by Joan Aiken
‘Why did you do that?’ she hissed, scowling up at me.
‘To put a spell on you,’ I suggested.
‘What do you mean?’ She stuck out her lower lip, frowning down at the plaited necklace, pulling it up so as to study the blue bead. ‘What is this? It is like the beads that oxen wear – to protect them from the Evil Eye.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘perhaps it will protect you likewise. Or perhaps it will help you to enjoy riding on that pillion!’
Then, seeing that Pedro had completed his purchase, I joined him among the dangling saddles at the shop entrance as the child still stared after me – meanwhile, I noticed her father hastily handing over silver coins for his pillion saddle. Flustered, sweating, and anxious, he had never even noticed my conversation with his child. Glancing back, I saw her quickly push the blue bead out of sight, under her tucker.
‘Good, that was piece of luck,’ said Pedro with satisfaction. ‘Heaven only knows what we would have done if that girth had broken somewhere on the mountains between Pedralba and Ponferrada.’
At our little inn they had a great dish of stewed hare waiting for us – a far better meal than our midday bacon and eggs.
While we were eating in the dim-lit downstairs room, the only one the place boasted, I overheard some inquiry taking place at the front door, and, craning so as to see past the back of the fat innkeeper who stood there, I caught sight of my small man from Salamanca, apparently putting questions to the posadero.
This seemed a perfect moment to take the bull by the horns – if bull there were – so, rising from the table, I walked to the entrance as if wishful to take a breath of air. Then, appearing to observe the small man for the first time, I gave a great start of assumed wonder, and cried out, ‘Why, senor, what a pleasant surprise! How good to encounter a familiar face in a strange town! My dear friend, I have seen you so often, week after week, month after month, in the streets near the University in Salamanca that I feel you are, indeed, quite a friend! Will you not come in and take a glass of wine with me? It is such a joy to meet an acquaintance when far from home!’
The small man seemed startled out of his wits, and gaped at me, not in the least gratified at my recognition of him.
‘Er – ha – hum – I fear I don’t understand you, my young senor. Know you? I’ve never laid eyes on you in my entire life!’
‘Oh, senor, how can you say such a thing? When I have so often seen you looking at me! Do you not come from Salamanca?’
‘Why – yes – but –’
‘Then what can you be doing in Zamora?’
At this he looked very put about. ‘May the foul fiend fly away with you!’ he burst out crossly. ‘What affair is that of yours? I have a right to be in Zamora if I please! My – er – my sister lives here!’
‘But you were asking, senor,’ said the innkeeper patiently, ‘you were inquiring if a certain young gentleman were staying here – was this the young gentleman you had in mind? You were telling me that he –’
‘No, no, no, Devil take you, and him, this isn’t the one. This isn’t he at all. A – a tall big-built black-haired man – I was about to say – with a scar on his cheek –’
Outside the inn doorway there was a lantern suspended, and, now that my eyes had grown used to its dim glow, I could see that the Salamanca man had two companions, who loitered in the shadow just beyond the first circle of light. The smaller one I recognised at once by her movements – it was the child from the saddler’s shop, dancing up and down, dragging and twisting her companion’s arm. And he, from his bulk, must be her fat father.
The child knew me directly. I saw her intent little face look up, her eyes flicker, her hand move to the neck of her dress, as if she expected me to ask for the leather circlet back.
‘Would you wish to come in and wait, in case the senor you are looking for comes later?’ suggested the landlord.
‘No, no, no!’ cried the other man again. ‘How do I know that he is not at some other posada – I must be on my way without delay –’
‘Can I have his name – or yours – so that a message may be left?’
But, whisking his companions away from the circle of lamp light, the small man departed at speed. I returned more slowly to the table and my unfinished plate of hare stew.
Pedro made no comment at the time, nor did I. But, later, when we were abed – the small bare bedchamber had but one couch in it, a big sagging one with a tester and a flock mattress which we had to share (it was damp and soggy as a tidal marsh) – ‘Well,’ whispered Pedro, ‘I always say that it is an advantage to know your enemy.’
‘Ay – and for him to know us.’
‘We had better set off before dawn.’
‘I am of your opinion.’
Accordingly we were up and stirring, as on the previous day, long before daylight, had drunk a cup of greasy chocolate, paid our reckoning, and saddled our beasts before anybody else was abroad in the streets. Or, at least, anyone that we could see.
Guided by the dawn star, on our right, we set off northwards.
‘The turning for Pedro de Sanabria should be about seven leagues farther on,’ Pedro said. So we rode at a good pace, in silence, for about an hour and a half, listening hard for any sound of pursuing hoofbeats.
By that time, a grey and misty day had dawned. Ahead of us now, to the north-west, we should have been able to see high peaks, the Cabrera, and perhaps the Montanas de Leon; but all was veiled in cloud.
‘This weather favours a notion I have,’ said Pedro.
‘Which is – ?’
‘We made very poor time yesterday. At this rate, it will be four days before we reach home. Your grandfather will be growing anxious. And if we take the mountain road, that is bound to slow us down –’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘We play the hare’s game, and double back.’
Luck favoured us. Just before the left turn that would take us to Pueblo de Sanabria – which is in open country – we encountered a shepherd driving a great flock of sheep southward towards Zamora.
‘Can you tell us, friend, which is the road for the Valle de Sanabria?’ Pedro called above the bleating of his flock. In reply the shepherd gestured with his crook.
‘Four bowshots ahead, to your left, senores,’ he called back.
We were still in the green valley of the River Esta; there were orchards and vineyards all around. When we had reached the turn indicated by the shepherd, taken it, and ridden a hundred yards or so, Pedro said, ‘Quick, now, while nobody is in sight. Off the road, and let us tie up the beasts at a good distance, out of sight and earshot.’
We led them among the trees, hobbled them, and left them grazing in the midst of an immense orchard of flowering plum trees; then returned to a point from which, hidden among the trees ourselves, we could watch the road. There we waited patiently.
Our patience was rewarded. Not half an hour after we started our vigil, who should come along but the small man on the big grey stallion. Without hesitation he took the left-hand fork, north-westwards for Pueblo de Sanabria.
‘Good,’ said Pedro. ‘He has interrogated the shepherd, and the shepherd told him what he told us. Now, let us make haste the other way.’
So we retrieved our beasts and set off at full speed on the carriage road northwards towards Leon. ‘And at Beneventa,’ said Pedro with satisfaction, ‘we join the great highway from Madrid to La Coruna. So our road becomes easier still. While Sancho the Spy has ahead of him a weary clamber over mountains.’
‘You think he knows our destination?’
‘Who can tell?’
‘Why does he follow us?’
‘How should I know?’ said Pedro. ‘That’s not my affair.’
And he fell to singing, horribly out of tune, the verse:
Santo Cristo de Lezo
Tres cosas piso
Salvacias y dinero
Y una buena marida.
Pedro was good-natured, easy-going
, cheerful, and shrewd as need be over all practical affairs; in many ways the best possible companion for a journey; yet there were boundaries to his nature, and beyond these he never made any attempt to venture. If the explanation of some matter was unknown to him, he would never try to seek it or guess at it. Things that he could not see were of no interest to him. And even things that he could see were valued strictly for their utility; you would never catch him admiring a sunset or a blossom-covered tree. I, as we rode in the mist among pink-and-white starry plum trees, would have liked to exclaim over and over at their mysterious beauty; but I knew that Pedro would be both embarrassed and perplexed if I did so, or turn it off with a laugh; so I remained silent. Yet he was very fond of me, I knew, and so was I of him; he was the older by two years, and we had played and tumbled about together, and fought, sometimes, ever since I was born. And he was devotedly attached to my grandfather.
I thought of Juana. If she had seen this vast plain, covered with fruit-blossom, she would have wished to write one of her poems about it. In many ways her nature was as far removed from mine as mine was from Pedro’s. Did she find me as limited as I found Pedro? That was a chill, uncomfortable notion. I feared it must be so. Perhaps she had done rightly in deciding to shut herself up alone with God? Perhaps God was the only person who could truly appreciate her?
Then I grinned, remembering some of her other qualities: she could lie like a gipsy if there was need (even, sometimes, without the necessity); she could be very bad-tempered and moody; she had a fierce pride, and was often impatient with those of less wit than herself. Indeed, I felt not a little sorry for God, in His dealings with Juana, shut up alone with her . . .
We made excellent speed that morning. After five hours’ hard riding we came to Astorga, where we sold our mules, since they, poor things, were spent for the time, and would need several days’ rest before they were fit for more work. However, since, they were fine animals, Pedro, who took care of the sale, obtained a decent price for them, and we managed to procure another pair, almost as good, big and strong, the larger one standing nearly sixteen hands.
Astorga, a small walled city with an arcaded plaza, is set on moorland with great mountains not far away. The cathedral is in ruins, and the people are grim and unfriendly. Hereabouts live the tribe of Maragatos, descended – so I have heard – from the Moors and ancient Goths. They carry the mails all over Spain, and are very faithful to their task, but otherwise surly and brutish.
We did not linger in Astorga, for there we had the great good fortune to fall in with the grand post from Madrid to La Coruna. We had been told that the road ahead was infested with robbers, so the chance to travel with some fifty companions, under armed escort, was not to be lost. A troop of soldiers accompanied the government courier, who carried, on his sturdy pony, two great leather sacks of official papers. We asked permission of the sergeant in charge to ride with the party, leave was given, and we all set forward together, Pedro and I congratulating ourselves, for, with luck, our presence in such a cavalcade would pass unnoticed, should anybody inquire about us after we had gone.
I had been wondering why the fat man with the little girl was not with Sancho the Spy that morning? Were they to follow him later? Or were they, after all, nothing to do with his interest in us, merely chance companions? Could Sancho have spoken the truth about his sister in Zamora? But then, why was the fat man planning a journey over the mountains? Or was that just coincidence? From time to time I put some of the questions and communings to Pedro but he, as I had known he would, merely shrugged, threw up his eyes, and answered, ‘How can I tell?’
Meanwhile we continued at a rattling pace, the soldiers who accompanied us singing a great many songs, mostly bawdy ones. Once, for a moment, one of the men struck up the Revolutionary Hymn of Colonel Riego:
Tragala, tragala, tragala
Cara de morron –
but the sergeant immediately silenced him with a terrible look, and a great blow on the shoulder, struck with the flat of his sword.
Now the road began to seesaw, climbing sometimes over mighty and formidable mountains, dropping again among wide valleys where walnut and chestnut groves flourished, where nightingales sang and cuckoos called. At the village of Bembibre, a beautiful spot set among groves of oak and willow, we exchanged our martial escort for another, but there was no time to halt, the whole manoeuvre was performed at speed and we had no chance to buy food or bait our mounts. The same thing happened at Ponferrada, a mining town with a great castle high above it. Here, some members of the party fell out, as their steeds were exhausted, but we decided to press on, as far as our good beast would take us.
Now we were ascending one of the loneliest roads that may be found anywhere in Spain, and skirting the shanks of some of the highest mountains. Great gorges and precipices lay all about us, and we had to tilt our heads far back to look up at the high snowy peaks. The villages, scanty and far apart, were small and grim, built of slate, with great stones on the roofs to keep them from blowing off in mountain storms. Down from the crags tumbled white waterfalls, often dropping a hundred feet to the beds they had carved out for themselves far below. We were warned by our escorts to be on the watch for wolf or wild boar, as the mountain-sides were often covered from peak to foot with dense forest. A few tiny fields, scattered here and there, hung almost vertical; on such steep slopes the crops must be dug and reaped by hand.
Joy filled my heart, for I knew we must be near the border of Galicia; the language of the folk we met along the way (few enough) now had the rough Gallegan accent, rather than the smooth Castilian they speak farther south.
Then a thought struck me: this road we travelled was the hard and terrible way taken by General Moore’s armies when, eighteen years ago (just before my birth), the English troops were forced to retreat, through bitter winter weather, with Napoleon’s cavalry hard on their heels, sabring and shooting down any stragglers. All the way to La Coruna, more than 150 miles, the English retreated with General Soult close behind them; the Spanish baggage-drivers forsook their mule-carts, and the provisions had to be abandoned, since the draught animals did not understand English words of command. Bodies of dead men, mules, oxen, were scattered all along the way. And at one point, farther along that grisly road, among the highest peaks, a great treasure in gold and silver dollars, worth 25,000 English pounds, had to be jettisoned, rolled down the mountain-side in barrels, so that the pursuing French should not seize it.
That treasure had never been recovered.
This story I had heard many times, from country people on my grandfather’s estate, and also from a renegade English soldier named Smith, whom I had met five years ago in strange circumstances on the mountains near Oviedo. Smith and some comrades of his had actually known where the treasure was to be found – or so he told me – and they had fought one another for the prize, two by two, until at last only the man Smith was left. I had been the accidental witness to the last of these duels. Smith, after killing his opponent, had planned to go and take the treasure for himself; but he died of the lung-rot before he could so do.
Who had it now, I wondered? Perhaps it had been discovered long ago; but whoever came across it must have kept the news to himself. If you found 25,000 pounds’ worth of gold coins in a mountain gorge on the border between Galicia and Asturias, would you not keep a still tongue about it, lest the authorities descend like mountain ravens, and rob you of your prize?
Everything in this region was wild, strange, terrifying, and beautiful; the track grew narrower and narrower as we climbed (going more slowly now) up and up to the very top of the highest pass. A thick mist, up there, enwrapped us – what in Galicia is known as a bretima. Luckily the ground at the top of the pass was level, a flat plain studded with thorn-thickets, for now night fell, and we were obliged to make our way through a profound darkness, without moon or star. If Pedro and I had been on our own, crossing one of the loftiest peaks in Spain, carved by ravine and precipices, we must ha
ve sat down and waited for daylight; but the armed guard, well used to this road, merely lit flambeaux and continued, a little more warily, yet still making good speed.
After more hours of travel, descending the northern slopes of the mountains, we came to the village of Los Nogales, where the escort was again exchanged for another set of soldiers. Nogales was a pleasant little place, half buried in chestnut woods, with a brawling river – but little of it could be seen, for the hour was now very late, and all the houses were dark, excepting the posada, where the new guard awaited us. Pedro was for spending the rest of the night here, but I said, ‘Come! Surely we can make shift to keep awake until daybreak. By now we must be little more than seven leagues from Villaverde; let us press on.’
‘Ay,’ said Pedro doubtfully, ‘but the road from Becerrea is little more than a track –’
‘Well, let us make a try, at all events.’ Now that we were so close to home, I was wild with impatience to finish the journey.
So at Becerrea we left our companions, who all shouted a friendly farewell, and turned north-east off the main carretera.
Happily for us, the mist had thinned as we descended the mountain, and there was moonlight to guide us on our way down a narrow valley beside yet another foaming torrent. We must follow this valley to where it was joined by a second, then turn south-east up that one; the cart tracks in this region follow the valleys; only sheep tracks cross the mountain ridges.
At a little village called Navia we had to make the turn, but here Pedro said apologetically, ‘I must rest a while, Senor Felix. My eyes keep closing. And my poor beast keeps stumbling. An hour’s sleep will see me fit to finish the journey.’
