by Joan Aiken
"Have you by any chance seen a little brat of a child?" he asked me confidentially, taking Pedro's other arm. "I have searched for her everywhere—but everywhere! I do hope that she has not fallen into the gorge. For if so, Doña Conchita will be angry with me. I shall be in real trouble. But what could I do? I cannot be in two places at once. 'Find the tunnel!' Conchita tells me. As if it would be marked with a big sign: This way to the castillo. High and low I looked for the cursed tunnel. Not so much as a rabbit hole did I find. And, meanwhile, the wretched child disappears! Ten million devils, what a time I have had of it, nurse-maiding that little scorpion across Spain. I would sooner be in charge of a barracuda! Conchita claims that she is mine, but that fact I take leave to doubt. No other member of my family—but nobody—has ever been possessed of such a temper. She is ungovernable! I think she is a child of the Evil One—heaven protect us!" He stopped to cross himself and to drink, from a flask, something that smelled like aguardiente—it was plain that he had taken a good deal of it already.
"Set your mind at rest, señor," I said. "Little Pilar climbed up the cliff into the castillo. She is with her brother and sister."
"Really? Did she, indeed?" Don Amador seemed delighted. "Do you know," he confided, "I had half a notion that, if I left her at the foot of the cliff, some such idea might light into her head. She is a devil for climbing. But what happened then, señor? Did the madman devour her?"
To my ear, he sounded hopeful, rather than anxious.
"No, he did not. And the other children greeted her kindly enough."
"Ay, ay, they are not bad children. Though heaven forbid that I should be saddled with their upkeep," he added hastily. "But what of the madman? Did you see him, señor? El Tuerto? Is he raving?"
"Yes, I saw Don Manuel. And, no, I must say that he seemed to me perfectly sensible, in full command of his wits."
"Is that so indeed?"
My information seemed to depress Don Amador. He trudged along for a few yards in silence. Then he asked, "Did El Tuerto—Don Manuel—did he and Pilar speak together at all? Did she—did she give him any message from her mother?"
"Message? No, not that I can recall. Don Manuel is very, very bitter against his wife," I could not help saying. "He can hardly hear her name without a curse. He believes that it was her deposition that had him flung into jail."
Don Amador sighed. It seemed to me that he felt some little sympathy for the man up in the castle. Was he tired of being allotted all the inconvenient tasks while Conchita stayed behind and took care of herself? Did he wonder what his reward was likely to be, in the end?
"You are quite certain that little Pilar gave her father no message from Doña Conchita?" he persisted.
"Yes, positive—unless there was some note contained in the little book that she brought. Might there have been something written in that, a message? But the pages were all stuck together," I remembered. I did not go on to inform him that Don Manuel had thrown the book out of the window; it occurred to me that I was giving Don Amador a good deal more information than he was giving me.
"What will Doña Conchita do, if he refuses to part with the children?" I asked.
"A company of armed men is being sent from Pamplona; they will very soon blow him out of his nest," said Don Amador with satisfaction. "They will bombard the castillo."
"But the children!" I said in horror. "They will be hurt too!"
"That will be Don Manuel's responsibility."
And their mother's, also. And yours, you fat hypocrite, I thought.
"When will the soldiers arrive?"
"Quien sabe?" Don Amador had an abrupt late access of caution. He added gaily, "Well, well, very likely the soldiers will not be needed—perhaps Don Manuel will have a sudden change of heart. Such things have been known to happen. Tra la la!" And he sang a few cheerful bars of a song, as we continued to help Pedro along the narrow path; then, with a complete change of tone, and in a polished, social manner, he observed to me chattily, "So, then Señor Felix, I hear that you are to be a duque? Allow me to congratulate you. I hear that your English grandfather has died at last."
"Oh, indeed?" said I, greatly astonished at such information coming from such a source. "How in the world do you come to know that, Don Amador?"
"Why, from my friend Sir Thomas Jay—he is the English ambassador in Madrid, you know. Your English grandfather died last month. There was a note about it in the Diplomatic Bag. Doubtless you will find the tidings waiting for you when you return home."
I digested this news in silence as we made our way onward. Would this mean that I must travel to England? Must I take on a whole load of new and unwelcome duties over there in that rainswept land? If there was any means by which I could disclaim the inheritance, I resolved to do so. Surely, somewhere, there must be another English heir who would be glad to step into a dukedom?
Now, to our great relief, a light came into view, twinkling on the far side of the gorge. There was the hut, and even if it contained Conchita and the two untrustworthy postilions, it was a most welcome sight.
But at this point Pedro subsided to the ground with a groan.
"Felix, I'm not going to be able to cross that devilish contraption," he croaked. "My head swims; I'm as limp as a rag; my hands wouldn't hold the rope."
I looked at him in deep concern and realized that he was quite right. He was white, and shaking badly. It would be total folly for him to attempt the crossing.
"Well then, there is nothing for it: You must stay on this side. And I will too. Don Amador can go across and explain. Sit and rest yourself against that beech tree, Pedro, while I hunt about and see if I can find some shelter where we can pass the night—all you need, now, is to be soaked and chilled, on top of having your head broken by our young friend dropping a rock on you."
"Eh, dear, dear, what a misfortune. I suppose I had better cross the bridge, then," said Don Amador, with a decided want of alacrity. "I will inform the Doña that you both remain here on this side. Here"—he passed his flask to Pedro—"take a sup of that, my dear fellow. It will do you good."
"Thanks, señor." Pedro tipped up the flask, in which there was only about a spoonful left. "Salud!" he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
Poor Don Amador seemed wholly reluctant to launch himself across the rope bridge, in the teeth of the storm that was now raging. Rain fell like lances. And the incessant flicker of lightning illuminated his fat form dangling and swinging like a fly on a spiderweb as he made his painful way across.
Meanwhile I searched around as best I could, and was lucky to find a cave, or at least a cleft under an overhang in the rocky mountainside that sloped down to the river so steeply. The ground under the overhang was reasonably dry, and the place had the merit of being within sight of the bridge. To this refuge I half dragged, half carried Pedro, then busied myself with lighting a fire in it, kindling dry grasses and dead leaves with flint and tinder, then feeding the flame with all the scraps of dry wood that I could collect. By and by it burned briskly enough, and I could add some larger, damper pieces without the risk of putting out the flame.
A mouthful of hot food would not come amiss now, I thought yearningly, and decided that, when the fire was sufficiently well established, I would cross to the hut and bring back something to eat.
"I am a shameful trouble to you, Felix," croaked Pedro miserably. "I could kick myself. Acting like this—like a baby—just because a pebble fell on my thick skull."
"A pebble! It was a lump the size of a doorstep. And whose shot was it that saved Juana from the bear, pray?"
"Whose indeed?" said a voice, and into the circle of firelight stepped Juana herself with raindrops glistening on her dark-blue hood and habit. "Well! You have got your two selves pretty snugly established here; and I can't say I blame you. But it was rather hard, leaving me on the other side with those delinquentes, so I have just come to join you."
"Juana! You came across the rope? In the storm? You dared to do that?"
"Is it so brave to do something that you have both done—and Pedro three times over?"
She removed a bag from her shoulder and added, laughing, "Well, I will admit that I kept my eyes tight shut all the way over; though with so many lightning flashes, keeping them shut made very little difference. And skirts on a contraption like that are a horrible disadvantage. Here—at least one of that pair of ruffians did something useful: he shot an izard—" and she pulled out a good-sized haunch of roasted meat and a loaf. "Just as well. Imagine it! With all the rugs and furs she took along to keep herself warm, Conchita hadn't thought to add anything in the way of provisions, except for the bread. And that was just a pretext to let Don Amador get away from San Quilez before the rest of us. Fortunately I brought some wine and sausage from Berdun."
She added a leather bottle. "Here, my friend—a drink of this will do you good," she said to Pedro.
"Doña Juana, you are a blessed angel," he mumbled. "And presently you will be sitting up on high, playing a golden harp!"
"Oh indeed? Well, let me tell you, my thoughts have not been very angelic today, stuck in that hut with ... But tell me, how did you get on?" she added, in a wholly different tone. "Tell me what happened
So I told her, and showed her the note that Don Manuel had written.
She read it in silence—not once, but half a dozen times, sitting cross-legged in the firelight, with her chin resting on her clenched fist. And I remembered many former occasions when we had sat, thus, by a woodland fire, on that other journey, five years ago.
As she seemed wholly wrapped in thought, and not at all ready to break the silence, Pedro said to me in a low voice, "What was it that the fat fellow was saying to you, Felix, about your being a duque? My head was throbbing badly; I did not take it in. Something about your English grandfather?"
"It seems he has died. Don Amador appears to be a very well-informed character."
"So that makes you, then, an English duke?"
"I believe so."
"And rich?"
"Maybe."
Well, if I am that, I thought, with a lift of the heart, I can use some of my English money to help Grandfather look after the old ladies and the people on the estate; he wont have to end his days in continual worry.
"No wonder that Doña Conchita has been setting her cap at you," Pedro murmured thoughtfully.
"Pedro!"
"Putting the fat fellows nose out of joint."
"It's nothing to joke about. Anyway—I wouldn't have her if she was the last woman in the world. After that business of the bear—" And I thought of the things that Don Manuel had let fall.
When Pedro had eaten a little, and drunk a few more mouthfuls of wine, and was drowsing again by the fire, I said, "Well, I suppose I should go across and make my report—" as Juana still had not spoken but continued to sit brooding, chin on fists. "Would you object to staying here with him?" I asked her.
"How can you ask? He saved my life!"
I put the guns within reach, told her to use them if need be, made up the fire, and then groped my way across the rope bridge. The hut door was shut, so I knocked on it loudly. Nobody bade me enter, but I walked in without waiting to be invited. Conchita, I saw, sat by the fire, Don Amador was talking to the two postilions.
She jumped up, came to greet me, and clasped my wrists.
"Tell me quick, Felix—how are my babies? Are they well? Did they ask for me? Has that brute ill-treated them?"
"No, he has not, señora," I said. "They appear to be in good health."
Her hypocrisy sickened me. I could hardly bear to look her in the eye. To my own annoyance, the falsity seemed to be in me just as much as in her. Treating with people who are false breeds wrong thoughts in oneself. To cover my feelings I spoke quickly and loudly.
"Don Manuel says that he will not, in any circumstances, give up the children to you, señora," I told her. "But he has written a letter to Doña Juana, asking if she will be prepared to take charge of them. In which case he would be prepared to relinquish them."
"To be brought up by Juana! What an extraordinary suggestion! He would surrender them to a mere girl—a nun!" Conchita laughed loudly and scornfully, but it was plain that she was shaken and perplexed, as well as very angry indeed. "Well—that just proves that he is mad! Where is Juana?—oh, I recall—I sent her across with some dinner for your servant. How does she respond to this very peculiar proposal?"
"She has said nothing. She is thinking about it. She may not agree to it," I said coldly. "Why should she do so? They are not her children."
"Well—I do not know what to say. I will see. I will think. You had better come back to me tomorrow and I will give you my answer then. I understand that you plan to spend the night on the other side of the river."
She did not inquire after Pedro or ask if we were comfortable or needed anything.
Muchas gracias, señora, I thought sourly, observing the change in her manner. Two days ago she could hardly load me with sufficient civility. And I wondered, when did she hear that news about my English grandfather? But now she seemed to have abandoned her attempts to win my favor. Perhaps she had seen the disgust in my eye.
I heard raised voices at the other end of the hut. "Why did you not take better care of him, idiots?" demanded Don Amador in squeaky, furious tones. "One of the best mules out of Andalusia, and you tell me he is gone? How do you mean, gone?"
"His tether broke. Maybe the bear ate him," said Esteban sulkily.
Then Don Amador observed me and Doña Conchita. But he need not have troubled about that.
"How is that unfortunate fellow? Did he take some food?"
"A little, I thank you, señor. And I will see you very early in the morning," I said, halfway through the door, mindful of that troop on its way from Pamplona. "By that time, no doubt, Doña Juana will have taken her decision."
And I left them.
When I returned to the cave, I found that Juana had built and banked up the fire with peat and beech-mast so that it had a good heart and would last through the night. Pedro slept, and she still sat with her arms wrapped round her knees. She was not asleep; I could see the gleam of her eye reflecting the faint red glow of the fire.
"Are you not tired?" I said. "Shall I help you to go back over the rope bridge?"
"Help me? How could you do that?" she answered rather snappishly. "If that were possible, poor Pedro could have been helped across. No, I will pass the night here. To tell truth, I would prefer it. The sight of Conchita with Don Amador makes me sick."
I felt the same, but said doubtfully, "If you stay here with us, though, Conchita will think—she will › say—
"Why should I trouble my head about what Conchita thinks, or what she says?" Juana retorted.
I could see that she was in a very prickly mood. During our former acquaintance these bursts of ill temper had been frequent enough on her part. Since we had met again, though, I had seen less of them; she appeared to have grown more serene. Perhaps becoming a nun had done that to her. But now all the former danger signs were present and I regarded her with caution. Leaving her to herself to simmer down was the only recourse during such states of irritation, I knew; she could not be cajoled or joked out of them.
So I replied, peaceably, "Indeed, there is no reason why you should trouble about Conchita," and scraped myself a kind of cushion of wet leaves to sit on. Pedro occupied the rear corner of the cleft, and in front of him the fire glimmered; on either side of the fire Juana and I sat, half in, half out of shelter. Luckily the storm had died away; the wet trees dripped but the rain no longer poured down. The air had turned a great deal colder and the warmth of the fire was a decided comfort.
"Those poor children up there—" I muttered.
"Have they bedding? Covers?"
"None that I saw."
"But their father behaves lovingly toward them?"
"Yes, very much so. But that cannot remedy these other wants. They cannot be allowed to stay
there for long."
"He is a good man," she said in a combative tone.
"I can see that. It is terrible that a good, sincere man, who wants to do his best for his country, should be hunted like a criminal."
"I know nothing about politics and care less," said Juana crossly.
I remained silent.
"Well?" she attacked me. "Well? I suppose you think I should offer to take on the care of those children?"
"Oh, Juana. How can I possibly tell you what to do?"
"I suppose you think," she went on stormily, "that I should make any offer—no matter whether I intend to keep it or not—so as to make Don Manuel give them up?"
"I think nothing of the kind! Why should you expect me to be so dishonest?"
"You don't seem to have been afflicted by many scruples in your dealings with Conchita!"
"My dear girl, I had a task to perform, and was only trying to do it as best I could—I had to be civil to her—"
And it was because of you that I was selected for this mission, I could have said, but wisdom kept my mouth closed.
It made no difference. All of a sudden we were quarreling, as if we were eight years old instead of eighteen, hody and unreasonably.
"I had a vocation from God to become a holy sister—you expect me to throw all that aside, to change my whole life—no one would expect a man to do such a thing—"
"Well? I was expected to give up my studies, or whatever I happened to be doing, and travel half across Spain, simply in order to—"
"Just because you are the grandson of an English duke you think you—"
"How dare you be so unreasonable? As if I could ever—ever—"
I am far, far prouder of my dear grandfather the Conde than of any English duke, I thought. But Juana was storming on:
"It means nothing to you that I gave up everything I had in the world to join—the House where I was born, the ... You never considered that. And now—"
"For that matter, you haven't displayed any particular interest in what I—" Then I took a deep, shaky breath and said, "Stop! Let us stop! We are both being horribly childish. It's a lucky thing nobody can hear us." Except God, of course. "For heaven's sake, let us leave it all till morning. Here, why don't you lie on my jacket—"
