‘Grandfather . . . my great-aunts, Josefina and Visitacion, seem to believe there is a plot . . .’
‘I know,’ he said seriously. ‘Poor old ladies – they see plots in everything. Just the same, they need not be wrong. I have today heard a strange and troubling tale –’ glancing at a sombrero hat which, for the first time, I noticed lying on the large table where he kept estate maps. The sight of it surprised me, firstly, because my grandfather had almost given up going out of doors since his house arrest, even though that had now been revoked; secondly, because if he did venture out, he wore an old-fashioned tricorne, never a sombrero. ‘The villagers of Navia came to me, while you slept, to inform me that there had been a landslide on the road from Becerrea and that two travellers had been killed by it. The slide must have taken place after you and Pedro passed that way; I thank God that your lives were spared. The matter was reported to me as Corregidor of the district.’
Now I found myself in a severe dilemma; I had not told my grandfather about the action taken by the farmer of Navia. Ought I to do so? The man would have to be tried for manslaughter – or murder – would probably be executed –
While these thoughts ran through my head, the Conde continued.
‘Men from Navia dug the road clear, thus discovering the two bodies. One of them, it seems, was El Caramanchel, a notorious brigand, and one of the greatest rascals in all Spain.’
I nodded. I had heard often enough, at Salamanca, of El Caramanchel and his outrageous crimes.
‘There was a price upon his head, which the people of Navia intend to claim, so his end will afflict nobody and will benefit many. But the other man, who was with him, did not appear to be a robber; he had papers on him showing him to be a government clerk from Salamanca.’
I glanced again towards the hat on the table. Now I knew why it was so familiar. It was the hat of Sancho the Spy!
‘But what in the world,’ said my grandfather, ‘was a civil servant from Salamanca doing so far from home, in company with a notorious criminal? I do not like this, Felix. I do not like it at all. Can they have been following you?’
They can indeed, thought I, but decided not to trouble my grandfather with any further details of the matter, for it might change his views about my errand to Bilbao. And that I certainly did not wish!
‘Well,’ said I cheerfully, ‘if they were following us, they will do so no longer. So we need not trouble ourselves about them.’
3
Arrival at the Convent – was it Juana? I take a dislike to the Reverend Mother; am received by Dona Conchita’s parents; we receive permission to set out – and do so with too much luggage
A week later I was standing, sick and frozen with trepidation, at the top of a steep hill in Bilbao, in the pouring rain, pulling at the cord of a great brass bell that hung outside the visitors’ gate of El Convento de la Encarnacion.
Nothing suspicious, or worthy of note, had occurred during our journey to Bilbao, which we had decided to make by land (since so many things may hold up a sea voyage – gales, fog, adverse tides, contrary winds). No harm befell us, we reached Bilbao on the sixth day, I delivered Grandfather’s letter at the convent lodge, and received a message to return the following afternoon. So, for another night, I had to contain my impatience.
For our lodging we had chosen ourselves a small, unpretentious fonda, down by the waterside. Bilbao is a bustling estuary town lying along the banks of the River Nervion; great ships ply in and out laden with coal and iron ore; it is a rich, black, dirty, noisy place, crammed into a deep narrow valley. The streets are thronged with cattle, horses, and people, and excessively muddy because of the damp climate. No carts or carriages are permitted in the centre of the town, because the streets are so narrow, and all goods must be carried on horse or mule-back, which adds to the congestion and foulness of the ways. The people are small, dark, busy, and surly.
On the following afternoon I left Pedro hopefully planning to try his chances with the senoritas of the city during the evening paseo. Wishing him luck (though I had a suspicion the Basque girls would not take kindly to strangers) I betook myself back up the slippery hill to the convent, which was right on the summit, and encircled by a high black wall.
At last, after I had rung and stood waiting in the rain for some time, a portress opened the massive door and beckoned me in. Ignoring a couple of beggars pleading for alms, she led the way across a courtyard. My throat tasted dry and bitter; a deep tremble ran all through my bones, from neck to ankle. Hoping that this state of terror did not show too plainly, I followed my guide along a passage into a small parlour where, it seemed, visitors were received.
There were pictures on the whitewashed walls – the martyrdom of St Sebastian, and St Martin dividing his cloak with a beggar. Why, if he was a saint, I wondered, did he not give the beggar the whole cloak? The floor was paved with stone flags, sweating in the damp atmosphere; on them lay two shabby rush mats. Two plain benches, two plain chairs, and a worn settee with curved legs were the only furnishings. They looked as if they had been picked up cheap at street markets.
Opposite the entrance door was another, white-painted, and beside it a window barred by a grille covering a closed shutter.
‘Wait here; be seated,’ said my guide. ‘The Reverend Mother will speak to you shortly,’ and she left me.
I was unable to sit down. I paced about on the slippery stone floor, trying not to trip on the rush mats. I felt sick with suspense.
About half an hour passed. Down below in the town I could hear church bells ringing for evening Mass; also factory whistles and the clang of iron-foundries.
By and by the portress reappeared, escorting a lady, handsomely dressed, heavily veiled, who sat herself down on the settee, bowed her head, and began telling the beads of a superb gold-and-ebony rosary. She took no notice of me, so I thought it polite to avert my eyes from her. I could hear the regular click of her beads though, and a rustle of rich silk when she moved. In a brief scrutiny as she entered I had noticed how fine and stylish she was, in her velvets and laces; she made me feel shabby, though I had dressed myself as neatly as I knew how.
Every time the lady moved, a faint musky perfume drifted my way – very different from my great-aunt Josefina’s lavender water!
After another interminable period of waiting, during which the lady devoutly told her beads and I perched myself uncomfortably on a bench, gazing at San Martin, a small bell rang once, sharply, and, with a loud clack, the shutters were folded back behind the iron grille. On the far side appeared the figure of a nun, in a black habit with a white headcloth. Her face was elderly, sharp-eyed, much wrinkled, and reminded me not a little of my great-aunt Isadora; I supposed that she was the Mother Superior.
I rose silently, and bowed.
In a dry, severe voice, she demanded, ‘Are you Felix de Cabezada y Brooke?’
‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’
‘You are taller than I had been led to believe,’ she said in a tone of suspicion.
Was I expected to apologise for my added inches? I did not know how to reply, therefore remained silent.
I had moved towards the grille when the shutters opened, and now could not see the woman with the rosary, who was behind me; I did not know what notice, if any, she was taking of this exchange.
The nun reflected. Next she seemed to beckon. Another white-robed form came into view, then quickly moved back out of sight.
The elderly nun said, not to me, ‘Is that person Felix Brooke?’
After an infinitesimal pause a quiet voice answered, ‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’
Had that been the voice of Juana? It was so soft, barely above a whisper, that I could not be certain. Nobody else in this place had known me before, though. It must be Juana.
I clenched my hands together.
The nun went on interrogating me.
‘You have been informed of the purpose for which you were summoned?’
She addresses me as if I wer
e a servant, I thought, with some resentment. Come here; go there; do this; do that. I was not summoned, I was invited. And no word of thanks for my speedy response . . .
‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’
‘You have seen the letter that was sent to the Conde de Cabezada and are acquainted with its contents? And his reply?’
‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’
‘You are prepared to undertake the rescue of the three unfortunate children of Manuel de la Trava, and remove them from the custody of their evil and demented father?’
I felt like saying, ‘Senora, for the chance to get another sight of Juana, I would be prepared to liberate Don Juan himself from the clutches of Mephistopheles,’ but contented myself with replying, for a third time, ‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’
‘It is well. By God’s grace this mission will be achieved. Have you any scheme in mind for how it is to be undertaken?’
Rather taken aback, I answered, ‘No, senora. It would be idle to make any plans until I am furnished with information about where the man has taken refuge and how he is armed. And what state of mind he is in.’
She nodded, slowly, twice, as if moderately satisfied with this reply.
‘Have you a companion with you? Where are you staying?’
I told her that I had brought Pedro Gonsalez, assistant to my grandfather’s steward, and named our posada.
‘Humph. . . You don’t have expensive tastes, I see. Just as well. And what have you been doing with yourself, during the years since you were able to be of assistance to Senorita Esparza?’
A little surprised, I answered staidly that I had been studying law, history, and literature at the University of Salamanca.
‘At Salamanca?’ she said as if this were news to her. ‘Who were your tutors there?’
This is uncommonly like the Inquisition, I thought; and decided that if women were permitted to hold positions in the Holy Office, Mother Agnese would make an excellent member of its tribunal.
‘Professor Lopez de Haro – Professor Enrique Mores – Professor Redmond.’
She pressed her lips together and frowned as if she could not recall any positively harmful information about these men, and rather regretted that this was so.
‘I see . . . And what will you be doing with yourself when your studies are completed?’
‘What is that to your purpose, you old hag?’ I felt like asking. ‘What has all this to do with the rescue of the de la Trava children?’ But, trained by years of politeness to my great-aunts, I answered, ‘I may very likely travel to England, senora. To visit once more the estates of my English grandfather, the Duke of Wells.’ And what possessed me to reply thus, I cannot imagine, for I had no such intention, not the least in the world. Perhaps I said it because it was the very last thing I planned to do – since I had taken a strong dislike to the Reverend Mother and felt, instinctively, that she was a meddler, an organiser, one from whom plans had best be kept hidden lest she remake them to suit her own ends.
At all events, the introduction of my English ducal grandfather into our conversation certainly gave her a surprise; I saw her eyes open wide, under the snowy headband.
‘Indeed?’ she said slowly. ‘That I did not know. . .’ with a degree of displeasure, as if persons employed to furnish her with information about me had signally failed in their duty. Maintaining a very solemn and serious demeanour I gazed back at her while she sharply scrutinised me.
‘You have an English title?’
‘Yes, senora – in that land I am the Marquess of St Winnow.’
She tapped thoughtfully with her nail on the white-painted sill of the window. Then, apparently making up her mind, said, ‘Go away now, Senor Brooke, and return at this time tomorrow. I shall need to take advice.’
Wonderful! I thought. Is there someone to whom even this dry old vulture turns for counsel?
Perhaps it might be God, of course.
Feeling horribly disappointed and thwarted, I would have liked to ask, ‘Senora, may I not have a glimpse of Sister Felicita?’
But instinct again warned me that would be a very, very unwise thing to do. So I merely bowed, and was retreating to the door, when the Reverend Mother added, ‘You may escort Senora de la Trava back to her residence.’
These words nearly startled me out of my skin. I had assumed that the well-dressed lady telling her beads on the settee was some unrelated visitor on some other errand.
The Reverend Mother’s letter had said that Dona de la Trava was the cousin of Juana, which led me to think that they must be about the same age; Juana would now be about eighteen, I remembered. But this veiled lady was surely at least ten years older?
She had risen also, and said to me softly, ‘If you would be so good as to wait for me a short moment outside – ’ then turned for some low-voiced consultation with the nun. I walked into the passage wondering what I was supposed to do.
‘Escort Senora de la Trava back to her residence,’ the Reverend Mother had said.
Looking out across the courtyard I could see the rain still pelting down. Was I expected to walk with the lady through the deluge, or must I run down into the town and somewhere find her a sedan chair? My education at the University of Salamanca had not taught me how to deal with problems of this kind.
In fact the solution proved simple. When the lady joined me, it turned out that she had left a wet umbrella in the corridor. With this I was permitted to shelter her across the courtyard; and outside the gate a handsome carriage was waiting for her.
‘I should be very glad, Senor Brooke, if you would give me the pleasure of your company to my parents’ home,’ she said. ‘They wish so much to meet you. We have all heard about the gallant cavalier who rescued my cousin Juana.’
A fat coachman had jumped off the box and opened the door. He took the umbrella from me and guided the lady across the cobbles as if she had been made of sugar-icing. Then, when she was seated inside, he held the door for me.
Very reluctantly I climbed into the carriage, unable to think of any polite excuse for refusing. But I was hot with embarrassment. At eighteen one is not pleased to be complimented on actions undertaken when one was thirteen. And that journey had been a private transaction between myself and Juana; I did not like to think that it had been talked about by others. Of course I had told Grandfather about it, but that was different; he had received a letter of thanks from Juana’s uncle, so all I did was confirm the letter.
‘When did you last see your cousin, Dona de la Trava?’ I inquired, in order to say something, as the horses moved forward.
‘Oh, it was at least three years ago. When she was staying at her house in France, settling the affairs of her brother who died. Poor little Juana! She was so young to inherit all those cares.’
She would have had even more cares if her brother had not died, I thought; since he had paid some brigands to abduct and murder her. Apparently Dona Conchita did not know that.
‘I went to stay with Juana in France when my children Nico and Luisa were six and five. Ah, they loved her so dearly! The youngest was not yet born.’
‘Tell me about your children, senora,’ I said. ‘Why has their father abducted them?’
‘The wretch! It is because he pretends to love them.’
‘Does he not do so really?’
‘How can he? He is mad! A madman! He has threatened to do terrible things – he said he would kill us with an axe! I am so afraid of what he will do to my poor babies –’
I asked how long Don Manuel had been like this, but she became vague. For a number of years, I gathered, he had steadily been growing more difficult, passionate, and ungovernable.
‘And his opinions! So wild! And his behaviour harsh to me – uncivil – savage to my friends!’
‘Where were you living at this time?’
‘In Madrid.’
I asked if her husband had a profession and she replied rather coldly that he had no need to work for his living, being a nobleman, Grandes d
e Espana.
‘And then,’ she said, ‘after – after he had become too wild and unreliable to be endured any longer, he – he was arrested and flung into jail for his seditious political opinions. So I returned here, with the children, to my parents’ house. But Manuel – but he managed somehow to escape from the prison; and he followed us secretly – and one day, when I was out and my parents were not at home – he – he took them – ’ Her voice trembled, and she touched a handkerchief to her eyes, under the veil.
‘How long ago was this, senora?’ I asked quietly, when I judged she had had time to recover herself.
‘Two months ago.’
‘Two months – ay, Dios!’ It had taken about four weeks, I supposed, for Juana to be transferred from Bayonne to Bilbao, and for me to be summoned from Salamanca. What had happened during the first month?
‘Have you any idea where he has taken the children?’
‘Somewhere in Aragon, I am sure. He went first to Berdun, where his brother lives, Don Ignacio de la Trava. But his brother would not permit him to stay in his house, and he wrote to me, telling that Manuel had been there. And then – then I had a letter from – from one of my children –’
The little sob she gave was very pitiful.
‘Manuel kept them locked up. Would you believe it? But a servant girl at an inn was sorry for them and permitted Luisa to write a note, and arranged for it to be sent.’
Locked up, I thought. Heavens, what a situation.
‘The girl is the oldest?’
‘No, her brother is. But she writes better. Nico is slow – but a sweet, good boy,’ she added hastily.
‘And the little one – the youngest?’
‘Why, here we are!’ she exclaimed. ‘How quickly Tomas has driven us.’
It had been hard, in the dusk and the rain, to see which way we went. We had circled round the outskirts of the town, avoiding the centre. Conchita’s parents must reside somewhere out in the suburbs; I caught dim glimpses of what seemed a large new villa, set among flowering trees and shrubs. I was led through a lobby and a courtyard into a large salon filled with very handsome furniture. Compared with this place, I thought idly, my grandfather’s rooms at Villaverde would seem sadly shabby. Everything here was new, glossy, heavy, and shining with gilt, varnish, or beadwork. At the end of the large chamber sat two old crumpled creatures like fat toads. Like toads’ eyes, theirs did not blink as Conchita led me to them.