The Sisterhood

Chapter 30


From the Chronicle of Las Sors Santas de Jesus, by the pen of Esperanza, the Hacienda of the Sun and the Moon, Late October 1554





I spent a sleepless, wretched night before my marriage to Don Hector was to take place, and the dawn came too quickly. Sanchia had not returned, and Don Hector’s carriage waited outside the convent walls. I had a wreath of flowers and a new gown as a wedding present from Mother, and as I dressed I wished with all my heart it was my burial shroud instead. My trunk was waiting by the gate, packed with my small trousseau, and I had put this Chronicle—my friend and confidante—in the bottom, wondering if I would ever have the heart to write in it again.

Suddenly there was a great commotion outside the walls, and the Aguilar carriage and a host of outriders stopped at the convent gate. Nuns and even Mother hurried out to welcome our patroness, who to my amazement entered the gate demanding a word with me. When I ran to see what Salome wanted, she begged me to come with her to the Hacienda of the Sun and the Moon at once. She would explain on the way.

Mother protested that I was about to get married, pointing to my trunk ready and waiting to be put in Don Hector’s carriage. Salome looked surprised, then gave me a piercing look and raised her eyebrows slightly as if to ask if this was what I wanted. I shook my head. “Then come, I beg you,” said Salome. Her coachman flung open the carriage door and she pulled me in, ordering the two female servants with her to fetch my trunk. In front of the chapel Don Hector spluttered furiously while the servants tied my trunk behind Salome’s carriage and shook his fist as we drove away. I collapsed in tears of relief at my escape.

Then I heard a giggle and looked up to see the imp Sanchia.

Relieved to see her alive and unharmed, and furious with her for the worry she had caused me, I shook her hard, demanding to know where she had been.

Sanchia has been my deliverer! She had slipped out of the convent and made her way to Salome, going most of the way with her friends the traveling players, and the rest of the way alone. Such a perilous journey for a young girl along a road where bandits lurk that I cannot think of it. Besides viewing Don Hector with distaste as a possible husband on my behalf, Sanchia says that she would sooner be buried alive than have to live in his house as his sister-in-law. She had begged Salome to help. “I did not want to worry you, Esperanza, and you would have found a way to stop me. And there is a good reason, now, for you to come with us.” She wouldn’t tell me what it was, and I almost did not care. It was enough to be rescued from Don Hector.

Salome was quiet and on edge. She ordered the coachman to drive through the night and was impatient when we stopped to change horses. We arrived in less than two days and I wondered at the anxiety she could not hide as we approached her hacienda. A servant hurried to open the carriage door and muttered something in an urgent voice. Salome turned to me and said abruptly, “Thank God he is still alive! Don Miguel needs your help.”

I felt my heart quicken. “Of course,” I said.

Salome led us inside and into the quarter where Don Miguel lived. “Here,” said Salome over her shoulder, and we entered a bedroom, where candles burned on either side of a bed, and a person whose beaten disfigured face I did not recognize lay moaning. The Indian servant sitting at Don Miguel’s side glided away. “Sanchia says that you are skilled in medical matters, that you may know something I do not. Please, help my son if you can!”

If anyone ever looked as if he could not live from such injuries it was Don Miguel. Salome turned back the covers to show me a gaping suppurating wound in his side. It was an ugly color. I could also see he had many broken bones—there was terrible swelling around some of them and his body was a mass of bruises. I looked at Salome with horror. “What happened?”

“Miguel is his father’s son, and the Spanish treatment of his people roused him and his cousins to action. Some of the Inca princes, his cousins, raised an army in the mountains and led an uprising. They killed a Spanish governor and many of his soldiers, but in the end the Spanish crushed the rebels brutally. Those who were captured were flung off a high precipice, and only because Miguel was badly wounded and fell out of sight of the Spanish did he escape the same fate. One of his cousins managed to drag him away into the darkness before he was recognized and executed.”

I stared at him helplessly, my mind a blank.

“Esperanza!” It was Sanchia’s turn to shake me. “I told Salome that you had knowledge of old medical books. You told me yourself that you and your father read them. You must remember something! Think!”

I shut my eyes and thought hard…the beautiful Moorish texts that had been fed to the flames…Ibn Sina the Persian’s Book of Healing. In my mind I opened it, saw the Arabic words flowing across the page…My father’s voice as he read aloud…The connection between mind and body…the pharmacopoeia…the careful treatments…I had no book. I must force my memory. What treatment for wounds and fevers and broken bones? And for who knew what damage inside?

I asked for water and sent Salome and Sanchia for clean linen and herbs, ashes and smooth splints. I said, “God is great,” and begged the spirit of my mother to guide my hands. Then I set to work on the man I loved.

Splints on the broken bones, not too tight—there was a danger of putrefaction. Native ointments on the wounds before bandaging lightly to let the air through…aromatics on a sponge under Don Miguel’s nose. Cool compresses for the fever.

We sat by his bedside for four long days and nights, and his fever did not abate, but it grew no worse. He was a mass of splints which I checked continually to make sure they had not grown tight with swelling. I changed his dressings and sponged his face. We made infusions to ease the pain and dripped them into his mouth. I knelt by his side and spoke into his ear, begging him to summon his great strength of will and recover. On the fifth day he was quieter and I feared he was dying. On the sixth day he opened his eyes as I changed his bandages. On the seventh his fever seemed less. On the ninth day he took some broth and I fell into an exhausted sleep by his side.

When I woke Don Miguel’s eyes were open, watching me. I held his dark gaze, and his expression changed. He smiled. I put out a hand and touched his cheek, now cool instead of feverish. He turned his head and kissed it.

We looked deep into each other’s eyes and I knew my fate as surely as Salome had known hers when she saw the commander.


Salome is pleased in her dignified way. She kindly says that as her mother’s protégée I am dear to her already. Our wedding will not take place for many months, until after Easter to allow Don Miguel to recover. Word of his injuries must not get about. But he continues to mend. God is great.

Salome’s younger son, Fr. Matteo, will perform the ceremony, and her daughter, Beatris, and her large family will attend. In the meantime I am learning to weave. I want to surprise Don Miguel with the traditional Inca bride’s present to her groom, a fine tunic woven by her hands. Sanchia teases me incessantly, saying my weaving is crooked. Alas she is right.


The day has come and we are married. Fr. Matteo is a very genial priest and Dona Beatris is as graceful and lovely as her mother. When Fr. Matteo had finished, Don Miguel performed an Inca marriage rite, putting new sandals on my feet. He bent stiffly, still feeling the aftereffects of his injuries, but the touch of his hands sent a shiver up my body and looking down I saw him smile at my reaction. He was pleased and surprised by the cloak I had woven, though I told him any other Inca husband would have scorned it and the bride who wove it so inexpertly. Fr. Matteo joined our hands in the way Incas do to symbolize the marriage has taken place. We all stood quietly for a moment. Salome thinking of the commander, I thinking of my father. But when I looked up, I could see that Don Miguel was thinking only of me.

Then one of Beatris’s children said he was hungry and we had a great feast that I could scarcely taste, thinking of the night to come. I feel very happy and only wish my father knew. Perhaps he does. God is great.