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Doña Gracia: Beacon Of Hope

Sandra Toro

Chapter Ten
Escape
Lisbon, Portugal—April, 1536

Beatriz closed the door of the guest bedroom where her sister Brianda had been staying for the past two months. Then, carrying a small lantern for light, she made her way down to the servants’ quarters off the kitchen. Her housekeeper, cook, two maids and the coachman were sitting in their common room, sipping tea, playing dominoes, and gossiping. She could see that they were startled by her knock, but they quickly rose to their feet to greet her.
“I’m sorry to disturb you.” She stopped, reminding herself to make her eyes teary and her voice wobbly, reminding herself that her story wasn’t so preposterous; the Plague has infected all of Portugal. “I have terrible news. Brianda is ill.”
The news was greeted with gasps and cries of “no, no!”
Teresa, the housekeeper, pulled her handkerchief out of her bosom to wipe away the tears which were forming in her eyes.
Deliberately, Beatriz paused, looking from face to face, letting the news sink in. She thought again of her enemies, King John, and Pope Paul. They were stalemated on the question of establishing an Inquisition in Portugal. It was only a question of time, perhaps days.
Then she began her carefully prepared speech. “My beloved late husband and my late brother of Blessed Memory taught me much about medicine, about taking care of people with--” Again, she paused for dramatic effect, not wanting to say the dreaded word. God forgive me for these lies, she thought, then continued. “They told me I must protect you as well as my family, so I’ve prepared these.” From the pocket in her voluminous skirt she pulled small bags of gold coins and began distributing them. “I want you to go to your families, stay at least ten days, until the danger is over. This will tide you over.” And then some, she thought, thinking of the generous stipend she was giving each of them.
She turned to the coachman, handing him a small sign prepared in her own handwriting: “Warning: Do not enter, plague in this house!”
“Homero, attach this to the front door before you leave.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay and help you nurse Señorita Brianda, Señora?” Teresa asked, wiping away tears.
“No, no. Absolutely not. Joseph and Samuel will help me. You must leave tonight. Don’t wait until tomorrow. Go to Mass, light some candles, and pray for Brianda’s health. And for my nephews and daughter. Get ready now, hurry, start packing.”
Abruptly she turned, afraid that if she watched their stricken faces any longer she would not be able to carry out her plan. These humble people had been so loyal to her family through so much adversity—it was almost cruel to deceive them in this way. But their own lives depended on her lies. She reminded herself that she must retire upstairs to the privacy of her bedroom immediately. She had much to do.
Within minutes after she heard the last of the servants leave, after she heard Homero nail the sign to the door, Beatriz gathered her two nephews, Joseph, who was sixteen and twelve year old Samuel, and her sister, Brianda, into her bedroom. They had all, as planned, changed clothes. Beatriz and her sister were dressed in the dark brown baggy pants of deck hands, their long hair hidden beneath tight skull hats, long wool scarves tied around their necks.
Beatriz glanced at herself in the mirror, and saw that the weight she’d lost since the murder of her husband caused her to look like an emaciated, overworked, anemic deckhand, perhaps suffering from rickets. The only problem was her face. The porcelain complexion which she’d inherited from her mother, and was normally so proud of, displayed none of the weather beaten signs of an experienced sailor. She hoped that under the cover of darkness, she’d be able to pass as a man.
Brianda, on the other hand, had the dark olive complexion and dark freckles of their father Daniel, but the ample bosom of their mother Rachel. She had bound her breasts tightly in order to pass as a man. Still, she had to wear a loose shirt, and bind her dark frizzy hair tightly in the skull cap.
Joseph and Samuel were dressed in the ragged clothes of street urchins, their faces smudged with dirt.
“Reyna?” Brianda asked, not seeing Beatriz’ two year old daughter.
Beatriz pointed to an open trunk. “I hated to give her a sleeping potion, but Francisco prepared me, told me that was the way I’d have to take her.” The tiny dark-haired child, who Francisco had proudly boasted was the perfect miniature of Beatriz, was sleeping soundly on top of a fluffy down quilt inside the large trunk.
“It’s time now,” Beatriz said calmly, looking around the bedroom which she shared for eight glorious years with her beloved Francisco. An awful chill swept through her—the visceral effect of the nearly devastating fear which was her constant companion for months—but she forced herself to continue. “Joseph, the men are waiting in the wine cellar. Please go call them.”
Joseph, tall and athletic, turned and ran out the door.
Beatriz forced her tone to become firm and commanding. They would get strength from her example. “Brianda, you and I will carry this trunk.” She closed the top of the trunk holding the sleeping child. “Samuel, you are entrusted with that big bag. Can you manage it?”
“Yes, Aunt Beatriz, it’s not too heavy,” he said, hoisting the large carpet bag over his shoulder like a trained stevedore.
Beatriz tried to sound as strong as Francisco when he held his weekly staff meetings. “Now, for the next hour it’s imperative that we each remember the role we’re playing. Our lives depend on it.”
Moments later Joseph burst back into the bedroom followed by four strong men from the crew of the Doña Gracia. Beatriz directed them to a small room next to Brianda’s where each man found a large trunk. They hoisted the trunks on their backs, and with Joseph leading the way, the stevedores next in line, then Samuel, then Brianda and Beatriz carrying the trunk with small Reyna, they went back down the stairs, through the hall to the library, through a secret door leading to steps which took them underground. Beatriz closed and locked the secret door in the library. Even though she knew she’d never come back to this treasured home, to Lisbon, there was no point in giving their family secrets away.
When they reached the area called the wine cellar—a wide hall with dirt for a floor, and mammoth wine caskets as tall as two men lining both sides—Joseph deftly inserted a key in a spot on one of the wine barrels, gave a huge tug and an entire half of the wine casket opened to reveal a dark tunnel. Their own personal “family catacombs.”
Joseph picked up a lantern and summoned the group to follow him into the darkness. They trudged slowly, filled with fear, for what seemed like at least ten city blocks, before they arrived in what appeared to be another wine cellar.
“Good! You’re here!” Captain Lope greeted them. He was the bright young navigator of whom Francisco Mendes had been so proud. Though the Mendes family owned a fleet of fifteen ships, Francisco’s favorite ship was the Doña Gracia and the navigator in whom he had greatest confidence was Captain Lope. “Now, listen carefully. We must get you to cross from the front of the warehouse to the dock, board the ship and go into your cabin and stay there, quietly, until we’re well into international waters. The crew must not suspect anything unusual is going on. Understand?”
Beatriz watched, pride momentarily overcoming fear as her young nephews listened intently. They would have to grow to adulthood fast now, she realized. No more time for child’s play.
She stretched backwards to relieve the ache in her back which had sprung up during the long walk, grateful for the moment to let the trunk with little Reyna rest at her feet. Captain Lope, seeing her stretch, understood and reached for the trunk. Quickly, Beatriz intervened. “No, Captain, this is a very special trunk. It must be carried carefully. My sister will help me.”
Lope, understanding instantly, answered, “No, you and I will carry it together, at least as far as the warehouse entrance.”
It was only minutes; it seemed an eternity. The walk from the front of the warehouse to the ship, and then to the private Captain’s quarters was the most terrifying experience in Beatriz’ twenty-six years. The king’s men patrolled the docks, guarding against just such a departure as they were now making. If they were caught trying to leave the country, and worse, taking valuables with them, not only would they be tortured and murdered, but every sailor, every stevedore, every deck hand would be slaughtered.
Safe at last inside the captain’s private quarters, the door locked, Brianda and Beatriz took off their hats and let their long curls cascade down their shoulders. They opened the lid to the trunk so little Reyna would have plenty of fresh air. Beatriz insisted that Joseph and Samuel at least wash the dirt off their faces, even if they didn’t want to change into their own clothes.
The tiny cabin was crowded with their five trunks and carpet bags; a space meant for one man would be their home for however many days it took them to reach England. Then, and only then, would they be safe from the murderous intention of John, King of Portugal.
“Aunt Beatriz,” Samuel asked as he finished wiping his wet face, “Uncle Francisco told me that he named this ship after the most beautiful woman in the world. Who is Doña Gracia?”
Beatriz smiled as tears filled her eyes. That sounded like something her husband would have said. He was the dearest man who ever lived. “Some day when you are old and gray—actually before then I hope—I’ll tell you who Doña Gracia is.”
An hour later Captain Lope knocked on their door to inform them that they were now safe, in international waters, beyond the reach of King John.
Beatriz gathered her sister and her nephews close beside her, above the trunk holding the sleeping child. “Come, my family,” she said, realizing again that this was all that was left of what had once been one of the most illustrious families in all of Europe. And now their well being was in her hands, her hands alone. “Come, we must thank our God.” And singing words aloud which she had only whispered before, Beatriz led her family: “Shema Yisroel, adonoi eloheynu, adoni echod. Hear oh Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.”

* * *
On that night a twenty-six year old widow altered the history of a nation. The world’s largest privately-owned fleet of merchant ships would never again dock in Portuguese ports. Portugal would never again be the Mistress of the Seas.

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