“Into the church!” Allen said as he ran to a heavy iron-studded door. It was locked. Wake ran to another, but it too was locked. There was a crumbling ancient wall further along. A portal in the wall was also locked. Wake ran to a gnarled olive tree next to the wall and launched himself up, flailing through the branches until he could grab the top of the stone wall and pull himself over to it. The Briton was next up in the tree and pulled Carmena aloft into the leaves, followed by Manuel.
Perched atop the wall, Wake heard the clatter of hooves close by and immediately dropped down through the dark into yet another large open space. As the horsemen arrived in the plaza, the others in the tree stopped in mid-motion while the cavalry circled within feet of them before splitting up to search the side streets. The last cavalryman rode off, and the fugitives dropped inside the patio, just as the soldiers on foot flooded into the plaza from two streets, fanning out and checking the doors of every building, including those of the church.
The four of them were gasping for air, leaning against the inside of the wall next to the huge closed portal. Above them stood the towering Giralda minaret, next to it the twin steeples of the cathedral. Wake peered through the dim moonlight and recognized orange trees dotting the vast stone-floored plaza. On one side, a hundred fifty yards away, was the gigantic cathedral and on the other two sides were four three-story buildings—the rectories and dormitories, he surmised. He wondered if the cathedral’s doors facing the patio were locked.
“This is the old mosque’s patio. The Patio de Los Naranjos, a thousand years old,” Carmena explained between breaths. “It is part of the cathedral now.”
“Then we should be safe,” offered Allen, hopefully.
She shook her head. “No, no! Remember? The Carlists have great supporters among the church leaders. Many in the Church want the monarchy back.”
Wake recalled seeing men in clerical robes in the group that had entered the Alcázar. He hoped they hadn’t taken part in the execution but remembered that one voice saying something that sounded religious.
“Oh bloody hell . . .” groaned Allen as he gave vent to his frustration. “This bloody, God-forsaken, maniacal, damnably convoluted, museum of a city is really making me friggin’ angry now.”
“Maybe we can wait here for a while and catch our breaths,” Wake suggested. “Let things calm down a bit . . .”
Just then the door thudded loudly. Voices shouted for it to open in the name of the crown. Wake quickly surveyed his surroundings. Could they make the main doors of the cathedral before someone came out of the dormitory buildings and opened the door? Would they be seen by someone as they ran across the patio past the orange trees? The door thudded again, the commands more insistent. His mind was calculating the distance he’d have to cover, about to will his legs to run again, when he heard a vaguely familiar voice call out quietly in accented English.
“Hmm . . . I see you didn’t heed my lesson on Spanish political affairs, gentlemen.”
Wake almost fell down from the sight. It was the priest from the train. Carmena and Manuel looked like cornered dogs, their eyes wide and darting around, looking for escape. Wake felt his strength ebb as the priest stood there with a rueful look, gently shaking his head. Another thud boomed from the door beside them.
Allen looked at the priest and groaned again. “Well, if this doesn’t just cap the friggin’ night! I bloody well give up if God’s against us. I can’t run from Him.”
“You should never run from Him, my son,” said the priest with a smile. He calmly walked to the massive doors and opened the speaking port at eye level. His raised his voice, tone turned to dismissive, using the classical form of Spanish in addressing the soldiers outside.
“Yes, Captain? Is there something important for you to be waking us all up at this time of night. The bishop gets very angry when awakened for no good reason, and even angrier when it’s a soldier disrespecting the house of the Lord. What is your precise name?”
“I am only a sergeant, sir. Sergeant Alonzo Padillo. Padre, I am very sorry—”
The priest nearly shouted. “A mere sergeant—not even a commissioned officer—dares to do this to the Cathedral of Sevilla?”
“Oh, I am so very sorry, Padre,” said the soldier, whose dialect was of the lower class in the north of Spain. “But there are fugitives on the loose and we wanted to know if they had entered the patio or cathedral.”
“No, they have not entered the cathedral! I have been on my nightly stroll and would have seen such a thing. Now, may the bishop and the rest of our religious community get back to sleep without any further disrespect or disturbance from you?”
“Yes, Padre. We are very sorry for disturbing you. My apologies. Please, sir, tell the—” but the sergeant never finished, for the priest slammed the port shut in his face.
The priest then held a finger up to his mouth and beckoned with his hand for Wake and the others to follow him as he strode rapidly across the patio. Several minutes later they were in a tiny room on the sixth floor of the cathedral, just off the Giralda Tower and near the belfry, again gasping for air from the steep climb. The priest produced a match and lit three candle sconces on the stone wall, their flickering illumination making an eerie scene. Then he sat on a small leather stool.
Amazingly to Wake, the priest was not out of breath and serenely motioned for them to sit on the bench against the wall as he intoned as if to a class on ethics.
