The Tile Maker Series - Stephanie Renee Dos Santos

A Historical Fiction Novel Series Set In Portugal

The Tile Maker Series by Stephanie Renee Dos Santos

Series Excerpt

“Come, girls.” Pêro beckoned to Constanza and Isabela who trailed behind. Constanza stopped and looked in on the gold and silver filigree works displayed in a window. Isabela lingered in front of a pastry shop, its pane filled with golden egg-yolk custards and doughy delicacies of barriga de freiras, “belly of nuns”. As Pêro waited for them, he enjoyed the scent of burnt sugar and yeast.

Constanza touched lithe fingers to her ears. “I long for gold heart-shaped earrings.”

“But your ears aren’t pierced!” Isabela laughed. “Pai, may I have a treat?”

Constanza pouted. “One day they will be.” She lifted her chin and feigned seeing something important ahead.

“Not now, Princess.” Pêro smiled at Isabela before shifting his attention to Constanza. “No daughter of mine will wear gold while others remain in chains.”

Constanza threw up an arm and walked on.

They worked their way through the crowded city-center street. Rua Ouro was packed with buyers and traders from every realm with daggers at their waists and the occasional fanciful sun parasol. While Lisboners in long black cloaks held tight the rosary in one hand and a sword in the other, engravers, jewelers, goldsmiths, and currency-exchange houses lined the busy commercial lane, a frog’s leap from the port full of merchant ships.

Pêro and the girls passed the old import tax offices of royalty and entered Pelourinho Velho plaza, smelling of fresh ink. Clerks sat crowded at tables drafting letters, eulogies, petitions, and whatever else they were asked to write. The requesters milled around the writers’ tables, chatting and exchanging gossip to the busy scratch of quills. A man shoved another fellow, accusing him of a misdeed. The accused ripped the writer’s paper from the desk and tore it to shreds. Yelling ensued.

“Hurry along girls.” Pêro quickly moved the girls forward, away from the dispute.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful to receive a love letter or poem?” Constanza said with a far-off look like her mother’s.

Isabela rolled her eyes and shook her head, glancing back.

At the square’s southern corner, they entered a side-street, where shops sold luxury items: damask silk fabrics the colors of the rainbow, Tunisian carpets, lemon-colored glass beads, elephant tusks and copper pots.

Pêro stopped before a window, cupped his hand to the glass and peered in. Paintbrushes of all sizes poked out of clay pots in the display, interspersed between lidded metal and clay pigment pots, potters needles and cutting wires. Mid-shop, rolled and stretched canvas sat in racks. A macaw with blue and yellow feathers the color of azulejos perched inside a cage attached to the wall of the display case. It stared back at them and squawked through the pane.

“Welcome, Padre Pêro!” The proprietor waved them in, the parrot repeating. “Welcome!”

Pêro watched as the girls fixed their eyes on the exotic bird whose beady eyes followed their every movement. Then they set their attention on the curious objects lining the back wall behind the counter: odd-shaped colored rocks, glass jars filled with brilliant blues, earthy yellows, browns, and vermilions. Out of sight, from the back of the shop, came the sound of stone grinding upon stone.

“What can I help you with today?” the owner asked, fanning his fleshy arm. “Rumor is you’re extremely busy.” The short semi-bald vendor winked.

“Is that so, Senhor Simões?” Pêro frowned.

“Yes. And that Jesuit Padre João isn’t pleased. Heard you won the new commission for the Archbishop?”

“Word on the street travels faster than the Lord’s.” Heat suffused Pêro’s body, his heartbeat picking up at the mention of Padre João and the Archbishop.

Senhor Simões grinned.

“We’ve come for brushes and pots of cobalt.”

Senhor Simões set out an assortment of sumi and sable hairbrushes. Then he disappeared behind a sea-green curtain.

“See here, girls,” Pêro said, pointing to a bushy brush with a bamboo handle. “These are for making full lines like those for outlining and shading large areas.” Pêro picked up a slender paintbrush with a fine tip. “These are for the delicate lines and details. See the difference?”

“Yes,” the girls said. Isabela beamed at him. Constanza’s gaze remained fixed on the stones.

“May I hold it?” Isabela asked, staring at the slender-tipped brush.

“Yes, go ahead and pick it up. See how it feels. Hold it here with your thumb and index finger and place your third finger there. Good thing you still have yours,” Pêro said, winking at her.

“Oh, Pai.” Isabela bashfully took hold of the brush.

“Anything else?” Senhor Simões placed the pigment pots on the counter with the paintbrushes.

“Pai, what are those blue stones with the gold specks?” Constanza asked breathlessly.

“This?” Senhor Simões took an angular chunk, the size of his hand, off the shelf. “This is one of God’s most expensive creations, lapis lazuli. It comes from the Far East, where men with wild black eyes drive donkeys over desolate deserts with sacks of this hidden treasure inside.” Senhor Simões ran his fingers over the stone as if caressing a beloved’s cheek. “Ground down, it makes sea and sky in the finest of paintings.”

Pêro placed his hand upon a pot of cobalt pigment. “Princess, sorry, we won’t be buying any of that today. This pigment here allows us to create our blue gradations and is far more affordable.”

Pêro pointed to the brush in Isabela’s hand and to the other full-bodied one. “And we’ll take three of these and three of those. Add it to our account.”

The macaw squawked as they left, their wares bundled in old pages from the Gazeta de Lisboa.

They strolled back across the busy square.

“Wasn’t the bird exquisite?” Isabela asked.

“I liked the gold bedazzled stones.” Constanza looked to the sky.

Pêro gazed ahead and saw Padre João in front of the old tax duties office. He reached for Isabela’s hand. “Let’s take a different route back.”

But it was too late. Padre João had already caught sight of their approach. He was cloaked in a cape and the Jesuit’s black habit. His hands were full of leather-bound papers. Brothers circled him. How apropos, thought Pêro, since it is the Jesuits who truly now seem to control the coffers of this country, not kings.

Padre João glowered as they drew near, the fat of his cheeks making slits of his eyes. “Ah, the great Tile Master PMP, inventor of the highly sought after figura de convite.” Padre João exclaimed through his knot of men. “The hoarder of commissions.” The Brothers fell silent and stepped closer to Padre João’s sides, creating a protective horseshoe.

Pêro cleared his throat, his face afire. “The Lord is the great Master, not I. And, like you, I’m merely his servant.’

“But this is where you go astray. For my now greatly reduced tile profits go direct into the hands of the Church and services for the poor and yours into your pocket.” A burst of spittle fell from Padre João’s lips.

Pêro’s face and neck flushed. Padre João was still jealous, after all these years, and was now visibly furious that the Fabrica Santa María continued to win the Archbishop’s esteem. This time the Fabrica was to provide figuras de convite for his countryside summer palace instead of the now out-of-favor Delft allegorical panel Padre João proposed. Soon, the Fabrica’s work would be affixed to the palace’s wall.

Pêro cleared his throat. “You know as well as I that the Fabrica Santa María’s profits go to buy freedom for the enslaved and to help the poor and sick.”

“I’m not so sure that I do,” Padre João said, jutting his head forward. “Your girls seem to be as finely dressed as any wealthy merchant’s daughters.”

Absurd! His girls stared at the cobbles beneath their feet in silence. How dare he bring my daughters into this! Blood surged in Pêro’s veins. His muscles tightened.

“Good day, Padre João, Brothers,” Pêro said with a nod, clenching Isabela’s hand. The girls curtsied, held tight their wares, and stepped away. Pêro walked in long strides.

Padre João’s voice trailed them. “You’ll be hearing from me. From the Jesuits…”

“Dear Lord,” Pêro said under his breath. He picked up their pace.

Books In This Series

Cut From The Earth (The Tile Maker Series Book 1)