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7/30/2019 1. The Riches of Santiago: Prologue-The Daubenton Bible
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THE RICHES OF SANTIAGO
********
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 limpedacross 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 notmerely 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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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 good-
looking 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.
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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 winkedat him? What could such a wink possibly imply? He felt suddenly
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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
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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?
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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, whichfailures 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 dungeon-
like 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
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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.
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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 clear-
witted 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.
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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.
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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
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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.