The Winding Stair

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  She had forgotten how tawdry and cluttered the chapels were, each lit by its own range of candles and hung about with gifts, some absurd, some touching: a bunch of dried flowers, a baby’s shoe, a miniature copper frying pan. Why? she wondered, and entered the Chapel of St. John the Baptist, whose splendour of gold, and marble and lapis lazuli had struck her, as a child, as a kind of heaven on earth. Now it seemed almost embarrassing in its excess and she found herself thinking, with an odd little pang, of their parish church in England, cool, high and empty, decorated, if at all, with flowers in season, with primroses and daffodils and Easter lilies.

  What was the matter with her today? She had longed to be home. Why keep thinking, now she was here, of England? She moved quickly by the last chapels, merely glancing in to make sure they were empty. It was time to go. She had been a fool to come. She turned toward the main door and a priest came quietly up to her out of the shadows: ‘You wish to confess, my daughter?’

  Gair Varlow. ‘No!’ Her reaction was as instant as it was angry. Bad enough to have come here to meet him. Nothing would make her pretend a confession.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ At least he understood. ‘This way then.’ He guided her to a chapel whose lack of candles or offerings indicated that it belonged to one of the less popular saints. ‘We can talk here. Quietly.’ His Portuguese was as fluent as her own. There was no reason why they should be noticed. ‘I apologise for asking you to come,’ he went on. ‘I had to. There are things I must explain.’

  ‘Yes?’ More than ever, now, she wished she had not come.

  He must have sensed it. ‘I’m sorry. This is more important than manners … conventions. You’ve not asked me why I am here.’

  ‘Should I have?’

  ‘It would have made it easier for me.’

  ‘Yes?’ She stirred on the stool where he had seated her. ‘My grandmother is expecting me, Mr. Varlow. I can’t stay.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘That’s just it. I must get a message to Mrs. Brett. Will you take it for me?’

  ‘Why, of course.’ Was this all?

  ‘You must understand.’ He leaned close, to whisper, so that she found herself wondering, absurdly, whether he disliked the smell of her shawl as much as she did. ‘This is urgent business; dangerous business. I am here with Lord Strangford, the English Minister. Your grandmother has been helping me. No, that’s not right: I have been helping her. Three nights ago, the messenger we’ve been using was stabbed, murdered, here in the streets of Lisbon. It may mean nothing, or everything. Murders happen here, often enough. And there was nothing on him for anyone to find; the message was always verbal. But I don’t know. Until I do there’s no safety for any of us, not even for you, since I have involved you, God forgive me.’

  ‘I wish I had any idea what you are talking about.’ It was not true. Passionately, she did not want to know.

  ‘You’re not stupid. Don’t pretend to be. I’m talking about spying – secret agents, if you prefer. I am one. Your grandmother has been for years. We brought you here in the hope that you could help us. Could help England. I wish to God I didn’t have to ask you, like this, with no explanation, no time to tell you what is involved. But I must. It’s too important. I beg of you to believe me, Miss Brett, and do as I ask you. Your grandmother will explain.’

  ‘She had better.’ She was cold with anger, at herself, at him. It had all been a charade, a pretence. Memories mocked her: their first meeting, the moonlight, the nightingale … All false, a stage set to trick her. And that last day, in the maze. ‘I’m a poor man,’ he had said, implying that he loved her. ‘Penniless … with my own way to make in the world.’ This was how he made it. And she was to help him. She swallowed a sick lump of rage, and took a steadying breath. ‘It was all your idea, I take it?’ She was proud of her voice. ‘You had me invited to your sister’s; looked me over; decided I would do. I cannot imagine why. So: here I am. Very well then, since I am here, what can I do for you?’

  ‘No! It’s not like that.’ He began to protest. Then: ‘Well, I suppose, in a way, it is. You must see: in the end, I hope, you will see that there is more to it than that. But now, there’s no time: not to explain, not to apologise. You must get to your grandmother’s at once. She’ll tell you why. And you’ll tell her about the messenger. Tell her that until I find one I can trust I shall come myself. Your presence at the Castle on the Rock will give me my excuse. Tell Mrs. Brett I’ll come tomorrow. Ostensibly to call on you. You won’t mind?’

  ‘Mind? Why should I?’ At all costs she would not let him see how he had hurt her. ‘Very well. I’ll deliver your message.’

  ‘Thank you. And – carefully. When Mrs. Brett’s alone.’

  ‘I’m not quite a fool.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Sorry for everything. Look!’ He turned away – with relief? ‘There’s your man at the door. He must not see me. Forgive me.’ And before she could answer he was gone, his borrowed robes brushing softly along the stone floor.

  She waited a moment, teeth clenched on rage, trying to collect herself, watching Jaime peer about, his eyes still dazzled from the sunshine outside. Then she moved forward: ‘Here I am, Jaime.’

  ‘Good.’ He made his reverence to the altar with the casual friendliness of long habit. ‘The carriage is here, menina.’ And then, as he held the heavy door open for her. ‘Meu Dues, but it’s good to have you back. You were always the best of the bunch. As for those cousins of yours, they’re never home these days. They’re courtiers now! Hangers-on of the Prince Regent and his wife. You may see them today, come to that.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Yes. The boy learned on his way up that Dom John has left Mafra at last and is on his way to town.’

  ‘In August?’ She paused at the carriage door. ‘Jaime, things must be bad!’

  ‘You’ve heard the rumours too? But this may mean nothing. He’s coming to welcome the English Admiral, that’s all. He’ll doubtless be back at Queluz soon enough, with his poor mad mother the Queen. But we’d best lose no time, menina; I’d rather meet them the far side of there; the country’s opener.’

  Safe in the musty privacy of the carriage, Juana sat dry-eyed, dry-hearted, tearing her day-dreams to shreds. She would never be such a fool again. Her comfort, for what it was worth, must be that she had betrayed little, maybe nothing of what she felt to Gair Varlow. He must never know how successfully he had fooled her, those sunny days at Forland House.

  In England, she had dreamed, over and over again, of this longed-for return home. Now, she hardly noticed the familiar landmarks they passed: the graceful Aqueduct of Alcantara or the pink palace of Queluz where, no doubt, the old mad Queen was pacing the garden to which her kingdom had narrowed itself, with her heart-rending cry of ‘Ai, Jesus!’

  She was roused, at last, from her gloomy thoughts by a shout from Jaime, who was riding ahead. Luckily the road, which had been running for some time between the high stone walls round the gardens of noblemen’s quintas, or country houses, had just emerged on to an open stretch of heathy mountainside. Working quickly, Jaime and the boy manoeuvred the carriage to make way for the royal procession as it approached. Invisible in the shadows of her own carriage, Juana had a glimpse of Dom John, ugly as an orang-outang in the royal coach, then saw two of the riders pause to speak to Jaime. Of course, her cousins would have recognised the family carriage. Now they were pulling out of the cortège to greet her.

  ‘Peter! Robert!’ She leaned out of the carriage window. ‘It’s wonderful to see you.’

  ‘Not Peter!’ Her older cousin had edged his horse up close to the carriage. ‘Pedro. And Roberto.’ Tall, with dark, heavily curling hair, he was at once handsomer and less attractive than she had remembered. ‘And I hope you’ve not changed your name to Joanna, cousin. This is no time to be too blatantly British. God knows, Brett is bad enough.’

  ‘Brett? Bad? What in the world do you mean?’ This was hardly the reunion she had dreamed of.

  ‘Oh, we c
an’t drop it entirely, of course, but Roberto and I prefer, these days, to be known as Brett-Alvidrar. At least our mother was Portuguese.’ A quick glance at the servants. ‘It’s not that I’m not proud to be half English, of course; it’s just that – well, things are complicated just now.’

  ‘They must be if you are apologising for being a Brett, cousin.’

  He gave an impatient exclamation. ‘I can’t stop to explain now, but, for God’s sake, Juana, have the sense to keep quiet until you understand how things are here. I told my grandmother she was crazy to invite you, but try to make her listen to reason …’ He looked around to where the procession was still making its lumbering way past them. ‘I must go. Roberto, try if you can make her see reason?’

  ‘Don’t mind him.’ Robert was slighter and fairer than his older brother, his pale face dominated by the heavy Brett nose. ‘It’s an anxious time for us all, Juana.’ He took her hand and pressed it warmly. ‘Personally, I’m delighted to see you. The old lady is feeling her age, you know. She needs some looking after … And of course Aunt Elvira—’ he shrugged.

  ‘Is she the same as ever?’

  ‘Worse, if anything. Oh, she’s harmless enough, useful, in her way. She runs the household, so far as anyone does.’ He laughed. ‘I hope you don’t delude yourself you’re coming to a life of luxury, cousin.’

  ‘No, Roberto. Just home.’

  ‘Oh, well.’ He too was looking anxiously after the procession. ‘I hope you don’t live to regret it, Juana. Anyway, welcome home. And – Pedro’s right, you know. Be careful what you do – and what you say.’

  She was impatient now. ‘I wish you’d explain, Robert. What’s the good of saying “be careful” if you don’t tell me why, or what it’s all about?’

  He smiled at her, suddenly, and she remembered how much she had always preferred him to his bullying elder brother. ‘You’re not stupid, Juana, never were. Keep your eyes open, and your mouth shut, and you’ll understand soon enough. This is no place for explanations.’ He bent down, ostensibly to kiss her cheek. ‘Trust no one,’ he whispered, kicked his horse, and was gone.

  The procession was almost past now. The last heavy baggage waggons were lurching by with the scream of unoiled wheels that Juana remembered so well. ‘Jaime!’ She raised her voice to shout above the din. ‘Bring Rosinante. I’m going to ride the rest of the way.’

  ‘So you saw your cousins?’ He made it a question as he put her up into the comfortable Spanish saddle.

  ‘Messrs. Pedro and Roberto Brett-Alvidrar. Yes, I saw them, Jaime.’ Here, at least, was someone she had always trusted. She kicked Rosinante into a reluctant amble so that they pulled away from the lumbering carriage. ‘Jaime, you must explain. Pedro told me to be careful what I said, and Roberto said I was to trust no one.’

  ‘It’s good advice, menina. You were a child when you left; how should you understand? Besides, it’s got worse; much worse. And – I’ve never been to England, but I’ve heard about it all my life, seen the Englishmen from the Factory, and heard them talk. Corpo de deus how they talk! As if there was no such thing’ – he looked around to make sure the carriage was out of earshot—’no such thing as the Inquisition, or the secret police, or—’ He stopped. ‘I’m talking too much. It’s because I’m so glad to see you. But – believe me, they gave you good advice, your cousins. If I was your true friend, I think I’d turn around and take you straight back to Lisbon, to the ship you came on. I don’t know what your father was thinking of, to send you here, now … But then, he was never – Forgive me, menina – ’

  He paused, and she had a chance to ask her question. ‘What did you mean, Jaime, when you spoke of the Inquisition, or the secret police, or something else? Surely, there can’t be anything worse than the secret police?’

  ‘Don’t!’ They were well out on the heathy mountainside now, with no cover but a far-off clump of ilex trees, but he looked around as nervously as if rosemary and lavender bushes had ears. ‘Don’t ask me, menina. And yet, perhaps I should tell you.’

  ‘Of course you should.’ How odd it was, after the grey years in England, to find herself slipping back into the old habit of command. ‘It’s your duty, Jaime.’

  ‘Oh, menina,’ he turned to her impulsively. ‘I wish your mother, or my poor Anna, your foster-mother, was alive to hear you speak like that. And you’re right; it is my duty. Things have changed here since you were a child. It’s not only the Inquisition now, or the secret police … You’ve heard of the Freemasons?’

  ‘Why yes. We have them in England. They’re a … I don’t know … a secret society of some kind, aren’t they? Do you have them here, too?’

  ‘Yes. If it was only them. When Junot was here, two years ago – you know about him?’

  ‘The French General? Napoleon’s friend? Yes, of course.’

  ‘Well, he was Ambassador here – Such state as he kept; you should have seen it. A jumped-up nobody from God knows where … But he was a great one for the Freemasons – at first.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They weren’t secret enough for him. Or—’ another nervous look round – ‘violent enough. But there was another society. Menina, you’ll not breathe a word of this – not to anyone, not even to your grandmother? Swear it?’

  ‘I swear, Jaime.’ She had caught his seriousness.

  ‘They call themselves the Sons of the Star.’ He whispered it, as if the larks, twittering high above them, might hear. ‘If they condemn you to death, you’re dead. No one knows anything about them. Your own brother might be one, your father, and you’d not know. They take an oath of secrecy so dreadful – the Freemasons’ is nothing to it.’

  ‘But what do they do, Jaime?’

  Once again, he looked about him nervously. ‘It’s hard to say, since their victims, even if they let them live, never speak of what has happened to them. Oh – at first, I believe, they did a great deal of good. They were founded soon after the earthquake. Their doings were more open then, from what I’ve heard; it was only when King Joseph died (God rest his soul) and Pombal fell out of favour that they went underground. And ever since, they have been growing steadily more powerful. Menina, the prayer you whisper into your pillow tonight may be the subject of discussion at their next meeting. They have eyes and ears everywhere. And I’ve heard it said that since Junot’s time they have begun to mix themselves with politics. Well, you know, it’s not all love and roses between us and England. Senhora, anything could happen. They stick at nothing. That’s the one thing everyone knows about them. If they decide to get rid of the English – why, every one of them might be found dead in his bed. Now, do you see why your cousins prefer to be called Brett-Alvidrar?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t like it.’

  ‘Liking! What has that to do with it, in a country placed as ours is? Spain has always been our enemy. If she and France join against us, it’s going to take more than the English navy to protect us.’

  ‘But you’ve a Spanish Princess, Jaime. What of Dom John’s wife? Carlota Joaquina? Surely her own parents wouldn’t turn against her?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened. And it’s common knowledge, anyway, that she and the Prince Regent never meet if they can help it. Things are bad here, I tell you. I feel that we’re working up to an explosion of some kind. I’m still not sure I shouldn’t take you straight back to Lisbon.’

  ‘Nonsense! You know my grandmother needs me. But don’t imagine I’m going to start calling myself Brett-Mascarenhas after my mother!’

  ‘Good God! I should hope not. Don’t mention that name, even in jest.’

  ‘You mean people still remember? But it was in 1759, Jaime; nearly fifty years ago.’

  ‘The memories of sovereigns are long, menina.’ And he put a firm end to the conversation by turning his mule to ride back to the carriage.

  He rejoined her after they had passed through the green gardens and flowering groves of Sintra. ‘We’ll be entering our own land soon. I th
ink your grandmother would prefer it if you made your entry in the carriage.’

  Mrs. Brett’s slightest whim had always been law to servants and family alike and this was practically a command. In fact, Juana was stiff enough already from the unwonted exercise to be glad to yield gracefully: ‘Just wait till we reach the top of the ridge. That’s where you get the first view of the castle.’

  The bare, windswept ridge they were climbing presented a remarkable contrast to Sintra’s green orange and silver olive groves, and Juana was grateful for the sea-breeze that lifted her short hair under her riding hat and cooled cheeks flushed with exercise. And even up here, the crevices of the rocks were green with rosemary and lavender and the air fragrant with their scent.

  ‘There!’ She pulled Rosinante to a halt at the top of the long slope. ‘There it is at last.’ The Castle on the Rock was built on a plateau at the seaward end of the ridge they were on. Below and to their left lay the fertile, sheltered valley whose vineyards had helped make the fortunes of the early Bretts. Looking down, Juana could see the neat rows of grape vines from which they made a wine even lighter and more delicious than the famous Colares wine. And, ahead, above them, stood the castle itself, sharply silhouetted against the western sky, a place of dream or even, maybe, of nightmare, with its strange mixture of spire and minaret, of Christian and Moorish architecture. It had been at different times in its history a Moorish citadel against the Christian invader, a pirates’ base, and, briefly, an English stronghold when Richard Coeur de Lion’s Crusaders stormed it on their way to the Holy Land. Now, for Juana, it was home. ‘Hurry, Jaime.’ She let him help her into the carriage. ‘Grandmother will be waiting.’

  Chapter Five

  Their approach must have been visible for some time from the castle, but when the carriage laboured up the steep slope to the plateau and lurched through the great gate into the courtyard, it was greeted only by the inevitable horde of servants and hangers-on. They made, indeed, an enthusiastic scene enough, with their kissing of hands and patter of blessings, but, returning their greetings amid the well-remembered odour of salt-fish and garlic, Juana could not help a glance at unresponsive windows above.