THE RICHES OF SANTIAGO

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PROLOGUE St. Ildefonse, Site of the Incomplete Palace of Philip V, King of Spain November 1717 Father Marcel Daubenton shivered inside his great woolen frock as he limped across the agoura separating the cathedral from the palace. Whirling wind whipped fallen leaves about his ankles as he trudged heavily through the damp, chilly air. He shuddered, less from the cold than from his approaching encounter with the Queen. With each step, his left knee, arthritic from thirty years of kneeling on cold stone, locked painfully, exacerbating his reluctant journey. He would not name the fear he always felt in the Queens presence, but fear it was, and he felt it in the depths of his soul. He prayed, like Jesus in the garden at Gethsemane, to be relieved of this duty, but he had promised the King, and he knew he must entreat the Queen. Daubenton shivered again, remembering the wild look in the Kings eyes at his last confession. Philip had sunk into one of his enduring depressions, refusing admission to anyone other that his confessor and, of course, his Queen, who refused to see him. She is not merely my Queen, he ranted. She is first among my subjects and she, above all, must obey me! She cannot refuse me. I need her! Father Daubenton sighed, having grown weary of Philips needs. His need for the Queen had become monumental, colossal; enough to redden the face of a hearty ships mate much less that of a sheltered, celibate priest. Worse, the royal needs were becoming public knowledge, the source of mirth among the court. The Queen had seen

to that. But that wasnt Daubentons concern. His Most Catholic Majesty was not the first husband, nor even the first King, dominated by an ambitious and scheming wife who knew how and when to withhold her favors. What concerned Daubenton were the serious allegations Philip made against the Queen. At his approach, a Palace Guard hurried to unlatch the heavy oaken door to the court interior, swung it open against a creaking protest, and held it ajar to offer Daubenton admittance. Daubenton noticed droplets of perspiration beading on the stubble of the guards upper lip and smelled the stench of dry sweat mixed with grime as he passed under the outstretched arm. Grimacing, he nodded his appreciation and offered the guard a hurried blessing. The lower courtyard bustled with activity. The Kings courtiers mixed with foreign emissaries and commercial dignitaries seeking the Kings favor. Ruing his limp, Daubenton pulled his smock closer around his face and hurried, as best his leg allowed, to the broad marble stairwell leading to the royal chambers. Nearing the top, he blanched to see the approach of Julio Alberoni, the Queens very personal counselor. Years before, Alberoni was a lowly but ambitious Parmesan diplomat. He had ingratiated himself to the Duke of Parma by recommending the Dukes daughter to the recently widowed, and hopelessly lonely, King of Spain, as a girl of royal birth, plump and healthy, with no head for, nor designs upon, royal business. When Philip, starved for feminine attention, took Isabella Farnese as his second wife, the Duke repaid Alberonis favor by obtaining for him a clerical appointment. Farnese herself rewarded Alberoni by promoting the new prelate as her chief counselor, a position which, given Philips gradual withdrawal from royal business, made Alberoni the de facto minister of state. And, if Daubenton were to believe Philip, the Queen had found other avenues of reward as well. Alberonis olive skin, high cheekbones and closely cropped black hair formed a handsome contrast to Daubentons grizzled features. And, where the Frenchmans shabby gray smock revealed each bony indentation of his gaunt frame, the Italians expensively tailored robes masked his recent healthy accumulation of weight.

Father Daubenton, Alberoni said as he reached with both hands to greet him. Taking Daubentons gnarled hands in his own pudgy, manicured fingers, Alberoni continued in a voice that Daubenton debated whether to describe as silky or oily. Welcome, my friend. Her Majesty advised me of your request for an appointment. I hope you will forgive my intrusion, but as the Queen has only recently met with her own confessor, you will understand my concern. Between us, he smiled confidentially, as though they were two loving parents discussing a petulant offspring, she is easily wearied by priests. I trust your demands upon her time will be modest? This last was spoken inquiringly, with the expectation that Daubenton should reveal the purpose of his visit. Bile filled Daubentons throat as fear and distaste overwhelmed him. He disliked the Italian and his Francophobic posturing. He coughed miserably, but he knew he could not let Alberoni deter him. Besides, Daubenton reflected, his vow of poverty did not include cessation of self-respect. It must be difficult for you, Father Alberoni, that Her Majesty easily wearies of priests. Or does her weariness not extend to Italian priests? Alberonis black eyes flashed momentary anger before he regained his composure and responded, Surely, Father Daubenton, of all here at the Spanish Court, you would understand and be the last to begrudge Her Majesty a countrymans counsel? Daubenton nodded. Alberoni was correct; of course, he should be the last to deny Farnese her Italian advisor. Only yesterday he himself had remarked to a Jesuit passing through on his way to Rome, on the character of European politics where Philip, a Frenchman, reigned on the throne of Spain with his Italian Queen while both aspired to the Austrian crown. No, Father Alberoni, I do not begrudge her your council. I have no desire to impose on Her Majestys time. I shall be as quick as she herself allows.

Alberoni waited expectantly for several seconds. Finally, he smiled broadly and took Daubentons elbow between his hands and began leading him down the corridor. Speaking of counseling countrymen, Father Daubenton, His Majesty has neglected to return several very important petitions Her Majesty requested he sign, including a request from the French Ambassador himself. Do you expect his health will allow him to see to his affairs soon? Daubentons ears perked up. He wondered what the French petition addressed, but more important, he wondered what other petition actually concerned Alberoni. The difference in our respective positions, Father Alberoni, is that Her Majesty actually seeks your counsel. I am merely His Majestys confessor, and as such, listen and absolve. Alberoni smiled widely as they reached the Queens door. Ah, my friend, you are too modest. The whole court is aware of your influence with the King. Subtle perhaps, but influential nevertheless. Daubenton cursed his dullness. He could not understand Alberonis purpose. If only Alberoni knew, he thought, how little talking I do with the King, and how much listening I do to ranting and meaningless drivel. Father Alberoni, I am not privy to the Kings plans. Nor am I skilled in the medical arts. Like you, I can only assume that His Majesty will attend to business in Gods good time. Pathetic, he thought, and even more so for its truth. Well, never mind, Alberoni smiled knowingly. You are here now to speak with the Queen, and surely on His Majestys behalf. That is certainly a start. We shall see what we see. His smile suggested that Father Daubenton should understand more than he actually did. Perplexing, Daubenton thought. Alberoni knocked on the queens door and ushered Daubenton through.

The Queens chamber was an immense room with a mural ceiling depicting more than 300 years of Spanish Royal life. The artist had fancifully inserted angels and cupids to suggest holy influence, a concept not so far fetched given Spains preeminent position in world affairs. On the far wall of the room rose an immense bed covered with pillows, the beds surface at least four feet above the marble floor recently imported from Carrara. Three ladies-in-waiting surrounded the bed, one of whom gently waved a long fan above the head of the Queen, Isabella Farnese, who reclined, regally, among the bedclothes. A scene, Daubenton felt certain, that Farnese had seen depicted in a painting of the Orient. Farnese herself wore a purple silk robe with gold embroidery along the entire length of its hem. The robe clung to her body, outlining her magnificent feminine form, its collar open provocatively, revealing dcolletage that sent a surge of fear and excitement through Daubenton. Involuntarily, his hand sought the comfort of his rosary beads. In his silky voice, Alberoni announced, If you please, Your Majesty, our good friend, Father Daubenton, has arrived. Farnese smiled broadly at Daubenton. She was not, in portrait, an overly goodlooking woman. Her nose, slightly too large for her ovate face, had been broken in childhood and hooked left providing an unattractive focal point. In animation, however, she was stunning. Thick, sultry lips fought for the observers attention with flashing green eyes, both features smiling, inviting, intriguing. Her smooth skin, tinted a rich olive, provided lovely contrast to thick, jet-black hair. At 25 years of age, Farnese was yet in the springtime of her youth, and had blossomed into a royal rose, complete with thorns. Despite the invitation in her eyes, her bearing, unfailingly regal, created a cool barrier to her audience and seemed, to Daubenton, to reflect her control, self-absorption, and self-content.

Father Daubenton, how delightful to see you again, she enthused. We see you so seldom; one would suppose you expect me to bite you! The ladies-in-waiting covered their mouths, unsuccessfully masking their giggles. Father Daubenton himself stood, wide-eyed and speechless at the Queens blatant flirtation. Recovering, Daubenton bowed deeply. Your lady. It is good of you to receive me. Nonsense, she exclaimed. You are always most welcome here! Her hand waved theatrically, encompassing the entire room, as though Daubenton should know he could consider her chambers as his own. All my friends visit me here. You must come more often. Again Daubenton stood stupidly, uncertain how to proceed. Into his stunned silence, Alberoni interjected, Your Majesty, Father Daubenton carries a request from your husband, the King. I am sure you wish privacy? Yes, yes of course, the Queen smiled her approval at the suggestion. Thank you, my dear Alberoni. Turning to her ladies, she added, Leave me, my dears, with our delightful Father Daubenton. And I, Your Lady, Alberoni continued, shall be in my office should you require me. Of course, of course, Farnese replied, still smiling broadly and dismissing him with an elegant, backhanded wave of her outstretched arm. Alberoni held the door for the ladies-in-waiting, and then, giving Daubenton one last smile, said, Please my friend, I would be honored if you saw me before you leave. Alberoni bowed, and then, inexplicably, winked at him before exiting and closing the door. Daubenton stared dumbly at the closed door, questioning his own eyes. Had the Italian truly winked at him? What could such a wink possibly imply? He felt suddenly

stranded, isolated, cornered if that was possible in a room the size of the Queens chambers. So, M. Daubenton, the Queen intoned, rising to a seated position, her arms wrapped around her drawn-up knees against which her cheek rested comfortably, her bare feet now provocatively visible, tell me why it is you dislike me so? Is it women you dislike, or Italians? Or do you simply reserve your disdain for me? He turned back to face the Queen. She wore a friendly smile, her eyes gently mocking, but her voice conveyed no animosity. Daubenton felt a sudden release of tension. As if coaxed by her mild teasing, his troubled features relaxed into a reluctant smile. Please, my Lady, he said, I do not dislike you. It is only that I am an old priest, set in my ways. You are young. In your presence I always feel uncomfortable. Discomfort did not begin to describe the fear he felt normally. Interesting, he thought, that alone with her, rather than feeling more fearful, his tension eased, his fears subsided. Old, she exclaimed. But you are not old. Forty-two if I do my math correctly. Born in Provence, St. Paul de Vence, orphaned at eight years and raised by the brothers of the Franciscan Monastery at Aix. At what age did you decide you would become a priest? Daubentons eyes widened, stunned that she should know his history. But how Why? How do you know all that? Farnese laughed gently. Oh my dear Daubenton. It is important, she said softly, to know about those around you. Particularly those whose influence might affect your life. So, tell me. When did you decide to become a priest, and why? Daubenton sighed. That word again. He didnt know what influence she thought he possessed, but her question stirred ancient memories. I was twelve, he began. My

sister passed away. After my parents died, she was all I had left. They separated us, but she wrote me constantly. I loved her more than life itself. It is strange. I loved her then even though I could not remember what her face looked like. Now I see her face daily in my prayers. I do not know if it is truly she, or merely an image Ive found comfort in. He paused, his eyes unfocused on the distant wall. In any event, one day the letters stopped. Eventually the Brothers told me that she had died. A disease they said, nothing more. I felt such pain. Pain you never wished to experience again, I imagine. And so, you withdrew from life. Withdrew, my Lady? Yes, withdrew. Perhaps that is a little harsh, but rather than risk loss, say, of a woman you loved, you opted to hide among the holy. Daubenton smoldered. As you wish, Madame. No, M., as you wish. Daubenton tried to read her meaning, but now neither her voice nor her facial expression gave evidence to her thoughts. She continued to lounge comfortably on her bed, staring into his eyes intently. He turned and faced her directly. Your Lady, you may certainly think what you will of me, and of my motivations. It is irrelevant. I am here not to discuss decisions in my life, but in yours. The King requested that I speak with you. Farnese laughed gaily. Very good, Daubenton. I think I like you better when you are angry. You show a little fire. But of course, to business. The King. How is my crazy husband?

If he is crazy, Madame, it is with worry over your failure to heed his wishes. And with other failures. Really? Her eyes sparkled with genuine pleasure. Which failures? I have many, you know, the Queen said as she rose, majestically from her bed. She stood before her full length mirror flattening her robe and primping her collar to reveal, as if it were possible, Daubenton thought, even more of her dcolletage. For instance, I drink too much. And too early. The Queen pranced to a sidebar laden with sparkling crystal decanters filled with a variety of liqueurs. Unstopping one decanter, she poured a large glass. May I tempt you, Father, with a little blood of our Lord? Daubenton paled. Madame, it may suit you to make fun of a simple priest, but do not dare to blaspheme my faith. The Queen shrugged her shoulders, managing to momentarily open her robes contents to further inspection. Ah, I see I offend you. She raised her glass high over her head in a salute to him and smiled winningly. My heartfelt apologies. With that, she drained a sizeable portion of her glass. So, Father Daubenton, now that I am sufficiently fortified, which failures has my faultless husband commissioned you to lecture me upon? Daubenton noted, with some satisfaction, that his anger had driven away his earlier trepidation. It would be easier, he thought, to admonish this woman, whom he was developing a dislike for, than the Queen whom he stood in abject terror of. Whereas earlier, as he practiced his speech in front of the shattered shaving mirror of his dungeonlike room, his words faltered and his thoughts became muddled, preventing him from completing even the first of Philips many complaints, now his anger acted like a prism to focus his thoughts into an organized composition. Your Majesty, your husband, His Most Catholic Majesty, Philip V of Spain, is angered by your refusal to see him. He concludes that your refusal is tantamount to

treachery. Your disobedience is a betrayal to him, no less egregious than if you took up arms against him, or joined with enemies of the Crown like those rebellious minorities in Catalonia or the Basque Provinces. He is grievously wounded by your actions. Nevertheless, he loves you and seeks no vengeance upon you for your actions. All, he has assured me, will be forgiven, when you bow to your duties and return to his chambers with the love you pledged on your wedding day. Daubenton warmed to his sermon. However, if you persist in your traitorous absence, he will be forced to conclude that your actions give credence to the many villainous and salacious rumors that surround you. Malignant rumors that cast serious ridicule on your reputation as a lady. Rumors which, if true, would warrant His Majestys greatest approbation and the Crowns most severe punishment. Daubenton went quiet, mutely absorbing the Queens intense stare. Now that he had delivered his message, his anger faded, and with it his self-assurance. More than a minute passed in silence, the Queens eyes boring holes into Daubenton. Bile forced its way to Daubentons throat. Finally, Farnese smiled, finished the remains of her glass and reached for the decanter to pour yet another. Tell me, my dear Daubenton, as a priest, you must have no idea what my husband was implying. Did he explain to you the nature of these allegations, these malignant rumors? Her insult sparked a small flare of his previous anger. Prior to accepting orders, Your Majesty, I was, as it happens, a man. I am aware of the magnetism between man and woman. Hah, she snorted. And sometimes, between man and man, or woman and woman. Daubenton frowned, mystified.

Tell me further, M., do these rumors, these malicious little jealous speculations of small-minded ants, do they implicate any specific accomplice in my villainous and salacious acts? Color rose on Daubentons cheeks, his eyes flickered momentarily toward the door through which Alberoni had so recently departed. His mind, so crisp and clearwitted only moments before, now slowed like a carts wheels mired in foot deep mud. He could not utter a word, much less a denial, or a phrase to misdirect the Queen. Daubenton was a prisoner of both his unstinting morality and his discomfort with confrontation. Not that the Queen would have been misled by any such denial, Daubentons roaming eyes having already divulged the secret. Ah, I see, it is M. Alberoni whose charms I am unable to resist, she nodded. Yes, I can see why my husband would suspect us. M. Alberoni is such a charming and beautiful man. I do not mind telling you, Father Daubenton, not in the way of confession, you understand, not that Im asking for your absolution, but just so you will understand, many is the time that I have dreamed of Alberoni and imagined what it must be like to satisfy his passion. But, alas, I am not his type. Farnese smiled wickedly as Daubenton gaped, disbelieving his ears. This is outrageous, he thought. She confesses without the slightest guilt. He thought about his Bible, the special one in which he recorded his inmost thoughts. He had perfected a writing skill, miniature Latin letters in mirror image to hide his thoughts from prying eyes. I must remember what she says, he thought, word for word, and record it faithfully, to give him time to think what best to do with the information. Perhaps it is best not to tell His Majesty. Perhaps he need discuss it first with Rome. Perhaps he should keep it to himself until some propitious moment. If only, he thought, if only I were not so damnably dim-witted. Surely I should know how best to use this information. What? No words of rebuke for me, Father Daubenton? Have I rendered you dumb, or are you merely formulating your condemnation? she asked.

Your Majesty, he started haltingly. It is not for me to rebuke or condemn, and certainly not to issue judgment. That is left to your conscience and your Father in Heaven. It is my responsibility to listen, compassionately, and help you, if I can, to find your way back to Gods path. So Father, you are convinced I have veered from His path? Perhaps I have been following His guidance? No, no, of this I am certain. Your words are not words of grace. He again warmed to his subject, feeling more confident and on more solid footing. It is not the Lord who lays temptations in your path. It is not the Lord who entices you with passionate evil desires. When you imagine these things, when you think of these evil desires, it is Satan who presents them to you. You are like our Lord after fasting in the wilderness, when Satan brought him visions to tempt him from his Fathers mission. But just as our Lord had the strength to withstand those temptations, you too have the strength to withstand your temptations. You are a woman, the daughter of the Virgin Mary, and unlike a man, you have the inherent strength to withstand temptations of the flesh. He concluded his sermon with a crescendo, feeling, with each word, a greater confidence in the righteousness of his analogy, and pleased that she had confided in him, whatever her purpose, and pleased that he was there to help her, help guide her, help bring her back to a state of grace, and feeling proud and not a little pleased with himself. The Queen stared at Daubenton incredulously, uncertain if for once he was turning the tables on her, spoofing her rather than the other way around. Finally, she began to laugh, at first a chuckle, and then, as with his words, gathering confidence until she was in a full-throated, lusty belly laugh. As her laughter ascended, Daubenton stiffened, his face progressing from red, to maroon, to a pale, bloodless gray. So, as a woman, you say, I have an inherent strength to withstand temptation, is that what you believe? Her eyes sparkled, vacillating between anger and humor.

Thats so wonderful to know. It must be similar to the strength St. Paul had to withstand temptation. But of course, he was a misogynist; it would have been easy for him to avoid the temptations of Eve. Thats not a fair comparison. With each word she moved steadily towards him. Daubenton, not a small man, nevertheless felt overwhelmed. She appeared to tower over him. So, not St. Paul, more like the inherent strength of a celibate, like Priests, like you yourself, isnt that right, M. Daubenton? Surely no mere woman could have greater fortitude at avoiding temptation than a worldly servant of God? Tell me, Father, tell me how you manage it? With her last words, now standing directly in front of him, her eyes blazing down at his, she slung her spent goblet against the back wall of the fireplace causing it to explode in a thousand shards, and with both hands grasped the edges of her robes opening, lifting it cowl-like above her head, and then, suddenly, tearing open the royal robe, letting it fall from her shoulders. Shrieking with laughter, she stood, naked, inches from his fear-stricken eyes. Oh my Lord in Heaven, he prayed, cringing but staring involuntarily at her breasts, her beauty beyond his imagination, beyond his wildest imaginings. Oh my Lord in Heaven, help me!! But he could not move, he was stricken, frozen to the floor, ogling all that he most feared. Inherent strength, Father Daubenton. Thats it, isnt it? We women have the same inner strength that you Priests have when it comes to avoiding temptations of the flesh. Her voice was cold, striking terror in his heart, freezing his mind, rooting him to the floor. Slowly, she lowered herself, kneeling in front of him. The strength to never imagine, never feel the least temptation, isnt that right, Father? She grasped the hem of his woolen robe, lifting it slowly. Just like a Priest, she said, raising his robe higher, and higher, finally exposing his fully swollen manhood. Oh my God, he prayed as she held him in her hand. Oh my God! Her eyes, green

and flashing, locked onto his, boring into his soul. Just like a Priest, she said, parting her lips, and lowering her head. Oh my God! he cried, as his sin exploded in wave after wave after wave, to the sound of her shrieking laughter.