The Sisterhood

Chapter 19


From the Chronicle of the Las Sors Santas de Jesus, Las Golondrinas Convent, Andalusia, Spring 1553





It has been a year since the Abbess wrote to the convent of the Holy Sisters of Jesus, Las Golondrinas in New Spain near the Andes Mountains. The road is passable again after the winter. Last week we celebrated Easter and now we are busy preparing the convent to receive the pilgrims who come after Semana Santa. The infirmary has been scrubbed from top to bottom, lay sisters in charge of the hostels for men and women have a storeroom of fresh straw mattresses, while pilgrims’ cells with beds, fresh linens, and candles are prepared for our more important visitors. The shutters have been opened; the spring winds have swept the winter fug of woodsmoke away and the convent smells of beeswax and lavender. In the cloister, the herbs and roses have been pruned and the paths swept. In the pilgrims’ garden the orange trees are in bloom, and the shell basin below the little spring has been scrubbed clean. The jasmine that has grown over the fissure in the rock wall is in bud and the rosemary and lavender are putting forth new green shoots.

Luz has completed the queen’s gift that she worked on all winter—a most exquisitely worked altar cloth on a fine piece of linen, with swallows darting in flight, and a delicate swallow’s nest bearing the queen’s initials and trimmed with lace. It was packed with sprigs of rosemary and a respectful letter of thanks for Her Majesty’s gracious patronage and assurance of our continual prayers for her spiritual and bodily welfare and for the conversion of the natives in Spain’s American colonies.

The sister in charge of our chickens and goats rubs her hands with satisfaction at their increase, and many new lambs were fattened for the Easter feast. In the kitchen the smell of polvorónes mingles with the baking of our plain everyday bread. The silver in the chapel has been polished, the altar linen washed and mended, and the villagers have brought us two casks of last autumn’s wine. A supply of communion wafers is wrapped in linen in the vestry. In the infirmaries the sisters have prepared a supply of clean bandages, salves, ointments, cordials, and tinctures. Illness in winter prompts many a pilgrimage in summer.

Today when I went to join the Abbess I was startled to find a very dirty and rather wild-looking man with shabby clothes held together by a rope around his waist on the other side of the locutio. I supposed it must be one of the hermits who make their way to us from time to time for a little company and proper food. The Abbess beckoned me to her side and murmured, “The portress opened the gate to him this morning, and he spoke wildly, insisting he must find someone, must tell the Abbess. The portress suggested he go first to the pilgrims’ quarters, to have a meal and rest, and they would see what he wanted then, but he began raving that he must find a young girl who might have been brought here. At the same time he was unwilling to be parted from his donkey, which had a large pannier on its back. The portress was surprised to see it was full of brushes and paints and canvases. The man’s accent and courtier’s speech were at odds with his rough appearance, and she began to think he might be the father of one of the orphan children, returned to claim her. The portress made a bargain. A beata would take him to the Abbess if he would leave the donkey at the gate.

“I asked him the name of the girl and his reason for seeking her but—” The Abbess raised her eyebrows and tipped her head toward the locutio. Her expression indicated the man muttering on the other side was mad. And indeed, he was muttering about the crown prince Don Balthazar. Even before Marisol came, we knew of his rages and fits, and the rumor the king had changed the order of succession. But the madman was insisting that Don Balthazar had been killed on the orders of the king, and now some people were prepared to rally behind the martyred prince’s heir.

“People grumble against the crown,” the disheveled man said. Rumor flourishes where secrets are kept. Don Balthazar’s supporters say that he sired a child, a girl—and she is the rightful heir to the Spanish throne. The child disappeared two years ago…The king has ordered her to be found.”

“But what have you to do with this child?” asked the Abbess.

“I must find her before the authorities do. Because I am responsible. I must tell her the truth and ask her forgiveness,” he answered. Behind the locutio all we could see of him were his wild eyes as he pressed his face against the bars. “And to warn her she is in danger.”

“Forgiveness?”

“I have done a great wrong, Abbess. I was blessed by God with talent, but abused it. I loved women beyond anything and used my gift to paint their portraits in such a way that stirred desire. I was successful because making a portrait was like making love—women revealed themselves to me, confided in me, surrendered to me. Beautiful women have many possible likenesses, the countenance they wish the world to see, and usually, the face they keep hidden. Portraits, like love, demand an exposure of self. I could discern vanity and cunning and avarice, and disguise them as elegance or vitality. I knew of their lusts, their greed, and above all, who had a shameful secret child in circumstances that must never come to light. Because those were in my debt. I helped conceal those children. And took the payment I desired of them in return.

“I was commissioned to paint the betrothal portrait of a very young girl. She was shy and modest, untouched by an evil or calculating thought. I began intending to seduce her like the others, and instead ended half in love and anxious to do her no harm. But I felt obliged to paint her as sensual and desirable—her husband-to-be who commissioned the portrait was a man of the world, very powerful and rich, and himself a great lover of women. I used all my artist’s tricks, a suggestive expression of the eyes, fullness in the lips to paint her as she might appear—if she were some other woman. The husband-to-be was greatly pleased and paid me double the fee.

“The portrait was much admired at court but it had the most powerful effect on the crown prince. When I was ordered to make a copy for the prince’s private apartments I was uneasy but dared not refuse a royal command. I was relieved when the girl was married and gone from court to her husband’s home, together with the portrait. But I could not forget her lovely face and trusting expression, and I began to regret painting the portrait in the way that I had, feeling I had betrayed her in some way. But I was to regret even more making a copy for the prince. I was unused to feeling guilt, and to avoid it, I threw myself into work and women. I painted and painted and became richer and more successful with each passing year.

“When I learned that the girl had become the mother of a family and lived quietly, that her husband was devoted to her despite his long absences, I was relieved. I had done her no harm after all. I do not know how the gossip started, that this lady was the mistress of the crown prince. True, he had lusted after the lady’s portrait, but the lady herself was safely out of his way. But the gossip continued, spread by the prince’s faction, who claimed despite the evidence that he was a normal man and fit to inherit the throne. Then they whispered that the lady’s husband had repudiated her because she had born the crown prince one child and was about to bear him another. I believed none of the gossip, but knew my accursed portrait had fanned the lusts of the mad prince, enough to make him dangerous. Then I learned the lady’s husband and most of her children had died in mysterious circumstances and the lady was again with child. The queen did not believe the slander and offered her protection, asking the lady to come to court for her lying in. There was no denying the queen, but fortunately for the lady, the crown prince died suddenly as she was on her way to Madrid.

“Months later I received a message begging my help for the usual problem—the discreet removal of an unwanted female child. I set the usual process in motion to have her taken away to the usual place, whose exact whereabouts I have never known. Only afterward did I learn that child had been the daughter of the only woman whose goodness ever touched my soul, the only woman I ever loved. She must have sought my help when she discovered I helped send children away and knew how dangerous her daughter’s position would be if she died.

“She, poor slandered lady, died with her baby in childbirth, just as Don Balthazar’s supporters fanned the flames of the rumor that Don Balthazar had been murdered on the king’s orders, but had sired a child, a girl who was the rightful heir to the Spanish throne. They would rally behind her and claim her as queen of Spain in the name of the martyred prince. Two English spies were caught, tortured, and confessed to seeking the same child. They were executed, and the search for the girl intensified. The king orders her to be found before she becomes a weapon in the hands of Spain’s enemies.

“I understood what I had done, bringing ruin and death to a sweet lady. My talent deserted me, my portraits ceased to breathe, and everything I attempted was flat and lifeless and dull. My commissions dried up; my debts mounted. I drank heavily until I did not know night from day, gambled desperately, and when I was no longer successful and the ladies began to shun me, I sought out prostitutes and embraced the meanest pleasures of the senses to forget what I had done.

“The burden of my guilt grew, until I could bear it no longer. I went to confession and repented of destroying a blameless woman and her family, save for one child. For penance, the priest said I must find the remaining daughter, obtain her forgiveness, and perform some act of contrition for her. I began to search for the convent where I had helped send so many unwanted girls. But although I had set the process in motion many times, the location remained a closely guarded secret, and try as I might, I could not penetrate that secrecy. All I could learn was that it was a convent in the mountains, a place of swallows. I gave away my possessions and what I had not squandered of my money to the poor, and kept only my artist’s materials. I vowed that if God would guide me to the girl, I would paint a masterpiece for His glory. For two years I have traveled as a mendicant and a pilgrim from one religious house to another. But I am ill and I despaired of finding her and absolution before I die.

“Then a few weeks ago on the road, I saw great flocks of migrating swallows flying into the mountains, and the mountain people said they were returning to their home at the convent of Las Golondrinas. I felt hope for the first time; perhaps they had come to lead the way.” He stopped for breath and his head sank into his chest. “I am the wretch Tristan Mendoza.”

“And the child you seek?”

He whispered, “Maria Isabella Vilar D’Ascencion.”

What the man said tallied with Marisol’s account. “Yes,” said the Abbess cautiously after a moment. “Yes, she is here. But I do not know if you may see her.” The Abbess and I consulted—should Marisol be told? She is not so fierce as she seems. But it was for her to grant forgiveness if she could, and the poor man should not be denied the right to ask it. The Abbess decided to send for her.

Marisol flounced in, expecting a lecture for breaking convent rules, and emitted a startled “Oh!” when she saw a man behind the grille.

The Abbess told her to be seated and said bluntly, “Marisol, this man claims to be the painter Tristan Mendoza, who painted your mother’s wedding portrait.”

“If he is, beware,” Marisol said rudely. “Josefa always warned that the painter was not to be trusted and women should look to their virtue in his presence.”

Even Marisol squirmed at the Abbess’s stern frown, though she subsided with a little exhale of breath meant to show us how little she cared. The man fell to his knees and cried, “A miracle!”

“What’s this?” Marisol demanded suspiciously.

“My prayers are answered. I have come to confess my guilt and seek your mercy and forgiveness for the evil I brought upon you and those you loved. I am the murderer of your entire family. I have their blood on my hands, on my soul.”

Marisol muttered, “This beggar is a madman. Allow me to go, Abbess.”

“Be still!” the Abbess commanded.

The man clutched the locutio and repeated his story.

For once Marisol had nothing to say. She crumpled in her chair, looking small and vulnerable. She clenched her jaw and looked wildly at me, her spirited defiance gone. Tears welled in her eyes as she battled to recover the anger that is her shield against the world. “I did not know why I was taken away from her and Josefa, and I did not know she had died. I have hated them and hated them. And now, you tell me…I hate you, too, with all my heart and every breath in my body.”

Marisol’s hand reached out for mine. There was silence for a long time.

“Marisol, we are taught that when our forgiveness is sought we should grant it as we hope for God’s forgiveness of our sins…” prompted the Abbess, kindly but firmly. “It is to the benefit of our own souls as well as for the glory of God.”

Marisol nodded, while her hands twisted and twisted her handkerchief. “Poor Consuela,” she whispered.

Tristan Mendoza said humbly, “I have vowed to use my gift only in God’s service. Let me do so now. I wronged her mother with a licentious portrait—may I paint a spiritual portrait of Maria Isabella in her novice’s gown to mark her transition into the life of a nun? Such portraits are often commissioned by the family of a girl taking the veil.”

Indeed, just such a portrait of Sor Serafina had accompanied her when she arrived as a novice. “Premature!” the Abbess had grumbled.

Marisol raised her head. A little fire returned to her eyes. The Abbess said quickly, “That will be impossible. Marisol has no vocation.”

Tristan Mendoza surprised us then. He stared at Marisol silently for a few moments, then said, “I can see there is perhaps no vocation, but her mother’s goodness in her heart will do great things. She will act selflessly, though it will cause her pain, and be a strong force for good. She will be greatly loved by one and by many.”

Marisol’s eyes flickered up. “Really? Am I pretty, like my mother?”

The Abbess shook her head. “Marisol! Beware of vanity!”

“Oh please,” begged Marisol. “There are no mirrors in the convent, and Josefa said I resembled my father. Even my mother took care with her appearance. And these novices’ gowns we are forced to wear are so very ugly!”

The Abbess sighed. “Thank you, sir, for your offer. May I suggest that as your act of contrition, you paint Marisol and her inner…goodness together with some of our other girls? You will work from that side of the locutio of course and Sor Beatriz will act as chaperone.”

“Gladly, Abbess.”

“Thank you!” exclaimed Marisol.

The Abbess then sent Tristan Mendoza to the men’s hostel and Marisol back to her work. I wondered aloud why the Abbess was willing to allow a man of such confessed carnality to paint five young girls.

“There are several reasons. It will take the girls’ minds off this horrible Inquisition visit, and the man longs to make reparation. This is the only means in his power. If there is the slightest hint of anything improper, if he suggests one of the girls meets him elsewhere in the convent, he will be sent away at once. I do not think he wishes that.

“And I wish to see his work. He may have had the morals of a male cat, but he has the reputation of a master. The convent is unlikely to see many masters, and I have another idea which I will share when we see how the portrait goes.”

Tristan Mendoza began the next day, rising early for Mass before turning to the task of grinding and mixing his paints. Though his face was horribly gaunt, almost a death mask, a little life returned to it as he mixed colors while the girls peered through the locutio and asked questions. When he was ready, he took some time instructing them to group this way and that on their side of the locutio. Marisol pinched her cheeks to give them color and fluffed her hair. Luz held her favorite doll, dressed as if for a consecration in a veil and flower crown, and would sit nowhere but at Esperanza’s feet. Esperanza had brought a book and read while she waited. Sanchia fidgeted, and Pia combed out her hair to make a silvery waterfall down her back. Tristan Mendoza stifled a gasp at the sight. I gave him a sharp reprimand.

He was no longer the sniveling penitent. A note of authority had returned to his voice, and he told the girls they must keep still; he must work quickly because there was little time. He set to work on a canvas he had prepared the night before, while I worked at a table nearby.

A week passed. Then Tristan Mendoza turned the unfinished canvas to face the locutio so the Abbess and I might see it. The Abbess gazed through the grille and said, “It really is quite good! Unfinished, but I am amazed…look at Luz, with her doll. He has caught the sweetness of her soul exactly, just as he has captured Esperanza’s intelligence, Marisol’s impatience, Sanchia’s demons, and Pia’s detachment from the world, as if nothing can touch her! Now consider this. I have often prayed that God would send us an artist capable of painting our Gospel, perhaps as an allegorical cycle. Until now no artist here has been sufficiently gifted or could be trusted with our secrets. But I think Mendoza’s gift has been tempered, not destroyed, by suffering and repentance. He may understand base human nature, but is capable of looking beyond it for divine grace, and I am more and more convinced the Gospel should be preserved here in painting even though we hope to find a means to send the Chronicle away.”

Tristan Mendoza no longer looks quite so ill, and he talks of painting a work for the chapel once he is finished with the girls. He has asked the Abbess if there is any saint we wish to honor. The Abbess said that she had a plan she would discuss with him. But his premonition there was little time proved correct, though not in the way we expected, with his death. Before the portrait was finished, the bell at the gate rang loudly in the dead of night. Soon afterward a sleepy beata came to my cell saying the Abbess had received a messenger at the locutio, and that I was wanted at once. I dressed quickly and hurried along to the Abbess’s apartments.

The Abbess held up the official letter. “The tribunal will arrive next week. All present in the convent are to be questioned—nuns, novices, beatas, servants, and now children over the age of four. Fr. Ramon Jimenez…they say he can smell a heretic, and gives his investigators great leeway in the manner in which they obtain information.” Her voice shook a little.

The walls of the parlor suddenly closed around us. The convent, our refuge, had become our prison, a trap, a grave. A ringing in my ears drowned out the Abbess’s next words.

“I said ‘brides,’ Sor Beatriz.” The Abbess spoke sharply, exasperated at having to repeat herself. “Now I understand what the Foundress meant. Esperanza, Marisol, Pia, and Sanchia must go to find husbands in the New World! And take the Chronicle and the medal with them. I will make the necessary arrangements for them to leave as soon as possible. Write your last in the Chronicle, then give it to Esperanza. She can be trusted to continue it and seek out this convent in the Andes.”

“Esperanza will read the Gospel!”

“Of course she will, Sor Beatriz! That is my intention! When she does she will understand why she must decide if Las Golondrinas in the colonies is our mission before she gives the Gospel to their care. But go, I know you wish to write a farewell…”


From the Chronicle of Las Sors Santas de Jesus, Las Golondrinas Convent, Andalusia, June 1552


It is midnight, but only the orphanage children sleep, unaware that last night a messenger came up from the valley to warn the Abbess. Like wolves slinking toward the sheepfold, the Inquisition tribunal draws nearer each day and will soon be upon us…