The Winding Stair

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  The waiting was nearly over. Next morning, a messenger from Dom John’s apartments at the other end of the palace brought his orders that the household prepare for immediate embarkation. Pandemonium reigned. Still, in the midst of it, Carlota Joaquina maintained a furious calm that held her ladies’ hysteria in check. It was she who gave the orders for loading the huge coach that would hold herself, her eight children, their nurse and two ladies-in-waiting. She singled out Juana for one of these: ‘You will keep your head, senhora.’

  ‘Yes, your highness.’ The English must be gene. There had been no word from Gair. It was the end. He was dead, had probably not survived the night they parted. She should have admitted it to herself a week ago. Today there was not even time for tears.

  Teresa arrived at the last minute, and flung herself into Juana’s arms. ‘I never believed it,’ she said. ‘Any of it. Oh, Juana, I’m so glad … I’m so sorry …’ She was laughing and crying all at once. ‘Roberto told me,’ she explained. ‘Some of it. Is there any news of Mr. Varlow?’

  ‘None.’

  A quick look at her and Teresa began to talk quickly about affairs at the castle. ‘Do you know, it was the most amazing thing: when poor old Mrs. Brett died – you did know she had, died?’

  ‘Yes.’ Juana managed it through the tears that threatened to stifle her.

  ‘Well, you can imagine the confusion when we found her – Maria had been sitting with her and fallen asleep, you see.’ And Juana thought: of course, Maria. ‘So there was Maria having hysterics and Daisy not much better, and nor was I for the matter of that, and in walked Aunt Elvira—’ She paused impressively.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She looked at the old lady and said, “Cover her face, mine eyes dazzle, she died old.” And then she kind of shook herself, and said, in quite a normal voice, “Well, has anyone sent for a priest?” And she’s been running things at the castle ever since. Just like you used to.’

  ‘You mean?’

  ‘I don’t know what I mean.’

  And with that Juana had to leave her and take her place in the immense carriage shaped like a figure-of-eight that was to take Carlota Joaquina down to the Sodre Quay. As it waited to join the fantastic cortège of more than seven hundred vehicles that was needed to transport the court, Juana had a glimpse of the old mad Queen leaning out of her carriage window, her white head bare, to shriek, ‘Ai, Jesus!’ And then, to her attendants: ‘Do not drive so fast. They will think we are running away!’

  Carlota Joaquina said nothing, except to comfort her children. The rain came down in torrents. The journey seemed endless, since the roads were crowded with panic-stricken fugitives, and even when they got to the quays it was merely to sit in the carriage, and wait. Ahead of them, Juana saw Dom John alight from his coach, despite the pouring rain, and surrender himself to his lamenting people, who crowded close to kiss his hands. Piles of baggage lay everywhere on the quays. The silver plate from the Ajuda Palace, priceless books and manuscripts from the royal archives, and even the gem-studded robes of the Patriarch all lay higgledy-piggledy in the rain.

  Now, at last, she could see boats beginning to pull away toward them from the Portuguese ships. A chamberlain came running up to ask Carlota Joaquina to alight and prepare to embark. The quays were getting more crowded every minute. It seemed as if all Lisbon hoped to get away on those few ships. ‘You will come with me on the Affonso d’Albuquerque,’ Carlota Joaquina told Juana. Her oldest son, Dom Pedro, was to join his father on the Principe Real.

  They were all on the quay now among the shouting, mourning, unpredictable crowd where soldiers of the royal guard tried in vain to keep some kind of order. The royal children were crying again and Juana picked up little Dom Miguel to save him from being crushed by the mob. She could see Dom John and his mad old mother quite near to them on the very edge of the quay, waiting for the first of the approaching boats. And with them, she saw now, was Lord Strangford and a little group of Englishmen. Not Gair.

  Tears blinded her eyes for a moment. She brushed them away. There would be time for tears. A lifetime. She was distracted by a kind of eddy in the crowd beyond Strangford. A cowled priest was making his way through it, distributing blessings as he went. It was surprising, she thought, and in a way reassuring to see how the crowd gave way before him. He was quite near now to where Dom John stood among his weeping subjects. The first boat touched the quay and for a moment everyone’s attention was on it save Juana’s. She kept on watching the priest, fascinated by something – What was it about him?

  Suddenly, horribly, helplessly, she knew. Short and strongly built, the cowl close about his face, the crucifix held up to the crowd … Vasco. And the signal?

  She grasped the little Prince more tightly and looked about for help. But anyone-everyone in this crowd might serve Vasco. The Sons of the Star were probably everywhere, waiting for the signal to strike. Even if the royal guard should prove faithful, neither she nor Dom John and his family would have any chance of escape, once Vasco gave his signal.

  And there was nothing she could do. To scream would be worse than useless. It might even act as the signal. At the very least, it would draw attention upon herself from whichever of the Sons of the Star stood nearest.

  She watched, silent, horror-struck, turned to stone. Dom John was ready to get into the boat. The cowled figure reached him, threw back his hood and revealed the expected face of Vasco. The crucifix was in his left hand now, his right held a dagger. He raised it, gleaming dully as the rain splashed on it, and for a strange moment the crowd was silent.

  ‘I, Sebastian,’ he shouted, and one of the royal guard leapt at him from behind Dom John. The dagger flew from his hand and fell to the quay with a clatter of metal on stone. The two men fought like maniacs, like beasts, while around them the crowd stayed silent, watching, waiting … The guardsman was handicapped by his ceremonial dress, the ‘monk’ by his robes. They fought on, horribly silent, slipping on the wet stone, getting nearer and nearer to the edge of the quay. Now the ‘monk’ had got the guardsman down and was banging his head on the stone. His helmet flew off. Gair.

  Juana never knew whether she screamed or whether Gair heard her. But he writhed out of Vasco’s grasp, slipped sideways, was on his feet, and then, as Vasco rushed him, delivered a knockout blow to the chin. They were right at the edge. Vasco staggered backwards, fought desperately for balance, plunged down into deep water. The splash … the widening ripples … Then … nothing.

  There was a long, tense moment with the crowd still strangely silent as Gair stood on the quay edge, looking down. Then he turned, lifted his hand, and spoke: ‘Sebastian is dead. Long live Dom John. Long live the House of Braganza!’

  The crowd gave a kind of shudder, something between a groan and a cheer. Near her, Juana was aware of one or two of the royal guard slipping quietly away. The little Prince started crying louder than ever. Dom John got into his boat to be rowed out to the Principe Real. It was all over.

  And Gair was coming towards her. ‘Juana!’

  ‘Gair! I thought you were dead.’ Tears were streaming down her face.

  ‘You were very nearly right. Your cousin was an ugly fighter, God rest his soul. But he never trained with Gentleman Jackson, luckily for me.’

  ‘And for us, senhor.’ Carlota Joaquina interrupted the brief tête-à-tête. ‘Since my husband did not think fit to stay and thank you, I must do so on his behalf. Wear this for me.’ She pulled off one of the blazing diamond rings that encrusted her hands.

  Thanking her, he explained that it had been by prearrangement that Dom John had embarked at once. ‘With him safe, the rest of you are so much the safer. But I have his orders that you, too, are to embark without delay.’

  ‘You will come with us, I hope, senhor?’

  ‘Yes, your highness. Those are my orders.’ His words were for her, his eyes for Juana.

  With him beside her, what had been hard was easy, what had been misery, happiness. Even the appall
ing conditions of the overloaded, half prepared ship could only make her smile. Besides: ‘We won’t be here long.’ Gair seized the first private chance to speak to her on the crowded deck.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Strangford intends merely to see the Prince on board and then return to the British sloop Confiance and take the news of the embarkation out to our squadron. But he has asked me to stay with the Princess until the fleet sails, just in case … Roberto stays with Dom John. We will transfer to the Confiance when the Portuguese sail … She is to take the news to England. We may be there next week.’

  ‘It seems impossible.’

  ‘I hope it’s not.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I wish I could have persuaded Strangford to take you off now, but he’s still very much on his dignity with me. He won’t forgive my resignation in a hurry. I thought I’d never get him to make a new approach to Dom John. I don’t ever want to go through a week like this last one again. I’ve been mad with anxiety for you, Juana. But at least, thank God, I didn’t know de Mascarenhas had escaped. If I’d known that, I don’t think I could have stayed on board.’

  ‘You’d have deserted for my sake?’

  ‘I’m afraid I would. As it is, it may have taken Strangford too long to make up his mind. The latest news is that Junot’s advance guard is only twenty-four hours away, and, look, the wind is against us. We may be caught still, like rats in a trap. But at least it will be by the French, and we’ll be together.’ And then, quickly, ‘Smile, Juana. Look like someone who knows she is safe at last. Just think what a panic would be like in this crowd.’

  She could smile now. ‘With you here, I refuse to believe I’m not safe. Oh, Gair, do you realise that for a whole week I have believed you dead?’

  ‘That’s nothing, my love. For twice that long I thought you married to de Mascarenhas.’

  Night fell. The embarkation was complete, the ships crowded to danger-point, and still the wind blew straight into the harbour. For another unbearable twenty-six hours it remained the same.

  ‘It’s going to be touch and go,’ Gair told Juana on Saturday night. ‘If you ever prayed, my love, pray for a fair wind tonight.’

  Something woke her in the blackness of the crowded cabin. A change in the movement of the ship? ‘Nothing good ever comes of a Spanish marriage or a Spanish wind.’ She remembered the proverb and the first Juana, remembered Gair, and prayed that tonight would be the exception.

  She slept again and was waked at last by the shouting of orders and the rush of sailors’ feet on the deck above. Teresa had the pallet nearest the porthole. ‘Look!’ she cried. ‘We’re moving.’

  Juana was one of the first on deck. The rain had stopped at last, and sunshine was drying the piles of baggage that still strewed the deck. Ahead of them, the Principe Real was well out into midstream, with all sails set.

  ‘But look!’ Gair joined her at the rail and pointed back to the Castle of St. George on its hill above the river. As they watched, the Portuguese flag disappeared from its tower.

  ‘Because the Prince Regent is gone?’ she asked.

  ‘If it were only that.’ The tricolour flag of France streamed out on their saving wind.

  Gair turned to look downstream to where Fort St. Julian lay ahead of them, its guns commanding the river. ‘Will Junot think of that?’ he asked, and answered himself. ‘He’s bound to. After all, he was here as ambassador. He knows all about Lisbon. Thank God we are next in line.’

  In fact the bulk of the Portuguese fleet was safely beyond the fort when Junot’s French detachment got there. One shot was fired at the last frigate, but it was too late. Already the main fleet was being greeted by the British squadron with a royal salute of twenty-one guns.

  ‘We’re safe.’ Juana tried to believe it as the Portuguese guns roared out their answer.

  ‘Do you know, I really begin to think we are.’ The two fleets were level now, and they could see a boat being lowered from the Confiance. ‘Strangford didn’t forget,’ Gair said. ‘We had best say our farewells to the Princess.’

  ‘Were you afraid he might?’

  ‘Where you are concerned, my darling, I am afraid of everything.’

  ‘Oh dear’ – she made a little face – ‘how tedious for you. What shall we do about it?’

  ‘We’ll marry,’ he said. ‘At once. I’m not sure I won’t get the chaplain of the Confiance to do it before even we get back to England. I don’t ever want to let you out of my sight again.’

  ‘You say that! You, who let me go on thinking you were dead!’

  ‘Juana, I had to. You must see that.’

  ‘I may see it,’ she said, ‘but that doesn’t mean I like it. There’s one thing I want to have clearly understood before there is any more talk of marrying, on the Confiance or anywhere else.’

  ‘Yes, my fierce and only love?’

  ‘Gair!’ Her voice broke. ‘You must understand. I couldn’t go through it again … couldn’t bear it.… It’s been too much …’ She managed a smile. ‘I must have cried enough, these last few days, to keep an orange grove going. Please, Gair – must you go on—’ And yet, how could she ask it of him? It was his life, after all.

  But he was laughing. ‘You don’t want to marry a secret agent?’ he asked. ‘Well, I can’t say I blame you. We’ve had enough adventuring, haven’t we, love? But I’m not a spy any more. I resigned, don’t you remember? Since then I’ve been – I suppose – a free agent. That’s what I mean to stay. You must see, I had to finish this, but now … Juana, you said you would marry me when our most likely prospect was death. Even if I lived, then, I had little to offer. Now things are different. The English squadron brought me letters. Poor Forland is dead. Vanessa has a boy and I am his guardian. She wants me to live in the Dower House and manage the estate for her. And, presently, there will be a seat in Parliament. Juana, tell me that is the kind of husband you want?’

  ‘You know perfectly well what kind of husband I want, and I’m not going to flatter you by telling you again. But, oh Gair, poor Vanessa.’

  ‘She’s got the boy.’

  ‘Yes. Look – the boat’s quite near now.’

  ‘And here is the Princess.’

  The farewells and thanks were almost over, and the English boat was at the side, when Teresa came running up from below. ‘Juana, you left this behind.’ She handed her Vasco’s diadem.

  ‘Oh, so I did.’ Juana took it indifferently.

  ‘Let me see,’ said the Princess. And then, ‘Meu Deus! Do you not know, child, that each of these stones is a diamond of the first water?’

  ‘Good God,’ said Gair. ‘And I thought I was marrying a penniless wife I could bully.’

  ‘Oh, did you?’ said Juana. And she said it in English, without a trace of a stammer.

  Historical Notes

  Portugal. In Juana Brett’s time it had long been known as Britain’s oldest ally. An English fleet, on the Second Crusade, had paused there to help capture Lisbon from the Moors, and the Portuguese King John I married Henry IV of England’s sister and so founded the Aviz dynasty. English invalids went to Lisbon for health, travellers for entertainment and merchants for profit. By the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, there were thriving English communities at both Oporto and Lisbon, the centres of the wine trade.

  Sebastian. The last of the House of Aviz, he became King of Portugal at the age of three. Growing up mystic and ascetic, he led an unlucky expedition against the Moors in Africa, was killed and his army annihilated. Portugal’s old enemy, Spain, seized the chance, and the country. Although Sebastian’s death was, in fact, well authenticated, rumours that he had survived persisted, and various Pretenders appeared during the years of Spanish domination. These ended with the successful revolt led by the House of Braganza in 1640, in which the Sebastianists played an important part. They were active during the Napoleonic wars, and still in existence in the early twentieth century. Of course, the real Sebastian never married. It was a revenant, a kind of King Art
hur figure, that the Sebastianists looked to, not a descendant.

  Pombal. By the mid-eighteenth century, Portugal and the House of Braganza had gone to seed. A brilliant, self-made man, with a grudge against the aristocracy, Pombal completed his domination of the negligible King Joseph by his vigorous action in 1755, when an earthquake destroyed half Lisbon. Virtual dictator of Portugal, Pombal seized on the so-called Tavora plot as a chance to destroy two of the aristocratic families that opposed his reforming rule. It is not known whether the Tavoras and the d’Aveiros were really involved in the attempt on the King’s life, though he had tampered with women in each family. Anyway, Pombal’s torturers wrung out plenty of evidence. The chief members of both families died horribly, the others stayed in prisons or nunneries until King Joseph’s death in 1777 and Pombal’s consequent fall from power.

  Joseph’s daughter Queen Maria had the case reopened and the Tavoras at least cleared, and it was rumoured that her sense of her father’s guilt helped drive her insane. In 1806, she was shut up, quite mad, at the Palace of Queluz, and her not very bright son Dom John was ruling as Prince Regent. His Spanish wife Carlota Joaquina disliked him intensely, had plotted against him and was shut up, in disgrace, in her country house (or quinta) of Ramalhao at Sintra. Marcus Cheke has written fascinating books about both her and Pombal, to which I am deeply indebted, and which I recommend to anyone who would like to know more about this extraordinary period of Portuguese history.

  Britain and France. In the early nineteenth century, Britain was fighting a war of survival against Napoleon Bonaparte, who had made himself Emperor of France, and conquered most of Europe. Pitt, the great leader of the Tory party, had died in January, 1806. His party fell into disarray and the Whigs came into power in a patched-up government called the Ministry of All the Talents because it could boast so few. Its outstanding member, Fox, died in September, 1806, but the ministry staggered on through the winter, to be replaced by the Tories in the spring of 1807.