Bridle the Wind

by Joan Aiken

  ‘Ugh,’ I croaked, shifting with difficulty on the hard pallet, ‘What o’clock is it? How soon is Prime?’

  ‘Not for another ten minutes. Turn over now, while I rub your back. I should know how much this oil will help you; I am beaten often enough,’ he said cheerfully. ‘And Father Pierre always finds time to rub me afterwards. But now he is looking after the boy you rescued.’

  The rubbing did indeed loosen stiff muscles and ease my sore back and thighs. I expressed my gratitude to Alaric for his rising earlier than he need have done in order to come and tend me. But he told me that he always rose early, for it was his task to ring the bell that summoned the fathers from their beds.

  ‘Father Antoine is doing that for me today,’ he explained.

  Then I perceived, under the orderly surface of obedience in this place, a quiet network, the purpose of which was to protect, so far as possible, the victims of Father Vespasian’s injustices.

  ‘Thank you, Alaric; I will do very well now,’ I told him, and rolled off the pallet. Despite my words I could not avoid letting out a hiss of agony as I came upright. But walking soon improved matters, and in Chapel I took some pains to hold myself upright and easy, as if I were in the best of health and quite untroubled. Father Vespasian’s cold green eye dwelt on me several times, but he did not send for me, and after High Mass I repaired as usual to the infirmary, where Father Pierre told me that the patient was improving steadily and had swallowed warm milk thickened with a little maize meal.

  ‘He has been asking for you. I did not tell him that you had been beaten,’ the infirmarian warned me. ‘Such tidings would only distress him, in his low state.’

  I could see the wisdom of this, but it was annoying to be greeted by Juan with fretful reproaches. ‘Where have you been for so long? I would sooner have had you than that ugly old father.’

  ‘Father Pierre is very kind, and knows far more than I do about caring for sick people,’ I said, beginning to rub his swollen throat with goose grease.

  ‘I don’t care! He is ugly and red-faced and smells of garlic.’

  Juan himself, I noticed, had either consented to Father Pierre’s washing him, or had found strength to manage his own ablutions. A basin of soapy water stood on the floor by the bed, with a towel. His skin shone, and he smelled clean, like a young kitten. All the tarry tangles had been removed from his hair, by the simple expedient of cutting it very short, so that it hung over his forehead and round his head in a thick fringe, barely touching his ears and dipping to the back of his neck. Still damp from washing, it appeared now as a very dark brown colour with, here and there, the same coppery tint that showed in his eyes. He had a pale pointed face, still bruised looking from fatigue and starvation; but a touch of more natural colour was creeping back into his cheeks.

  I carried away the basin of washing water and, when I returned, congratulated him on the manner in which he had evaded Father Vespasian’s questioning by pretending to be simple and saying that he was a benedictus.

  ‘What in the world put such a notion into your head?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘there are such people in Beam; every village has one. Only,’ he added, ‘they are mostly old women, so they are called benedicta. They ring the church bell to keep away devils and warn of storms. Sometimes they are thought to be witches. Good ones, of course.

  ‘But now pay attention, Felix,’ he went on, in quite a brisk, peremptory manner, although he was still obliged to talk in a whisper. Father Pierre had told me that this condition might continue for a week or two, since the throat muscles had been so badly stretched and abused. ‘I have considered carefully your offer to accompany me into Spain,’ he told me, ‘and I accept it. Father Pierre has given me your history, and I believe that you have no connection with the ones who abducted me, and that you would have no wish to harm me. Father Pierre says that you travelled to England and back.’ He gave me a dubious look, as if wishing, nonetheless, that I showed a few more signs of worthiness to be his travel companion. I could not help smiling a little, inside myself, at his condescension, but replied staidly that I would do my best to justify his confidence.

  ‘I know this country better than you,’ he asserted.

  ‘That is certainly so. I do not know it at all.’

  ‘So I had best choose our way over the mountains. Since we have no passports, and the Gente will be on my trail, we must go secretly.’

  ‘We must, indeed.’

  First, I thought, we have to get ourselves out of the Abbey; but for that, my friend, we had better wait until you are in somewhat better case.

  ‘I have been giving some thought to our route,’ he continued, ‘and I have decided that our best course will be to consult an old gardener who used, when he was younger, to work for my father. Pierre has had many dealings with the smugglers who bring sheep and wine in from Spain. He told me once there was a cave they used for their trips, with entrances in both France and Spain. It is on the mountain called La Rhune, where the witches used to congregate. When I am better we will go to see old Pierre, and he can guide us to this cave.’

  ‘Are you quite sure you can trust him?’ I asked, with a grain of doubt. ‘After all, your own nurse, you say, betrayed you – and this man has had dealings with smugglers. Are you certain that he is reliable?’

  Juan gave me a haughty look.

  ‘If I say he is honest, you have no need to question it!’

  ‘Very well,’ I replied, but inwardly resolved to ask Father Antoine if he could provide me with a map of the mountains, in case there proved to be any difficulty about Juan’s plan. Old Pierre might, after all, have died, or moved away.

  Then I told Juan about the three petitioners who had come to the Abbey – the midget, the tall white-headed man, and the cripple with terrible sores. Immediately all his confidence left him. He turned white as whey and began to shake.

  ‘Oh, mon Dieul They are the ones – the three leaders of the troop! They are after me already, then! The midget is Gueule, the big one Cocher, and the cripple Plumet. Of course he is not really crippled. His sores are made with mustard and saffron and spearwort and ratsbane. And he pricks his nostrils to make them bleed, and chews a bit of soap to simulate foaming at the mouth. But what shall I do, where can I hide, if they are seeking for me here?’

  ‘They do not yet know for sure that you are here,’ I said, and explained about Alaric’s denial. ‘He believed what he said, so that may throw them off the scent.’

  ‘Oh, they are certain to catch me in the end!’ Juan buried his face in his hands, apparently giving way to complete despair. ‘While I was with them I told them that tale that I was a benedictus, a kind of warlock, that if they did me any harm I could put a curse on them. And they half believed it, they were a little afraid of me. They are French, you see, they are not Eskualdunak.’

  ‘Eskualdunak?’

  ‘Basque,’ he said impatiently. ‘But now, you see, they will know that my story was not true; for they hanged me, and no harm has come to them.’

  ‘Still, you did not die,’ I pointed out. ‘So they may believe that is due to your magic powers.’ And there may be more truth in that than you know of, I thought but did not say.

  Juan’s face brightened at my words. His spirits seemed very elastic – they soared or fell at a trifle.

  ‘I used to say a little poem in Euskar – in the Basque language,’ he boasted. ‘I told them it was a witch poem made up by my great-great grandmother. She was a real witch, Marie Dindart, she was burned in the great witch-burning at Sare, two hundred years ago.’

  ‘Your great-great grandmother?’

  ‘Well, perhaps great-great-great.’ He dismissed that as of no importance. ‘She was my ancestress. At all events the troop hated the poem. They used to cross themselves when I said it and huddle at the other end of the cave.’

  ‘How does it go?’

  ‘Enune desiratzen

  Bizitze hoberic

  Mundian ez ahalda
/>   Ni bezain iruric’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Oh, it is nothing – a shepherds’ song. “I ask for nothing/Better in life/I don’t suppose in the whole world/There’s a happier man than I.” But I used to recite it in such a way – squinting my eyes together over my nose, and turning up the corners of my mouth to make two great dimples’ – he demonstrated, looking very wild, placing his thumbs in his cheeks and waving his fingers – ‘that it really terrified them.’

  I began to see that there was more in Juan than just a scrawny, frightened boy.

  After Sext I managed to slip to the side of Father Antoine and asked if, anywhere in the Abbey, there might be a map of this region, and the mountains to the south. He looked at me thoughtfully, then gave a slight nod.

  I told him, too, about the three beggars, and Juan’s fear of them.

  ‘They said they intended to come back today, so that the cripple might be healed. What can I do? Suppose they ask Father Vespasian about Juan? Suppose they say he is their boy?’

  I felt certain that Father Vespasian was not open to advice or persuasion. It would be no use at all asking him not to reveal Juan’s presence in the Abbey.

  ‘If they are really the ones who hanged that poor boy,’ Father Antoine said in a troubled tone, ‘we ought to send for the gendarmes and have them apprehended. But since they are petitioners at the Abbey, I feel sure that Father Vespasian would not permit that.’

  ‘There they are now,’ I said.

  The three had stationed themselves just inside the great gate of the Abbey. They huddled, with heads bowed, in positions of humble respect, but I noticed their eyes darted in every direction, watching the monks who came and went, studying the different doors and windows, to see who passed through or looked out, observing the walls themselves, as if measuring which would be the easiest to climb. That is to say, the midget and the thin white-headed fellow looked shrewdly about; the third man, as before, had his head bound up in bandages, and the sores upon his arms, and on his stumps of legs, were even more horrible in appearance than they had been on the previous day.

  ‘Juan does not wish to tell the gendarmes about them,’ I muttered to Father Antoine. ‘He says the rest of the troop would be certain to take revenge on him if he did so.’

  ‘Well, I will have to think about what can be done.’ Father Antoine sighed anxiously. ‘Father Vespasian is looking this way. Do you go and stand by Father Pierre.’

  The healing ceremony proceeded as it had on former occasions: the humpbacked cripple with the hideous sores was brought up in front of Father Vespasian, who solemnly blessed and prayed over him and sprinkled him with holy water. During which process the sick man appeared to go through a fearful paroxysm – even though Juan had told me it was all a pretence, I found myself almost taken in, so naturally did he foam at the mouth and bleed at the nostrils, while his eyes rolled horribly, right up inside his head, until only the whites showed.

  There were no other patients that day, so we all sang a hymn while the healing was supposed to be taking effect.

  Under the towel that Father Vespasian had flung over him, I noticed that the cripple was skilfully and surreptitiously undoing some buckle behind his back, and contriving to rub his skin with the napkin. And so, when the hymn was done, he was able to arise with loud shouts of pretended astonishment and joy; his legs and feet, which had in some cunning fashion been buckled up behind his back, dropped down to support him, the hump disappeared from between his shoulders, and a swift scrub with the napkin had removed most of the foam, blood, and mustard from his face and arms. He stood up straight: a tall and strikingly strong-featured man with long thick black curls, broad forehead, and black shaggy brows. He was dressed all in black sheepskin.

  ‘A miracle! A miracle! By your holy power I am brought back to health and strength!’ he bawled, falling on his knees and clasping the Abbot’s ankles while he slobbered kisses on his feet. ‘Oh, my lord Abbot, is not this the most wonderful cure you have ever achieved?’

  The other two beggars followed their friend’s example and clustered round Father Vespasian, who looked highly gratified, and smiled on them graciously.

  Oh, heavens above! I thought. Now they are certain to ask the Abbot about Juan, they will pretend that he is their lost nephew or something of the kind, and he will tell them all they want to know –

  But at that moment the Abbey bell, up in the tower, began to peal a wild tocsin, or alarm call. This had not happened during my stay there – or not while I was in my right mind, at least – but I knew that such a peal was the signal for all the monks to leave what they were doing, and run down to the beach, to aid a ship in trouble.

  So, on this occasion, a score of black-clad forms went scampering through the gate and down the track. Father Vespasian followed them. I noticed that he clapped his hands over his ears, and seemed distressed by the sound of the bell, which somewhat puzzled me. He seemed to go rather to get away from the sound than for any other purpose. Nobody paused to ask who had rung the alarm; the day was a dull and misty one, and in such weather shipwrecks often do occur.

  I did not stop to see if the beggars had gone with the monks; my own purpose was elsewhere. I ran to the infirmary, took the stairs three at a time, and knocked on Juan’s door.

  ‘Who is it?’ came his frightened voice.

  ‘It is I, Felix. Quick, there is no time to lose; you must leave your room and follow me. The men who abducted you are in the Abbey, and they may come looking for you here.’

  Half lifting, half carrying him, I had him down the stairs in no more time than it takes to tell, and opened the door from the surgery that led out into the monks’ pelota ground, locking it again behind us.

  Juan shivered, looking about the open space in dismay.

  ‘Here is no hiding place!’

  ‘We do not need one,’ said I. ‘They cannot get out through the door. I have brought the key. We will sit here on the step and listen.’

  Sure enough, about five minutes later, we heard low voices beyond the door, in the surgery, and steps on the stair.

  ‘The brat was here for sure,’ muttered a voice. ‘These are their sick quarters.’

  The voice spoke a mixture of French and thieves’ cant which I could only just understand.

  ‘That’s Gueule,’ whispered Juan. ‘He says icigo for here.’

  ‘The little devil’s gone now, anyway,’ said another voice. ‘The bird’s flown.’

  Somebody rattled the door. Juan trembled and clutched me.

  ‘That only leads to the cliff. No use, it’s locked, anyway. Maladetta, I can hear all the fat monks coming back’ (he used a very obscene word, which I omit) ‘we had best be away out of here.’

  The footsteps died away in the distance. Setting my eye to the keyhole I could just see the midget dart out through the surgery door and shut it behind him. Next moment I had Juan inside again and, picking him up bodily, ran up the stairs to place him back in his bed. There were signs that the room had been entered – the covers had been torn off the bed, and a jug of water overturned.

  Juan looked ready to faint from fright, but I said cheerfully, ‘Don’t you see, this is lucky for you. Now they will think that you have already left and gone elsewhere. They will cease to watch this place.’

  ‘I do not think they are so easily deceived,’ said Juan. ‘But,’ he added dejectedly,‘Ithank you for helping me. You were very quick.’ He sounded somewhat resentful, I thought, as if he wished it had not been my quickness that saved him from capture.

  The members of the Community returned, greatly perplexed at the false alarm which had summoned them to the beach, and Father Vespasian in a high state of annoyance. Alaric the bell ringer would certainly have been liable for yet another beating, had not Father Domitian been able to assert that Alaric had stood by him all through the healing ceremony. Nobody was able to say by whom the bell had been rung. Only I had seen Father Antoine slip away through the cloister,
and I said nothing.

  After Vespers, Father Pierre called me aside. He was frowning, and looked deeply anxious.

  ‘Father Vespasian has announced his intention of interrogating Juan publicly tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I represented to him, and also to the Prior, that the poor boy is still in no state to be questioned, but – but Father Vespasian merely replied that he was confident his touch would heal the boy and make him sensible enough to answer questions. And of course I could not argue with that.’

  No; not after the example of miraculous healing we had just been privileged to watch this very afternoon, I said to myself; but I kept silent.

  ‘Father Antoine and I have consulted together about this,’ Father Pierre went on in a worried manner. ‘We both decided that the boy – that Juan – is quite unfit to be taxed with questions or – or to be punished, as he undoubtedly will be, if he displeases the Abbot again.’

  I thought about the beating I had received. An ordeal such as that, I was sure, would undo all the good of Father Pierre’s care; might even kill the boy.

  ‘It is not to be thought of,’ Father Pierre said earnestly. ‘We both agreed on that.’

  You did not say so when I was to be beaten, I thought, with a touch of indignation; and the voice of God sounded inside my head, clear as a hunting horn, with a kind of laughing impatience: Come, now, Felix! You are always demanding to be treated as a man, not as a boy. When you are accorded man’s status, are you going to cry and whine, and say the usage is too hard?

  I straightened up my aching shoulders and said to Father Pierre, ‘How do you plan to prevent this interrogation?’

  ‘Tomorrow is the Feast of St Gabas,’ he told me. ‘There will be a special celebratory Mass three hours after midnight, preceded by extra prayers and meditation in the chapel. The whole Community will be there. High tide this night is at three in the morning....’ He gave me a very straight look out of his little shrewd grey eyes. Father Sigurd passed near us at that moment, and Father Pierre, slightly raising his voice, added, ‘And Father Mathieu tells me that you have some experience in bricklaying and masonry. He asked me to show you a place in the garden wall which is crumbling and requires rebuilding; you are to carry stones and mortar there this afternoon, then repair it tomorrow between Mass and Sext.’