As he was speaking he was rolling the map up, thrusting it down his broad leather belt, walking rapidly out into the hall and across the courtyard and into the stables, while the rest of us hurried after him. There was no time to feel alarm. Within seconds Roque had me in Solitaire’s saddle and was mounting a nut-brown stallion with pale flowing mane and flaring nostrils. There was hardly time to say goodbye to Romero. With a firm handclasp the brothers parted, Jose swung easily up onto the back of a chestnut roan and with a whoop of joy Javier mounted a horse that was already pawing the ground with impatient hooves. The gates were flung open, and leaving Romero alone, surrounded by the rest of the horses whinnying with frustration in their stalls, we walked the horses carefully out and onto the smooth turf. Roque rode beside me, Javier was behind, and in front was Jose.
He turned, his eyes holding mine, saying with them what could not be said in words. I smiled back, my body filled with warmth and confidence. It was going to be all right. Everything was going to be all right.
I could see the tangle of curls growing thick in the nape of his neck, the firm, hard muscles, tense and ripple as he turned the horse’s head to the left, picking a careful path between rocks and stones as the green of the lower slopes were left behind and we approached the rampart of pines and presumably safe cover from Lindaraja’s unwelcome visitors.
I longed to touch him. To be touched. But now was not the time. Soon, when we were in Bayonne, when we could talk.… On reaching the cool green shelter of the trees, Jose paused, swinging round in the saddle, his face stern, his eyes preoccupied. Far below us Lindaraja stood like an exotic toy of brilliant white. The hillside falling down green and lush, surrounding the glittering walls, plunging far below to where the snake of a road could be seen winding along the floor of the valley. The cars were easy to see. Tiny, gleaming dots of jet-black, they were sweeping at great speed along the length of the road, four, five of them. We backed the horses even deeper into the leafy dimness of the woods, leaning forward, hands resting on saddles, watching intently.
Beetle-like the cars curved through the valley, the road sweeping round in giant loops, bringing them steadily higher and higher. For a short while they were masked by trees, and then we saw them quite clearly, the steep leek-green meadows falling sharply on either side of the road. They wound upwards, towards the splendour of Lindaraja, and with bated breath I watched as the first car swerved to a stop in a cloud of pale dry dust at Lindaraja’s massive gates. No-one spoke. In horrified fascination we stared at the drama being played out below us.
The cars were all there now, and dark figures were racing into the house and across the courtyard to the stables. It was difficult to see clearly as the sun was in our eyes, but I saw them seize the stable boy, saw him struck once, twice across the face. I forced my eyes away, desperately searching for Romero’s familiar figure. The shouts of the men echoed and re-echoed, alien sounds amongst the peaceful serenity of the trees.
The shutters were slammed wide open, and two figures in skirts fled down the steps clinging in frightened hysteria to the bronze rim of the fountain, then running to the gates and the road beyond.
Only once did I steal a glance at Jose. And in the vicious set of the lips, in the knotted muscles of face and neck, the raging eyes, the white knuckles clenching into fists of iron, I saw his suffering and I could not look again.
Then, heart in my mouth, I saw Romero. He was struggling with a darkened figure at the top of the flight of steps that led to Lindaraja’s pillared entrance, then in the next minute he was sent sprawling, rolling down the ochre steps by the kick of the man behind him. Mesmerised, like the eyes of a cornered animal, I stared as he staggered to his feet from the dry clouds of sandy dust, only to be pushed viciously in the back, sent reeling against the fountain, the myriad droplets of jewelled spray raining down on his head and neck. He leant double, gasping with pain, struggling for breath. The sun glared, and with shielded eyes I saw the rifle butt raised, gleaming unmistakably. I bit my knuckles deep, not daring to flicker so much as an eyelash. The menacing figure was too slow, with all the strength he possessed Romero knocked the rifle from his hands, heaving the man bodily over his shoulder, plunging him face down into the ripples of the playing water. His victory was brief, seconds later he was the centre of a mob and Jose drew his breath in sharply, digging his heels into his horse, wheeling him round, plunging back down the hillside towards Lindaraja, shouting: “ For Christ’s sake! It isn’t the police! It’s Garmendia and Cia!”
Chapter Twelve
It took Javier only a second to react, then he, too, was slapping the rump of his horse, disappearing amidst a clatter of stones and rustling leaves, charging down the mountainside after Jose, his horse’s mane flying in the wind.
Seconds later, paintings, pottery, statuettes, anything they could lay their hands on came flying through Lindaraja’s opened windows, crashing in ruins at Romero’s feet as he knelt in the dust, forced there by the two men holding him, his arms held cruelly high. The treasures of generation after generation were smashed against walls, destruction for destruction’s sake ran wild and I was glad that I could not see the anguish on Romero’s face as he struggled helplessly, forced to witness the violation of his home.
“Oh my God,” I whispered to Roque, in new, increasing terror. “Look!”
A grotesque figure, a blazing torch held high in his hand, raced across the courtyard, only inches from where Romero still struggled. Like some damned Olympic runner with the eternal flame he brandished it high, before plunging it obscenely into the heart of Lindaraja.
A faint flicker of gold licked tentatively round the edge of a smashed window, then spluttered into crimson life, sucking in oxygen, bursting out into a roar of flying flame. It licked voraciously along the window-frame, sparks flying like fire-flies, igniting the slashed velvet curtains of the next window, flaming into sheets of fire as it fed on the splintered contents of the room, blazing now from several windows, white-hot tongues scorching skywards.
Romero, still held, was dragged back to the high bronze gates as the heat seared their faces, as the interior of delicately carved wood and ornate draperies ignited like a tinder-box, sending huge soaring clouds of dense smoke billowing out over the valley, the stench of burning wood filling our nostrils as the breeze caught hold of the smoke carrying it up on a great upsurge of air.
Within minutes Lindaraja was ablaze, a flickering mass of gold and red, then men fleeing down the steps, their shouts of blind destruction now those of fear and panic. The flames flared higher and higher, and the smouldering, racking fumes thickened the air so that Romero was lost from sight.
Then, in the hideous flush that now filled the valley, we saw the dark silhouettes of Jose and Javier, sweeping down towards Lindaraja, forcing their horses nearer and nearer to the leaping flames.
I thought my head would burst with panic and horror of a magnitude I never dreamt existed. With a moan of pain that I hardly recognised as my own, I pulled on the reins, digging in my heels, and Solitaire swung round, neck low to avoid the overhanging branches, racing after Jose and Javier.
I heard Roque’s cry clearly but took no heed of it. I had to be with him. Had to be there. Had to help, however ineffectually.
With a rattle of loose stones and pounding hooves Roque caught up with me, leaning over frantically to grasp Solitaire’s reins, but I was having none of it.
“No,” I shouted, the wind whipping my hair away from my face. “No!”
I turned my head to his, seeing the indecision in his eyes and shouted again. “It’s no use, Roque. We have to help!”
His uncertainty fled, the solemn face was white and drawn. Without another word he let go of Solitaire’s reins, racing down the mountainside towards Lindaraja, only yards behind me.
The ground was steep, littered with rocks and boulders, but Solitaire found his own way, galloping at full pelt while I strove to see Javier and Jose ahead of me.
Dust rose in
swirling, choking clouds and then we were on turf and Solitaire thudded on, my ears filled with the sound of his pounding hooves, the very ground seeming to throb beneath the drumming onslaught. Roque was passing me now, the chestnut of his horse gleaming wet with sweat, thundering down the last slope to Lindaraja.
The entrance to the stables yawned open and I checked Solitaire’s speeding gallop, steadying his head, gasping with fear as he reared away from the flying sparks, then obeyed, clattering into the stables and what looked to be hell on earth.
Great billows of smoke swept chokingly round me as I slid off Solitaire’s back, sending him out through the gates and into the safety of the mountainside. The holocaust of leaping crimson tongues was veering towards the stables, the sparks igniting the wood above the horse’s stalls, their hooves beating with terror in their trapped tombs. Through the flare I saw the runing figure of the stable boy, dodging bits of falling, blazing beams, racing across the heat of the courtyard flinging open the first of the stall doors as the fire took firm hold, crackling and leaping across the stable roofs. His arm was raised to protect his scorching face as he desperately slammed the bolt back, the horse rearing with terror before galloping out of the yard, mane flying in the wind, burning pinpricks of flame scattering its back.
“Let them out,” Roque yelled to me as he and the stable boy wrestled with another horse too terrified to flee. “ For God’s sake, open the stalls!” I ran to the nearest stall, sparks showering down as I pulled the bolt free and the horse charged past me, knocking me to the ground. I caught a fleeting glimpse into the courtyard as I scrambled to my feet and I could see running figures, and a holocaust of fire consuming Lindaraja’s heart, but I could not see Romero or Javier. Or Jose.
“The horses!” Roque shouted above the pandemonium. “There’s two more … over there.”
He was gasping for breath, his face blackened with smoke. “ They’ll need help … they’re too terrified to leave by themselves.…”
The heat of the fire burned against our faces as we sped to the last stalls. The stable boy galloped past me, clinging to the neck of a horse, both his hair and the horse’s mane alight with fire. The horses were rearing petrified, their hooves cleaving the air, as deadly as the fire that surrounded us.
“Keep back …” Roque yelled, struggling to blindfold the horse’s eyes with his scarf. “ Keep back.…”
And then both horses were free and Roque was pushing me after them, out into the centre of the stable-yard, down the narrow corridor between the flames. He moved in front of me, leading a black stallion struggling with fear and then with an almighty crash, a blazing log fell between us, linking up with the fire on either side, cutting me completely off, sealing me in.
“The main gate!” Roque’s voice shrieked over the tumult. “Make for the main gate!”
I backed away from the wall of fire, head down, my arms across my face, staggering back through the ever decreasing alley way free from flames, making for the archway into the courtyard.
With stinging eyes I sought vainly for a passageway through the flames, but the belching smoke blinded and choked me and with every step I expected my clothes to catch light, to be consumed as surely as Lindaraja.
If I could only follow the wall round, keep my head down, my wits about me.… “ Don’t panic,” I kept repeating to myself. “ Don’t panic, don’t panic,” and then in despair, “Jose.… Oh please, please … Jose.…”
The scorching hot walls were free from flame, the fountain a garish, fevered red in the glow from the burning house, but flying timber kept crashing down, creating hellish bonfires round which, somehow, I had to circle. And then it was too late. With the noise like that of an avalanche, the very centre of Lindaraja seemed to flare, seething upwards in monstrous flames, and a furnace of towering wood crashed down above my head, separating me from the fountain and the gates and safety.
Faintly I could hear Jose desperately shouting: “Alison … Alison …”
But there was no way through. I was circled by fire. Half senseless in the reeking fumes, my skin burning with pain as the leaping flames danced higher and higher, and the acrid smoke filled my mouth and lungs. I choked, cowering down, semi-conscious with fear.
Through the roar and crackle of devouring fire my terrified brain registered once more his frantic cries of: “Alison! … Alison!”
For a split second I saw him. Arm across his face, sparks flying in his hair, straining to reach me and it seemed to me that as I watched, the flames rose up around his feet consuming him totally.
Chapter Thirteen
I was retching, gasping for air, struggling back to consciousness.
“Oh God,” he was saying thankfully. “ Oh dear, dear God,” and he knelt over me, the tears mingling with the black of the smoke, his arms protectively round me, his body trembling as much as mine. I took a heaving breath of air, my eyes stinging excrutiatingly, and turned my head in the safety of his arms.
The sky was a blushing vapour of red and orange, the whole mountainside bathed in the flush of the fire and I was far away from it, out on the barren heights and above me were the concerned, smoke-streaked faces of Javier and Romero. And the anguished face of Roque.
“There was nothing I could do … there was no way back.…”
He fell down on his knees, grasping my hand as I laid on the grass supported by Jose. I knew I was crying, but then so was everyone else.
I said weakly: “I know that Roque … I know.”
He gripped my hand tight and then straightened up, patting one of the horses.
“Solitaire?” I asked weakly. “Solitaire?”
Against the incandescent hillside I could see him, a magnificent silhouette, the wind ruffling his mane. Romero, tears glistening on his cheeks, threw one arm around me, the other round his brother’s shoulders. No-one spoke, silently we watched Lindaraja in its death throes, the air aflame with showers of sparks, the heat, even from a distance, palpable. The roof collapsed in a shuddering roar, one great last beacon of flame surging skywards, then the molten ruins began to subside and burn themselves out.
Jose said bitterly. “At least there is nothing left for the state to take from us,” and with one last tortured look, he swung his horse’s head round and we followed him deep into the heart of the darkening pines.
Faint and weary I patted Solitaire, finding some measure of comfort in his warmth and strength. The pines were interspersed with oak and ash, and the tossing leaves caught in my hair and brushed dryly against my cheeks as I bent low to avoid the overhanging branches. We were no longer climbing, but with Jose in the lead, were picking our way carefully along the mountains flank. The trees began to thin and without their shelter the wind tore across the uplands, tugging my hair across my eyes, striking chillily through my cotton blouse. Solitaire paused at times, picking his way carefully over the uneven ground, circling thorns and brambles, never putting a step wrong.
Roque was nearby, caring and protective, and now and then Jose would swing round, and though it was too dark for me to see his face, I knew he was smiling at me, giving me encouragement.
Out in the open the horses moved easily, cantering over the short turf, the rampart of tall swaying pines to the left, the scree and ravines above them, grim shadows beneath the milk-white of the moon, and to our right the hillside descending steeply, and somewhere, far below, was the road and the fleeing mob led by Garmendia and Cia.
Wisps of cloud drifted over the moon, plunging us into deeper darkness and I did not know whether to be grateful for it or not. With such a moon we would not easily be seen, but without it our way would be even more difficult.
We had reached, God alone knew how, a flat, grassy plain stretching ephemerally out on either side in the blackness. Jose’s horse began to gallop, the hooves thundering in the stillness. Javier and Romero were flying behind him and I gripped tight with my knees and followed, Solitaire’s mane of pale cream streaming in the wind, Roque hard behind me.
We flew through the open countryside, avoiding the dark cluster of hamlets and villages, and often seeing, from our welcome distance, the wraith-like snake of a road. Slowly we began to climb, the turf giving way to barren ground and rocks. Just as I was beginning to think my aching muscles would take no more, Jose reined in his horse and waited for us to reach him.
“They need a rest and a rub down,” he said to Roque. “And we need to eat.”
Roque tended the steaming horses and we sat in a tight circle on cold slabs of stone and uneven boulders, and Jose passed round bread and chunks of cheese and bottles of wine. Then he sat beside me, leaning his back against a smooth rock, one arm around my shoulder, drawing me close to him as we ate and drank in silence. Romero sat with hunched shoulders, his pain at the loss of Lindaraja evident in every movement. I was tired, my eyes heavy, longing for sleep. Only Javier retained good spirits. He grinned at me, pushing his thick hair away from his face.
“This is better than a night out in Zarauz, eh?”
“Is it?” I asked, eyes half closed, content to be beside Jose, to feel his body so near to mine, to be together.…
“Miss Daventry was in the International Brigade during the civil war,” he said undaunted. “She would have enjoyed this. Some of the tales Pedro has told us about those days … do you know they were both in Guernica on the day it was bombed?” he whistled admiringly. “ What a lady that one is.…”
Jose stirred, ruffling my hair with his hand. “The next hour is the crucial one. Javier knows the border like he does the streets of Miguelou. We should be in France before the dawn.”
Tapestry of Fear Page 7
