The Winding Stair

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  And have her grandmother try to go in her place? She took a deep, steadying breath, found the candle at last, and managed to light it at the second try. Its flame flickered for a moment, then burnt steadily, showing the stair plunging down into blackness. Her breath was coming too fast again. She leaned against the rough wood of the door and made herself count slowly to a hundred. Just as well she had come early. But now there was no excuse for further delay. If she did not start down, quickly, now, this minute, she never would.

  At least there was no chance of mistaking the way. There was no choice at any point as the steep stairs plunged down, and down again, and sideways, into the heavy darkness. There was something steadying about the need to count the steps as she descended; and, mercifully, she had remembered about the bats. Reaching the bottom door at last she felt in her pocket for the big key, but paused a minute before she fitted it in the lock. So far, her only terror had been of the darkness. As long as this door was locked and bolted on her side, no one could reach the winding stair except through her grandmother’s room.

  Was she sure that the same was true of the other side? Might there not be more ways into the council chamber than the big door that it was her task to unlock? It seemed unlikely, of course, but how could she be certain? She set her teeth, pushed back the bolt and unlocked the door. Silence greeted her, and a breath of the air of the cavern, perceptibly colder and damper than that on the stairs, reminding her that the Atlantic was not far off.

  How long had it taken her to grope her cautious way down the stair? She made herself move forward at once into the darkness, and light the candles on the council table from her own. Then she felt in her right hand pocket for a taper and moved around lighting the braziers the acolytes had left ready a month ago. There was something wonderfully comforting about the way the resin caught and flared up at once. Now the flickering shadows on the cavern roof were red, instead of cold candle-light. But the warmth of the braziers merely served to accentuate the deathly chill of the council chamber. She pulled her hood more closely round her and looked about for the path to the cell door.

  It felt much safer in there, with the brazier lit and the secret spy-hole opened (to make sure she could) and closed again. She sat down on the heavy wooden chair where, last time, her grandmother had sat, and resigned herself to the possibility of a long wait. Then she stood up, reluctantly. Why not make a fuller investigation of the council chamber while she had the chance?

  It was rough going, since the rock was only smoothed away round the table itself and on the paths that led to the three doorways, and she wished that she had a lantern instead of the precariously flickering candle. She tried blowing it out, in the hope that she would be able to see her way by the light of the candles on the big central table, but found at once that this would not do, and had to lose what seemed a great deal of time feeling her way back to the central table and relighting her candle from one of the candelabras. Another time, she would carry the tinder-box in her pocket.

  Her candle relit, she made her way back down the path to the cell and started off round the cave wall in the opposite direction to the one she had taken before. This way the going was rougher still, and she had to put down her candle, from time to time, while she climbed over one of the ribs of rock that ran out from the cavern wall. It was damp, too, and she wondered if she was nearing the source of the water-drip that seemed to echo her own quick heartbeat. Thinking of this, she took a careless step, slipped on the damp rock, and fell.

  For a moment, aching all over, she thought she had broken a bone and gave way to pure, shaking fright. Then, slowly and carefully, she picked herself up, put her full weight on the foot that hurt most and decided it was merely wrenched. And, mercifully, the candle was still burning on the rock where she had put it.

  How long had all this taken? New terror seized her. Any minute now the gong might sound, summoning her to open the big door. What would the acolytes think if she took too long to obey the summons? Already, as she thought this, she was working her way down a channel in the rock to the central table. She had just reached it, and settled, with a sigh of relief, on one of the heavy wooden chairs, when the gong did indeed sound, louder than she had remembered, echoing strangely in that strangely echoing place.

  No time to wonder if her fall had left its mark on her black dress. But unlikely, she thought, that it would be visible by candlelight. She pulled her hood closely round her face, picked up the candle and made herself walk without limping toward the door. Nothing she did tonight must be in the least odd; nothing must need explaining.

  Shooting back the bolt, she saw that her hands were shaking and remembered without comfort that her grandmother’s had done so too. As before, the doors were pulled outwards as soon as the bolt was free, and she could see the flare of two torches outside, and hear, behind them, the sullen roar of the Atlantic.

  ‘Who comes here?’ she asked, her voice unrecognisable even to herself.

  ‘The Sons of the Star.’

  ‘And why do you come?’

  ‘That we may gain wisdom, knowledge, power and peace.’

  She moved aside to let them in: ‘Enter, Sons of the Star, and may your hearts’ desire be granted.’ And, what nonsense it all is, she thought with a comforting little rush of reason. And tried to decide whether the acolytes who had now moved forward into the cavern were the same ones as last time. She rather thought not.

  ‘Is the council chamber ready?’ asked the leader.

  ‘Search and see,’ said Juana, her question answered. He had got his words wrong: he should have said ‘prepared’. They must be new.

  This was confirmed by the length of time they took to investigate the big cave and then Juana’s own cell. One good thing, she thought; they were not likely to notice that the candles on the big central table had already burned down some distance. She should have thought of that when she first lit them.

  ‘All is prepared.’ The two acolytes returned to the central table. This, Juana knew, was where the routine would be different tonight. ‘Are you ready to go to your own place, Handmaiden of the Star?’ The two of them stood, now, one on either side of her, nearer than she liked.

  ‘I am ready.’ She kept her voice steady with an effort, and it echoed back, unrecognisable from the high roof.

  ‘Then come.’

  She walked, not limping, though it hurt horribly, down the path to the cell door and listened, cold all over, as they locked it on her.

  It seemed an age till the gong sounded for the second time. This was the worst moment of all. She counted ten, then waited, unable to bring herself to open the panel. Until she did so, she was what they thought her, the Handmaiden of the Star. Opening it, she declared herself their enemy. Suppose, this first time, they were keeping watch on her?

  Thinking merely made it worse. She gritted her teeth, blew out the candle and felt for the secret spring. As the panel slid open, she saw that everything was as it had been the last time. The Sons of the Star were seated round their table, the two acolytes stood behind the chair of the leader, and, as before, he was speaking. ‘Strangford persuaded St. Vincent not to abduct the Prince Regent,’ he said. ‘He knows Portugal too well, understands too much, is dangerously well informed. Before we turn to our new plans, brothers, I put it to you that Lord Strangford is our enemy. What say you, Sons of the Star?’

  He turned to the robed figure on his right, who spoke one word: ‘Death.’

  His neighbour said the same, and so on about half way round the table, until it came to the turn of a man who had his back to Juana. He rose to his feet, still with his back to her so that she could not see the emblem on his cowl. ‘Most excellent Star.’ he said. ‘With all respect, I submit that it is not Strangford who is our enemy, but the Englishman who keeps him informed. Strangford is nothing, a poetaster, a braggart. It is the other we must fear.’

  ‘And who is he?’

  Gair, of course. Juana thought, cold with terror, that if she had
yielded to temptation and left the panel shut, she would not have heard this.

  The man with his back to her was speaking again. ‘I do not know – yet. One among Strangford’s following, I am sure, but as to which—’

  ‘Then we must kill them all,’ said the leader. And once again the one word, ‘Death’, echoed round the table, and again the same man broke the chain.

  ‘Most excellent Star, first let us find out our real enemy, the man behind Strangford. He must be killed at once, I agree, but for the rest of the Englishmen, why not let them live until we are ready to strike? Kill them now, they will be replaced, maybe by men who understand the situation better.’

  ‘You counsel well, Brother of the Broken Cross. It shall be as you suggest. You will find out, before our next meeting, the name of the man who is keeping Strangford informed. And having found him, deal with him. We pass his sentence now.’

  This time, the word, ‘Death’ was unanimous.

  Juana shivered convulsively, and not with cold, but this was no time to be thinking of the threat to Gair; she must concentrate on the general discussion that now broke out. The Brother of the Ragged Staff had recent news from Paris and confirmed that all hope of aid from France was, for the time being, at an end. ‘Napoleon and his armies have marched east,’ he said. ‘They may be at Berlin by now, for all I know.’

  As at the previous meeting, there were two schools of thought. Many of the members wanted to strike at once, now the English ships were gone, to dispose of the older members of the royal family and govern in the name of one of the Princes: ‘It hardly matters which,’ said the Brother of the Silver Hand, ‘since the eldest is only nine.’

  The Brother of the Broken Cross had an objection to this plan. ‘What of Spain?’ he asked. ‘I myself have been employed by Carlota Joaquina to carry her letters to her parents there. So far, they have made no move to help her, but if we rise, be sure they will take advantage of the country’s confusion to attack. We all know what kind of a state the army is in. Without a French force to support us we’d not have a chance against Spain. It is liberty we want, not bondage to our oldest enemy.’

  There was a murmur of agreement round the table, and in the end the meeting broke up without a definite decision.

  ‘We must wait, Brothers,’ the leader summed up. ‘Wait and hope. In the meantime, as you know, our Brother of the Crescent Moon follows Napoleon to urge our cause. He will not fail us. It is merely to wait a little, and make ready, while we wait. You all know your tasks.’ He raised his hands: ‘Sons of the Star, we meet only to part—’ It was the beginning of the final invocation. Juana’s hands were so cold that she could hardly manage the spring of the secret panel. She had to make three tries before she contrived to relight her candle. Idiot! She had not thought to replenish the brazier (something Mrs. Brett had done the time before) and it was almost out. How in the world could she explain this if the acolytes should notice, as they were almost bound to do? She let herself slump down on the hard wooden chair, put her head on the rough table and was, she hoped, convincingly asleep when the key grated in the lock. Pretending to wake as the acolytes entered the cell, she was aware, for the first time, of a new terror. The others were all gone now, she was alone down here with two men who thought nothing of murder. Her hood had slipped back a little from her face as she pretended to wake, and she pulled it forward again with a trembling hand.

  ‘Fear nothing, Servant of the Star.’ In this small cell, voices were less distorted and she thought there was something familiar about this acolyte. But how could one be sure? At all events, his words were encouraging. ‘No need to be scared of us,’ he went on, reassuringly colloquial. ‘Though I don’t say I blame you. I was scared myself back in there.’

  She bowed her acknowledgment, unwilling to speak, here where he might recognise her voice.

  ‘This work should be done in silence.’ The other acolyte spoke reprovingly as they went to work preparing a new brazier and changing the candle. Then: ‘The candlestick is cold, woman. Why is that?’

  It was the question she had dreaded, and prepared for. ‘It went out while I was asleep. I had to relight it.’ She spoke through her hood, her voice muffled and, she hoped, unrecognisable.

  ‘Women sleep while men—’

  ‘Talk.’ His companion surprised Juana by his intervention. ‘All is finished here, Brother.’

  At last, Juana bolted the big door behind them and turned with a sigh of relief to the long climb up the winding stair. Her foot was hurting again and the stairs seemed endless. But it had not really gone too badly. And all the danger, all the terror and pain were trivial compared with the threat to Gair. She must warn him at once. But how? Her grandmother was still fast asleep. There was nothing to be done till morning.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘But suppose he doesn’t come for days!’ Juana was relieved to see that her grandmother looked a little better this morning. ‘Shouldn’t I send for my Camoens transcriptions back? You remember we agreed I could summon him that way in a crisis?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, child. He’ll come. Today if he can. At the worst, tomorrow. Panic never helped anyone.’

  Panic? But it was true; she had been close to it. Bad enough to be afraid for herself; this terror for Gair was something beyond reason. ‘They know so much, ma’am,’ she tried to explain it. ‘They’re bound to find him out.’

  ‘I’m glad, at least, it has made you realise how dangerous they are. But you do Gair Varlow less than justice. You’ve not been here long enough to see the picture he has managed to create of himself. If they think Strangford (what did you say?) a nothing and a poetaster, they must have dismissed Gair Varlow as even less worth their notice. It’s all over Lisbon that he only got his appointment here through the influence of his sister’s husband, who was tired of having his brother-in-law hanging on his sleeve.’ She managed an admirable pretence at a laugh. ‘No need to look so angry. It’s an admirable cover. And Mr. Varlow’s not the man I think him if it doesn’t turn out that there is also a likely candidate among Lord Strangford’s suite for the part of secret service agent.’

  ‘But if there is, he’ll be killed!’

  ‘If there is, he’ll be expendable.’

  For a moment, Juana came near to hating her grandmother. How could she shrug off a man’s life like that? Was it perhaps this streak of ruthlessness in her that had made such disasters of her children’s lives?

  ‘It’s time you went out for your ride,’ Mrs. Brett interrupted her thoughts. ‘Nothing must seem out of the way this morning. Besides, I’d like you to go down the Pleasant Valley and see how they are getting on with the preparations for the grape harvest. It should be starting any time now.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ But this was another blow. She had meant to ride part of the way toward Sintra in the hopes of meeting Gair. Had her grandmother guessed?

  Her next words suggested that she had: ‘I’ll see to it that Mr. Varlow stays for dinner, if he should come while you are out. He’ll have to, as I don’t propose to get up today. Don’t look so anxious, child. He’ll manage to see you alone. It’s his business.’

  And that was curiously cold comfort, Juana thought, as she hurried across the courtyard to the stables, eager to get this unwelcome errand done.

  Iago was whistling through his teeth as he greased the wheels of the family carriage. He greeted her with his usual elaborate respect, but went on to explain that Tomas would have to accompany her this morning as he had orders to prepare the carriage. ‘The Senhor Miguel has unexpected business in Lisbon.’

  Juana looked about her. ‘But where is Tomas?’

  ‘That’s the difficulty, senhora. I don’t know. I haven’t seen him this morning.’

  ‘You mean he hasn’t come to work?’ Tomas lived in the little huddle of peasant houses between the castle and the Pleasant Valley.

  ‘No. And no message either. I suppose Maria didn’t say anything?’

  ‘Maria slept
in the castle last night. She mostly does, now she’s waiting on me. But what’s to do, Iago? Mrs. Brett wants me to ride down the Pleasant Valley and let her know how the preparations for the vintage are coming on.’

  Iago dropped his tools at once. This put an entirely different complexion on Juana’s morning ride. The slightest wish of Mrs. Brett’s had priority over the needs of any other inhabitant of the castle. ‘In that case, I’ll call Jaime. He will have to take the Senhor Miguel to Lisbon. I’ll be with you directly, senhora.’

  Naturally, this was not the case. Juana had to wait, controlling impatience as best she might, while Iago finished getting the carriage ready, since Jaime could not be expected to demean himself with such a task. Then Miguel appeared, and the whole thing had to be explained all over again to him.

  ‘That’s not like Tomas,’ he said. ‘Have you sent to see what’s the matter, Juana?’

  ‘Who could I send?’ Impatience was beginning to boil up in her. ‘I’ll go myself on my way down to the valley. I wish I’d known you were going into Lisbon, uncle. I’d have had some more of Uncle Prospero’s translation copied out ready for Lord Strangford.’ Here had been the perfect opportunity to send to Gair and she had not even known about it.

  ‘I’m sorry, child. I didn’t know myself till Father Ignatius got back this morning with the message. It’s my Little Brothers of St. Antony.’ He did not explain further. ‘I can wait a few minutes now, if you wish.’

  ‘Thank you, uncle, but it’s no use. It would take too long.’ She had suddenly realised that she could hardly send for the Camoens without making at least a pretence of consulting Prospero. Besides, was Miguel a safe messenger? Why did he have to go so urgently into Lisbon this morning? ‘Anyway, I’d need to discuss it with Uncle Prospero, and I don’t suppose he’s down yet.’