The Falcons of Fire and Ice

CHAPTER Five



A fable relates how once a falcon refused to return to his master’s fist. A cockerel, watching this, thought, I am just as fine a bird as any falcon, yet I am forced to scratch for scraps in the dust at my master’s feet. Why should I not ride upon his fist and be fed choice meats from his fingers?

So the cockerel flew up on to his master’s fist. His master was delighted and praised the bird for its cleverness. Then he killed it, and held up its body as a lure for the falcon, which at once returned to his fist and devoured the cockerel’s flesh.





Torre de Belém Ricardo



Man – to accustom the hawk to being handled by the falconer and to make the bird accept the equipment used to control it, such as hoods, jesses, etc.



The guttering orange flames of the torches high on the walls of the dungeon glinted on the black water as another icy wave surged in and splashed across my legs. I shivered violently. My bare chest was wet with the salt spray. I could no longer feel my feet as I stood knee-deep in water, and my arms were numb from hanging in the chains. But at least I no longer felt the terrible panic of the first night, when the guards had chained me here promising that, with the coming of the high tide, the dungeon would flood. They roared with laughter as they climbed up the stairs of the tower, leaving me to wait in agonized terror for the first wave to come rolling in through the openings and race across the stone slabs. Just how high would the tide reach?

I had stood there in the darkness with my hands gripped painfully either side of my head by the fetters that bolted me to one of the great pillars, feeling the water creeping higher and higher up my legs with each breaking wave. How long before the tide was at its highest? How many hours had passed? And the cold! Oh, sweet Jesu, that bitter, biting cold. I had no idea how agonizing cold could be. It was as if my bones were being slowly crushed in the vice of it.

Then, when something solid bumped against my groin, it suddenly occurred to me that eels, octopuses and worse, much worse, also made their home in the sea. If the water could flow in, what was to prevent them swimming in with it? Was that an eel even now gnawing at my numb flesh, or a crab tearing strips of my skin off with its claws? Was that just a ripple I could see in the torchlight, or some huge fish carried in on the tide, a stinging jellyfish, a shark? What was swimming around me in that dark, swirling water, its mouth open, its teeth dagger-sharp?

But I was not drowned or devoured that night, nor had I been in the fourteen tides that followed, for I count my days in tides now. But what would happen when there was a storm? And sooner or later there would be one. I’d seen the waterfront at Belém flooded more than once when high winds lashed the sea. I knew just how much higher those waves could rise. And tall as I was, they would only need to rise a few more feet to cover my head.

But even when the tide was low and the water had drained away, I couldn’t get warm. The heat of the sun didn’t penetrate the dungeon of the tower, though I could glimpse it sparkling on the blue water through the openings in the walls as if it was put there to taunt and torment me. A priest told me that once a year the damned in hell are permitted to glimpse the beauty of the heaven they can never enter, to comfort them in their suffering. When I saw the reflection of the sun on the sea, I knew that if those in hell are shown heaven it’s not an act of mercy, but just another torture inflicted on them.

The sea wind funnelled through the arches of the dungeon, flaying my wet flesh. The skin on my feet and legs, especially the tender parts around my cock, was cracking open and peeling, leaving raw wounds and sores which stung viciously with each new flood of salt water, and itched madly as the salt on my skin dried at low tide. With my hands chained either side of my head, I couldn’t even relieve the torment by scratching my crotch. Merciful heaven, to think it was summer now! How much worse would it become if I was still chained up here in winter?

They had rowed me out to the tower within hours of Carlos seizing me. Dona Lúcia’s nephew was a wealthy man, and the rich can buy vengeance which is denied to the poor. Had I robbed some poor market woman of every miserable thing she had ever owned, I would have merely ended up in the town jail, not comfortable perhaps, but not torture. Try to borrow a few escudos from a woman who’s so rich she wouldn’t even notice the loss, and they chain you up in here. There’s no justice in this world.

And to think that just a few short weeks ago Silvia and I had stood, arms round each other, her head resting on my shoulder, gazing out from the shore at the tower, its windows glowing with soft yellow light. Silvia had thought it so romantic with its little turrets and graceful arches. Believe me, the romance dies pretty quickly when you see it from this angle.

A guard clattered down the stone steps, swinging a pail in one hand and half a loaf in the other. He stopped somewhere behind me and addressed another prisoner hidden from my view.

‘How are we today, Senhor? In a better humour, I trust.’

The only response was an incoherent mumbling, punctuated by sudden shrieks of demented laughter.

I knew there was someone else chained up behind one of the other great pillars that supported the vaulted ceiling. I’d never seen him, but I could hear him talking to himself, though if I shouted a question at him he’d immediately fall silent. Each time the tide started to roll in, he’d begin whimpering and crying, and as it rose he’d start howling above the wind like a starving dog. How long had he been here? Had he been mad when they brought him here or had he gradually lost his wits chained up in this place, month after month? How long were they going to keep me here? Until I was as crazed as he was?

I had given up asking the guards what was to happen to me. They simply laughed, sometimes drawing their fingers across their throats, or else twisting their heads sideways and making their tongues loll out in the grotesque mockery of a hanged man. But they never answered me.

The footsteps moved towards me again and the guard rounded the pillar, a grin on his lopsided face. I stared at the quarter of the loaf remaining in his hands. I was sure he’d given that other prisoner the bigger share. He stuffed the bread into my chained hand and watched me lean my head towards my fingers until the bread was close enough to my mouth to eat. I devoured it as rapidly as I could. If I took too long, the guard would become bored and wander away without giving me anything to drink. But I had learned from painful experience to hold the chunk of bread tightly, for if my numb fingers dropped it, the guard wouldn’t pick it up and return it to me again. He’d simply walk away, leaving it on the floor where I couldn’t reach it. And the sight of the bread, so near yet so unattainable, would only make my stomach ache more with hunger.

The guard dipped a ladle in a stinking bucket of water and held it to my lips, tilting it only slightly. I sucked as fiercely as a baby at the nipple, before the water could dribble down my chin. To my surprise he dipped the ladle a second time and then a third. I’d never been given more than one before. For a moment I wondered if he’d pissed in it or poisoned it, but frankly I was so thirsty not even that would have stopped me drinking it.

‘Thank you,’ I said, when he picked up the pail ready to depart.

The guard snorted. ‘Not me you want to thank, it’s your visitors. Said they wanted you in a fit state to talk, they did.’

‘Talk? You mean they want to question me?’ My stomach contracted so fast I nearly vomited what I had just drunk.

‘They didn’t come here for the good of their health. In fact, one of them’s looking decidedly peaky. I’d always heard of people turning green, but I never believed it until I’d seen him. I don’t reckon he enjoyed that crossing much. He’s up in the Governor’s room now, taking a little port for his stomach, and if I were in your shoes I’d be praying it improves his temper, otherwise I don’t give much for your chances.’

‘Who … who is it? Senhor Carlos?’

The guard chuckled. ‘These are no senhors,’ he said, as he walked away.

‘Wait, please! At least tell me who –’

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ the guard called back, as he ambled towards the stairs. ‘Don’t be so impatient. Not as if you’ve got anything else to do today, except hang around.’ Laughing at his own feeble joke, he vanished from view.

As if he too shared the joke, the unseen prisoner also began to laugh, a high-pitched, insane giggle that ended in a sob.

I don’t know how long I waited. There was no way to measure time except by the relentless tides. My ears were straining for the sound of footfalls on the steps and my thoughts were spinning in a maelstrom. What did he mean, these were no senhors ? Were my visitors women? Had Dona Lúcia taken pity on me? Did she feel guilty that her own nephew was responsible for my unjust incarceration and had come to negotiate for my release? Perhaps that adorable little maid of hers had persuaded Dona Lúcia that I was innocent of any crime, which indeed I was, since I hadn’t actually taken any money from her. There was no denying the kiss that girl had pressed on me had all the taste and passion of love, and she had tried to help me to escape. She would be distraught that I had been taken.

I was so preoccupied with thinking of the maid coming to release me that it wasn’t until they had rounded the pillar that I saw them, two black-robed men, their cassocks held in place by a long girdle tied about the waist. They moved round either side of the pillar and came together in front of me like a giant claw closing. They seemed to be gliding an inch above the ground for their sandals made no sound at all on the wet paving stones.

It took me a moment or two to realize who they were. I’d never before been within spitting distance of one of their kind. But when I recognized their habits, a douche of icy panic shot through my bowels. Jesuit priests! What the hell were they doing here? There was only one reason I could think a priest would visit a prisoner – to hear his confession and give him the last rites before he was executed. I stared wildly from one to the other, but neither spoke.

Faced with their icy silence, my brain seemed to freeze. I couldn’t think of a single coherent story with which to defend myself. Instead I began to babble wildly like some callow farm boy caught stealing a chicken.

‘Please, you have to understand I’ve done nothing wrong. It was just a business arrangement, that’s all … I didn’t take the money … You can’t hang me without a trial … Don’t listen to Senhor Carlos, he completely misunderstood the situation. He … he wasn’t there at the beginning, you see. I had no intention of borrowing any money from the old lady, quite the reverse. In fact I’m the one who was the victim here. I was completely deceived by Henry Vasco and the captain of that ship. It’s them who should be here, not me … I … the truth is …’

My voice faltered and died away. Both men’s faces were expressionless. They did not so much as nod their heads to show they were listening. Both stared at me with unblinking eyes as if they were searching my soul and despised what they saw. The only sounds to be heard were the waves lapping against the outside of the tower and the wind whining between the pillars. Even the mad prisoner had fallen silent.

The older of the two men gave a dry little cough. He was a well-fleshed man with a bulbous nose and small, sunken eyes which even in the shadow of the dungeon seemed to be permanently squinting against a non-existent glare. His companion, in contrast, was a shorter, leaner man, with sharp features, but whose black eyes burned with a dark fire that I had only ever seen in men who are consumed with lust for a woman. Sweet Jesu, surely he didn’t mean to … I mean, you did hear of prisoners who were raped by their jailers, but not by a man in holy orders surely?

The older priest coughed again. ‘I am sure you realize by now that you are in serious trouble, Senhor Cruz. Oh, yes, we know your name, in fact we know all the names you call yourself. But let us not trouble ourselves with a list of those. Why don’t we stick to the name that will appear on your death warrant, just to simplify matters?’

‘Death … but I told you I am innocent. I didn’t take a single crusado from Dona Lúcia.’

‘But you tried to. A thief who is apprehended in the midst of his crime is no less guilty than one caught afterwards.’

‘A servant who puts poison into his master’s wine is still executed whether his master drinks it or not,’ the younger man added.

‘But I was tricked, I –’

The older priest held up his hands. ‘Don’t waste words lying to me. It’s not the first time you have committed such a fraud. True, the ship was a little more ambitious than some of your other schemes. Remember the olive grove you sold that you did not actually own? The girl you promised to marry and then abandoned after you had talked her into giving you her jewellery to buy medicines for your dying mother? And then there were boxes of rare nutmegs you procured for the noble lady which turned out to contain, what was it – apricot stones? Need I go on?’

‘That wasn’t me. You are mistaking me for someone else, I swear.’

‘We could, of course, bring these people as witnesses to your trial,’ the priest said in a bored tone, as if he was discussing the price of hay instead of my life.

‘They wouldn’t testify, because they know it wasn’t me,’ I retorted, trying to sound far more confident of that than I felt.

‘I grant you many of them wouldn’t want to admit in public they had been taken as fools. But let me assure you that the girl’s father as well as Senhor Carlos are so hungry to see you hanged they’d don the executioner’s hood themselves, if we allowed them to.’

He paused. His gaze wandered to somewhere behind me. I turned my head and was sure I glimpsed the sleeve of a black cassock sticking out from behind the pillar to which I was chained. There was a third priest in the dungeon. Why didn’t he step out where I could see him? Was he going to garrotte me from behind? I was horribly conscious that my hands were chained fast. There was nothing I could do to defend myself, not even cover my face.

The older priest was speaking again. ‘But it would be a pity to let a man with your skills go to the gallows when he could perform a great service for his country and for the Holy Church. Our Blessed Lord does not like us to waste the talents he has given us.’

The younger priest gave a half-smile. ‘Indeed.’ He nodded respectfully to his companion, before turning to me. ‘The Holy Church wishes you to carry out a task for her. If you succeed, on your return you will be set up in a well-appointed house many miles from Belém and your accusers. Furthermore, you will be granted an income more than sufficient for all your needs, such that you will never again have to put yourself to the trouble of finding, shall we say … a less honest means of earning a living.’

I gaped at him. I couldn’t take in what he was saying. Just minutes ago they were talking about death warrants and gallows, now they were suddenly offering me houses and money. Had my wits finally fled and I’d become as mad as the unseen prisoner? Perhaps I was imagining all this and the priests were just hallucinations. I jerked my hand and felt the iron shackle cut into my wrist – the pain was certainly real enough.

‘Are you saying I’ll be released … with no charge? Will there … will there be a penance?’ I asked anxiously.

I had witnessed the ghastly humiliation of those the Church forced to do public penance for their crime and always thought I’d rather die than suffer that. Although now that it had come to just such a choice, I realized I would do anything to stay alive, even endure public shame.

‘We feel that the task you will undertake will involve sufficient hardship so as to render any further penance unnecessary. You might say that what the Church requires of you is in the nature of a pilgrimage.’

‘You mean to Compostela or the Holy Land?’

The abject fear that had gripped me was beginning to ease a little. Pilgrimages could be quite jolly affairs, or so I’d been told. True, the journey could be a little rough at times, but if one had plenty of money there was always good food, desirable women and juicy entertainment to be had in the inns along the way.

‘I fear the pilgrimage you are about to embark on is to somewhere a little colder and damper than the Holy Land.’ The young priest glanced round the dungeon at the water marks on the pillars and the puddles of sea water on the floor. ‘But after this place such a journey should be no hardship. We want you to go to Iceland … you have heard of Iceland?’

‘Somewhere in the North, isn’t it? Nothing there but cod and sheep, so I heard. Why would I go on pilgrimage there? Are there even any shrines in Iceland?’

‘It’s not the destination that makes the pilgrimage, Cruz, it is the journey,’ the older priest said. ‘A pilgrimage is a journey you undertake to purify the soul, but in this case it is a journey you will make to purify the Holy Church, and Portugal, even the young king himself.’

The older priest glanced behind me again, as if he was seeking confirmation from someone standing just out of my sight in the shadow of the pillar. Whatever answer he got seemed to be a signal to continue, for he nodded briefly and returned his gaze to me.

‘A young girl has arrived in Belém. She has been making inquiries about ships bound for Iceland. We believe she means to go there to capture a pair of gyrfalcons which she intends to present to King Sebastian. It is vital for the future of Portugal that she does not succeed. You will sail with her and use your considerable skill at charming women to befriend her. We want you to ensure she does not return with the white falcons.’

I don’t know quite what task I’d been expecting them to charge me with – delivering a package to someone, or even stealing a holy relic for them from a shrine – but stopping a girl capturing a couple of birds was definitely not what I expected to hear.

‘I can’t imagine why a gift of a few birds should affect the future of Portugal,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you just tell her the king doesn’t like birds and suggest she stitch him a nice shirt instead?’ I tried to grin, but my lips were too cracked and sore.

The two priests regarded me with an icy contempt. It was a look that reminded me that my life still dangled precariously in their hands.

I added hastily, ‘What I mean is, Father, if … if you don’t want the girl to go and find these birds, why don’t you arrest her or simply forbid her to leave?’

‘She must be seen to go to Iceland, and she must be seen to fail in her quest. If she is arrested or if she should fall mortally sick before she has a chance to sail, there is a danger that His Majesty, being at an impressionable age, might express a certain sympathy towards her and her family. This he must not do. You must see that she is well away from these shores before any … accident befalls her. What happens after that we will leave to your discretion.’

What did they mean – accident ? Were they suggesting I trip her up and break her leg? In my bewilderment I had almost forgotten that my arms were chained. I tried to gesticulate, gasping as the iron cut into my already raw and bruised flesh.

‘Look, why don’t I simply seduce her and then talk her out of the whole venture? It won’t be easy if she is stubborn, but you may rest assured that I know how to handle any woman and win her round. There’s really no need for either of us to set foot on board any ship. What with the cold and the rotten food – I wouldn’t be able to function at my best. I don’t travel well. It’s impossible to seduce a woman if you are constantly vomiting with seasickness. I assure you I work much better on dry land.’

The younger of the two priests swallowed hard as if the mere mention of the word seasickness was enough to make him want to retch.

The older priest’s lip twitched in a faint smile. ‘Come now, Cruz, an experienced seaman such as you surely does not fear such a journey? You have weathered storms at sea before many times, have you not, when you voyaged all the way to the island of Goa, as you so vividly described to Dona Lúcia? You don’t mean to tell me that was a lie.’

‘You know it was.’

‘Lies have a way of becoming truth, as you are about to discover, Cruz.’

He waved his hand about the dungeon. ‘Of course, you could always choose to stay here. I promise you, as winter approaches it will become just as wet and cold in this tower as on board a ship, more so in fact, for at least at sea you will have fires to warm you and blankets to sleep beneath. And all the while you hang here in your chains, drenched and frozen, night and day, you will be dreading that really bad storm. Do you see that?’ He pointed to a stain on the pillar opposite, high above my head. ‘I believe that is the height waves surged to last winter in a gale.’

My throat, which was dry before, was now so tight that I feared I was going to choke.

‘But this girl, you said an accident. What did you mean? You’re surely not suggesting a fatal accident?’

The elder priest raised his eyebrows as if I was a particularly dull-witted pupil who had, at last, with much prompting, managed to stumble upon the correct answer.

‘But … but you’re priests, you can’t ask me to kill someone.’

It was the younger priest’s turn to smile, but there was no humour in it. ‘Have you at last found a conscience?’

‘I may have parted some fools and their money, but only rich ones who could well afford to lose the trifle I took. I’ve never killed anyone, much less a woman. I admit I don’t attend Mass as often as my mother would like, but the last time I was there I was sure that the priest mentioned something about murder being a mortal sin, or was I dreaming through that sermon too?’

‘If you were to kill a Christian man or woman, it would indeed be a mortal sin,’ the young man agreed. ‘But this girl is no Christian. She is a Marrano, a Jew, a heretic. And Christ rejoices over the death of a heretic. Whoever cleanses Portugal of such an evil abomination is blessed in the sight of God and the Holy Church.’

‘Then let the Holy Church do it,’ I retorted. ‘Hand her over to the Inquisition. I won’t commit murder for anyone. I’d rather spend the rest of my life in jail than kill a girl who’s never done me any harm. It may be hard for you to believe, but I do have some principles and I draw the line at murder, especially the murder of a woman.’

I hoped I sounded a lot braver than I felt, but just at that moment I was so outraged by what they were proposing, I couldn’t even think about the consequences.

The elder of the two Jesuits looked inquiringly at whoever was standing in the shadows behind me. Then, with a slight nod, he strode back across to the stone steps with only the whisper of his robe to betray his movement. The younger priest did not move, but continued to watch me in silence, like a hound pointing at the quarry awaiting the arrival of the huntsman.

A few minutes later I heard the sound of two pairs of footsteps lumbering down the stairs and crossing the stone floor towards me. My stomach tightened. These were no priests. Had he sent for the guards to beat me into doing what they wanted, or worse?

But when the guards came into sight they were carrying a long wrapped bundle between them which they dropped with a dull, heavy thud on to the stone floor. The older Jesuit returned behind them and, with a wave of his hand, dismissed the guards, waiting until they had retreated back up the stairs before continuing.

‘Cruz, understand that I am not a gullible old woman or a foolish young one. I cannot be seduced by your pretty tongue. I have been very well trained in rooting out lies. I can look into any man’s eyes and read the truth there. But in your case, I don’t have to. The proof is here. Yet another crime to add to your ever-lengthening list – the crime of murder.’

I stared at him. ‘I haven’t … I’ll admit to the other things, but of murder I am innocent. I swear by all the saints in heaven. I have never killed anyone.’

The Jesuit’s voice became even more measured; I could feel he was taking pleasure in this. This was a man who prided himself on using words, not violence, to eviscerate his victims.

‘How easily one forgets one’s sins. Though I am surprised you have forgotten this particular sin so rapidly, Cruz. After all, it was committed less than a month ago. Silvia, I think you called her. Your method was not very subtle, I admit. There are many men who possess a far greater skill in making a murder look like a natural death such that not even the most suspicious person would think to question it. But then at sea or in that benighted country to the North, who needs subtlety? What is required is certainty, and I am certain, Cruz, you are the man we need.’

‘No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. I didn’t kill Silvia. That idiot Filipe saw a drowned corpse and mistakenly thought it was her, but I’m telling you it wasn’t Silvia, because she isn’t dead. She’s still alive. I never saw that woman before in my life and I certainly didn’t kill her, any more than I killed Silvia.’

‘But how can you swear you don’t know this woman, Cruz? I haven’t shown her to you yet.’

He gestured towards the younger Jesuit who, clamping a hand over his mouth and nose, knelt down and gingerly began to unpeel the cloth that covered the body.

‘No, no,’ I screamed. ‘Don’t unwrap it, I beg you. I’ve seen it once before. I can’t stand it … I tell you it isn’t Silvia. I swear I have no idea who she is.’

‘Come now, Cruz,’ the older priest murmured. ‘It is only fair and just that we should show you of what you stand accused. In fact, I think we should leave her with you for as long as you manage to stay alive here, so that you may grieve properly and say prayers for her soul. I would hate to part two such devoted lovers. I think I will ask the guards to chain her corpse to the pillar facing you. You wouldn’t want her to be swept away by the tide, would you? As the weeks pass and you watch her rot before your eyes, you can be comforted by the thought that soon you will look just as she does. And when the waves finally close over your head, you and your beautiful lover will once again be reunited in the cold embrace of death.’

The younger priest paused in his unwrapping. His eyes were closed and he was swaying and heaving, as if unable to make up his mind whether he was going to faint or vomit. In the end he scrambled madly to his feet and raced across the floor to the archways where he could lean out over the sea, gulping in the fresh air.

The older Jesuit remained unmoved. ‘We will leave you alone now to gaze upon the face of your lover, but we will return before the next high tide to ask for your decision. Perhaps by then you will have realized just how much you might enjoy the benefits of a healthy sea voyage.’

He ripped the cloth from the corpse lying at my feet. I screwed my eyes shut, but as I stood there helpless, chained to the pillar, nothing, but nothing, could shield me from the stench of the rotting, maggot-filled corpse rolling up towards me.