‘They are not sure how long ago – twelve, thirteen, fourteen years back. Their lives are unchanging; one year is the same as another to them.’
Jaime stood in the cloister garth, talking to the abbess. He came now as a friend, and only Sor Agnete lingered nearby, overhearing.
‘About the right time, then. Go on.’
‘She came from the valley somewhere, of course, but she didn’t say and they didn’t ask where. She was heavy with child, and it had taken her days, they thought, to climb to their region. She begged for food, and they made her work for it, kneading dough, carrying water. They speak of her with contempt – as a slut.’
‘No wedding ring? Of course not. Go on.’
‘It seems the charcoal burners have known this to happen repeatedly. A girl comes up to them from one valley, before it shows too much; she swells and gives birth in the mountain, and then takes the babe and goes down into another valley where nobody knows her. She might expose the child, or she might pass herself off as a widow. They reminded me that the sierra is called “the widow maker”.’
‘I thought that was because men died of their exploits there.’
‘So did I, Mother, but it seems there is this other reason.’
‘Go on.’
‘Her time came, and she was delivered, lying on the forest floor a little way from the camp. The woman with her was alarmed and went for help. When she returned with others, they found the woman dying and alone. But they saw a wolf, or they think they did, slinking off, moving above them on the open face of the mountain. Two of them could remember this.’
‘So we have found her origin? And it does not help us; if she was stolen in her first hour of life, then the cardinal is right, she can have heard no word of God . . .’
‘The story fits Amara, Mother,’ said Jaime, ‘in every way but one. The woman bore twins; both were taken. There should have been two of her.’
‘There is still faith,’ said Severo. ‘Hold fast to faith . . . can’t you?’ But Beneditx shook his head. An expression of desperation transformed his familiar face.
‘I am punished,’ he said, sombrely. ‘Bitterly punished. Simple faith was for others, Severo; I knew better. Reason carried me to the limits of reason’s possibility, I prided myself to think how far that was. God with his gift of faith stooped almost into the pit to reach the understanding of my fellow men, but I ascended scales of understanding and extended my grasp towards him! I was founded on reason. And now the mounting block is kicked away from under me, and without it I cannot mount and ride. I have no strength to gain the saddle of the fine steed that bore me once so proudly! I am falling into the pit.’
‘God will see you falling,’ said Severo bravely. ‘He will unfurl the ladder of faith and lower it to where you stand, be it at the gates of hell . . .’ But he was sick at heart.
‘Pray for me,’ said Beneditx.
‘We will pray together,’ said Severo.
‘I cannot pray,’ said Beneditx. ‘I am afraid the whole sky is empty, and no-one hears our voice . . .’
‘I have done this to you,’ Severo said. ‘I set you to this task, and when you asked me to take it from you, I would not, but set you on to it again. I am to blame.’
Beneditx shook his head. ‘No, Severo. Each of us must take the blame for his own state of mind. And how could we know what the atheist might say? We had never heard such words spoken and were warmly wrapped with the cloak of faith. I had no idea of the force of the wind. But, for example, how could one answer . . .’
‘Do not tell me what he said,’ said Severo. ‘Or I too might lose my footing. We will pray together, now, all night. That void you speak of, that unanswering empty sky, is your God for this hour, and you will pray to it, if none other be there for you. Come, I command it.’
Face down, side by side on the marble floor before the high altar of the cathedral, the two men lay in the deepening darkness. The clergy sung vespers and retired, the candles lit by the faithful below the images of the saints guttered one by one into darkness. At some time in the long hours between vespers and prime, Severo’s outstretched hand reached the outstretched hand of his suffering friend and held it.
In the morning Severo did two things. He sent Beneditx home. ‘Back to the Galilea, Beneditx. Finish that treatise on the knowledge of angels. Finish it in peace.’
‘But what will you do with Palinor?’ Beneditx asked.
‘Think of him no more,’ said Severo. ‘I command you not to think of him.’
When Beneditx had gone, Severo sat reflecting. He was appalled to think of the damage he had done; heart-sick at the misery into which Beneditx was cast. What had he thought he was doing, trying to outmanoeuvre an inquisitor, who should have had his fervent support? How had he come to value the safety of a blasphemous heretic above that of a great doctor of theology? Sunk in self-loathing, he reproached himself. How had it happened that he, Severo, had spent his whole life in the service of the Church and then failed in diligence the very first time something was asked of him that he found difficult?
In an impulse of remorse and rage, he enquired where Fra Murta was to be found, and learning that he was now promulgating his edict of grace in the streets of Ciudad, he sent for him and gave Palinor into his hands.
‘Were you always alone, Amara? Did you have a companion in the snows?’
It seemed most likely the other babe had died – was it not incredible enough that either one had survived such rigours? But the abbess was asking, just the same. A lingering hope that perhaps the snow-child was not one of those hapless twins but someone else, someone who got lost late enough to take human knowledge with her . . .
‘Yes,’ Amara said. ‘Me, and her. Two of us, long while.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘I killed her,’ she said.
‘Holy Mother of God!’ said the abbess, breaking for the first time her solemn oath. ‘Why?’
‘Not remember why,’ Amara said.