The Iberian Flame

Chapter 20

Spain

The scorching, dusty central plains stretched out as far as the eye could see, an endless ochre-tinted earth sparsely populated with bushes, and then, at last, the rock-strewn passes leading to his goal, Toledo, with a history of richness and antiquity of centuries beyond counting. Squarely within it was the magnificence of Santa Maria de Toledo, the greatest of the high Gothic cathedrals of Spain.

The long journey from the cartel port of Cartagena had been a trial but the Spanish had been faultless in their attentions to the English nobleman, providing carriage, four-man escort and a tonsured cleric, Fray Mendoza, an impeccably mannered translator and guide, who gravely answered Renzi’s interested questions without reservation. Renzi had thought it prudent to keep his facility with the language from them. He’d won it in quite a different circumstance in the insurrection and invasion of Buenos Aires years before.

Despite himself, his pulse quickened. This was his first visit to the Spain of Castile and Leon, El Cid and the Reconquista from the Moors; this arid country they passed through held so many relics of the past but there was no time to linger. He knew that it was the domain of the enemy, but how could the ragged, picturesque peasantry he saw at labour in the parched fields be rightly termed foe?

Jago, his dark-jowled under-steward and man of affairs, rode behind in a less well-appointed conveyance, with two servants. What must he be thinking as they ground on ever deeper into this land? Renzi would never know: the man was gratifyingly close-mouthed, and if he suspected his master to be more than he seemed, he kept it to himself.

The road steepened; the horses slowed as the carriage crested at a tight curve – and there was the muddy green Tagus river, which, in perhaps half a thousand miles, would finally reach the Atlantic, at Lisbon. Nestled atop a mountainous bend in the river was the fabled city of Toledo, dominated by the massive tower and nave of the great cathedral.

Renzi’s mood of wonder and admiration fell away as they arrived, and he contemplated the scale of his undertaking. In itself it was not perilous – he’d been briefed on how he should behave at the shrine and this was all that the Spanish expected of him. If nothing happened he would return to England. It was what would follow, if an approach was made as he desired, that held the dangers; there was much to be gained but only if much was risked.

They jostled along the antiquated thoroughfare, the stench making him grateful for the pomander that Mendoza had thoughtfully provided, the sound of their horses near drowned in the cacophony of the street. Quarters had been prepared at a secluded monastery, and Renzi thankfully bathed and allowed himself to be garbed in a penitent’s robe, the better to contemplate the morrow’s events.

In his grey vestment, barefoot and carrying a missal, Renzi set out very early in company with Fray Mendoza. The cathedral was truly impressive and he made much of his approbation and awe, performing his devotions slowly and reverently – the object being to touch through discreet iron bars the very stone upon which the Queen of Heaven had once trod. A blue-lettered mosaic tile set by its side was translated in a whisper by Mendoza, Renzi’s offering accepted and taken away.

Some hours of endless tedium at a service followed – and then he was suffered to go.

Mendoza politely offered to show him other churchly inspirations of Toledo but Renzi pleaded a headache and took to his room, readying himself for the approach – if it came.

In the morning, lying on the plain bed in his cell, the scent of the monastery’s orange grove stealing in with the wafting warmth of the early breeze, he considered his position. As far as he could detect, King Fernando had assumed the throne without overmuch disturbance, and certainly there was nothing so far that might allow for intervention or suborning. As for the French, it was said they were well into Spain on their way to the Portuguese frontier, but he hadn’t seen any. Unless there was some form of overture, his report would be thin.

Fray Mendoza arrived a little before midday, his features compassionate.

‘Excelentisimo, how do you fare this morning, pray?’

‘A marked improvement, the Lord be praised,’ Renzi said politely. ‘As I was yesterday overcome by the splendour and magnificence I saw, an experience I will never forget.’

‘Which is not an uncommon thing in many who make pilgrimage to the glory of Spain.’

Renzi acknowledged it with a small bow, and Mendoza went on, ‘And it allows me to inform you that your noble presence here in Toledo is noted by the royal court, who desire to extend to you in small measure the hospitality due to your station.’

‘That is most kind in you, sir.’

‘In the most informal way, of course, as our countries are unhappily not at present in a state of amity.’

‘I understand.’

‘Su majestad el rey is not in a position to give audience but the first minister would be delighted to take la comida – how you say? – the midday meal, with you privily.’

It was happening! And discreetly. Safely in private, the minister could be quizzed and, whether unforthcoming or of value, could be discarded, or otherwise, with no one the wiser.