The Bishop's Dance: A Dom Pedro Mystery

By Toni Cor

One morning in early March 1362 the body of a beautiful naked woman is found in a street of Oporto not far from her home. She has been stabbed to death. Dom Pedro is determined to bring her murderer to justice and soon finds he must count among his suspects some of the most prominent members of city society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483541549

Book preview

1362

Prologue

The days had grown longer, the sun’s rays warmer. Orange and almond, apple and fig, cherry trees as well, all were in blossom, giving promise of an abundant harvest. Many signs proclaimed that spring had come to the Douro river valley. Yet cold winds off the Atlantic still lashed the streets of Oporto, reminding its inhabitants that winter still lingered, reluctant to take its departure.

Senna shivered as she emerged from her simple dwelling. Though the faint light of early morning revealed no clouds, her bones yet told her that the rain would soon return. Moving stiffly, she made her way towards the Cathedral and the bishop’s dwelling beyond.

Early each morning the bishop’s servants gave to the poor tranches, slices of hard bread that had served as plates at the previous night’s meal. As the day before had ended with a great feast, today the bread would be soaked with juices and sauces from the rich foods served the guests. Her mouth watered as she seemed already to taste the savory morsel, warm and toasty from being warmed over the coals in the brazier that warmed their one room. As it was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the Lenten season, such fine meals for her and her grandson would be few and far between for some time. She moved as quickly as possible, anxious to claim her share of the bounty while it lasted.

The streets down which she hobbled widened as the area grew more prosperous, the ground underfoot no longer mud and refuse, but paved with stone and cleaned daily by the owners of the shops and homes that lined the street. Senna peered around sharply. In such areas the relatively wealthy might discard in the street as rubbish items she could either make use of herself or sell to others. On this occasion her vigilance was rewarded: a short distance ahead, next to a blank space of wall, was a shadow that did not belong. Moving closer she made out a mound covered by a piece of cloth. A large piece of cloth.

She hurried forward, a rare flutter of hope speeding her steps. If the rag were large enough, she might be able to fashion it into a hood or short cape for herself or at least for her grandson. To her amazement, when she drew close and peered closely, she found, not a scrap to be worked over with care, but an actual full length cape with hood. And not of worn or poor quality material either. It was wool: heavy, finely woven, dark brown, untrimmed . At once she grew uneasy. She thought she recognized the cloak. Its owner would not discard it lightly. Might she return to reclaim it? Senna glanced around hastily. No one, neither owner nor another passerby, was in sight to dispute this find with her. How, she wondered, had such a prize been left unclaimed?

Before another could appear to dispute ownership with her, she grabbed the wool, already imagining its solid warmth about her body, and pulled. It resisted, held down by something. She pulled again and a portion came free, revealing a hand. A woman's hand. Not, like Senna's, red and coarsened by age and hard work. Rather one that was soft, white, well-tended, with long, slender fingers. She shivered again and this time not from the wind. A convulsive jerk brought the cloak free revealing the naked body of a woman. Blood had flowed from a wound below the left breast and been smeared over the lower body. Masses of golden-red hair half-covered the face but, to her horror, Senna recognized the features. Hands to her mouth, in a shrill voice she began to scream. And scream. And scream.

Chapter One

Less than twenty-four hours before, the great cathedral of Oporto had been crowded with worshippers attending High Mass. The last Tuesday before Ash Wednesday was traditionally a time of joy and extravagant celebration: the last chance for feasting and revelry before the penitential season of Lent. One last day in which Carnaval would reign. There was hope that this year the celebrations might prove even more raucous than usual. Dom Nuño Pires, the Bishop of Oporto himself, would be celebrating the Mass that day so this would be a rare opportunity for the people to see their bishop—as one of the more important prelates of Portugal, he naturally spent much of his time at court. However, of even greater import and interest was a visitor the bishop had brought with him: Dom Pedro. The king himself would be celebrating the end of Carnaval with his people of Oporto.

At the eastern end of the nave, where the sun’s rays first entered the building, the high altar blazed with light. Sunlight stream through the stained glass windows. Candles glowed on both the main and the side altars. Reflected light shimmered off golden candlesticks and the sacred vessels with which the altars were laden.

All the senses, not just sight, were assailed by the magnificence of the ceremony. The music of the choir flooded the vast space: the deep, resonant voices of the men balanced by the higher, purer tones of the boys attending the cathedral school. Gray clouds of sweet smelling incense emerged from swinging censers and ascended to heaven, bearing with them the prayers of the faithful.

"Ite, Missa est," Dom Nuño's deep, resonant voice at last sang out.

"Deo gratias," chanted the choir in reply. All in the congregation turned. As the choir began its final hymn, the main doors below the great rose window of the western wall were flung open and a torrent of people began to flow out into the great praça , an open area, where the celebration would continue.

Dom Nuño scorned to mingle with the crowd. Rather he stood patiently at the foot of the altar. As the bishop waited, one of the altar servers approached humbly, offering him his crosier which ended not in the usual shepherd’s hook but with a topping of gold worked into the form of a giant spiral with a great pearl at its center. As Dom Nuño clasped his staff of office, another man walked over to take his place beside him.

The newcomer was not content to stand in patient silence, humbly waiting for the bishop to speak first. How many, he demanded, c-criminals await t-trial?

The exact number had not yet been ascertained, sire. The bishop showed no sign of noticing the king’s stammer. Pedro had suffered this infirmity from his youth and all around him had learned to ignore it—or, at least, to appear to do so. The Bishop went on to explain further, As tonight is the last night before Lent, there is likely to be much revelry and thus many disturbances in the city. Tomorrow the names of the accused and their offenses will be fully determined and, on Thursday, the trials can be held. If all goes well, Friday will see the guilty punished. If the weather permits, perhaps tomorrow it might please you to go hawking along the river?

Pedro nodded his approval. Usually amnesties were proclaimed when royalty visited a city. But Pedro was not like other kings. His favorite diversions might well be hawking and hunting. His great passion, however, was for justice. As chief judge of the realm, he kept a keen eye on the courts. When visiting a town, he sat in judgment on any criminals that might be awaiting trial. Those found guilty—whether noble or common—were punished according to the letter of the law. In his sight and to his satisfaction. There was nothing that gave him as much pleasure as a good flogging. Unless it was a good execution. His delight in witnessing punishment caused some to call him Pedro the Cruel. His strict adherence to the law regardless of the rank of the accused caused others to name him, Pedro the Just.

The entourage of both men formed in two groups behind them: their close associates and a few of the inevitable guards that would always follow in the path of prominent men. The bishop’s followers were, for the most part, canons—clerics appointed to high office in the cathedral organization. Dom Pedro’s attendants, of course, were his advisors and members of the nobility.

Dom Nuño finally judged the church sufficiently emptied to stride towards the open doors. Dom Pedro sauntered beside him. Both adjusted their faces into pleasantly smiling masks. Just in time. Thus when bishop and king emerged from the shadows of the interior into the light outside, a roar of acclamation greeted them. The two men paused at the top of the flight of steps leading down to the street, allowing their eyes to adjust and, at the same time, giving the spectators, a good view of them.

Although not a frequent visitor to his own diocese, most of those present were yet familiar with the tall, sturdy figure of Dom Nuño Pires, Bishop of Oporto. As always, he wore vestments suitable to the wealth and importance of his diocese. An alb of the finest white linen had hem and sleeves ornamented with elaborate lacework. His chasuble was of pale green silk, embroidered with gold and silver thread in a pattern of leaves and flowers, with pearls outlining the borders. On his head, adding to his height, was the miter of his office, made of gold filigree and studded with a variety of jewels. An ornate golden cross hung from a heavy, elaborate chain about his neck. On his finger glittered a massive gold ring set with a magnificent emerald. His long dark hair was only lightly touched with gray. Shrewd gray eyes looked out from a square, clean-shaven face that was flushed from good food and good wine. Build, personality, and office all combined to give him a commanding presence.

It would have been easy for the man beside him to appear almost comic, due to the disparity in height. Even without the miter, the bishop stood a good