At last, pushing through a mass of lace and feathers, I saw, ahead of me, Juana’s unmistakable profile – or part of it; now I understood why she had not been able to communicate, for the poor girl was gagged with a couple of mantillas, part of one thrust into her mouth, and the other tied round her head. I saw the despairing flash of her eyes as she rolled her head, trying vainly to convey some meaning.
‘Ah, those devils,’ I muttered. ‘Wait a little, I’ll try to pull it loose.’
Pulling a lace mantilla from somebody else’s head with one’s teeth is no easier than boring through mounds of petticoats with hands tied. The task took many minutes. Often my cheek had to press against Juana’s, while I gnawed and bit; sometimes I could feel her shake – whether with laughter or tears I did not know. At last I had the lace chewed through, and thought I felt her signal to me by moving her head; then I could plainly feel the actions of her jaw, as she painfully expelled the gag from her mouth, blowing and pushing and thrusting it out; at last she took in a great gulp of air.
‘Haaaah! No one ever did me such a service before! Thank you!’ she whispered; now I did think I could detect a smile in her tone, though it was too dark to read the expression on her face.
All I could think of to say was, ‘I love you, Juana!’ and then I lay for a while with my cheek pressed against hers, and my chin resting on her shoulder.
‘Oh, my dear Felix!’
Her answer, perhaps, was meant as a protest at my choosing such a time for such a declaration, but I caught a hint of laughter there too, and thought that she did not entirely reject my devotion. Indeed the comfort and joy of that moment, as we lay, cheek against cheek, in the crammed and crowded cart, was so inexpressibly great that, for a short while, everything else faded into insignificance.
Then Juana said prosaically, ‘My hands are tied behind me. Are yours?’
‘Yes. That was why I had to chew the mantilla. And my feet. I suppose they did not trouble to gag me as I was unconscious.’
‘I was so terrified that Pepe had killed you. He hit you terribly hard with a log of wood. How are we to escape from these evil men?’
‘If only I could get my hands undone.’
‘Turn round, so that our hands are touching. I will see if I can do anything.’
We both struggled round, until we lay back to back, and our hands could meet, exploring the bonds that tied our wrists, but it was hopeless; the cords were cruelly tight, wound many times round, so that our fingers were already swelled, numb and weak.
‘What, what can we do?’ said Juana despairingly.
‘If only that troop of soldiers could come now – we could shout –’
‘It is no use,’ she said. ‘They are not going to come. I heard Pepe tell Don Amador. There has been a big revolt in Catalonia, of the agraviados, who complain that the king is not permitted to rule as he should, that his acts are controlled by Freemasons; all the soldiers in north Spain have been sent off to the mountains of Catalonia. I daresay Don Ignacio knew all about it.’
‘Is Don Ignacio for the Carlists, do you think?’
‘I fancy he is for nobody but Don Ignacio. Tell me, do you really know about such a great treasure at Cerezal?’
‘No, no, of course not, it is all moonshine.’
My mind ranged about, like a tethered dog, hunting for ways of escape.
‘Is Nico there?’ I asked.
‘Yes, he is beyond me – I can just feel his feet. Poor boy, I am afraid he is still terribly ill.’
So that was another complication. Even if, by some miracle, we could free ourselves from our bonds, there would still be little chance of overpowering the murderers, and none of escaping them, hampered as we were by the presence of the children.
It was hopeless . . .
‘Senor Felix,’ said a little voice. ‘I can undo your cords.’
A small fidgety shape thrust itself up between Juana and me.
‘Pilar!’ Juana gasped in astonishment. ‘Where did you come from?’
‘The other end of the tartana. And I have already undone my hands. I bit through the string. Now I’ll cut yours.’
‘Bit?’
‘Yes, my teeth are sharp. But yours I can cut –’
‘Have you a knife, then?’
‘Mama’s fan. Don’t you remember? It has a knife blade in the handle.’
Sure enough, I felt a midget sawing begin on the tight cords wound so bruisingly round my wrists. Sometimes the blade sank into my flesh; but I would not complain of that. Would she ever manage, though, to sever all those strands? The sawing went on and on, indefatigably, and after many minutes I felt one of the cords give, and then snap.
‘I have it! I have done it!’ whispered Pilar triumphantly.
‘Bless you, little one! Now give me the knife and I will do Dona Juana.’
‘No, I wish to do it,’ she whispered crossly.
So I allowed her to complete her rescue, though impatient to take the knife and see if I could not do it faster. While she worked I chafed my own numbed and bruised wrists, and when Juana’s hands were free – they took even longer than mine had – Pilar was weary enough to agree that we might be permitted to undo our own feet. This was hard to manage without making such an upheaval and swaying in the tartana that our captors would notice. For a time Pepe came and rode alongside the cart while he and Esteban talked in low voices; I heard them mention towns in Catalonia, Pedray and Llinas, and supposed they were talking about the uprising there. Was it to support this revolt that the silver dollars were wanted?
We were obliged to wait until he had drawn ahead again before going to work on our ankle-bonds.
Now we were out in the flat plain of the Aragon valley, travelling westward towards Berdun; the distant shapes of the mountains could be seen, sharp as saw-teeth, along the horizon; and, ahead of us, the little town like a sleeping black cat hunched on its hillock. Dawn was still far distant, I judged; no cocks could be heard, only owls.
As we approached Berdun more closely I heard the sound of rapid hoofs, and two riders neared and then passed us at a gallop. Obliged to keep our heads down, so as not to alert our captors, we could not see the riders until they were beside us on the road, and then it was too late to call out, as they dashed past.
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 gipsy, 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 delinquentes 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 that 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 favour, 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 centre – 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 on to 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, Senor Felix!’
‘Hush!’ I whispered, for now footsteps were returning.
Quick as thought, I snatched Esteban’s 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 cigarillo, as Esteban had sat.
Pepe came out of the alley-mouth.
‘Here’s a to-do!’ he whispered peevishly. ‘Seems that Don Ignacio’s very sick – like to die – Dona Calixta, the whey-faced housekeeper, 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! it’s 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 round my throat, I feared I was done for. But, by a kick, and a slip, and a hip-throw which 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 on to the rubbish chute and sent him sliding after his fellow.
‘Bueno, BUENO!’ chanted Pilar, dancing round us like a little imp from the pit. ‘We did for them, we did them!’
‘Hush, we are not out of the wood yet!’ said I. ‘Let us get away from this town. Back into the cart, please, senoras!’ and, springing on to 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 travelling west, towards 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 a 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, grey-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 dishevelled 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, senor and senora, 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 – a herb, a tincture?’
‘We do not know, senor, 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 draughts cont
aining, 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-coloured dresses; there were boys in coloured 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 which 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 gipsy 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 clean-up, she protesting fiercely all the while.