Chosen Ch. 07 (Conclusion)

"The Archivist's Notes are very clear," he said. "That document may not be-"

"I have a gun," Jose said. "I won't shoot you. I'll blow six holes in your argon case."

Miguel fell into a shocked silence.

I read along as Jose wrote. Soon I was shaking, too.

I wish the enclosing letter to be delivered to the then-Bishop in Sevilla, after forty years to the day you receive it. By then the scourge of the Moors in our land should finally be at an end, and it will be right to take actions to cleanse the church of the stain of dishonor its own members have brought on it, without exposing that shame to the heathens who still swarm our lands today.

Adriana of Seville 1413

To be read only by The Most Reverend Bishop of Sevilla, in the year 1453 --

I am an old woman, widowed and without many friends. By the time you read this I am dead. I am not writing to ask anything for myself, other than justice.

I write to tell people of how I was robbed of my hopes by a man who has had honor within the Church, and to tell the true tale of some sort of miracle or magic, which has been kept secret for some years.

My father was the Rev. Juanito de Morillo, born 1340, died 1394. This is no longer in doubt. I never knew my mother and I fear she died early, and unjustly. I was raised as an orphan by my own father, and put into the care of lay priests and nuns. He found it too shameful to claim me.

For that alone I request the statue raised in Sevilla to his honor, be taken down. He was a harsh and unjust man, a liar, and motivated by his own advancement and pride. But that is not the main reason I write.

Something unusual happened to me, either by the will of heaven or by the workings of some similar blessed fate that cares for women; something the Church itself has been deficient in in my lifetime, so it is no surprise heaven itself must act. And that something needs to be explained, and that is truly why I write. Attempts have been made to cover up the events, paint them as deceits of the devil, or explain them as delusions. They are none of those things.

I am writing of the bell, book and candle from the illicit excommunication of Lucio De Amante in 1384, and the events that lead to them and came after them.

Lucio first met me when I was in the Sevilla orphanage, when I was 16. I will say without shame that he snuck into the orphanage after having seen me outside the walls with Sister Florentine as we shopped. How he snuck in I do not know; he was that sort of man. We talked, and did perhaps more, but nothing to sully me, as much as I came to want to be sullied. (That sin was long ago confessed, but Lucio had a way of causing me to fall into that sin again and again. I do not hold it against him.) During the evening he was discovered by Sister Florentine, and she called for guards to have him removed. I say with dark pride that he spanked her for her efforts, and then he left, fleeing crossbow bolts. (I am an old woman now and it pleases me to say that even at the time, amidst my great shyness and shock, I found the spanking more funny than horrific. She was a great busybody.) As he left he promised to continue our conversation "at all costs." Mere words; I'd been raised to believe that men said one thing and often did another. That proved true in many causes, but it was never true of Lucio.

Later that week he returned, with chains and a knife, and I was persuaded to leave my bed and follow time. I have no shame in saying that by then he truly needed neither chains nor knives to persuade me, but I put up a fuss out of modesty and pride. Not, I think, a loud enough fuss to get us caught, but the cloth he stuffed into my mouth and the thin chain between my teeth put an end to even that. He poured alcohol over the cloth and I became woozy, though not as woozy as I acted.

We were seen as we rode off. But the guards had unexpected difficulty in finding and freeing their horses, and so we got away...

That night, we talked. We talked long and late into the night, with me still chained at the wrists and ankles, and talking was not at all what I expected. For a few hours I believed he chose to respect my age and inexperience, but it turned out he was more interested in keeping watch for pursuers. (He more than made up for it the next night, but by then I was already in love. Loving him did not take long.)

Yes, he was a thief. But I cannot say he stole me unwillingly from the orphanage. We spend two months together and I made no attempt to leave him. He had no one but me with him at night. I learned to make sure he slept well, and I learned very quickly.

I was finally recaptured, and I gave the artillerymen and swordsmen more trouble than I ever gave Lucio. Lucio had taught me to punch and kick. I ended up in chains again, but I sullied the ears of my captors with words they did not expect from a nun-raised orphan. (Lucio was a deft teacher of many arts.) In the end they called me demon-possessed, and gagged me. I chewed through the gag.

Lucio was wounded in the fight, but he swore to me that no matter what it took, he'd take me back again. I shouted back to him that he wouldn't "take" me, because I'd already given myself to him. There was no other man for me. It didn't matter that he was bad. He was never bad to me, except in ways I liked.

I was sent to another town. I will not name it because even though I was held as a virtual captive for two years there - I was being kept for a more appropriate age for an arranged marriage, I later learned -- the people there were kind to me, as long as I didn't try to escape. I would have gladly escaped if I'd had any idea which way to run to find Lucio.

Instead I sent secret messages with anyone leaving town, anyone who would carry them. (My father would come to rue the day he insisted I be taught to read and write.) Finding paper was the hardest part, but I was already an adept thief. (Lucio was truly a deft teacher, in so many things.) In the end, my keeper, whom I do not name, found out about my notes, and thereafter he occasionally left paper where I could find it. (He was not fond of his role as my keeper, and felt strongly that theft should not be added to the sins of my sharp tongue, endless scheming and pride.)

My notes perhaps did some good. Lucio eventually came for me, as I knew he would. He came with men pursuing him, and we barely got away. I swore to him then that I was his forever.

He also confirmed what I had suspected, that I was the illicit daughter of a priest. Since that day I have spoken no words to my father.

The next day they found us, and there was a battle. Lucio was wounded and I was captured, but the men all had injuries and chose to withdraw with me rather than try to take Lucio. I was brought back to the orphanage, now a veritable fortress, as so much of Sevilla was, because of the Moor problem.

I was forcibly married to Antonio de Guzmán, brother of the Duke, at the end of the year. I'd been bought by him for a fancy sword and some money, from my father, the head of the orphanage, Juanito de Morillo. It was on my wedding night I learned that Lucio had been excommunicated, killed, and sent to Hell.

And so I believed, and it kept me docile and silent in my circumstances. If I could not have Lucio, it did not matter who had me. But the rumors began, of an excommunication gone wrong, seemingly opposed by the will of heaven itself (because why would the devil oppose an excommunication?) So I did not believe that Lucio went to Hell, and in that belief I shed my tears in private and mourned and became the respectable wife of a man I had no use for.

And there the tale should have ended. But ten years later, in the summer of 1394, Father Oro Cruz made himself known to me, gave me my father's sword (the bride price of me) and told me de Morillo was dead, a victim of a magical retribution. He told me more. He had been present at the lie of an excommunication performed by my father against Lucio, and seen how it had gone. The book slipped from my father's hands instead of being slammed shut, the bell made no sound, the candle continued to burn when thrown to the ground. Great fear fell on the crowd and the priests present, and they fled. Lucio broke free from the bonds and took the items, swearing he'd bring down my father and have me regardless of the cost.

Father Cruz told me still more. Three days later Lucio was again captured by my father's men and this time there was no ceremony or attempt at arrest. He was cut down in a hail of crossbows and musket fire and left dead. My father was present for this.

Father Cruz saw to Lucio's burial, in a forgotten tomb far east of Sevilla. He told me Lucio had the items from his excommunication with him, but they were no longer the same. They were covered with Lucio's blood and somehow had changed to be magical; that is the word he used for it. The candle and book father Oro had taken elsewhere for safekeeping, but the bell he brought to me, saying that I must never ring it, even once. The book, he said, had talked to him and given him instructions that he was following now. I did not know what this meant. He also brought me my father's sword, and the news that my father was dead. I did not mourn, and I kept the oddly engraved and hateful sword only as an object of value.

But during the day when I was alone, the bell would hum and there would be whispering from it, which I could not perceive as words, but somehow understood. It was almost like being with Lucio, without words or his passions, but somehow peaceful.

In the end it became clear to me that I was to find his tomb and pray for him there. I was to leave the bell behind. I made my excuses to my husband and set out for the journey. It was risky for a woman to travel alone -- the Moors were more numerous then and our own soldiers unmannerly -- but I felt I must do this. But it turned out I did not have to travel alone. The morning I left, Father Cruz met me on the road unexpectedly, and he walked with me, silently, on my journey. We were not bothered.

When I returned, both my husband and his brother the Duke were dead. The servants whispered they'd committed suicide. I knew the bell was somehow involved because it was not where I left it; I found it under a chair on the floor. As I had been away for some days, I was not accused of murder, despite that fact that it was well known my husband and I had no true love for each other.

I felt nothing. I played my grief at his death. I received as much of his wealth as I could steal or convince the courts to leave me; I have not done badly.

The bell began to whisper to me again. It told me was that it would be taken by another priest. Two years later I gave the bell to a priest I didn't know, warning him it must not be rung. He rode northwest. By then the rumors of these items had begun to be investigated and it was clear the Church had decided they must become lost and forgotten.

I have devoted my final years to serving the orphanage. Even if it was only built to confirm that I was an orphan, it has done good service in these warring times, and the children there deserve comforts. As I have had no children myself, I feel strongly that this is how I can best serve the Church and Spain. I gave de Morillo's sword to it, as I do not care for it; the gem in it might possibly feed a few children for a time.

May God forgive my many sins -- but let those who harmed me and took me from my only love, be held to account.

I swear all of this is true. To you, forty years hence, I make the following pleas:

That the statue to Father Juanito de Morillo in Sevilla be destroyed.

That the false genealogy he registered for me be destroyed. Let the record of my life be lost. I do not want either my father's or husband's name, and only name I have ever wanted was denied to me. So leave me nameless. I am Adriana, of no house.

That, following the instructions once given me by both the bell and by Father Oro Cruz, let the records of the book, bell and candle be lost, and cease all investigations into them. The book, I know, was sent away. I know nothing of the candle. The bell travelled northwest.

That Father Oro Cruz be honored in some way. I have been unable to find him and thank him.

That Lucio De Amante, known by quite a number as Lucio the Red, be absolved of his sins. In truth he was a thief, but most often his targets were Moors, or indolent Spanish nobles who could stand the loss. No, he was not a good man. But in these times, who would claim to be?

In 1403 I made some attempt to remove all records of these things myself. I was caught and turned away from the libraries in Córdoba and Sevilla; too old to be a successful thief, it seems. I wish forgiveness for that act.

Respectfully, Adriana of Sevilla, of no house. 1413

+++

We returned to Jose's office. I reread the translated letter, over and over.

"So much explained," Jose said, shaking his head. "One letter, and so much known. Alan, we are privileged to be witnesses to such a history."

"This is how we differ," I said. "You are thankful for knowing. I want to demand more answers. What happened to De Morillo? Who was this mysterious Oro Cruz?"

He chuckled. "That can't be the real name. She's covering up for someone."

"And the part where she asks him to be thanked? How does that fit, then?"

He frowned, and then turned to the computer. "No record of anyone ordained with that name... Cruz is a common enough last name, but Oro is very rare and they were not used together."

"So he gave her a false name. That only makes him more mysterious. He seems to have understood, if anyone did, about these items. He shows up at the right times to instruct her. He sets the items on their journeys. Did he create them?"

"We'll never know, I think. You'll remember I mentioned angels? In every account of history there must be one final mystery. He's it for this one."

I sighed, and then mused.

"Poor Adriana. It didn't go well for her. She had very little time with Lucio. It seems so unfair."

"People in those days didn't often marry for love. Her story is sad, though... hm. There is another player in this history of ours now... the bishop. Seville, 1453... that would be Juan de Cervantes. He became an important figure, eventually a cardinal. For us that's in a way bad -- he'd have had the authority to implement all of Adriana's suggestions, including obscuring records."

"If he absolved Lucio and Adriana if their sins, would there be a record?"

"You think there's a list of every absolved sin in history? No. The world is not big enough to hold it."

I typed in Adriana and Juan de Cervantes. It took several seconds...

"This time maybe there is a record. Look!"

He did. "Madre de Dios..."

"I think I like this de Cervantes of yours. He records her as Adriana De Amante, and posthumously made a nun. So she's a married nun?"

"Of course not, but he does her the honor of recognizing her relationship with Lucio by giving her his name, and gives her some honor for the difficulty of her life and the service she did to the orphanage. And this tells us that he believed her account. And of course he did. The candle and bell had caused rumors in churches in Córdoba, Seville, Llerena... He didn't do it just for her, I think. She was dead and had no offspring. But in this, he acknowledges that wrong was done to her, and she deserved better. It is a tiny but deft little apology for the misdeeds of the Church."

"You guys could stand to be better at that."

"Giving apologies? We used to be, as this gesture shows. So. We need to focus on the items. The bell, taken northwest. Why? Oh. They wanted it sent far away, so they wanted a ship. They wouldn't take it south, that's straight into battle with the Moors. So they chose north and west, away from Moorish problems -- into Portugal and the port at Lisbon. It was a major port, and from there it could have gone anywhere in the known world."

"And so we find it on a Portuguese ship, long afterwards."

"Yes. And now the book... no, we still know nothing. Our mysterious Gold Cross had it and it was sent away, according to Adriana. Not so far away: it was hidden at Andújar. And then taken by another priest and we don't know where. The book tells him what to do. The part about the speaking is terrifying - the bell and book both can speak in some fashion. Does the candle?"

"Never to me. It does speak to females... in a fashion..."

"Enough about that. It doesn't help us."

"Speak for yourself. But now we have a new item to think about," I said. "The sword. Given to an orphanage. And that was here in Seville. We know Adriana lived there, Lucio visited, de Morillo built it... all paths cross there. That's our next stop."

+++

The visit to the orphanage was uneventful enough. It was in secular hands these days, having switched over to a non-church charity in the 1960s; but they still received some support from the church, and Jose arranged an additional donation from the local diocese to get us in the door. The Director, a pert grey haired woman with dark eyes and a clear love of children, was all smiles as she accepted the check.

"While I am here," Jose said, offhandedly, "I do historical research for the church, at times. I remember hearing the founder bequeathed a sword to the orphanage?"

"Oh... that. Yes. It's in the old building. It's not in wonderful shape -- it was painted in some kind of lacquer long ago, but it hasn't held up very well. We've debated getting rid of it."

"Because of the children?"

"Oh no, not that. It's locked away, and mounted over a doorway with hammered iron rods; children aren't going to get their hands on it. It's just such an odd piece for an orphanage, and in such bad shape. I don't think there's even any historical value left. Do you want to see it?"

We walked to the old stone building near the center of the site.

"This is the original building. Built in the 1300's I believe... We only store records in it now, and tools and supplies. It seems sturdy enough, all that stone, but it's very rough, not suitable for children, and the cost putting up plasterboard and putting in heat and cooling to make it habitable..." She pulled out keys. "Now through here. And there it is, over the doorway ahead."

Jose lost no time finding a ladder, and perching on it for a closer look with a magnifying glass. "It is not in such bad shape for the era. No actual monetary value... though it had a mounting for a gem here, once."

"Long since harvested of course," the Director chuckled. "Orphanages need money, all the time. A gem would have been sold off early."

Jose nodded; he wasn't listening. "And... yes. The crest of a noble house was engraved. It's still legible and I recognize it. The Guzmán house. Powerful for several generations. This sword was once a great source of prestige. This really is an odd place for it to land."

He took pictures, frowning to himself.

"A nun brought it here," the Director said. "Well... that's one legend. Another is that the priest who had this place built owed it and it came here when he died. I don't know if I believe either. A nun with a sword? Or a priest? But I guess it's here and has to be accounted for in some strange way or other. Priests fought in those days didn't they? Anyway we don't even know their names."

Jose was only half listening. "Ha. There was a dedication here... but the lacquer failed and the lettering is impossibly corrupted. The date could be 13 something. The handle used to be gold covered, but the gold was stripped, and not by a metalsmith. Someone scratched it off. The blade itself is in better shape, but scored with cracks or scratches, and some of them are deep."

"Marks from battle? Metal fatigue?"