The Falcons of Fire and Ice - By Karen Maitland Page 0,5

women. Men and women like himself who were Cristianos Nuevos, New Christians, or, as the Old Christians mockingly called them, Marranos, meaning pigs. They were Jews fled from Spain, or their descendants, who had been forced to convert to Christianity, and now practised the Catholic faith. But to the Old Christians they were filthy foreigners come here to take their jobs, their homes and their women, and no matter how much the New Christians swore they were now good Catholics, they still remained what they had always been in the eyes of the Old Christians – Christ killers.

Manuel squashed himself into the darkened doorway of one of the rooms. Jorge, the physician, was holding forth amid a crowd of men all murmuring nearly as loudly as the crowd outside the churches.

Jorge held up his hands for silence, raising his voice to make himself heard.

‘There is no cause for fear. The Pope issued a bull declaring all New Christians free and cancelling all the charges brought against us. He’s forbidden the Inquisition to act against those of us who were forcibly converted or against the children of converts.’

‘But for three years only.’ Benito’s white beard trembled as he rasped for breath. ‘Those three years are now ended. I have lived through it all before in Spain, trust me, you cannot rely on the promises of kings or popes. It will happen here, as it did there. Our people will be rounded up and murdered one by one till not so much as a newborn infant remains alive.’

He swept his clawed hand around the room. ‘Are you all so blind? Don’t you see they will blame us for these notices on the churches; who else will they blame? Who else do they ever blame? Every Catholic in Portugal will soon be screaming for our blood. The king will have all the backing he needs to unleash the dogs of the Inquisition. It is no secret he hates us. He is looking for any excuse to purge Portugal of us. Who knows, maybe King João himself nailed the notices to the churches deliberately to turn his people against us.’

At that, several of the men leapt to their feet, shouting at the old man to be quiet. Weren’t they in enough danger already without him adding the charge of slandering the king to their troubles? They glanced anxiously over at the shutters. They were fastened tightly, but all the same, you never knew who was listening outside on the street.

‘Enough, enough.’ Jorge waved the men back to their seats. ‘Benito has a point. There are some who will try to blame us. So it is up to us to make certain we are not blamed. Now listen,’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, ‘tonight …’

But Manuel did not wait to hear what they would do tonight. He’d grown up in this community and he knew that the old men would still be arguing about what they would do ‘tonight’ come daybreak. All he wanted to do was sleep. Dawn would come only too quickly and, with luck, by then the people of Lisbon would have found some new scandal to divert them.

But the following morning found another notice pinned to the Cathedral door. This time the crowd that rapidly gathered around it read the proclamation:

I, as the author, declare that I am neither Spanish nor Portuguese, but I am an Englishman, and even if 20,000 gold escudos were offered, my name will never be discovered.

The crowd read it, but they did not believe a single word of it.

Two nights later, Manuel woke with a start as the light from a lantern shone full into his face. Even as his mind registered the fact that this was the middle of the night, a wave of cold fear washed over him. As his eyes struggled to adjust to the light, he was dimly aware of four hooded figures looming over him. He could hear their breathing like the hissing of snakes.

Manuel tried to scramble out of bed, but his legs became entangled in the bedclothes and he tripped, sprawling at the feet of one of the black-robed figures. The man stared down at him as if he was a beggar whining for alms. His face was concealed by a pointed black hood, and in the lamp-light his eyes glittered through the slits, the eyes of a cobra rising to strike.

‘Manuel da Costa, by order of the Grand Inquisitor you are to accompany us for