‘She could be an ice-keeper,’ said Jaime. He had come with a plump, rosy-cheeked little boy riding in his donkey pannier, and he himself looked prosperous; he was filling out, losing the slenderness of youth and the expression of intense attention to the world that he had once had. The little boy ran around in the cloister garth and chased a hen that had wandered from the farmyard.
‘What is an ice-keeper?’ Sor Agnete asked.
‘We cut snow in winter,’ Jaime told her. ‘We pack it into pits where it stays unmelted under a roof of reeds. Then on summer nights it is carried down the mountain in baskets of straw and sold. Someone has to stay up there, to keep the reed roofs in good order – you get a melt-down very quickly if the wind takes off the reeds, and it can blow hard up there when it’s warm and still below. She could do that, couldn’t she, if I showed her how to fix the reeds?’
‘Is such work paid for?’ asked Sor Agnete.
‘We don’t use money much between ourselves,’ he said. ‘There is a good hut at the Sant Jeronimo ice-pits. The men who come for the ice would bring bread, and savours, and a jug of wine. Now and then someone goes up and cuts firewood, to keep a stove burning in winter. She would be welcome to the job – everyone hates it. The loneliness drives people crazy.’
‘How can we be sure she will be all right?’ demanded Sor Eulalie. ‘Mightn’t she come to harm up there on her own?’
‘I’ll go up myself every week or so,’ said Jaime. ‘I’ll keep an eye on her.’
The two nuns glanced at each other. ‘Why should you take this on yourself, Jaime?’ asked Sor Agnete.
‘If I hadn’t stayed Galceran’s hand . . .’ he said. Then, seeing their blank expressions, he simply shrugged and said, ‘I am willing. She will need warm clothes.’
‘Come back for her in a week,’ said Sor Agnete. ‘We will have clothes and shoes ready to go with her.’
It took Rafal three days. And of course he couldn’t find everybody. He missed Jaime, for Jaime was on the road from Sant Clara. He brought Galceran, and Salvat, and Juan’s younger brother – Juan ran away and hid somewhere rather than be hauled in front of a cardinal. And Old Luis was dead. One or two others presented themselves whose account was vague; Rafal thought they were eager to share the journey, riding good horses, and gaining importance in the eyes of their cronies, not to speak of eating well, for he would, of course, have to sustain them from the cardinal’s bounty for three days at least – the journey each way and the time in Ciudad. Rafal’s nerves were drawn taut as tentered linen; he could not stand their cheerful conversation, and he rode a little ahead. But they sobered up as Ciudad came in sight and the prospect of the cardinal loomed nearer.
The cardinal spoke to them gravely. He told them that matters of vast importance hung on the answers they might make to him. He asked them to remember the capture of the wolf-child and what they had then done and said. Had they mentioned God to her?
He amazed them. They stood, nonplussed, glancing uneasily at each other, Galceran, it seemed, almost laughing, for he spluttered and covered his face with his great beefy hand.
‘Did we what, Holiness?’ he asked recovering himself.
‘Do you think you might have mentioned God to her?’
‘We didn’t exactly talk to her, Holiness,’ the man said. ‘She wasn’t friendly.’
‘Could you have talked about God amongst yourselves in such a way that she might have overheard you?’
They looked at the floor. They shuffled their feet. Galceran answered, and his voice had taken on the unmistakable tones of a man talking to a child. ‘We, er, don’t talk about God much, Holiness. Not much at all. Can’t remember when he last came up, in fact. Can you, Salvat?’
Salvat coloured and shook his head.
‘When you found her, you didn’t ask her where she came from? Or tell her to thank God for her rescue, or wonder aloud if she had been baptized?’
‘It was like overpowering a wild beast, Holiness, not like meeting a sweet little child. She drew blood; we were covered in wounds and scratches,’ said Galceran.
‘We might have cursed her,’ observed Salvat. ‘We might have sworn at her, Holiness. Is that the sort of thing you mean?’
‘You might have used curses that name God?’ he asked.
They seemed relieved, pleased almost, to understand him at last. ‘We might have done that,’ said Galceran. ‘I expect we did, Holiness. I’m almost sure of it.’
‘Yes,’ said Salvat. ‘Old Luis knew a blasphemy or two. He was always taking names in vain, and she bit him deep and hard, I remember. I bet he cursed her.’
Severo returned to his cell. It was a desolating thought that the child might have learned of God through curses – poor outcast soul! Not that he believed it. Whatever it was that could be learned from being the object of cursing, it was not, surely, the existence of an ever-loving creator. But he could tell Fra Murta that a creature who had been cursed in God’s name had heard of God. He had his little troop of witnesses. The experiment was void, and he would do battle with Fra Murta again on freshly chosen ground.
He was too late. Lying on his desk was a fresh pile of papers, and on top of the pile was another document penned in the careful hand of Petro Llop. ‘Audit resumed,’ he read.
‘Location: prisoner’s cell. Prisoner unable to walk or stand.
INQ. ‘You must repeat within one day a confession made under torture, or it is invalid.’
PRISONER [groans]. ‘Of course it is invalid. I will not repeat it.’
INQ. ‘If it is not true, why did you make it?’
PRISONER. ‘You know why! But if you only knew how eagerly your cardinal, and his friend Beneditx, have been seeking my free consent to their religion! And all is lost now; you have lost the game for them. For if I say now that I believe in God, how will anyone know whether what I say is sincere or said through fear?’
INQ. ‘I cannot answer for others. I have no difficulty in believing what you say. Repeat your confession.’
PRISONER [groans]. ‘What if I will not?’
INQ. ‘We shall resume the mancuerda.’
PRISONER. ‘You’ll be sorry for this! The captains of Aclar are not usually savages, but they would be so outraged and revolted by this, if ever they found out what you have done to me, that they would have scream for scream and tear for tear.’
INQ. ‘You’d be surprised how often we are threatened with ridiculous revenges.’
PRISONER. ‘God rot you in hell!’
INQ. ‘Who is to rot me? We have you, I think! Now, God be praised! We have you.’
To the truth of the above, I Petro Llop etc. etc., put my hand . . .’