by Kit Brennan
“I must kill you,” I said, completing the action with a snap, and pointing the second pistol at his head. I couldn’t believe what I’d just uttered, but it had to be done. “I do it for Matilde, and her baby.” I took a deep breath—a shaking hand, needing to steady my aim, another cautious step closer to ensure it was fatal—“And for Diego.” I’ll never forget the look on the priest’s face. He was about to meet his maker, sins unshriven; other atrocities for which he’d require atonement, not possible now, perhaps passing before his eyes. Go straight to hell, fanático, and good riddance, I thought. I pulled the trigger and . . . nothing. A feeble click.
“Shit, merde!” I grabbed the saddlebag, shoved my foot in the stirrup, and swung up onto Lindo. I whispered into the stiff, hairy tube of his ear: “Run, Lindo! Save us!” Leaving the clearing only half in the saddle, I righted myself as the horse tore off down the road, hooves flying. My heart was in a frenzy of haste and fear. Still alive! Oh fuckity fuck! Streaking along, clinging like a limpet, as I’d often been known to do at age six, in India, racing my pony across the plains, but this time for real, and the treasure is my life! Fly!
I should have smashed him with a rock, bashed his brains in, I babbled away into Lindo’s ear. But what rock, and how? He’s a fearsome assassin; he would have grabbed you and beaten you to death instead. Sacred Mary, Mother of God! What is he doing at this moment, crawling and cursing? Dragging himself to the road? Is he bleeding enough to make him pass out? Is the road well travelled; will he be found very quickly? Of course they will help him; he’s a man of God. He’ll tell his tale, then a posse of men will be rounded up, ready to search out the treacherous woman who could have done such a thing to a son of St. Francis Xavier, saint of the Navarre.
Such were my frantic speculations, clinging to Lindo’s back, listening to his laboured breath and pounding hooves—as if the horse understood the gravity of the situation, the requirement of speed, and needed no urging. Diego had been right, Lindo ran like the wind, neck outstretched, legs reaching, heart pumping energy into his exhausted, hungry limbs.
We must have galloped several miles when off to the left I caught a glimpse of dark copper between the bare branches of a grove of trees. I reined Lindo in and circled back. It was Conquistador, with his head down, wheezing. As we approached, the stallion flung his head up again, ready to bolt away. Lindo whickered, and perhaps this was calming. I dismounted carefully, held my hand out in what I hoped was a soothing manner, murmuring words of encouragement. One moment I thought all was lost, when the stallion again threw up his head and snorted violently. He’d been so hurt, a proud horse who had trusted and had the trust beaten out of him, but then I took hold of the one unbroken rein still trailing, and he stood for me.
I gibbered away to them both—what to do, what to do—while I stroked Conquistador’s neck and then Lindo’s. One thing was certain: The most dangerous man in the world was too close, and we couldn’t linger. I shoved the second pistol into the saddlebag with the first: a quick look, and yes, the faux book and the powder bag were still there, along with whatever remained of Diego’s money. Thank God. The priest’s dark black cloak was also tied across the back of the saddle. It would be warmer than mine, but I’d have to remove the insignia, and how could I bear the smell of him? I could bear it, because I needed it, half frozen as I was. But then the worries began again: how to ride fast while leading the stallion? Doesn’t matter, just get going, somehow a way will be found. Sling on the cloak, fasten it at the neck, and ignore the reek.
We set off. Soon I could see that Conquistador was in a very bad way, that travelling far would not even be possible, no matter how slowly we went. At this realization I began to cry. Fear and anguish came tumbling out, but were quickly suppressed because it would do no good. We’d have to leave the road and try to find a path through the hills where we could hide, at least for a few days. But where were we going? How could I escape the gang of searchers I was now convinced would be set to find me when I didn’t even know where I was? The only sure thing was that I was in the middle of uncompromising Carlist territory. This was the land in which the insurgency was bred, a hard land full of hard men who wouldn’t understand or sympathize with a foreign woman and her desperation to get home.
We turned up towards the hills and carried on for perhaps another hour. The trees on either side became more numerous, and I followed what appeared to be a track, perhaps for cows, as I guessed from its meandering. Was the ground hard enough not to reveal the hoofprints? Two horses, travelling together . . . Stop thinking.
We came upon a small house surrounded by a large garden. A woman was working in it, bent down to peer at new plants beginning to push through the winter soil. I tried to turn the horses and disappear, but she saw us and called out.
“Are you looking to see me?” She was not young. There was something in her voice, an authority . . .
“I need help,” I said. Then, “Please, can you help me?”
She pushed hair away from her eyes, came towards us. “That is what I do. I can certainly try.”
Her name was Juliana de Porris. She’d lived in these hills to the east of Olite her entire life, all fifty-some years of it. Her property was well tended, everything made to serve one and often several purposes. Its situation was secluded and very beautiful. From the house, the Rio Aragon could be seen curling through the valley. She lived alone—a husband had died, but many years before. She had a son, Paulos, grown and married, living several miles away due north. Juliana was a herbalist, a healer.
“I’ve been a midwife, but these have been hard times,” she said, leading Lindo towards the stable. I followed with the limping stallion. “When men go through adversity, they distrust everything. I don’t fancy being burned or dismembered. That’s not to say the women I help would give me away, but . . . Sometimes men are difficult to turn from a path they are on. Is this the kind of aid you require, on top, of course, of hoping to heal that beautiful creature?”
“No,” I told her. “I’m not with child; I have no husband.”
She tethered Lindo to a stall, then turned to look at Conquistador. “When did this happen?”
“Two nights ago.”
“These horses look winded.”
“They’re more than that,” I answered. “They spent a night in the cold after being ridden hard all day. They’re hungry, haven’t eaten—” and now I had to work hard to keep despair from taking hold. I longed to let down my guard, fall into her seemingly capable hands, give myself over, but did not yet dare. “I’m being pursued,” I said.
“By what?”
Her question, the way she’d worded it, made me trust her instinctively. And even if my instinct had been faulty, what else could I do? While she measured out a scoop of oats and emptied it before each horse, while she bent and peered at Conquistador’s injured knee, I told her the rest. Then I helped her. We warmed water, washed the wound, she applied a salve and then bandaged it lightly, the whole time saying nothing. I had no idea what she thought. Did she suspect that I was lying? That I had stolen the horses, made up some tale? Finally, she straightened, touched me on the shoulder, and said, “Come with me.”
“Will his leg be all right? Will he heal?” I asked, following.
“The bone has a chip. He may be lucky. I see no infection, but horses and legs . . . Difficult. A front leg is slightly easier. We’ll have to see.”
My heart sank.
The house was immaculate. One side of the big room was given over to herbs and salves, large worktables, mortars and pestles, open rafters for drying plants in hanging bundles.
We sat at two chairs at the front window. “And you, have you eaten?” she asked me.
In a small voice, “No.”
Again she said nothing, simply watching as I devoured what she put before me. Bread, cheese, winter apples, fresh goat’s milk. Slices of lamb. When I’d finished I looked up; she stood, arms folded, looking down.
“I believe yo
u,” she said gently.
And then I did give way. I sobbed as if my heart would break, and in fact I know that it was broken. Diego, Matilde, the baby. Diego’s comrade, Manuel de la Concha. Espartero, and the black wolf from hell. I’d been attempting to displace my terror and despair by transferring it to the horses, my last link with a gorgeous, virile man cut down in his prime, lost to the world, while men like the Jesuit lived on to kill and maim in his own reptilian way. Who could not be killed like the snake he was; I’d missed the chance, and he’d slithered away. How would I ever forgive myself?
When I was calm again, she sat down beside me. “You must leave tomorrow,” she said, “you cannot risk any more time. I have an idea, though. I think you should give yourself into the care of the brothers of the l’Abbaye de Leyre, through the mountains, no further than a morning’s ride from here.”
“Brothers?” I cried, “A religious order? No!”
“They are Cistercians. I do a great deal of business with them. They too are good with herbs, but not as good as I am, and they know it. They are trustworthy, peaceful men.”
“No,” I said again. I was so afraid.
“Listen to what I am thinking first,” she said, and went on. “Their abbey is at a crossroad. It is one of the least-travelled routes through the Pyrenees for pilgrims. It is spring; there will be some pilgrims returning by now.”
“Returning?”
She told me that the majority of pilgrims make their way to Santiago de Compostela, to worship at the shrine of St. James, in the fall, when the heat is not so intense. Then they have to return, of course, and many of them do so in early spring. The Cistercian brothers offered refuge for pilgrims who chose the less-travelled way, which cut north just beyond their abbey. Further west, one of the four main routes was lower, the passes not so high, but Juliana said that way was too far for me to reach safely. The one north of Leyre would be my best chance.
It all seemed too difficult. My nerve was failing.
“I will ask my son to take you to the brothers. We’ll let it be known that you are my niece, that you are going to France, to Toulouse, to join a convent there.”
“Me? A convent?”
“You are also mute.” There was a sudden twinkle in her eye: How much did she guess of my usual character? “This may keep you from revealing too much. In any case, it will be safer.” She reached across the space between us and took my hand. “I will look after the stallion; if anyone can heal him, I can. You must leave him with me. I promise him a good life. I have a mare; she’s just had a foal. He can join them. The other horse may recover, if you don’t push him too hard. And you’ll need him.”
So that is what happened. Juliana rode off on the mare later that afternoon to tell her son, and the whole time she was away, I was sure I would be discovered. That somehow Father Miguel was whole and sound and on my trail, scouring the land, full of vengeance. He knew I would have killed him like a rat; he’d seen it in my eyes. As Diego would have said, this had upped the ante, and nowhere was safe. But Juliana returned, we fed and watered the horses, I washed in water warmed by the fire, we ate and went to bed. I lay awake a long time, haunted by my lost friends, trying not to make a sound. Diego, my love . . . Haunted by my refusal to take a hotel that last night with Matilde—if we had, perhaps she and her baby wouldn’t be dead. But he would have swooped upon our little party at some point, and nothing would appease him except death or torture. Haunted . . .
In the morning, Paulos arrived. Juliana had helped me remove the Jesuitical insignia on the priest’s cloak, so I wrapped myself in that. She had also given me a simple, warm woolen dress, shoes that fit, wool stockings, and a wool cap. I left behind Diego’s filthy, torn shirt and trousers, but removed from one pocket the diamond necklace the earl had given me, so many months before. I tried to give it to Juliana.
“No,” she said, “I have no need. Give it to the brothers, for their church.”
From the other pocket I took my peridot earbobs and wore them. My last vain, beloved possession.
Lindo looked well, and I was relieved. In my saddlebag were the pistols and powder, the rest of the money. I took a moment to say farewell to Conquistador, and a prayer for Diego’s darling. “If you have the stallion,” I said, realizing, “you may be in danger too.”
“Nonsense,” Juliana responded. “If anyone has the presumption to ask, I’ll say he was bartered to me by a stranger in return for aid. In a way it’s the truth.”
“You must let me know that you are fine,” I told her, and thought quickly. Then I had it: the earl of Malmesbury, at the Houses of Parliament. “You must write,” and I put down the address. Juliana nodded philosophically. “Say you will.”
“I’ll write.” She patted my cheek. “Now, think of yourself, and go. Paulos has my letter of introduction to give to the brothers. Remember, you are mute.”
I swung up onto Lindo.
“Go in peace.”
We rode for several hours through some high, wooded hills. By noon we came down out of the hills and joined a larger road, where others were also coming and going with carts, or flocks of sheep, or on horseback. I kept my head down, cap pulled low. I’d been wearing a shawl over the cloak, which I pulled up to cover my head as well. My legs turned to water. I needed to get my courage back, that was certain. I spoke sternly to myself, and as we rode on without incident, little by little I began to look ahead, be more like myself. I’ve never been one to dwell on the dark side—though it was no wonder, at that point in time. But the way we survive is through hope. For future happiness. That is life; that’s its strength. What else is there?
The Cistercian brothers of l’Abbaye de Leyre were everything Juliana had promised: kind, helpful, concerned. There were a group of a dozen or so pilgrims staying with them at that time, so the abbot spoke on my behalf and it was agreed that I should travel with the pilgrims through the pass and on to Pau. From there I would need to make my own way to my convent in Toulouse. Did I have resources? Could they help me with that? I shook my head, smiled. Would I be ready to travel on the morrow? I nodded. That night, in a tiny narrow cot, I slept like a rock.
I sought out paper the next morning, and left a note on the pillow: “For your church, with grateful thanks.” The diamond necklace lay underneath it. And that was the first and only time I will give to a religious institution.
My sojourn with the pilgrims was slow; some walked. Everyone had scallop shells, a tradition of the pilgrimage, and each night we pushed on towards the next hostel on the route, using the shells as proof of our purpose. The mountains were very cold, especially when the wind, called the cierzo, blew, as it does at that time of year. Some of them told me, though, that the cierzo was much worse on the plains, when it could be so strong that you’d be knocked off your feet. One of the days was terrible, at the top of the pass. Although not long in miles, it was steep and frightening, and that morning the mist rolled in so that we could barely see the road: hairpin bends, steep drops to unseen rocks and scree below. I kept imagining the rabid priest emerging from the mist with a straight razor raised high, the shadows of fifty mounted Exterminating Angels massed behind him. What would a dozen assorted pilgrims and one frightened woman be to them, besides glory? I calmed myself with difficulty, placing my hands against the gelding’s withers for warmth and leaning over his neck to whisper words of encouragement.
It was that day that hurt Lindo, in his already weakened state. By nightfall we were on the other side—we were in France—and descending quite quickly through foothills towards rolling countryside. But the horse was ill. I brushed him, fed him carefully, walked him. He was wheezing, and so tired. These large, peaceful creatures we use and depend upon, they’re hostages of fortune through no fault of their own. I put the cloak over him, but he shivered all night, as I sat up watching and speaking to him. His calm eyes showed suffering. By morning, he was lying on the ground, his eyes dull, and I was beyond consolation. One of the pilgrims, a monk from
the Gironde, told me he would do it.
Big heart, best friend . . . He’d saved my life, and I could not save him.
Now, even if Juliana’s note had not made me mute, I would have been. I was numb; I didn’t care what happened to me. I dared not look back for I would have stayed, keening by the side of the dead black gelding. Someone let me ride behind them. Days passed, but I hardly knew. We reached Pau, and I left their group and made my way to the coaching station. I bought a ticket to Toulouse. Now I could have spoken, but to say what? There was nothing to say. Somehow by then I’d conflated everything that had happened, and considered Father Miguel responsible for Diego’s execution as well. For all I knew, he was. I kept the pistols both loaded, one tucked into my shawl, and waited, almost hoping to see him so that I could kill him. Lindo’s death had brought my courage back—but it was a twisted, flat courage, one that desired revenge.
The rolling, swaying motion of a coach travelling at speed became my only sensation. From Toulouse, I purchased a seat on another for Paris. That was nearly the end of Diego’s money. I ate as little as I could to conserve the rest, but eventually that too ran out. Several men in the coach to Toulouse had signaled with glad eyes and I’d glared back, repelled them ferociously. But now? It was a simple matter to smile at one of my travelling companions to Paris—a smile that reached the teeth and nothing else. The man was travelling to England on business, and before we parted, I made him promise to take a letter for me and mail it, fastest post, once he reached English soil. I would not go along with him, even if he was offering to pay. I had one final piece of business to fulfill in Paris.
My cryptic but crucial note was addressed to the 3rd Earl of Malmesbury, care of his parliamentary office: “Returning England. Desperate need of friend. Write immediately to Doña Lola Montez, Spanish consulate office in Southampton. ERG.”
PARIS, AGAIN
