by Joan Aiken
I ought to have felt as free as a bird. And, indeed, I was deeply interested in all around me. I liked to observe the short, compact, but graceful women, mostly pale-faced and black-eyed, with close-fitting bodices over white linen shirts, serge petticoats, muslin kerchiefs under heavy black hats, ornaments of gold and floss silk, black lace shawls and parasols to shield them from the sun. The men wore broad-brimmed hats, short jackets, and tight-fitting trousers to the calf. Both men and women mostly had wooden-soled slippers. And some peasants wore cloaks made of rushes. The air jangled with the sound of bells – goat bells, church bells, mule bells; and was rich with the smells of fish and dung. The streets were amazingly filthy. Pullett would have been scandalized.
Bliven, the Duke’s manager, a rather surly man, who plainly regretted the necessity of putting himself out on my behalf, led me from the region of warehouses, mostly belonging to English port-wine shippers, to the English Factory House, a handsome granite building which had been abandoned and somewhat damaged during the French occupation, but was now restored to its former use.
Here Enrique Morton, the Duke’s local agent, a black-haired man, half-Portuguese, was able to arrange for my accommodation overnight in a hostel, and for my transport up the Douro river next day, should I wish it, in a barco rabelo, the flat-bottomed boats which are employed for the transportation of wine casks from the numerous vineyards farther up the river. There were many of these to be seen, plying back and forth over the water. They have square sails and oar-shaped rudders worked by three men, and are capacious, being able to carry from twenty to eighty pipes of port at one time. The roads in this country are extremely bad (as I was soon to discover for myself) and almost all the wine transport is conducted by water.
Having, therefore, a day to spend in Oporto, I resolved to go directly to the Convent of Santa Clara and make inquiries there, in case by good fortune Lady Hariot and her daughter had succeeded in removing thither in the period since Lady Hariot’s letter had been written.
Accordingly I purchased a black hat (so as not to stand out too conspicuously from other women in the streets) and inquired my way to the convent which, I discovered, lay not too far from the wharves and the English Factory Building. The Portuguese tongue was so very guttural as, at first, to be almost wholly incomprehensible to me but, by a mixture of French and Spanish acquired at school and from the Duke’s tutors, I was able to make myself understood. I learned that there were two religious establishments, one for monks and one for nuns. To the latter I made my way and found it situated on top of a high hill-brow, with magnificent views overlooking the wide, curving Douro. Seeing the whole town thus laid out before me, I found it even harder to conceive how the intrepid Sir Arthur Wellesley had cast his troops over this swift-flowing stream under the guns of the French on the northern bank.
Had Colonel Brandon taken part in that engagement? I wondered.
Arrived at the convent, I stated my business to a portress at a little grille, and was sent to wait in a small parlour with whitewashed walls, sparsely furnished with a few oaken stools.
I had asked for an English-speaking sister, if possible, and was presently rewarded by a soft voice from behind yet another grille, which first administered a blessing on me in Portuguese and then added, ‘Spik Inglizh.’
I inquired if she was able to tell me the whereabouts of an English lady and her afflicted daughter.
She would ask, she said, and vanished again. After a longish interval she returned and informed me that when last heard of – but that was not recently – the lady and her daughter were lodged at the convent in Vila Real.
‘A que distania?’
About twenty leagues, perhaps.
I thanked her wholeheartedly for this useful clue, and left an offering for the convent. (The Duke had been lavish with travelling money. ‘If go you must, it will ease my mind at least to know that you are comfortably provided for,’ he said.)
As I retraced my steps past the portress’s lodge, a tall Englishman was making inquiries there. Voice, build and costume were all decided indications of the Anglo-Saxon race.
‘Are you certain that you have no information?’ he was saying. ‘Ask once more.’
‘Very well, I will inquire again, Senhor.’
The stranger wore a long, caped travelling cloak and a black hat pulled down low. I had but a glimpse of a portion of his face. His glance passed over me incuriously for I wore black like any Portuguese female and furthermore had my hat pulled down to screen my countenance; and he for his part was wholly intent on his business. I had an instantaneous impression of deep-set dark eyes, grizzled locks, and a visage harshly scored by marks of illness, grief or dissipation. Bad temper, too. He tapped his cane impatiently on the stone floor of the lodge as if he were a person unaccustomed to be kept waiting in draughty ante-rooms. Yet his clothes had been shabby, I thought as I walked off down the hill, and his shoes dusty.
The Duke had warned me about the discomfort of Portuguese lodgings, and his gloomy predictions were amply fulfilled. As I tossed, flea-bitten, on a hard bed that night, and listened to the rain lashing against the ill-fitting casement, my brief glimpse of the stranger’s face returned to me several times.
And, amid confused wonderings at the Portuguese – how could they display such charming taste in adorning so many of their buildings with façades of blue-and-white pictorial tiles, while allowing rats to roam freely in their streets and so many villainous insects to bite their visitors? – I tried to decide of whom the strange Englishman had reminded me so forcibly.
– No, dear reader, it was not Mr Sam; though the flashing dark eyes bore a superficial resemblance to that lost hero; it was somebody very much more familiar, somebody that I had seen recently and frequently; who could it possibly be?
Weary of such useless conundrums I at last fell asleep, but not for long; church bells clanging far and wide woke me to a day of torrential rain. The Duke had warned me of this also.
‘Portugal is the doorstep to the Atlantic ocean,’ he said. ‘Doubtless all those Atlantic gales have their part in the production of such noble wine as is shipped from the Douro; that, and the soil, and the climate, which is hot in summer, very cold in winter; indeed the vines of the Douro region have not their equal anywhere in the world. Or such is my opinion. It was a fortunate conjunction of talent and circumstance which brought the English there, a couple of centuries ago, to trade Newfoundland cod for wine.’
Myself not at all grateful for the weather, being no imbiber of port-wine, I rose, ate a breakfast of hard bread, tea and preserve (made, I think, from pumpkins), then Mr Morton came to escort me to the boat.
When I had told him that I wished to travel to Vila Real, he said that would be no problem, as the Duke’s vineyards lay to the east of a village on the Douro called Peso da Régua, and the barco would take me as far as that place, from where I could arrange for mule transport through the mountains (the Trás-os-Montes) to my destination.
The Duke had kindly supplied me with all kinds of equipment for my journey, a mahogany box containing metal plates, a pot for boiling water, spoons, knives, packets of dry biscuits, raisins, a lead-lined box of tea and a waterproof cloak. Having observed the meagre space allotted me on the barco rabelo, I ungratefully consigned all these things (except the waterproof cloak) to the keeping of the porter at the Factory House, having little doubt in my mind that anybody who grew up in Byblow Bottom could make her way through the mountains of Portugal without such appurtenances.
Certainly it would have been hard to find a place for them on the barco, which was piled high with empty wine casks ready for the vintage, which, Morton told me, would start shortly in early September.
‘It varies from one vineyard to another; the Duke’s place, Quinta dos Rosas, lies on a very warm, sheltered slope and is ahead of some of the others. You will wish to see the vintage, I daresay,’ he added disapprovi
ngly, and seemed relieved when I told him that depended on whether my search for Lady Hariot proved successful, in which case I would no doubt remain with her.
‘What happens at the vintage?’
‘We hire a number of Spanish itinerant workers, gallegos, a kind of gypsy, who migrate southwards at this season. They tread the grapes in the lagares, which are great stone tanks. It is punishing work, fit only for the strongest men; the first spell of treading lasts uninterruptedly for eighteen hours; so the men who come to do it are rough, dirty and wild.’
‘Why does the first shift last so long?’
This idle question from a female he thought proper not to answer, but declared, firmly, ‘It is a scene not suitable for ladies. They sing very obscene songs as they tread, also.’
I could see that he, like Bliven, thought it was very inconsiderate and tiresome of me to come, needing assistance, to the Douro valley at this season. Or, indeed, at all.
The passage up the river lasted for several days. We were favoured with a following west wind, but the current is a swift one, and oars were required as well as sails for the barco to make any progress. At night we received hospitality from quintas along the river. The weather continued dismal. I could tell that the scenery must be magnificent, but often it was almost invisible. High, green, terraced hillsides rose on either hand, glimpsed in a ghostly manner through veils of gliding mist and rain. Some were striped in vertical lines, some horizontally, according to the vine-grower’s taste. The landscape was a most curious combination of wild grandeur and mathematical neatness, wholly unlike anything I had ever seen before.
Sadly, I wondered what Mr Sam would have made of it.
‘Mr Morton, I wish to relieve myself,’ I said on the first day. ‘What arrangements are made for that?’
‘None,’ he said shortly.
‘Then be so good as to ask the boatmen to turn their eyes away from me.’
He plainly thought this was tedious and finical of me; the sailors had shown no such delicacy when answering the call of nature.
At noon a meal of black bread, bacalhau (which is dried salted fish), olives and wine was available to the boatmen as they went about their work, and to me as I perched on a crate of sardines doing my best to keep my feet from being trodden on as the men moved about.
Huddling under the Duke’s waterproof cloak, I resolved to write him a letter, as soon as I was able, to inform him how invaluable this garment was proving.—But I would not tell him, yet, about the death of Pullett; that would make him too sad and anxious.
The food became sodden as we ate, but since the black bread was hard, and the dried cod fiercely salty, having it rinsed with rain was no disadvantage.
At dusk on the third day, we reached Peso da Régua, a fair-sized village scattered for half a mile along the steeply sloping bank. Many vineyards have warehouses and lodges here, since there is a good anchorage. Our barco was tied up and Mr Morton escorted me to a pousada, which was far from luxurious; my bedroom was a garret with a baked clay floor, the bed was a wooden plank, and the goatskin blanket so scanty and verminous that I was glad, again, to wrap myself in the Duke’s waterproof cloak. The rafters, too, were swarming with bugs. Supper was not bad, however: a soup composed of chicken, bacon, rice, beans, bread and I know not what other ingredients. I would have liked to explore the village but, as the rain continued to lash down, thought it best to retire, Mr Morton having promised to arrange mule transport for me to Vila Real early on the following morning.
***
‘One mule and two men?’ I inquired doubtfully after breakfast (black bread and a drink of milk). ‘And that mule looks fit only for the knacker’s. And why do I need two guides? Surely one would be sufficient?’
‘Mules are still in very short supply,’ Morton said sourly. Today the note of irritation was even more noticeable in his tone. Plainly he longed to be rid of me. ‘During the French wars, both mules and oxen vanished entirely. And it is better you have two guides, for defence. You may encounter bands of gallegos travelling south. They are wild, lawless beings. These men are there to protect you. Their names are Manuel and João.’
‘Very well. Thank you,’ I said, not troubling to mention that the two escorts looked fully as capable of villainy as any gallegos. ‘Do they know the way to Vila Real?’
‘Of course! It is about seven leagues, but the ways are very mountainous and un-posted. You should reach your destination before dark, however.’
‘Thank you,’ I said again, set my foot in the wooden stirrup and mounted. The two guides held each a stirrup on either side and trotted, keeping pace easily enough with the mule, which maintained a kind of steady shamble, half walk, half trot.
Our road at first climbed steeply zig-zag up the hillside between vineyards. The rain had ceased and the day at last was glorious; I could not forbear a lifting of the heart, as I surveyed the immense prospect of mountains, deep river valley and terraced hillsides that lay about me all glittering and new-washed.
The roads, it is true, were amazingly bad, little better than goat-tracks, and, once we reached the rolling country high above the river valley, they were very confusing, running hither and thither in all directions. I could see that in misty or rainy weather, without the sun as a guide, it would be easy to lose oneself.
Manuel and João were a laconic, not to say surly, pair, exchanging no more than a couple of syllables every half hour or so. But, when the sun stood overhead, Manuel said, ‘It is time to eat’ – or, at least, that is what I assumed he meant.
By now we had long left the Douro valley and were in a high, mountainous region, very sparsely populated. A few of the fields were cultivated, but the houses, if any, were mostly in ruins, where the French armies had passed, laying waste. Pine woods grew on some of the slopes, and the ravines were thickly grown with chestnut trees.
I reined in the mule and dismounted.
Morton had provided us with a bundle of food, fastened to the crupper. I untied this, and passed bread and smoked sausage to the two men, then sat on a rock – we were in a kind of glen, near the foot of a cliff – to eat my own share of food.
The guides bolted down their portions; then the one called João moved away (to relieve himself, I assumed); absently watching his companion, I noticed his eyes widen and his lips compress; then he made a kind of gesture, to attract my notice, and suddenly called out: ‘Senhora –’
Following the direction of his eyes, which were not on me, I flung myself to one side, almost in time – but not quite – to avoid a heavy glancing blow from the rear, which fell on the side of my head. João had stolen up behind me, intending to dash out my brains with a rock.
I had a long knife concealed in my high riding-boot. I plucked it out, and stabbed him with all my strength in the chest.
‘Jesus-Maria!’ he gasped, and fell bleeding to the ground.
Manuel, meanwhile, had snatched up my waterproof cloak (which I had earlier discarded as too hot). He made for the mule, but I anticipated him, grabbing the reins, and threatening him with the knife, although my head still sang from the blow and my heart was pounding fiercely.
But Manuel on his own offered little threat. Abandoning his comrade, he fled off, clutching my cloak, scrambled round the corner of the cliff and was soon out of sight.
About to remount the mule, I hesitated, debating within myself what I ought to do about João. The region here was a desolate one; so far we had encountered not a single soul; if I left him here, would he bleed to death?
Holding the reins, I cautiously approached him and found, to my shocked astonishment, that he was dead; my knife must have penetrated his heart. (It was indeed extremely sharp; it had been another journey-gift from the Duke, along with the handsome pair of boots which had been made with great ingenuity to hold, in one boot a weapon, in the other, a purse.)
While I was thoughtfully reshe
athing my blade and considering with some gravity and bewilderment the fact that I had killed a man, had in one single moment deprived a fellow-creature of his life for ever, I was startled almost to fainting-point to hear a voice address me.
‘Hola, Señora! It seems that you made a bad choice of travelling companions!’
Looking past the mule, and the dead body, I saw two strangers regarding me. Both were large, swarthy, untidy men, with black ringlets, velveteen breeches and wide-brimmed, dusty hats.
‘We were witnesses to what happened,’ said one. ‘We were up there, on top of the crag, we saw that vermin there pick up the rock to smash in your head – Dios! – what a blow that would have been! And we saw you, Señora, spring aside and finish him off with as neat a lunge as any matador, brava! – and then we saw the other cowardly rogue make off. And good riddance to him! But what of this one?’
‘He is dead,’ said I. ‘But I did not mean to kill him.’
‘Morra! Let him go. He is no loss to the world. But you, Señora, you are not Portuguese, surely?’
‘No, I am English. And you are not Portuguese either, I think?’
‘No, lady, we are wine-treaders from Spain, come south to earn a few honest reales. At home we are charcoal-burners.’
They beamed at me with great goodwill.
‘You are gallegos? But I thought they always travel in troops?’
‘So we are a troop. But we left our companions at the top of the cliff to come to your assistance.’
‘That was very chivalrous of you! And now you can add to your kindness by telling me if I am on the right track to Vila Real?’
‘Quite right,’ said they. ‘Just continue on with the sun behind you, and you should be there in three hours. But would you wish us to accompany you?’
‘No, no, that is kind and courteous of you, but I shall do very well.’
