Bridle the Wind

  ‘He would not help you?’

  ‘I do not believe that.’ But Juan sounded troubled. ‘Simply, I believe he did not answer the letter. Very likely he thought it some trick of Este-ban’s, whom he never trusted.’

  ‘You heard your nurse tell the robbers this?’

  ‘Ha!’ Juan gave a sniff of triumph. ‘They thought I was asleep. They smoke a stuff called kef, in little pipes. It is made from hemp leaves. They gave me some, thinking it Would put me to sleep. But I only pretended to smoke, and I pretended to fall asleep. I heard Anniq’s voice – and I almost called out, I thought she had come to help me. But I heard her tell them, ‘The uncle does not answer. My master says you had best put an end to the business. There is no sense in keeping the child alive any longer, a danger to us all.”

  ‘The monster!’

  ‘Oh, my brother Esteban is quite a villain,’ whispered Juan matter-of-factly. ‘Which is odd, because Papa, though stern, was an upright man. But Esteban thinks of nothing save money. If I had – ‘Juan paused, then added, T daresay he now believes that Uncle León’s fortune will come to him.’ Another satirical sniff.

  ‘Your own nurse betrayed you?’

  What a terrible life this poor boy has had, I thought. Surrounded by enemies! He would hardly dare set his foot on the ground, lest it prove quicksand and give way under his tread.

  ‘Anniq’s nephew, Jeannot Plumet, you see, was in the galleys at Toulon.’

  ‘The galleys?’

  ‘The prison. He had killed a farmer in a drunken rage. He is a kind of wild idiot. Then he escaped from the bagne. He was one of the brigands. That was why Anniq would help them.’

  ‘I see. You had better tell all this to the gendarmes.’

  ‘No! The gendarmes would never catch them. They have a hundred hiding places. And they – the Gente – would certainly kill me in revenge. Even here’ – he looked fearfully round the tiny shadowed room – ‘even here I am not safe. I must go to Spain, to my Uncle León. He will take me in, for love of my mother.’

  ‘Spain!’ A light seemed to shine through my understanding. That was why God had seen fit to direct me into the path of this boy. I was to take him into Spain with me. For I could see that, weak, half starved, beset as he was, he would never be able to manage the journey on his own. ‘Where did you say your uncle lives?’

  Oh, if only it were in Galicia!

  But he answered, ‘In Pamplona, in Navarre. Uncle León is a wine merchant. As my father was, too. But how am I to get there? Tomorrow I must leave this place. Somehow I must find or steal a horse or a mule – ’

  ‘You? You are hardly fit to ride a donkey at present! How could you cross the mountains?’

  He fired up. ‘How dare you say that? I can ride, and very well, too!’

  ‘Gently, gently! I am sure you ride as well as any caballero. All I meant was that at present you are sick, and weak; only a few hours escaped from death. Listen, Juan: be patient. I also wish to travel to Spain. I was on my way to my home in Galicia when the ship on which I took passage from England was wrecked in the bay here –’

  ‘When?’ he said sharply. ‘There has been no storm.’

  ‘I will tell all that another time. Only be patient for a few days, till you are stronger; and then I will accompany you into Spain and see you safe to your uncle’s house.’

  It was with no particular enthusiasm, I must confess, that I made the offer. Pamplona, on the south slopes of the Pyrenees, would be a long way off my own intended course, and I also suspected that Juan would make a delicate, peevish, trying companion for a dangerous journey.

  But I could see clearly that this was what God had in mind for me to do, and I was confirmed in this by an approving nod from Him, which I felt inside me. Good boy, Felix. That is your way. Follow along it.

  Juan, however, was by no means so certain of me, or even particularly grateful. He bestowed on me a long, doubtful, wary, narrow stare, from between those thick, bristly lashes, then whispered, ‘Yow will accompany me into Spain? How do I know that I can trust you? And what use would you be in danger? You are probably younger than I. And why should you make me such an offer?’

  I heard the bell ring for Prime, and saw that a faint light was beginning to creep round the edges of the windows.

  ‘Never mind all that now!. Father Pierre will scold me for letting you talk when you should be asleep, resting and mending your hurts. But remember what I said and think it over. It is a firm offer. Also – listen! This is important! The Abbot of this place – Father Vespasian – have you heard of him?’

  ‘He can heal sickness, I have heard.’ ‘That may be! But he is a strange man. Do not trust him!’

  ‘Why?’ The great eyes flew open again in alarm. ‘Is he one of them? The Gente?’

  ‘No – no. Nothing like that. But worse, perhaps. He is – I think – bad. I think he has given himself to some wicked power. He will probably ask you questions. He may come and offer to heal you. Perhaps he can do so. But be very wary of him. That is all I can say. If he cannot heal you – perhaps you should try to pretend that he has done so. If disobeyed, or disregarded, he can turn savage – ’

  ‘Oh!’ whispered Juan in a weeping tone, sounding, all at once, childish and piteous. ‘Is there no one I can trust save my Uncle León?’

  ‘Of course there are trustworthy people! Father Pierre, who looks after you here, and Father Antoine, who helped me bring you in, are both good as bread. And,’ I said, ‘you can trust me. Now: do you want to bar the door again after me?’

  ‘Yes.’ After a moment Juan added reluctantly, T thank you for rubbing my neck. It feels a little better. And for your offer. I will give it my consideration,’ he said with dignity.

  ‘Bueno’ I picked up the cup and the little grease pot, and left the chamber. As I lay down again on my pallet I heard the patter of bare feet on the floor and the scrape of the stool pushed against the door.

  To my shame I slept late the following day, waking only when I heard the bell for High Mass. I ran to the chapel with conscience-stricken haste and knelt down by the side of Father Pierre. But he greeted me with a benign smile, as if I had done nothing wrong, and after, as we walked to the infirmary, told me that the patient still slept profoundly, as could be seen through a slit in the door.

  ‘You talked with him in the night, my son?’

  ‘Yes, father, I did, a little; he told me that he was afraid to stay here because – ’ I did not wish to speak of the Mala Gente, for that was Juan’s secret, so I simply said, ‘because of the people who wish him harm. He feels sure they know he has been brought here.’

  Father Pierre frowned. ‘But here he should be safe enough. In a holy abbey!’

  ‘He is not so confident of that, my father. He wishes to go to Spain, where his uncle will receive him.’

  ‘He has no family in France?’

  ‘Only a brother, who – who dislikes him.’ Here, too, I forbore to mention Juan’s assertion that his brother had been the one to arrange for his abduction and murder. Did I, then, not believe his story? No, after careful thought, I had concluded that he was very likely telling the truth. Such things did happen. But Juan had unburdened himself to me at dead of night when the tongue is free and unguarded; if, by daylight, he wished to reconsider his tale, I would not stand in his way. I went on quickly, ‘My father, I told him that I would be willing to accompany him into Spain, as soon as he likes, if that is what he wishes.’

  Father Pierre gave a gasp.

  ‘You, my boy? But the way into Spain is long and dangerous, over a great rampart of mountains! He is little more than a child, and frail, and only just rescued from death. And you yourself in not much better case – ’

  ‘I am well enough, father, and rested enough. And I believe that it was for this purpose that God left me here.’

  At this Father Pierre stopped walking – we were in the passageway between the kitchen and the infirmary, where we could not be seen – and gave me a lo
ng, intent, thoughtful scrutiny. At length he said, ‘My heart tells me that you are right, Felix. But, saints aid us, child, what problems lie ahead of you! I must think carefully about this – you must give me time to reflect.’

  ‘Of course, father.’

  He passed a hand over his head. ‘In the meantime – run to Father Mathieu and ask him for chives and lettuce and chicory to make a soothing and sustaining broth for the patient. And on your way, call in on Father Antoine – you will find him at work in the scriptorium – and ask him if he will be so good as to come to me for a moment or two.’

  Father Antoine was at work on a beautiful illuminated manuscript, a copy of the Psalms. Each capital letter took him a day’s work; they were coloured in green, blue, red, and gold; he had only reached Psalm 23 and the task might last him the rest of his life. But he arose without a grumble at my message and departed in the direction of the infirmary.

  Aged Father Mathieu, in the kitchen garden, was not quite so accommodating.

  ‘Father Pierre might have considered me before snatching away my helper,’ he mumbled. ‘Here we are, halfway through sowing the second crop of peas, and I am left all on my own with no one to mark the rows and rake them over and hang up the bird scarers – and he will be the first to complain if there is no pea soup for his patients in July.’

  ‘Well, I will help you, father, it will take only twenty minutes and I don’t think Father Pierre is in a hurry for his chives and lettuce.’

  In fact I had a shrewd idea that Father Pierre wished me out of the way while he conferred with Father Antoine. That both wished me well I felt certain; perhaps, left together, they might agree to my quitting the Abbey with Juan, quietly, as soon as Father Pierre thought his patient sufficiently recovered.

  On my way back towards the infirmary I chanced to go near the great gate of the Abbey and became aware of three strangers, sick people, or petitioners, I supposed, who had come in and were making inquiries of the novice Alaric, who happened to be passing.

  On looking at them again I thought that two of them did not seem like sick people, though they were strange enough in their appearance: one a tall gaunt fellow with a shock of white hair and a black patch over his eye, one a dwarf – or rather a midget, for he was all in proportion, not huge-headed as many dwarfs are, but not much over three foot high. The third of the group must have been the invalid: his head was entirely swathed in rags, and the rest of him covered with terrible sores, red and mustard-yellow and weeping; he hobbled on two crutches and seemed not to have the use of his legs.

  As I passed I heard one of them ask Alaric: ‘Was a young, hurt lad brought in here yesterday, a boy called Juan Esparza?’

  ‘No, friend, not that I heard of,’ said poor Alaric, who had been in trouble again and performing his penance when Juan was carried in. ‘Did you wish to see the Abbot?’ he added, looking at the terrible sores on the cripple. ‘His time for seeing sick people is on Fridays, after the service of Sext. But they will give you accommodation in the guesthouse if you wish to stay here till then.’

  The three conferred quietly, then thanked Alaric but said they would return to the village and come back again on Friday.

  I went on my way deeply troubled. It seemed that Juan had spoken no more than the truth, and that his pursuers were hard on his heels.

  At the infirmary I found more cause for alarm. Father Vespasian, it seemed, had come to inspect the sick boy for himself. I found Father Antoine and Father Pierre below in the surgery, looking nervous and apprehensive.

  ‘You cannot go up,’ Father Pierre told me. ‘Our Abbot himself is honouring the patient by a visit. Wait here quietly; you can strip the leaves of that rosemary off the stalks.’

  Choosing to pretend that I had not understood the first part of his order, I carried the basketful of rosemary branches upstairs to a point from which I could hear the voices beyond Juan’s half-open sickroom door.

  ‘Naturally you can trust me, boy,’ the Abbot was saying impatiently. ‘Lie still, let me lay my hands on your neck, and in a couple of moments you will be healed.’

  ‘I thank you, sir’ – that was Juan’s voice, cautious, wary, and still very faint – ‘but I am better already, thanks to Felix and Father Pierre. I do not require any more healing than what le bon Dieu, through their help, has supplied.’

  I was quite startled at the cool assurance with which Juan thus defied the Abbot. Not such a poor helpless ragamuffin as he had seemed! But Father Vespasian answered him sharply.

  ‘Do not be impertinent, lad! It is not for you to accept or decline my offer! Sit up in bed, so that I can look at you properly! I insist on inspecting your hurt neck.’

  There followed a slight mew of sound from Juan, as if Father Vespasian had briskly tugged back the blankets; then the Abbot demanded: ‘Who did this to you? Who intended to kill you? Answer me!’

  ‘Oh, how can I tell?’ whimpered Juan. ‘How do I know who they were? They were very wicked men – that is all I can tell!’

  ‘What is your name?’ demanded the Abbot. ‘Where is your family? Who is your father? Where do you come from? Speak up, boy! Answer, when I ask you! Look me in the eye!’

  Father Vespasian’s voice was rising ever shriller and sharper; with terror I imagined how his eyes might be glowing red and his movements becoming more uncontrolled.

  But again Juan surprised me.

  ‘My name is Benedictus!’ he whispered softly. ‘Benedictus, the bell ringer. Oh! how I love to ring the bells when M. le Curé gives me the order! Tin-tan, din-dan, bim-bam, bom, bo! And the voices of the bells fly away through the valleys, warning the villagers that thunder is on the way and prudent men must take cover. Tin-tan, din-dan, bim-bam, bom, bo!’

  There followed a longish silence; I could not imagine what was happening; then Father Vespasian’s voice, angry, but at least under control, said, ‘What foolishness is this? You talk like a simpleton. Come, answer my questions!’

  ‘I am a simpleton,’ whispered Juan. ‘My sufferings have turned my wits. Oh, hé, hé, hé, what a poor boy am I. Tin-tan, din-dan, bim-bam. Do not come too near me; the lightning seared me and I might pass right through you like a sword.’

  ‘Be silent, boy! I am going to lay my hand on your head.’

  ‘No, no!’ shouted Juan – if one can shout in a whisper, he did so. ‘Do not touch me! Felix! Felix! I want Felix! I will have no one near me but Felix!’

  Deciding that the time had come for me to take a hand, I summoned all my courage and walked into the room, extending a bunch of rosemary in my hand. Bowing politely to Father Vespasian, I said, ‘Here, Juan, Father Pierre said that you were to hold this rosemary and keep sniffing it. The fragrance will help to clear your nose and throat – ’

  Father Vespasian said, ‘How dare you come into this room when I am here!’

  He was very pale, I noticed, and sweat ran in droplets on his skull-shaped forehead.

  To my huge relief Father Pierre had pattered up the stair and at this moment followed me into the sickroom, murmuring, ‘I think it is time, now, for the patient to rest, Father Vespasian.’

  The little room seemed very crowded with the three of us in there, and Juan burst into a sudden fit of loud childish sobs and huddled himself under the covers of his bed, whining out, ‘Go away! Go away, every one of you! I do not want you, I want no one at all.’

  Father Vespasian swung on his heel and left the room, summoning me, with his glaring eye, to follow him.

  And when he was downstairs: ‘Has that young vagabond confided in you?’ he inquired of me fiercely.

  Conscious of the frightened gaze of Father Pierre and Father Antoine, as they awaited my reply, I stammered out: ‘No – no, Father Abbot. Well, yes – a little. But no – n-not in any particular – ’

  ‘How did you come to know that he would be suspended in that thicket?’

  ‘I heard his voice – ’

  ‘From halfway down the beach? Do not lie to me, boy! Father Antoine
heard nothing. How could you hear him from such a distance? What did he tell you about himself? What is the connection between you?’ ‘There is no connection between us,’ I said. ‘Except that I found him and I am sorry for him. And he told me nothing that I am at liberty to pass on.

  ‘If you will not tell me, you must be beaten!’

  Father Pierre made a slight gesture of protest, but I felt quite calm.

  ‘Beating will not make me tell what I have no right to reveal.’

  ‘We shall see!’

  Father Vespasian was as good as his word. After Sext next day two of the strongest monks, Father Hilaire and Father Sigurd, disrobed me and ceremonially scourged me three times round the disused cloister, while Father Domitian read out a Penitential Psalm and Father Vespasian watched. Those brawny monks fairly laid on, too!

  Father Hilaire quietly informed me, between blows, that he took no pleasure in what he did, but was obliged to obey the orders of his Abbot; Father Sigurd made no such attempt to vindicate himself, but simply thwacked away at me with a tarred rope’s end, as if he thoroughly enjoyed the task.

  Afterwards – when I was reeling and half dizzy from pain – Father Vespasian said to me, ‘Have you changed your mind?’

  ‘No!’ I gasped.

  ‘Well, you can tell your friend in the sickroom that the same treatment awaits him, as soon as he rises from his bed, unless he sees fit to mend his ways and answer my questions. Now you had best go to the chapel and ask God to cleanse your mind of rebellious thoughts.’ And he walked off towards his lodge.

  But Father Domitian led me back to the infirmary, where Father Pierre, in silence but with a red face of indignation and tightly closed mouth, put first cold, then hot, compresses on my back until the agony was somewhat dulled, and then gave me a drink that sent me off to sleep for twelve hours.

  3

  The Gente; the causeway; I go to seek old Pierre; and have doubts of him; Juan and I fall out over poetry; and go to the grotto, where we are caught in a storm

  The novice Alaric woke me.

  ‘Lie still,’ he ordered. ‘I am going to rub you with this oil of crushed wheat which Father Pierre has sent for you. Father Vespasian commanded that if you did not present yourself at Prime you were to be beaten again.’