by Joan Aiken
But—"That was Sister Belen!" whispered Juana in a tone of astonishment. "Who was the man, do you know?"
"I've no idea. He looked like a gypsy, with his head kerchief and peaked hat. Where do you think they can have been going?"
"On some errand of mercy perhaps—"
This complicated my plan—which had been to wait until we arrived at Berdun, where there might be people about, where the two delinquents could hardly do us violence in the public street—then leap boldly out of the cart and demand to see the local Corregidor. There were flaws to this plan, one of them being the Corregidor was probably Don Ignacio, but, at least, I thought, it would avert our instant death. We could demand to ride, under escort, to the nearest Court, probably Pamplona. But if Sister Belen was away on an errand, was not available...
Well, Sister Belen must just take her chance, I thought; she can look after herself—she is no fool.
I was sorry for her absence though; she would have spoken in our favor, she was well respected in Berdun already, and I knew that Juana had been banking on her diagnosis of Nico's poisoning and her opinions about antidotes.
Now the tartana began creeping up the steep zigzag ascent into the town. I wondered if it would go under the arched gateway that led into the center—but it did not: We turned aside, taking the dusty cobbled track that ran leftward, outside the ramparts; along this we rolled slowly for a few hundred yards, then came to a stop.
Now good fortune dealt us a superb card.
"Wait you there," said Pepe to Esteban. "I will tell Don Ignacio that we are back—" tethering his mule to a hook in the wall. "I'll return directly," and he disappeared up a flight of steps, and through a narrow entrance in the rampart.
Esteban, still seated on the box of the tartana, turned and addressed me in a low, threatening voice. "Do you see this knife?"
He had drawn it from his belt: a foot and a half of shining steel. "Shout, or make any disturbance, and you'll have that in your gullet. Anyway, there's no one to shout to."
This was true. The night was still black; no one stirred in the town; also, the spot where we had halted was by a row of granaries or warehouses, set in the town wall—they were occupied only by stores of grain, cats, and rats.
Esteban pulled out flint and steel, lit a cigarillo, and sat smoking. This was the moment I had been waiting for. During the last quarter of an hour I had quickly and quietly occupied myself by collecting some of the rocks and stones that weighed down Conchita's clothes and by stuffing them into one of her thick silk stockings. Now I crawled forward until I was within reach of Esteban, swung the stocking back, and brought it down with all the force I could command on his head.
He toppled straight forward off the box.
Leaping out of the cart, I dragged him from between the mules' feet.
By excellent chance, the tartana had drawn up close to that curious wooden chute, leading down the steep slope on the northerly aspect of Berdun, by means of which the inhabitants got rid of their garbage. Making a huge effort, of which at a normal time I would certainly not have been capable, I heaved Esteban up on my shoulder and thrust him onto the smooth, greasy wood of the chute, then gave him a vigorous push. He vanished from view, down into the dark.
I heard Pilar give a squeak of delight—" Well done, Señor Felix!"
"Hush!" I whispered, for now footsteps were returning.
Quick as thought, I snatched Estebans hat—which had fallen off—grabbed his cigarillo, which lay on the cobbles, and sat myself up on the box, shoulders hunched forward, puffing on the cigarello, as Esteban had sat.
Pepe came out of the mouth of the alley.
"Here's a to-do!" he whispered peevishly. "Seems that Don Ignacios very sick—like to die—Doña Calixta, the whey-faced houskeeper, won't even let me see him. Now what do we do?"
I was quite clear what I meant to do. Bounding down off the box, I swung my arm back and prepared to deal him such a blow as I had dealt his companion. Alerted at the last moment, he started aside, and it hit him only sidelong; he came at me directly, and aimed a ferocious blow at my head, which would have felled me if I had not ducked out of the way.
"Dios! Its the Ingles—where, then, is Esteban?" he gasped, and drew his knife.
With a lucky kick, I managed to knock the blade from his hand. Again I swung my stocking. He sprang back and made a stoop for the knife, but I shoved it out of his reach. Pilar and Juana had now scrambled out of the cart and were hovering, looking for ways to help.
"The knife!" I panted, and Juana snatched it up.
Pepe came at me like a bull with his bare hands; he was twice my size and, once he got them around my throat, I feared I was done for. But by a kick, and a slip, and a hip throw that Pedro had once taught me—poor Pedro—I managed to unbalance him, and he fell heavily on the cobbles.
"Now—help me, quickly!"
I grabbed his arms, Juana and Pilar each took a leg, and, struggling all together, we heaved him up onto the rubbish chute and sent him sliding after his fellow.
"Bueno, BUENO!" chanted Pilar, dancing around us like a little imp from the pit. "We did them in, we did them in!"
"Hush, we are not out of the woods yet!" said I. "Let us get away from this town. Back into the cart, please, señoras!" and, springing onto the box as soon as they were in, I whipped the mules on their way. The track, I recalled, circled around the ramparts and rejoined the entry road, so that it was not necessary to turn, merely to continue ahead. In ten minutes we had descended the zigzag, turned to our right, and were traveling west, toward Pamplona.
We went for a long time in silence, being, I suppose, all of us quite bewildered at the speed with which our fortunes had changed; also somewhat horrified (evil though they were) by the horrid and sudden end of the two men. I did not think they could survive that drop—the chute was too long, and then at the bottom they had another twenty cubits to fall.
Juana's mind was running in the same direction, for presently, from close behind me, she asked in a low voice, "Can they possibly still be alive? Will they raise a hue and cry after us?"
"I think Esteban must be dead—I am not quite certain about Pepe—"
"Well, I hope they die!" said Juana vindictively. Hardly the sentiments for a postulant nun, I thought. She went on, "When I think of poor Pedro—oh, poor poor Pedro. Felix, I am so sorry about him. He was so kind, so cheerful. I blame myself dreadfully for everything that has happened—but that most of all—"
"That's foolishness," I said. "God would tell you to stop at once, if you paid any attention to Him. What use is blame? You must look ahead and make plans."
"But oh, Felix! Will somebody really impeach your grandfather, the Conde? Don Ignacio, perhaps? Or Conchita's parents? What do you think they will do?"
"Heaven only knows. Anyway, my grandfather wished me to come on this errand. I know that. So if there are any ill results, he, at least, will impute no blame. I doubt if he will even be surprised; very few things surprise Grandfather."
A small town now came into view, ahead of us on the side of the valley, a couple of leagues distant. Like Berdun, it was perched on a little hill. Behind us, the sun was rising, and the town's red-tiled roofs caught the light.
"That is Tiermas," I said, remembering it from our former journey. "I think we should stop there. It is a watering place—there are hot springs. And where there are hot springs there will be sick people and there must be doctors."
"Oh, yes!" said Juana eagerly. "That is well thought, Felix!"
For dreadful anxiety about Nico lay beneath everything we said and did.
So, presently reaching Tiermas, we turned aside from the main carretera and found a meadow and patch of shade behind a barn where we could halt the cart and give the poor mules a rest. There I left Juana with the children (Pilar wanted to come with me but was dissuaded by the promise of breakfast on my return).
People were abroad now, for the sun was well up, and, by asking a woman with a pail of milk,
I learned the way to the house of Dr. Zigarra, who had a new villa, not up in the heart of town, but down at the side, in an orchard, not far from where I had left the cart.
The doctor was a kindly, gray-haired man, very patient at being interrupted in the middle of his morning chocolate and churros.
He told me to bring him the sick child, and he would do what he could. But he was somewhat surprised by the sight of Nico when, ten minutes later, Juana and I carried him in. I suppose we were all dirty and disheveled enough to startle anybody, our clothes torn and soiled, all of us pale with exhaustion, and poor Nico white as lard and only half conscious.
"What happened to him?" With great courtesy the doctor added, "I don't want to intrude on your privacy, señor and señora, but I must know something, in order to treat him."
"You are very good, sir," Juana replied with equal courtesy. "The affair relates to politics—so, for your own sake, the less you know the better. But the boy, who is the son of a man well known in Madrid, was abducted and then poisoned."
"Poisoned with what—an herb, a tincture?"
"We do not know, señor, except that it was smeared on the pages of a book, and that the same poison killed the boy's sister. First she ran mad, then she died."
Pilar, who of necessity was with us, began to whimper dolefully. I picked her up to quiet her.
"And how long ago was this?"
The doctor asked other questions, then proceeded to take various measures, drenching Nico with drafts containing, I supposed, different antidotes, warming him, rubbing him, forcing him to vomit. While these remedies were being applied, since the doctor, a sensible man, seemed to know his business well, 'I murmured to Juana that I would withdraw and occupy myself with some business in the town.
"I'll come too," said Pilar instantly.
Juana nodded, and we left.
On my way to the doctor's house I had noticed what I thought was an encampment of esquiladores in a meadow not far distant, and going to the place, I found I was right; there were men in velveteen breeches and bright cotton handkerchiefs, their faces obscured by black bushy whiskers; there were Arabian-looking women with flowing black hair, huge earrings as long as my hand, and flounced, brightly colored dresses; there were boys in colored shirts and loose linen trousers. Merry, half-naked children frolicked about (who looked sharply at Pilar and she at them); already the men were hard at work, shearing horses and mules that stood in patient rows, waiting for their attentions.
I asked to speak to the leader, and was introduced to a grizzle-bearded man whose jacket was buttoned with silver coins. To him I said in a low voice that I believed some friends of his had helped some friends of mine who came to them from under the earth.
He nodded at once, with shrewd intelligence, and asked me what I wished. I told him: to get rid of the tartana; would he and his people, in exchange for the clothes which it contained, all of good quality, undertake to return it to the place from which it came, a village called Anso? And he could have two of the mules, also at a very low price, if he could put me in the way of buying two others and some smaller, faster vehicle, to take me on to Bilbao.
The gypsy came to inspect the tartana and its contents, nodded gravely, laid his finger alongside his nose, and murmured, "Tragala, tragala, tragala." Some money changed hands, and the deal was concluded.
Then Pilar and I went up into the town, where we discovered stone-arched grottoes in the hillside, guarded by old dames in felt slippers, where, for a few reales, you could have a wash in natural hot water that gushed out of the rock. At one of these I obliged Pilar to have a thorough cleanup, she protesting fiercely all the while.
"I want something to eat!"
"That comes after. First, a wash."
Attempting to tidy her a little, I found that she still had the leather necklace with the blue bead that I had made her; well, I thought, it had brought us considerable luck.
Next, with indescribable pleasure, I washed myself; then we bought some food and returned to the doctor's house.
There we found Nico sleeping: pale and damp as to the temples, but with a more natural and peaceful aspect than he had worn hitherto.
"He will very likely sleep for many hours," said Dr. Zagarra, "after all I have done to him. In my opinion the best thing you can do for him now is to carry him to the young lady's convent in Bilbao." I could see that Juana must have confided in him a good deal during my absence. "There he will receive excellent care. For it will be many days yet, I fear, before it can be certain whether he makes a full recovery."
Whatever Juana had told the doctor must have predisposed him in our favor, for when I offered pay, he waved his hand dismissively, and said, "Nada, nada! What I do, I do for love. And I hope the young man may grow up like his father." Glancing nervously about—although we were in his courtyard where there was no one to hear—he whispered, "Viva la Constitution! Viva la Libertad!" and ignoring our thanks, hurried back indoors to his cold chocolate.
Returning to the barn, we found that the gypsy, true to his word, had removed the tartana and left us with a four-wheeled open chariot, a kind of phaeton, which would be faster than the clumsy tartana. We laid Nico on one of its seats, covered with a couple of cloaks, which I had kept, and then applied ourselves to the rolls and fruit which I had brought, for we were all ravenous.
That finished, we climbed into our new equipage and started off at speed. The gypsy had further done excellently in procuring a pair of machoes, fine spirited mules who bolted along at an extra-fast trot, covering the miles at a fine pace.
We thought it best not to stop at any of the inns where we had put up on the outward journey, and so bought food at markets along the way and spent a night in the woods north of Vitoria—no hardship for me or Juana, who had spent many nights in woods on our former travels together. The doctor had supplied us with various drafts and tinctures for Nico, which he swallowed biddably enough and then returned to what, we hoped, was a restorative sleep.
During the journey we talked. What did we talk about? I hardly remember. Nothing very momentous. We both, I believe, felt the need for a space of gentleness and tranquility, a rest, after the violent and disturbing events of the preceding day. Also, the fidgety presence of Pilar on the box between us prevented the discussion of many topics that were in the forefront of our minds. For myself, I did not object to this quiet interlude; I was very content to ride by Juana in friendship among the green fields, without impatiently demanding: What next? What is going to happen to us? And God rewarded me for this patience by Juana's sudden demand, on the second day, "Have we any paper, Felix? Any writing materials?"
I told her, yes; in Tiermas, a well-provided little place, I had bought ink and a writing tablet. She retired with these to the floor of the carriage and curled up there chewing her quill, with that look of utter concentration that I well remembered from our previous association when she was occupied in the process of writing a poem.
It must, I thought, have been a strange and painful hardship for Juana to be debarred from writing her poems; how could a thing so natural to her be considered sinful, or insulting to God? It was like forbidding her to breathe.
"What is Cousin Juana doing?" demanded Pilar.
"Writing."
"Why?"
"You like to climb. She likes to write."
"Oh..."
The memory of climbing perhaps led Pilars thoughts back to the castillo and the death that had taken place there. She began to sob quietly, and after a while brought out, in a small, piteous, aggrieved voice, "I don't want Weeza to be dead," looking up at me, her face all shiny with tears.
"I know," I agreed sadly. "It is very bad. But there is just nothing we can do about it."
I wiped her face with a corner of my cloak and let her hold the reins, which cheered her a little.
"Will Nico die too?" she said by and by.
"We hope not. You will have to help look after him. He may be sick for some time."
H
er lip trembled again, so I stopped the mules and picked her some rushes from a stream bank and showed her how to plait them into a whip.
Presently Juana came out of her trance and told Pilar about the poem she had been writing, which was an argument between an owl and a nightingale.
"Which of them won?" demanded Pilar.
"Neither of them. Listen and I will tell you—"
So we passed the journey.
***
ON THE evening of the second day, late, we reached Bilbao, and I saw, without any pleasure at all, its roofs, smoking in rain, huddled down in their narrow valley. I could have wished that this part of the journey would never come to an end, for Juana and I, though we had talked so little, had seemed so much in harmony. Still I had no idea what she had in mind for the future; that she felt she must at present return to the convent I understood, for there she had unfinished business, and arrangements must be made for the children. But what then?
I did not dare say, "Juana! Marry me!" (or she was, after all, a professed nun, and that would be outrageous; but I hoped, I believed, that she knew what was in my mind.
We reached the convent gate, in its high wall, and knocked for admission.
How similar this moment seemed to that one, not so very long ago, when I had first stood there knocking, with my heart frozen in fright. How many things, and some of them terrible, had happened since then. The portress opened, and gave a cry of recognition at sight of Juana.
"Sister Felicita! Come in, come in! But where is Sister Belen?"
"She—she will be coming later. But here we have a very sick boy. Can he be carried at once to the infirmary?"
"Of course—" and the portress summoned help.
Juana was suddenly swamped by nuns, in their black robes; they took charge, clucking and exclaiming, took charge of Nico, took charge of Pilar, who threw me a frantic glance as she was swept off, helpless, in a storm of black bombazine.
"Reverend Mother wishes to see you as soon as possible," said the portress to Juana. Would she wish to see me too? I wondered, but then the portress, glancing in my direction, said, "Ay, the young señor! Wait, just a moment, my friend, I have an urgent message for you." I recalled the nun—what was her name, Sister Milagros?—who had wanted to see me last time and had then been prevented. "Is it Sister Milagros?" I asked, but the portress, shaking her head', went back into her cubicle and returned with a letter which she handed me. It was in the hand of Rodrigo, my grandfather's steward.