The Sisterhood

Chapter 16


From the Chronicle of Las Sors Santas de Jesus, Las Golondrinas Convent, Andalusia, Summer 1549





Deo gratias, on this day of Salome’s birth my hand permits me to write a little. She would be nearly forty-five now, an old woman. But God has sent girls to fill the hole in my heart—first Esperanza, then Luz, and now Pia. She is a striking creature, with silvery hair like summer moonlight, fine pale skin, clear blue eyes, and delicate features. She is fourteen, and though slender and willowy, having just begun her monthly cycles, is developing a woman’s figure. Formidable Sor Sophia, who shows such courage in defying the enclosure rules to go abroad on convent business and is such a quick wit when challenged, has affected her rescue.

Pia is self-possessed, and her icy calm is unnerving in one so young. She told us a terrible story in a voice that was flat and without emotion:

My mother died when I was ten. She was very beautiful, and we lived in a fine house, with soft beds and silken hangings, and enough to eat—all things I did not think of until I no longer had them. I inherited my mother’s hair, on which her fortune was built. Blondes were scarce in a land of dark-haired beauties, and my grandmother came from a place in the far north where the people have pale skin and hair like the sun and the moon. She had been traveling with her husband by ship when pirates attacked. The pirates killed her husband and took my grandmother captive, selling her into the harem of one of the last Muslim merchants in Seville, in the early reign of the Reyes Catholicos. But the merchant’s mother learned that my grandmother was, like her, a Christian, one of the northern sects called Protestant. She took pity on this young widow who was in the early stages of pregnancy. The merchant’s mother persuaded her son to free his captive, and my mother was born under the lady’s protection. This lady died soon afterward and left my grandmother a generous gift of money to enable her to support herself and her child.

My grandmother’s fine features and silver hair attracted many men, but marriage to an outsider who was neither Spanish nor Catholic, and whose family could not be vouched for, was out of the question. Yet as a woman her security and that of her child depended on the protection only a wealthy man could provide. My grandmother bought a house in Madrid and became a courtesan.

My mother inherited her northern beauty, and was raised in the Protestant religion that my grandmother stubbornly refused to relinquish. When my mother was seventeen, my grandmother accepted for her the protection of a handsome and charming young grandee, an only son who stood to inherit a great fortune from silver mines his family owned in the American colonies. He promised to provide her with a fine house, clothes and jewels and carriages and servants—everything a beautiful and vain young woman could desire. His only stipulation was that she bear no children. His family would countenance no bastards who, they feared, might make a future claim of their fortune. My mother told me only that for many years she “managed,” that there were no children, though a shadow crossed her face when she told me this.

She became pregnant again and this time refused to “manage,” believing my father would accept me. But he did not. He was furious and I was kept out of his sight as he did not wish to see me at all. Then news came that my father’s family was ruined. Their silver mines in the colony had disappeared in a terrible earthquake, plunging the family in Spain into debt. In a desperate attempt to restore his fortunes, my father began to gamble wildly, only adding to the mountain of debts. My mother’s jewels and carriage were sold, and our fine house was stripped of its furniture.

I was the focus of my father’s rage. He would call me the Protestant whelp of a Protestant bitch, and say I should have been drowned at birth instead of living like a princess at his family’s expense. He spent less and less time with my mother, taunting her that he preferred to court the ugly heiress his family hoped he would marry. Creditors descended, pressing my mother for money we no longer had.

She grew ill, and doctors could not save her. It was as if she had no more strength to live. My father sold the house but quickly gambled the proceeds away. The ugly heiress married another, and my father began to look at me in a strange calculating way. Though he hated me, he kept me with him. I was careful not to speak in his presence.

At court he tried to gain the king’s favor and obtain preferment for a highly paid position, but was unsuccessful. He gambled more and more desperately. We moved from place to place, to lodgings that were ever dirtier and dingier. Though he could not afford to follow the court about the country, when the king was in residence in Madrid my father would put on what was left of his fine clothes and hover around the powerful courtiers, trying to wheedle their favor and influence. By then we lived in two dark and dirty rooms on a street that echoed with the shrill calls of prostitutes who hid their disfigured faces in the shadows. I was sent to a charity school by day, but otherwise was left alone for long stretches of time, cold and often hungry, save for the rare occasions when my father bid me put on the little finery I possessed and to comb my hair over my shoulders like a cape, and took me with him to court.

There I kept my eyes down and never spoke unless obliged to answer a direct question. I sensed that I had begun to attract attention. One day an older man, a grandee I had seen turning from my father’s approaches, accompanied my father home. I was summoned into the cold room my father sarcastically referred to as the “salon.” The man, who looked very old to me, had piercing eyes and wet red lips. I did not like him. “Make your curtsy!” my father ordered.

The man eyed me critically. He told me to walk up and down the room, then he called me to him and fingered my hair. His fingers crawled on my scalp like rats’ paws. I shrank from his touch, but he wound a lock in his fingers and pulled it so tight tears sprang to my eyes. He smiled as I struggled.

“Like mother, like daughter,” said my father. “You will not see such hair on many girls.”

“Perhaps. But still, she is not worth so much as you think. How old?”

A sly look crossed my father’s face. “Only eleven.” This puzzled me, since I was fourteen. “To certain gentlemen, who prefer them young and untouched, she is worth a great deal. I have had several offers, but since you are a connoisseur I thought perhaps you would appreciate her youth. Either accept my terms or I shall take her to El Padron…”

I did not know until later that El Padron was the nickname of a great whoremaster in Madrid, but I sensed that whoever he was I did not wish to go to him.

My father’s guest held his gaze for a moment and then shrugged. “Bah! Here is what I will give.” He tossed a leather pouch on the table. My father could no longer pretend indifference and snatched it eagerly. Inside there was what looked like a great sum of money, but my father threw it back to the man. “El Padron has offered twice that sum.”

The old man stared at me for a few minutes more as if considering, then he stood, nodded coldly, and left.

“Who was that man, Papa? Will he come back?” I ventured, but he growled that I would find out soon enough. And if I did not do as he said, the Inquisition had condemned Protestants, like my mother and me, and he would turn me over to them. At school I had learned enough to fear the Inquisition, even more than I feared my father.

The next day my father told me to dress in my best clothes and make a bundle of my other things. When I had done so, he produced a little pot of red cream and dabbed some on my lips and cheeks. We were putting on our cloaks to go out, when there was a knock and the old man from the day before stood there. He held out a larger pouch than before. My father hesitated, then opened the pouch. He gave a slow smile and shoved me in the man’s direction. “Go,” he told me.

“Where, Papa?”

“Where you belong,” he said. By then he was hunched over the table, counting the reales from the pouch. “Take her,” he said, without looking up. “Her things are in that bundle.” I heard the clink of metal from the table as the old man thrust the bundle into my arms and pulled me out of the room. He had a hard grip that hurt my shoulder, and I did not like the look on his face.

“Get in and let’s examine the pretty prize,” he muttered, shoving me into a closed carriage. I was too terrified to ask where we were going. Then he was beside me, his body pressing against mine, and his hands tried to grope open my cloak, though I clutched it as tight as possible around me. “Let go!” he panted, his breath foul in my face, “or later I’ll beat you until…”

I screamed as loud as I could and fought him with all my strength. He slapped me hard and pinned me to the seat with one hand ripping my cloak away, and was tugging my skirts with the other when there was a great commotion outside. The horses screamed and the coachman cried out, then the carriage jerked and lurched into motion, moving, faster and faster, rocking wildly. People in the street were shouting; things bumped beneath our wheels, and the man and I were flung from one side of the carriage to the other. The terrifying ride ended when the carriage listed and bumped sideways, then overturned with a sickening crash that threw my captor against the splintered roof onto the cobblestones with me on top of him.

It was as if his head exploded. He lay half in, half out of the bloody carriage, and when people pried open the door I huddled with my bundle, feeling something warm and wet on my face. I put up my hand and I looked at it, now covered in red. The horses were screaming, hooves thudding against the carriage. People shouted that they had bolted, and others shouted they were trapped in their harness, and someone cried they had bolted when a flock of small birds had darted out of nowhere and flown in their faces. Others shouted they had been spooked by a woman’s cloak that had suddenly billowed and snapped under their noses.

The noisy mob fell on the coach. Hands were thrust through the smashed roof to search the corpse’s pockets and, too frightened to scream, I watched a ragamuffin’s dirty fingers steal a ring and the man’s shoes.

Then hands pulled me from the wreck. Beneath the hood of a brown cloak a woman’s voice said that I was safe now, then I felt her take my hand. “You can still walk. Quickly!” I was set onto my feet and concealed under her cloak as we hurried away. Then everything went dark and still.


Sor Sophia cannot explain what happened any more coherently. She had fallen asleep in her closed carriage and a voice told her of an accident—a carriage had overturned, an evil man was dead. Then Sor Sophia was awakened, as if shaken by an invisible hand, to hear a commotion outside. Suddenly the curtains were pushed aside and Pia was thrust in, kicking and shrieking hysterically. A woman’s voice said sharply, “It is not a man but a nun. Get in! You are safe, I promise. The business can wait, Sor Sophia. Return to the convent!”

Sor Sophia is argumentative. She opened her mouth to ask questions and demand answers, but before she could utter a word the carriage door was slammed shut and bolted and the driver had turned around and set off from the direction they had come. Pia, finding the carriage door locked, had fainted.