by Joan Aiken
‘Oh well – I daresay there will turn out to be some very simple explanation,’I suggested robustly. ‘All explanations are simple when you hear them.’
‘Do you think I should tell Conchita that I have seen Pilar?’
‘Why not? It would be the natural thing to do.’
Her face cleared. ‘Then I will do so. I hate deception. Bless you, Felix! You have relieved my mind of a weight.’She spun on her heel and walked back inside the albergue.
Nearby I noticed one of the villagers, a man in a high conical Aragonese hat.
‘Senor,’I said to him, ‘have you by any chance seen a rather stout gentleman, well-dressed, with a little girl?’
He looked me straight in the eye, spat deliberately, then replied, ‘No, senor. I have seen no such persons. No such persons have been in this place.’
Then he walked away, not slow, not fast. Humph, I thought, someone has greased your palm well, my friend.
7
Arrival at the rope bridge; the bear; Pedro stunned; I encounter little Pilar on a cliff; Don Manuel and his children; the book; I carry a letter to Juana
When we were on our way again, with the females driving in the tartana, Pepe and Esteban in attendance, and Pedro and myself riding ahead, I noticed two things. One was that Conchita and Juana seemed to be on even more distant terms than they had been during the morning ride. Juana attended diligently to her driving, coaxing the mules along over the bad road with firmly set lips and knitted brow; while, beside her, Conchita sat bolt upright, looked straight ahead, and flicked her fan about in a displeased manner; neither of them seemed to address a single word to the other.
Conchita does not believe that little Pilar was in San Quilez, I thought. Or chooses to pretend disbelief. Which?
I noticed, also, that Pedro had some news that he wished to communicate; his eyes were huge with it, and he could hardly contain himself until we had drawn away from the others along a couple of turns of the track, which here, as we penetrated and climbed higher into the mountains, became increasingly narrow and rocky. The mist was too thick for any view in front, but the vast and cold presence of the High Pyrenees could be felt invisibly and forbiddingly around and ahead of us, like an army of huge granite ghosts. Dear Father in heaven, I thought – somehow it came more naturally to converse with God in such a place – dear Father, I presume You had some excellent reason for causing Manuel de la Trava to come and hide himself in these tremendous mountains. And I shall be greatly obliged if in due course You will divulge it to me.
Naturally I had a good reason, Felix, you ninny, came the chiding voice of God. From here, as the eagle flies, it is now hardly more than five leagues to the French frontier. The truth, my son, is always simple.
Overhead the faint shrill cry of an eagle impressed on me the force of God’s words. I looked up and saw the mighty bird, balancing in the mist on his wings, six cubits across, wider in their span than the height of the tallest man. I saw him drop a great haunch-bone from his talons and then swoop after it into some distant gully, to peck out the marrow from the smashed bone.
‘We need to be on the watch for wild boar hereabouts,’remarked Pedro. ‘I saw half a dozen of them on my ride back to San Quilez. Singly they may be no great danger, but meet a group of them – or even one savage old tusker –’
‘Bears too, I suppose,’I said, as a branch snapped among the trees, which cloaked the steep slopes of the mountain and came down close to the track.
‘Yes, bears; de Larra told me he had seen a big brown brute.’
‘Well? What is it you wanted to tell me?’ I asked, when several turns of the track lay between us and the mule-cart.
Pedro grinned widely. ‘You don’t miss much, do you, Felix? Why, it is this: those two precious postilions are part of the business too. While the lady was buying bread I went into the shed where I had left my mule, for I noticed that he had been walking tender on one hoof. I was sitting on the floor, picking out a splinter of stone, when I heard their voices. They did not know I was there. ‘What ever you do,’said one of them, ‘don’t kill him before we have what we want from him. His Excellency would have our tongues for pen-wipers if his death came about before –’ And then the other one said, ‘Quiet, you fool. I know that as well as you do,’and they walked out into the plaza. I heard them as plain as I can hear you.’
‘Did you indeed?’said I. ‘Well, I am not particularly surprised. I always thought they were a pair of untrustworthy-looking scoundrels. I wonder who His Excellency is.’
‘Don Ignacio, perhaps. Or Dona Conchita’s father. Or the fat man.’
‘His name is Don Amador de Castanos,’I said, and told Pedro what Juana had told me.
He whistled. ‘And Don Amador is travelling with the Dona’s third child. Well! What do you make of that?’
‘What do you?’
‘Calla boca! It is quite plain. The child is his and the lady Conchita’s, and none of de la Trava’s at all. I am sorry if this spoils your notion of her, Felix –I know you seemed to find her a very gracious and perfect young lady at first –’
‘Not quite as perfect as all that,’I said shortly. ‘But I had to be civil to her; it is on her errand that we are employed, after all.’
Pedro eyed me sideways.
‘Well, I thought you seemed mightily taken with her. And I could see the Dona Juana wasn’t best pleased with that. However, that’s none of my affair! My own opinion, from the very start, is that Dona de la Trava is one of those sweet-spoken smilers who would be very happy to drive their carriage right over you, if you should chance to fill a hole in the road –’
‘Suppose you are right; what is the purpose of Don Amador flitting all over the landscape with little Pilar?’
Pedro considered. ‘As I see it: the fact that little Pilar isn’t de la Trava’s child at all, that he didn’t choose to abduct her with the others, rather spoils the picture of Dona Conchita as a poor bereaved mother and a wronged wife. Does it not? If she hopes to inherit de la Trava’s money – and there’s somebody important that she has to enlist on her side – the Minister of Justice, perhaps, or that Reverend Mother you saw –’
‘ – who is the cousin of the king’s confessor,’I remembered. ‘Yes; I expect you are right, Pedro. Conchita needs little Pilar to be at hand when the other two are rescued –’
‘So that she can be fitted neatly into the pattern.’
Pedro laughed.
‘From the way she was carrying on in that saddler’s in Zamora, I doubt if that one will fit neatly into anybody’s pattern!’
Except God’s, perhaps, I thought.
‘I suppose she was the cause of all that commotion in Berdun.’
‘What commotion?’said Pedro.
‘I forgot; you’d gone to stable the mules.’I told Pedro about the servant who had found a viper among the onions, and the small sprite or demon who had scampered ahead of me up the stairs and climbed the big conical chimney. ‘I’d be ready to wager that was little Pilar. Yes, and in fact I know it was.’For now I remembered the sooty little necklet I had picked up in Don Ignacio’s fireplace – a shoe-lace threaded with buttons and plaited. At the time it had reminded me of something, but I could not think what the something was. Now I knew: it was the plaited thongs and blue bead I dropped over Pilar’s head in the saddler’s shop.
Pilar had copied my model, as children will, using other materials.
‘But, Felix,’Pedro went on, after we had ridden in silence for another hundred paces, ‘it seems to me that this errand is a nasty, dirty business! And if your grandfather knew the true rights of it, he would never have allowed you to take part in it.’
‘As if he could have stopped me!’I exclaimed indignantly.
Still, in my heart, I agreed with Pedro. Grandfather would feel nothing but loathing and scorn for the plots and plans of Don Ignacio, of Conchita, of Amador de Castanos. Did Don Amador hope to marry Conchita, once her husband was disposed of? Did she pl
an to marry him? Or had she other plans in mind?
Pedro smiled and shrugged, as much as to say, I know you and your grandfather better than you know yourselves. After a minute, he observed, ‘Well, it is lucky that we ran into Senor de Larra. There is one honest man, at least. And with God’s help he will get de la Trava out of Spain and out of the clutches of all these griffin vultures. And that will be a good end to the business.’
‘We had better keep those two picaros under sharp observation, if they have been hired to kill Don Manuel.’
‘I have a suggestion to make,’said Pedro, ‘Another league will bring us to the rope bridge. We shall be obliged to leave the females there. And Dona Conchita certainly won’t want to remain unprotected. So Pepe and Esteban can be told to stay and guard her.’
This seemed a practical arrangement, though I feared that Juana would not be best pleased at being left behind again with Conchita and the outriders.
In a quarter of an hour we all reached the bridge, and halted.
It was a gloomy place. For some time the valley had been growing narrower as we rode northward. The sides were so steep that it was a wonder the forest trees could cling to them; below us in its gorge the Aragon river was almost out of sight, but its voice could be heard roaring between vertical rocky banks.
To the left of the track a quarry had long ago been hacked out, leaving a semi-circle of flat ground with rock walls rising behind; in the quarry stood a cheerless-looking stone building, what is known as a korta, or foresters’ summer hut. The windows were holes, the door split logs nailed roughly together. A pile of firewood lay nearby.
And the bridge? That was simply two strands of rope stretched across the gorge, one above the other. Knotted to them at equal intervals and lacing them together, another rope ran zigzag between.
‘Madre de Dios,’ said Conchita shivering. ‘Are men expected to go across that?’
‘Why, it is nothing, senora,’said Pedro cheerfully, ‘You just do it like this!’And he demonstrated, moving sideways nimbly on the rope.
‘Nobody is going to get me on that flimsy affair. Surely there must be some other road to the castillo? How did they take in their supplies?’ she demanded.
‘There was another road,’I told her. ‘But it has been blown up.’
‘What about the road that we are on? Where does it go? Is there no other bridge across the river, farther along?’
‘There is a footbridge, yes, where the river narrows, but no road back to the castillo. Only a footpath. There are cliffs in between, very high.’
‘Trust Manuel to hide himself in such a barbarous spot!’she exclaimed in a fury.
‘So what do you propose, Senor Felix?’calmly inquired Juana.
Conchita and the two outriders gazed at her in surprise; she had dismounted, tied the mules to a hasp on the wall of the hut, and was surveying the bridge with critical interest. She raised her brows at me with a slight smile. When she was younger, I remembered, she had been terrified of heights; was she recalling one of our adventures when we had hidden halfway up a cliff, and been caught there by a thunderstorm?
‘I propose,’said I carefully, ‘that you ladies remain here, with Pepe and Esteban to guard you from bears and brigands, while Pedro and I go on to the castillo, which is less than a third of a league farther, on the other side of the river; Pedro says that you could see it from just up there, if the mist were not so thick.’
We all peered hopefully upward; nothing was visible, however, but damp foliage, veiled in mist, rising up the sides of the gorge, and nothing to be heard save the roar of the river and some creature, izard perhaps, or mountain deer, crunching among the trees.
‘Are you quite sure that this road does not lead on to some place where we might rest more comfortably?’persisted Conchita.
‘I assure you, senora, it does not.’
In fact, as I knew, having carefully studied a map at the albergue, the road, becoming a track, then dwindling to a path, then hardly even that, followed the curve of the Aragon north-eastward, round to the right, almost as far as the river’s source, then took a northerly direction, climbing up to the ridge that formed the frontier and crossing into France at a point called Les Forges d’Abel. If Don Manuel took that path, he could strike downward into the valley of the Aspe, and so make his way to Oloron.
‘There is absolutely no village, hamlet, or even a house beyond this point, senora,’I told Conchita. ‘Only mountains.’
‘Oh!’she said with a discontented shiver. ‘Well, in that case I suppose we must do as you suggest. I had not supposed at all that matters would turn out like this.’And she glanced round with displeasure, as if we had all personally brought about the inconveniences that she was obliged to suffer. Again, I was reminded of little Pilar; she was her mother’s own child. ‘Esteban,’she went on, ‘light a fire in that hideous hut. At least we need not die of cold while we wait. Pepe, put the mules somewhere, so they are not devoured by wild beasts.’
A distant howl in the forest underlined the good sense of her words. Pepe led the beasts round to the back of the hut, where there was an open stable.
‘Juana,’ ordered Conchita in exactly the same tone that she had used to the menservants, ‘you had best write a letter for Senor Felix to carry to Manuel.’
‘I have no writing materials.’
‘I brought some.’And, from among the various bundles in the tartana. Conchita produced a pen, ink, and a writing tablet.
‘What do you expect me to write?’Juana’s tone was dry as she surveyed this evidence of forethought.
Conchita raised her fine brows. ‘Why? Nothing but the truth, of course. That you are waiting here, ready to receive and cherish the children; that you will be with them and care for them as long as is necessary.’
‘I can’t give such a promise,’Juana said.
‘Why not?’
‘It would not be true. I will put only that I am here, and will escort them to their grandparents.’
Conchita started to say something; changed her mind. ‘Very well,’she said.
Juana sat on a rock and, dipping the pen in the ink, began to write.
‘You had better,’said Conchita, ‘put in a message in that ridiculous language that you and the children used to speak together; so that they will know it is really you, here, waiting for them.’
Juana laid down the quill.
‘Don’t you think, Conchita, that it would be better if I accompanied Felix? Then the children could see me for themselves. And so could Manuel.’
She cast a look of dread, mixed with resolution, at the bridge; I noticed the trembling of her hands and my heart applauded her courage.
Conchita visibly wavered. But, I thought, she was not wishful to be left alone with the two outriders whose looks, now I came to consider them in the light of what Pedro had heard, did nothing to recommend them: Pepe was little, sharp, and weaselly, Esteban big, lowering, and loutish.
Conchita said, ‘What, and leave me alone in this wilderness? I thank you, no! Finish the letter.’
Juana shrugged, nodded, and continued to write. She finished by drawing something at the foot of the paper, then folded and gave it to me.
She said, ‘It’s an owl. Luisa will remember. I always used to draw owls for her.’
A thread of smoke was now rising from the hut’s crude chimney.
‘You had best be off, Felix,’urged Conchita.
‘Should I not take some of that bread you brought?’I suggested.
‘Por favor, no! My husband would be sure to think it poisoned. They may have it when they come here, tell them. Now, Senor Felix, you will bring my little ones back to me – won’t you? You know how entirely I depend on you?’
Suddenly Conchita quite shed her former cold, brisk manner, and was all melting tenderness; her eyes swam with real tears, she clasped her hands together in pitiful appeal as she gazed up at me.
Of course I promised to do all that lay within my power. Pedro, u
nimpressed by this affecting scene, had already begun working his way across the rope bridge, first a hand, then a foot, then the other hand, then the other foot. His progress was slow; traversing the gorge took him about five minutes. I waited to start until he had reached the farther bank, in case I might shake the ropes too much and loosen his hold. Then, when he was safely over, I began my own crossing. For somebody used, as I was, to climbing rocks and trusting to the strength of my arms, it was not difficult; but to look down into the gorge far below was not advisable. It gave a horrible hollow feeling in the pit of the stomach. The water ran so white, dashing among jagged rocks. And I must confess that I suffered from a considerable dread that the rope might break; I wondered how often it was renewed, and by whom? Not very often, judging by its grey and frayed appearance. Then, too, supposing that an enemy came by while one was halfway over! How easy to sever the strand with one slice of a knife. Or loose off a bullet at somebody helplessly spread-eagled, halfway along . . .
While these thoughts came and went in my mind, I was methodically working my way along, and had gone well past the halfway point when a shout from Esteban made me turn my head cautiously towards the bank that I had left. There I saw a sight that shook me badly. A smallish brown beast had come out from the bushes on the bank and was standing, sniffing and pawing inquisitively at the vibrating ropes and the stone pier to which they were tethered. It was a bear cub; not big, perhaps eight weeks old; activated, as bear cubs often are, by foolhardy curiosity, not in the least afraid of the humans near at hand.
I heard Conchita cry, ‘Shoot it, shoot the beast! Shoot it, Esteban!’
And I heard his answering cry, ‘Bueno, bueno, senora!’
‘No, you fool, leave it alone!’I yelled at the top of my lungs, and set the bridge oscillating wildly by my sudden movement. Pedro likewise shouted, ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot it!’but to no avail. Esteban, delighted to have some action required of him at last, snatched up his gun and discharged it at the cub, which was still standing on hind legs and sniffing at the rope. It tumbled down, dead, and the two postilions ran eagerly to pick it up.
