but few dared speak those thoughts out-loud. Other tales told that she was once an advisor and confidant to the King’s grandfather, Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor, but seeing her now, Sister Maria knew this must be false. She would have had to have been a woman of over seventy to have known the late emperor, and looking at this beautiful woman it was clear she could not be but a few years beyond thirty.
“Now, what’s all this fuss about?” she spoke plainly as the father got up from his knees. Already several servants had emerged from the darkness as well that Sister Maria hadn’t noticed before. They were taking off the Marquesa’s waterlogged cloak and shawl while she removed her long gloves.
“A vagabond, a fallen woman, nothing more. She came to us by chance this evening in labor…that is all. Do not trouble yourself…” But the noblewoman had already cut him off.
“May I see her?” But before she could be answered, the strange woman was already walking towards the body of the dead woman.
“Why, yes…Marquesa,” the priest hurriedly said as he followed after her.
The woman lifted the sheet and looked at the corpse but betrayed no emotion. The dead young woman was fair and dark-haired, but otherwise unremarkable.
The priest continued with his ingratiating tone, bowing repeatedly, “How is it that we have the honor of your presence this evening, Marquesa? Your Ladyship, your Grace, your…” He had several more pious accolades ready, but she cut him off.
“We were on holiday to enjoy the fresh air when we came here to seek refuge from the storm.” She said this dismissively and continued to examine the woman as if she could see something the others could not.
“Holiday? Fresh air? But why so high in the mountains, and in this weather? At this time of year?” the stunned priest stammered.
She ignored the priest and lowered the sheet carefully over the young woman’s body. “Where is the child?” she said simply.
“What? Oh, Sí! Of course, my Lady.” The priest hurried over to Sister Maria and tried to roughly grab the small infant from her arms. Sister Maria didn’t know why, but she instinctively clutched the child to her breast and pulled the blankets tighter around it. She didn’t trust the father or this woman. The father looked outraged at this gesture but hardly had time to consider how to respond before the Marquesa silently stepped up behind him. He turned around as if to offer some apology for the nun’s recalcitrance, but she waved him away wordlessly, never taking her steely, dark eyes off of Sister Maria. The priest bowed out and retreated to the side silently. The Marquesa approached, held out her hands and spoke softly this time.
“May I
please
see the child?”
Sister Maria looked between the impassive eyes of the Marquesa and the glaring, disapproving stare of priest. She didn’t trust either of them. Sister Maria looked down on the frail child. His eyes were closed, unresponsive. She knew he did not have much time anyway. She looked back at the stern, beautiful woman. There was something compelling and terrifying about her. With a sigh, she gently handed the small newborn over to the Marquesa.
The Marquesa smiled, cradled the child affectionately in her arms and then looked down at him with a motherly look that made the sister feel a little better. She placed her pinky finger in the child’s tiny hand, but the hand did not instinctively close on it, like a normal newborn might.
“The child is very weak, I don’t believe it will live much longer,” the sister added helpfully.
The Marquesa examined the newborn carefully, then she slowly smiled and whispered something into the child’s ear. Slowly, the infant’s tiny fist tightened around her smallest finger. As the nun looked on, stunned, the Marquesa spoke, “Oh, I think this child will live for a
very
long time indeed.”
With that, the tall woman turned around abruptly and began walking back towards the main doors of the convent.
“Marquesa?” The priest followed after her, confused. The nun followed too. Only the servants stood still. As she strode purposefully towards the doors, the sound of thunder outside grew louder. She reached up and pulled the comb from her hair as she walked. Her long, black, lustrous hair fell nearly to the floor in great, silken sheets. She pushed open the heavy wooden doors and walked outside into the courtyard and the heavy rain.
“Marquesa!” Sister Maria called out. It was like she had gone mad. Sister Maria would have followed her out into the courtyard, but the priest restrained her at the doorway. From the doorway they watched her. Rain poured down over the noblewoman and the infant. She held the small child aloft with both hands in the middle of the courtyard as lightning flashed around the horizon on all sides. Amidst the thunder, the nun could hear the Marquesa speak words, not in Castilian, but in Basque! The priest looked on confused, but Sister Maria understood it all.
“Is this the one?!” the Marquesa yelled into the storm, “Is this the one you have kept from me all these years? Is this the one you fear?!”
As she spoke these strange words, the lightning flashed and Sister Mary thought she saw a strange shadow in the clouds, a terrifying silhouette like a beast with many wings and legs. Some parts were like an ox, others like a lion, still others were like a vulture or a man, but in the second flash of lightning, the shadow was gone.
Instantly, the child began crying. Not a weak cry or a plaintive cry, but a robust cry, like any newborn. Sister Maria threw off the priest’s grip and ran out into the courtyard, grabbed the child from the insane noblewoman and rushed back inside. The Marquesa made no protest, but followed her in,
laughing
.
When they returned to the doorway, the servants were already there to receive them. One woman took the crying child and wrapped him a soft and expensive blanket of the finest wool. Already he was crying vigorously and looked much healthier, too healthy, in fact, for a child so new and born too early. Another servant wrapped a similar blanket graciously over the shoulders of the nun, and yet another one did the same for the Marquesa who was wringing the water out of her luxurious hair. They ignored the priest.
“Enough, enough, I’m fine,” the Marquesa gently told them. She seemed to be in a deliriously good mood for someone who was soaking wet with cold rain.
“Marquesa?!” the priest began somewhat chagrined at being ignored as much as by her strange behavior.
“Father!” she cut him off, “the child must be baptized and christened at once!” she ordered. “I trust you can handle that?”
“But Marquesa?! With no one to speak for the child…”
“
I
will speak for the child.”
“What?!” the priest stammered, stunned.
“He is to be my godson, and
I
will be his godmother,” she said triumphantly, beaming.
“But…” the father continued his impotent objections, but she ignored him and began pacing, hands clasped near her face, the index fingers extended, occasionally tapping them against her lips, thinking out loud.
“We have to find a nursemaid immediately…and he must have a stern adoptive father, Castilian of course, of the best blood, but we can’t ignore the Hungarian part of the family either.” As she said this, two of the servants immediately left and plunged into the hard rain, as if working on silent orders.
“Marquesa?” the priest tried again to interrupt her, “I fear this is ill-advised, your Ladyship, I am afraid of this child…” He began, but she just laughed and cut him off.
“You’re not the only one, father.” Then went right back to her planning. “We will train him to be a soldier…no…a
physician!
Much better, no one will suspect,” she muttered to herself. She went on rambling. Right there in the entryway she planned out the child’s entire life, where he would study, who he would become.
“Doña de Portago?!” the priest tried again to protest and interrupt her without success. She was too caught up in the child’s potential future.
“Oh!” she snapped her fingers, “He’ll need a name.” She bit her thumb and continued thinking and pacing. “I’ll call him Lazlo, after my grandfather, that will make the Hungarian side of the family happy, but he’ll need a surname too – something that will just be
galling
to the Great Master.” She practically giggled when she said this. The priest and the nun exchanged glances. She was like a mad woman. She looked up as if she had a sudden flash of brilliance. She quickly walked over to the servant holding the child and plucked him up from her arms and held the boy up admiringly.