Free The Falcons of Fire and Ice by Karen Maitland Page A

bonfire.
    Mother banged another plate down in front of me, causing the three salt-crusted sardines on it to leap as if in a bid for freedom.
    ‘Jorge was a good man, a brave man,’ Father said quietly. ‘To endure the flames rather than betray anyone else, that takes the courage of a saint.’
    Mother snorted her contempt. ‘A saint! Is that what you think? He was a heretic, a Christ killer. It was the Devil in him who stopped him confessing his sin, that’s what it was. To even think of comparing a man as evil as him with a saint who died for the true faith is … is … is obscene!’
    ‘He was our neighbour. Don’t you remember how kind he was to little Isabela when she was a child? She loved him like a grandfather.’
    ‘And how many times did I warn you not to let her go round there? Filling her head with his silly stories and goodness knows what else. I warned you not to let her go mixing with Marranos, and now I’ve been proved right. They pretend to be good Catholics, but all the time they are practising their devilish rites in secret and plotting to murder us all in our own beds.’ Mother rounded on me. ‘You stay away from the lot of them, do you hear? Isn’t it bad enough your father can’t provide a decent dowry for you? How do you think you are ever going to get a good, respectable husband, if anyone finds out you are mixing with these converts? And now you have seen for yourself how dangerous it is to make friends of these pigs.’
    ‘But, Mother, Jorge was a good man, a great physician. You used to take me to him yourself when I was sick, and don’t you remember that time when you –’
    ‘Enough, Isabela.’ Father shook his head, warning me not to continue.
    ‘Who reported him, that’s what I want to know!’ I burst out angrily. ‘Who would even think of doing so, betraying a harmless old man?’
    ‘Harmless!’ Mother snapped. ‘He was a heretic, and you heard what Father Tomàs said in Mass. Anyone who does not fight against heresy is himself guilty of betraying our Blessed Lord. It’s our duty to God and the king to report these people. Our duty, do you hear?’
    ‘But who –’
    ‘Please, Isabela.’ Father’s tired eyes begged me to let the matter drop. ‘Jorge is dead. All the words in the world cannot change that. Let us speak of something else.’
    I glared at him, torn between wanting to punish my mother for her contempt of that poor old man and not wanting to hurt my father. But in the end I said nothing and vented my anger by stabbing furiously at the belly of the little charred fish. There was much which was never spoken of in our household for fear of upsetting my mother. It was the eleventh commandment in our family.
    Mother crossed to the small shrine in the corner of the room and picked up the statues of the Virgin Mary and St Vincent of Saragossa clutching the gridiron on which he was martyred. She moved the statues reverently to one side, then gathered up an assortment of rosaries, dried flowers and candles. Shoving aside my father’s half-eaten breakfast, she laid them on the table in front of him. My father grabbed his plate just in time to prevent the faded and crumbling wreath falling into his griddled sardines, and retreated to a bench in the corner to continue eating.
    The shrine was my mother’s pride and joy. She dressed it according to the feasts and festivals as diligently as if it was an altar in the great Cathedral in Lisbon. My earliest memories were of her holding me up in her arms in front of that shrine, gripping my chubby fingers painfully tight as she helped me light a candle to the Holy Virgin.
    ‘My mother came from one of the oldest Catholic families in Portugal,’ she would say. ‘You must always remember that and see that you light a candle every day, just as she did and her grandmother before her.’
    I didn’t really understand then what Catholic was, but I could tell from the tone of my mother’s voice, and the way she lifted her