“And we should be on our way,” Javier said, standing up. “We stand no chance once the sun rises.”
Jose squeezed my shoulder, his lips brushing my hair as he helped me to my feet. “ Frightened?” he asked.
“No,” I said truthfully, my fingers interlocked with his. “ Not when I am with you.”
For a moment I was in the circle of his arms and he was laughing down at me, dark eyes gleaming.
“Good,” he said, then helped me mount Solitaire. “It’s nearly over now.”
All thoughts of any danger we were in as we tried to cross the border illegally were far from my mind. I was still warmed by Jose’s nearness. My heart and mind full of him. I longed for Bayonne and a chance to talk. A chance for him to tell me about Carmen. More than anything, I needed him to tell me about Carmen. I felt a slight flicker of fear, then determindly thrust it aside. I had seen the expression in his eyes when he looked at me. Seen love and desire there. Surely that was enough? ‘Bayonne,’ I whispered to myself as we began to move forwards again. “ Please, please let us reach Bayonne.…”
The way was more difficult now. No lights from lonely cottages gleamed in the distance. The darkness was thick and total. Gingerly the horses picked their way, climbing higher and higher, stones and pebbles clattering in heavy falls as the horse’s hooves disturbed them, seeking for secure ground. The isolation of the wilderness that pressed in on us became menacing and frightening. Giant in the darkness were the black density of mountains and forests. The higher we rode the stronger were the gusts of wind that swept across us and soon the gleaming black buttresses of rock were all around us and I could hear Romero swear beneath his breath as he struggled to guide his horse onto what little safe ground there was.
With growing apprehension I saw the first paling of the night sky in the east, and smelt the damp of the coming day. We were in single file now, the rock hemming us in on either side, squeezing through with only inches to spare. Suddenly Jose halted, the wind tearing at him, carrying his words away almost before we had heard them.
“If there is going to be trouble, it is going to be in the next fifteen minutes. From here it is downhill and straight into France. It’s a route Javier has taken many times.” He pointed away to the east. “The nearest road is in that direction, if there is any trouble it will come from there. Don’t stop. Not for anything. Better one captured than all captured.”
Spumes of cloud still masked the sky, but they were racing harder now and there was the damp spit of rain in the air. The path before us was narrow and tortuous, a sliver of space between the ink-black of the rocks. The sound of the horse’s hooves rang metalically against stone, and then, as we emerged, the rolling hillsides of France stretched ghost-like in the grey of early morning, hill after hill, with the slender rim of the moon sinking down, tingeing the slopes mother-of-pearl.
For minutes, hardly daring to breathe, we reined in our horses and searched with aching eyes for the signs of army or police. Nothing stirred, only Solitaire’s head moved as he stretched his neck, his mane cascading caressingly over my hand.
With a deep, purposeful intake of breath, Jose said softly: “ Come on. This is it. And remember, don’t stop. Not for anything.”
With infinite care he rode out of the protective shadows of the rocks, guiding his horse slowly and quietly across the open ground, over the indefinable line that severed Spain from France. My heart palpitating painfully, I urged Solitaire to follow Romero and Javier, and Roque, as always, stayed in the rear.
Those few short moments, that brief spell of riding that took us across the frontier, seemed to hang timeless. The sight of the men in front of me, supple bodies on strong horses that were breaking into a loose canter, creamy tails swinging in the breeze, defiantly beautiful against the rose of the coming dawn, is etched in my memory forever.
I stroked Solitaire’s gleaming neck and he flung his head up. Then he was off, cantering past Romero and hovering at Javier’s side.
He turned his head, giving me that irresistable face splitting smile, his eyes exultant.
“It’s been easy,” he said joyfully. “Tonight we will be in Bayonne!”
The road was so far away, only an indentation amongst the grey-green landscape, that I didn’t give it a thought. Like Javier, I felt relaxed and free and safe. So that when the shot rang out, my heart lurched into my mouth and I was numbed.
From the distant line of the road came the pinprick glint of motor cycle mirrors. Roque slapped Solitaire’s hide, shouting frantic orders as the horses broke out into a break-neck gallop, their hooves pounding like thunder over the firm ground, whipping up clouds of dry pale dust. Jose swung round, wheeling in the dust as he galloped beside me, staying protectively at my side. In front was the gleam of Romero’s horse and the fleeing hooves and Romero crouched low and tense, his dark hair merging into the mane of the galloping beast.
Javier was abreast with him, his horse plunging across the hillside, and then the second shot rang out and I remember thinking to myself: ‘Fools, how can they hope to hit us at this distance and this speed,’ and then the next thing I knew was Roque’s scream and the dragging thud of his body as it fell from the saddle, foot still caught in the stirrup, and my own panic at not being able to curb Solitaire’s wild flight and Jose’s horse rearing round, high on his haunches, his nostrils flaring, his hooves deadly inches away from my face. And then I had slithered off Solitaire’s back, running with pain in my heart and my head, racing back to where Roque lay lifeless in the dew spangled grass. There must have been other shots but if there were I was oblivious of them, and then Jose was thrusting me violently aside, kneeling over Roque’s body, shouting at me to continue.
“Is he all right? Is he dead? Oh God, is he dead?” I cried frantically, trying to see Roque’s face and Jose’s arms pulled me aside, flinging my physically from the inert body.
“I told you to stop for nothing!” he yelled, his face contorted with rage and grief. “ Get the hell out of here!”
I was stumbling to my feet, hands and knees sliding over slippery grass, my breath hurting so much that I could hardly gasp out yet again:
“But Roque! Is he dead? Is he?”
“Yes!” Jose shouted, spinning away from the body that had never moved since it had fallen so heavily to the earth. “Yes, he’s dead. Dead! Dead! Dead!”
His fury filled my ears, reverberating through all my senses. I was blinded by tears as he hurled me on to Solitaire’s back and with a slap on her hide sent me careering off after the distant, fleeing figures of Romero and Javier.
Chapter Fourteen
Solitaire charged over the turf, Romero and Javier a cloud of dust in the distance. Pounding hooves were behind me, and then Jose drew abreast, heading Solitaire downhill. I could see a huddle of houses and gasped breathlessly: “ But the road.…”
Jose, white-faced and grim, shouted only: “Keep on.”
“But.…”
“Keep on!”
The rain began to fall, fine arrows that sprayed my face, merging with the sweat that soaked me. The hillside sloped steeply down to tended fields, the stone and slate of a farmhouse growing clearer, the half dozen cottages straggling out in an uneven arc beyond. Far ahead of me I saw Romero and Javier wheel round, disappearing in the direction of the farm. Solitaire lunged after them and I was crying tears of grief and fear, hardly knowing where one ended and the other began.
A cart track led away from the farm, up to the hills where there was pasture for the cattle. Solitaire veered down it, Jose only feet behind me. Down between fields of sad looking wheat, the rain falling heavier, blinding my eyes and stinging my face. Ahead was the bleak farmyard and untidy outbuildings, and Romero and Javier’s horses lathered and steaming, and then Solitaire plunged across the rutted yard, rearing up as a strange man shouted and reached for his head. I was hurled from Solitaire’s back, hard on to the cobbles of the yard, terrified as the frightened horse struck the air above me with fla
shing hooves.
Jose slithered from his horse, scooping me up from the dust and dirt, racing with me into the farmhouse. The man ran behind us saying frenziedly:
“Quick. You must be quick!”
The room was large with a high raftered ceiling and flagged floor. A dog stirred near the massive fireplace, ears pricked as Jose swung me to my feet at the foot of a ladder that led up to the dimness of the rafters. Hardly able to regain my breath or my senses, I climbed urgently up in front of Jose. Strong arms reached down for me as Javier dragged me into the dark and then Jose was beside me, pulling the ladder in after him. Lowering the square of wood that sealed us in, leaning back against the wall, panting for breath.
“Dear God,” he said fervently, and then in the dark his hands reached out for me, pulling me fiercely towards him, burrowing his head in my hair. We were crouched on the floor, Javier and Romero opposite us, gasping in lungfuls of stale air. As his breathing steadied, Jose said hoarsely to me. “ The man is Javier’s uncle. He was expecting us.”
“Not like this, he wasn’t!” Javier said.
“What will happen?” I asked, my heart hammering wildly. Jose leant his head back against the wall, his arm around my waist.
“Technically the Spanish police can’t operate on French soil. But it sometimes happens. It all depends on the mood of the French police at the time. From the point where they saw us the road swings away, they wouldn’t be able to see where we went, but as this is the first farm for miles they would be idiots not to guess we were here. Another ten minutes and we will know for sure.”
I licked dry lips. “The horses,” I whispered. “Whoever comes will see the horses.”
“Too damn right they will,” Romero said defeatedly, his head in his hands.
Javier slapped him on the back. “You think my uncle can’t lie his way out of this.…”
“If he lies like you, then there’s a faint chance,” Romero said grudgingly.
Jose’s hand tightened around me. There came the unmistakeable sound of a speeding car shooting into the farmyard, skidding to a halt.
“This is where we start to pray,” Javier said softly.
Jose moved, lying full length on the sawdust floor, his eye to a glimmer of a crack in the floorboards. Nervously I stretched out beside him, straining my ears to hear what the raised voices at the open doorway were saying.
Javier’s uncle, hands raised despairingly to heaven, shoulders shrugged high in helplessness, stepped into view. I had barely seen him on my frantic arrival at the farm. Now he stood only feet below me, the veins in his neck standing out, his face mottled with rage.
“My best horses!” he shouted, outraged. The shadow of the man he was talking to fell across the table, but he remained just beyond my range of vision. “They took my best horses! There was nothing I could do, they were armed.” His voice rose sharply. “And now you ask me questions, and let those bastards get away. They can’t be far.…”
“No,” the other man cut in icily. “ They can’t be far.” It was a voice I had heard before.
Javier’s uncle spat in fury. “Your men are wasting their time, searching my farm. I’ve told you what happened. Those devils have taken my horses.… And what happens? After they rob me, you ransack the place and no-one wants to know. If I complain to the local police, what will they do? Nothing. Sweet bloody nothing!”
He slammed a huge fist onto a wood table and the dog moved up beside him, ears flat, growling softly. “ No-one wants to know. And my animals will be gone for good!”
Javier was right. He could lie. I nearly believed him myself. He was a powerfully built Basque with a swarthy skin and fierce black eyes, his whole body consumed with rage as he slammed his fist once more on the table.
“Don’t we have any rights at all? This is France … not Spain!”
“Shut up, fool,” the other said contemptuously. Other footsteps rang across the yard and into the house.
“No sign of anyone,” a third voice said, strangely familiar.
I strained to see them, but my line of vision was cut off at the table. If they would only step forward a foot.…
“Of course there is no sign of anyone,” Javier’s uncle said scornfully. “How many more times do I have to tell you. The lunatics you want are getting further away every minute you spend here!”
The other man drummed his knuckles on the table and I could see the sleeve of Spanish uniform.
“You search where you want. You are wasting time. They are not here!”
“But they came here, and only minutes ago. Strange that we did not see them as they left, don’t you think so?” the voice was hard as steel.
“My God,” Javier’s uncle exploded. “I am a Frenchman, terrorised by your bloody separatists, not able to live in peace, not defended by my own police and victimised by Spanish police! I’m no ignorant peasant to be terrified of you. You have no legal right here. None. None at all.”
He moved forward threateningly. The man he was speaking to never flinched. His shadow stayed unwavering.
“Careful, old man,” he said.
A fourth pair of feet hurried into the room. A voice that belonged to Amiano said breathlessly. “They aren’t in the outbuildings.”
I could sense the officer scanning the room, studying the dim recesses of the rafters.
He said. “I can smell them here.”
Javier’s uncle lowered his voice, saying viciously. “I’ll see to it that this outrage doesn’t remain a secret. You have trespassed over the border once too often.”
My nerves tightened as the other said softly. “You are lying. They are here, aren’t they? I know they are here.”
He stepped forward, directly beneath me, the bleak light of early morning full on his face. He looked as unpleasant as he had last time I had seen him.
“Martinez,” he said, “ I want those horses shot.”
Jose’s hand tightened on mine as the blood pounded in my ears.
“All of them?” Martinez asked.
“All of them. After all, they don’t belong to this gentleman. He can’t possibly have any objections.”
“And what about the animals those terrorising bastards took! When do you get those back for me?”
“Shoot them, Martinez,” the officer said again. I saw Martinez shrug and leave the room. My chest felt as if it were being squeezed by iron bands.
“You know who the men were who came here?” the officer asked.
“For the hundredth time, no. No. No. No. They were Basques and they were desperate and they were thieves. They didn’t introduce themselves!”
“Two of the men were Villada’s.”
Javier’s uncle shrugged. “ So what?”
The officer laughed softly. “ Come, even you must have heard of the Villada’s.”
“The name means money … not thieving terrorists.”
“I’ve heard the Villada’s have a passion for horses. They won’t be too pleased with you when they see the rotting carcasses in your yard.”
“Mother Mary! All I want is some justice. All the time you spend here talking, they are getting further and further away.”
“Are they indeed? Let’s see how far away they are when they hear their horses being shot. The sound will, I think, carry quite clearly into the loft above this room.”
Jose tensed beside me and I bit on my fist, fighting back the rising tide of nausea. The sound jarred my eardrums, sending my nerves singing with fear. It was a lifetime before I realised that the sound had not been that of a gun, but of a car. Doors slammed shut and an impatient, authoritive voice spoke angrily in French.
“What is the meaning of this? Why are you and your men here?”
“We were chasing terrorists. Four men and a girl. They are wanted on charges of murder. We shot one of them near the frontier, the others, two of them Villada’s and an English girl, came here on horseback. Those are their horses outside.”
“And what crimes are the anima
ls guilty of, that they are to be shot?” the French policeman asked sarcastically, walking across to the table, his men behind him. I heard Jose take a quick breath of surprise, and then the Spanish officer gave a strained laugh.
“None, comrade. We have searched the outbuildings thoroughly and have not found them. They are in the loft above this room. I was trying to trick them into showing themselves. Wait, and I will show you.”
I closed my eyes and prayed.
“You will leave this farm immediately.”
“But.…”
“Immediately. We have had instructions that we are not to co-operate any longer with your activities this side of the border. Ponistowski, the Minister of the Interior, has given his word that the French policy towards refugees will be that of shelter. In his own words. We shall be strict in dealing with violence but there will be no abuses. This, my friend, is an abuse.”
The officer swore unbelievingly. “They are here,” he yelled. “Not ten feet away!”
“For the last time I would be obliged if you and your men would return to the frontier.”
“Look at this!” he shrieked, pointing down to his foot, heavily bandaged and on a rocker. “That whore with them did this, and you ask me to return to Spain without them! Never. Not while I draw breath. I swore I would see Villada dead, and I shall!”
“Maybe,” the French officer said. “ But not now. This man has told you what happened. They took his horses and went further into France.”
The Spaniard was seething with frustration. “They are here I tell you! Two of the Villada brothers and an English girl. One minute. Only one minute and I will show you!”
“You will leave immediately. Your senior officer will not be very pleased if publicity is given to this … not so soon after the statement made by our Minister. Certainly not to pursue a personal vendetta. Allow me to escort you off the premises.”
White with rage the Spaniard was surrounded by the French police and forced to leave the room. The sound of their voices faded and I could no longer hear. Minutes later a car engine throbbed, and amidst shouted insults on both sides, the Spanish police left the farm. The French officer walked back into the house.
Tapestry of Fear Page 8