Pilgrim's Castle

by Violet Winspear

  'I have only half the gifts of that man,' Rique mused, but I use them to the full and I have ambition. I plan to make a lot of money and when I am rich I shall buy a big house with almond orchards, mimosa trees and fountains. I shall be a man of substance, with a wife and a family.'

  Yvain smiled. 'You do surprise me, Rique.'

  'You thought me a playboy guitarist, eh?' He gave her hair a tweak. 'I am a Spaniard before I am anything else and we take life seriously even though we sing and make fiesta whenever the chance occurs. Tonight you will see us make merry, and I shall teach you to dance like a Spanish girl.'

  'Will we go to the church to see the ceremony?' she asked, for his gaiety was infectious and she was beginning to look forward to the wedding.

  'Cara mia, of course we shall.'

  Tall candles burned upon the altar and their light made a halo about the young couple who stood before the priest and murmured their vows. The church tapestries gleamed with silken colours, and the figures of Mary and Joseph were curiously real as they stood beyond the altar; their eyes seemed to rest upon the bridal pair in gentle awareness.

  Yvain watched, silent and spellbound, as the bride's white lace mantilla was extended over the shoulders of the young man beside her, a symbolic part of the ceremony, a promise that she would submit to him with love and grace. He then placed upon her hand the wedding ring, and with a shy glance up into his face she slipped a ring upon his hand. The rings of alliance, exchanged now, and waking little sighs of satisfaction among the guests crowding the pews of the church.

  The smoke of the candles mingled with the scent of carnations as the priest pronounced the couple man and wife. The dark young man smiled and pressed the hands that held orange blossom, a mother-of-pearl prayer-book and a rosary. They were too shy, too much in love to kiss in public, and Yvain saw the bride's mother raise a handkerchief to the tears in her eyes. For the young bride, her daughter, the marriage vows would be for always. The Latin couple were bound together never to be parted, and they gazed at one another in hopeful trust and joy, the beads of the rosary shining in the glow of the altar candles.

  The sun was setting, a blaze of orange and gold, as the guests streamed happily from the church and climbed into the quaint and polished carriages hired by the bridegroom's father. Bells jingled on the harness of the horses as they followed the bridal carriage to the home of the bridegroom. This was an old Iberian farmhouse in the hills, with weathered walls and archways, and a grand old courtyard where lanterns were lit in the dusk, and loops of fairy-lights gleamed among the branches of the cypress and oleander trees.

  Flamenco skirts flounced and frothed as young girls were lifted laughingly from the carriages by the men in broad-brimmed hats and smart black suits. Some of the guests rode in on horseback, and Yvain felt as if she were wafted back into another century. The old romantic Spain of sombreros and dashing caballeros.

  Rique's teeth flashed in a smile as he placed an arm about her waist and led her across the courtyard to be introduced to the parents of the happy couple. Yvain wore a lacy scarf over her hair — a scented, gossamer scarf her tutor had supplied from Raquel's wardrobe - and glances of warm approval were bestowed upon her by the two women in their exotic mantillas draped over high combs set with

  sparkling stones.

  For occasions such as weddings the Latin woman brought out her treasured brooches and necklaces and donned herself with more splendour than the youthful bride. Fans fluttered and dark eyes sparkled. Men with lean, active figures bent over Yvain's hand and murmured in deep voices their pleasure in meeting la inglesa. Her heart beat fast with shy excitement and she replied to them in hesitant Spanish and was rewarded by quick smiles of delight that she had taken the trouble to learn their language.

  'I find your language, your music and your weddings full of charm,' she smiled, and she could have added that to be among them was to relive again the country dances at Combe St. Blaize. Her father had never left her alone at the cottage; he had carried her across the moors on his shoulders to have fun with the other children at the party.

  Here at the wedding party of Doretta and Alvarez, children were dashing about among the fairy-lit trees, clutching ices and oranges, and dressed in their best frilly dresses and dark suits. Yvain glanced around her and so much gaiety made her wonder if her guardian was dining alone tonight. Was he alone at the castle, or was he with Raquel, letting the net of her charm and seduction slowly entangle him? How soon before he stood beside a glowing bride to be teased and complimented? Now that she had seen a Spanish wedding, Yvain could imagine vividly the tall, aloof Marques at the altar, a golden ring agleam in his fingers as he slipped it upon the manicured hand of his bride. A smile would glide over Raquel's lips, for his ring and his vows would make her a Marquesa, She would look the part and act it perfectly, but the symbolism of her lace veil extended over Don Juan's shoulders would have no real meaning for her. She would not submit to him out of a warm and eager love.

  'Come, let us go and have some food before I am asked to

  play and sing.' Rique took her arm and jerked her out of her thoughts. She smiled her agreement and they made their way to the buffet table, which was laden with large platters of food. Coils of crisp bread, sun-cured ham, giant shrimps, various sorts of sausage, country cheeses, slices of pork with stuffing in the centre, chicken legs, and lobsters.

  They took plates and made their selection of goodies. Someone poured wine for them from a straw-covered flagon, and as a golden wedge of moon cut its, way among the stars, they watched a young man and a girl dance the fandango.

  The dance began slowly, almost lazily, and the only sound was the clicking of castanets on the girl's fingers and the stamping of the man's narrow dancing feet. Slowly their speed intensified, until they were whirling around each other and the girl's colourful petticoats were brushing the narrow trousers of her partner. The music had taken up the pulse-beat of the castanets and the clicking heels, and now and then, like a heart missing a beat, the music paused and the dancers faced each other rigidly. Then it began again and the dance of pursuit and teasing went on, bright skirts whirling, male eyes flashing, a living picture in the light of the lanterns and the stars.

  Yvain felt a stirring of her pulses, and there against her shoulder was the lean strength of Rique. His warm breath stirred her hair, loosened from the lace scarf, and she didn't want to think beyond tonight. She didn't want to face the reality of tomorrow.

  'Exciting?' he murmured close to her ear.

  'Mmmm.' She took a quick sip of wine. 'Thank you for bringing me - I wouldn't have missed all this for the world.'

  'You speak as though never again do you expect to attend a Spanish wedding.'

  'I might attend one again, but the first time for anything has a kind of magic about it.'

  'Like the first time one falls in love?'

  She felt his eyes upon her, tiny flecks of lantern light glimmering in their depths. 'I expect the first time is pretty shattering,' she said lightly. 'I wouldn't know.'

  'I wonder.' He swung her to face him and tried to read her wide eyes, filled with little lights and shining as if moon-witched. 'All these people think I am courting you. To the Spanish there is no such thing as friendship between a man and a girl — only love, or passion.'

  'But we are friends!'

  'Don't be a little innocent, Yvain. A friend for a Spaniard is the fellow with whom he discusses politics and the bullfight over glasses of manzanilla.'

  'Did you bring me here on purpose, so everyone would think we were more than friends?'

  'Do you mean have I compromised you?' He gave a soft laugh and touched her cheek before she could stop him. 'It would take a little more than that, chica. Say I spent a night alone with you and someone was a witness to it, then as a Spaniard I would have to marry you, otherwise you would be a girl with a tarnished name and no other man would want you for his wife.'

  'You mean,' her heart beat hard and fast, 'that no one wo
uld believe in ... our innocence?'

  'Is it possible that such a night would be innocent?'

  'Yes - if the man was a person of honour.'

  'He would have to be made of stone,' Rique laughed. 'In any case, it would make no difference if he and the girl had not made love. He would still be obliged to make the girl his wife, or leave her to join the images.'

  'The images?'Yvain echoed.

  'Yes, a term we have for girls left on the shelf.'

  'You really mean that Latin people can be that uncharitable towards a girl whose plight could be brought about by some force beyond her control?'

  'Latins have a strict code of honour, and you must remember that it was Eve who tempted the first man. Man is quite a jolly, carefree fellow until a girl takes his eye. '

  'You poor men!' Yvain tilted her chin. 'It must be hard on you to be in such danger. Perhaps it would have been better for you if the operation on Adam's rib had not taken place.'

  'Quite,' he laughed. 'But think of the fun we would have missed. No sparks, no pretty faces to look at, no kisses. Despite the hazards, it's an agreeable arrangement ... or don't you think so?'

  'I think Eve lost us the initiative by doing the tempting. She made Adam think of himself as a prize to be won, and ever since Eden he's acted as if he's the biggest plum in the lottery of life for a girl.'

  'For most girls he is,' Rique said shamelessly. 'Come, would you want to go through life without a man to love you?'

  Yvain turned to look at the young bridal couple, surrounded by their laughing friends and so poignantly happy tonight that she made an involuntary wish that the realities of marriage would never dim the stars in their eyes. They loved ... most people wanted to be loved; without it life was empty in so many ways.

  It was then that people began to call out to Rique to play for them, and the magic of his music was intensified by the scent of crushed carnations and the glow of lanterns and coloured lights on the Latin faces of the people grouped about the courtyard. A satin frill moved, a bracelet shimmered, white teeth gleamed as a man bent his head to murmur a compliment to a girl with flowers in her shining hair.

  Yvain felt welcome among these people, and yet at the same time an onlooker. They were like figures embroidered into some ancient tapestry. Their faces were of the kind that modern living had not moulded into masks of weary cynicism. Their eyes were alert and ardent, and they seemed to put all their hearts into the simple enjoyment of music. They drank it in as if it were wine, and later they all joined hands and made circles and danced the sardana. It was all new to Yvain and she loved it, a woman between each man, and all of them ready to show her how to take short steps then long steps, until she caught the rhythm of the dance and felt the joy of it run like wine through her veins.

  Did an hour pass, or two, before she found herself alone, fluttering a handkerchief to cool herself, the gilt of the moon in her lifted eyes and the drift of 'Cielito Lindo' through the trees. Tonight she had found a little heaven and almost, but not quite, had blotted out the awareness that soon she must leave this island of warm hearts and sunny days, and nights of witchery.

  She breathed the sap in the cypress trees against which she leaned, green-clad like the tree, under the spell of the moon and the music.

  Soon the music would die away and Rique would come looking for her. She braced herself against the thought of him, for tonight she was made vulnerable by this beautiful, happy wedding, and if he kissed her, she might be unable to resist him.

  He came like a velvet shadow, like a lean panther stalking its prey, and she gave a soft gasp as his arm entrapped her against the tree. She could not retreat from his sparkling eyes, or his lips, that left a medallion of warmth in the soft hollow of her throat. 'A man must keep his eye on you or you vanish,' he murmured against her ear. 'You are fey like your witch-wide eyes, a moth of the night, hardly real even to the touch. It seems a sacrilege to think of you with passion.'

  'A little while ago you were telling me to fall in love.'

  'I think now that I should like to put you in a slender silver vase and admire you.'

  'Up on the shelf?' she laughed.

  'Come on,' he laughed with her, 'the bride and groom are about to hand out sweets from the myrtle tree decorated for them.'

  Hand in hand they joined the throng of guests, clustering eagerly about the bridal couple to watch while the bride and groom each plucked a sweet for the couple sweet on each other. Yvain was so busy being fascinated by the game that it came as a complete surprise when Doretta presented her with a sweet while Alvarez handed one to Rique. There was a burst of laughter. No one looked surprised but Yvain, and then as she turned to Rique a face in the lantern light caught her attention and she stared in amazement at the woman who had given shelter to Don Juan and herself the night of the fog. She was stunned. Somehow that little old witch of a woman had been part of a dream, blurred in outline like all the other details of that episode and yet unforgettable.

  The old woman carried a straw-covered flagon and was serving the guests with wine. She must have been hired to help out at the wedding, and Yvain had been so engrossed by the party that she hadn't noticed her until now.

  She smiled tentatively as the woman stared at her. 'Don't be shy, senorita,' everyone was calling out. 'Eat the sweet!'

  But she couldn't. Her mouth was dry and her heart was throbbing, and she was aware of no one but the black-clad figure with the wine-flagon. 'Can I serve the senora with a little wine?' The woman had drawn closer and her dark little eyes were malicious and goblin-like. 'I hope the husband of the senora is quite well? Such a gentleman! He paid me well for the night you both spent at my cottage.'

  'You make a mistake,' Rique broke in, while those nearby gazed at Yvain with curiosity in their eyes. 'The young lady is not married.'

  'No?' The old lady searched Yvain's pale face. 'Then no wonder the gentleman paid me well.'

  'What do you mean, old woman?' Rique spoke as if he were breathing fire.

  'I would ask the young lady, senor.' And like some malignant spirit of mischief the woman was gone, and Yvain gave a gasp of pain as Rique caught at her wrist and hurt the bones with his fingers. 'Did you understand what she said?'

  Yvain understood very clearly from his face that her secret -and Don Juan's - was out in the open. 'Yes - some of it.'

  Holding her by the wrist and looking murderous, he pulled her away from the party and into a secluded part of the courtyard. 'I should like an explanation, if you don't mind.' His eyes gleamed dangerously in the shadows. 'With whom did you spend a night at the old woman's cottage, and why did you pass yourselves off as husband and wife?'

  Yvain tore free of his grip and stood nursing her wrist. 'I'm afraid I can't tell you — '

  'You will tell me! I demand to know!'

  'And I refuse to tell you.' She was trembling, for suddenly the wedding had lost its appeal for her and she wanted only one thing, to return home to the castle. 'N-no matter what the woman implied, that night at her cottage was totally innocent and the result of circumstances beyond my control or — '

  She broke off abruptly, biting back the name that must not be mentioned ... her guardian's name. No one must know, for only a short while ago Rique had said that a Spaniard who compromised a girl was expected to restore her good name by marrying her!

  'I think I should like to leave,' she said tensely.

  'No!' He barred her way, making her a prisoner in the small arbour formed by a group of trees. 'We have to talk this out, Yvain. We can't walk away and pretend it never happened. I wish to know the name of this man ... only his identity can tell me if the night you spent with him was as innocent as you say. I want to believe in your innocence.'

  'That's generous of you.' She felt a midnight breeze touch her bare arms with a ghostly coolness. 'But with typical male arrogance you lay down conditions before proving your generosity. I'm sorry, Rique. I can't tell you

  the name of my partner in adversity, so
you will have to think what you like — '

  'Was it Don Juan, by any chance?'

  For a petrified moment she thought she betrayed herself with a cry, but in actuality she stood rigid with shock. She had to make a physical effort to speak. 'Really, what a thing to say. If Don Juan wished to seduce me, he would hardly need to take me to someone else's house for the night!' She shrank from Rique, pained by the words he had forced front her.

  'Then who ... ?' Rique's voice was a growl, and he stood tensed in front of her, as if ready to spring at her and shake from her the name of the man she protected. 'Who else on this island do you know? What other man apart from Senor Fonesca?'

  'Are you now accusing my tutor?' The coldness gripping her limbs had crept into her voice. 'Rique, does it matter? Won't you believe that nothing happened that was wrong?'

  'Why do you shield the man so obstinately?'

  'You are the obstinate one, Rique.' She drew a sigh. 'You forget the Sunday we had a driving date and we quarrelled. I — met someone else. Someone you wouldn't know.' It was a wild half-truth, a desperate attempt to cover up for her guardian, to keep him unexposed to scandal. The strict moral code of these people had the perverse effect of creating scandal, and the last thing on earth she wanted was to blacken Don Juan de Leon in their eyes. He was no saint, but he stood as an example of honour and courage and courtesy, and he might consider himself honour bound to marry her if scandal ever linked them together.

  She met Rique's eyes in the moonlight and saw the baffled, anger and disillusion reflected in them. 'Forgive me for shattering your illusions about me.' She attempted to

  speak lightly. 'You must believe that nothing more terrible happened than that we got stranded in the fog that came down and took shelter beneath the first roof we could find. He was gallant and kind and I shall always be grateful to him.'

  'Are you in love with him?'

  The question took her breath away ... she had to fight not to betray her agitation. 'One can't love a stranger.' She forced a laugh. 'It would be too shattering an experience. But I shan't find it easy to forget him.'