(2/3) The Teeth of the Gale (12 page)

"Nothing difficult," she said with a faint smile. "If I might ask a little money from you? We have none, of course, and I would like to buy a gift or two for the children—only trifles for the poor little beings—to remind them that we used to be friends—"

"Take what you wish." I handed her my purse, and she selected a few coins. "It is a good thought. Poor little wretches, they will be in need of all the comfort they can get."

I thought of the tiny box, with the four colored stones in it, that Juana had once given me, and how, in many lonely moments, I had taken comfort from it. Would I ever be able to remind her of it? "Can I help you in any way—shall I escort you?" I suggested.

"Oh no, no, thank you. Belen and I can look after one another—" and she slipped away into thé crowd, walking fast and quietly in her hempen sandals.

I thought about Juana's money. She had been a wealthy heiress. I remembered the letter from Auteuil Frères, the lawyers, stating that her inheritance of 30,000 reales had been paid to the convent as her dower. And now she had not even a few pesetas to buy toys. What would happen if she should ever decide to leave the Order? Would her dower have to be paid back?

Pedro and I had decided to equip ourselves with more arms. At last night's posada we had heard much talk of the lawlessness in Aragon, whither we were bound; there were said to be bands of brigands in the mountains; robbery of the mail was a frequent event in the province; merchants, when they traveled, were advised to have with them at least eight companions and eleven shotguns.

Pedro and I considered that we were equal to three bandits apiece, so, with Tomas and the two outriders, we should be a strong enough party, but there was no sense in being underarmed, and Pamplona was the last large town through which we would pass.

Besides the money given me by Grandfather, I had a sum that had recently been sent me by my English trustees. It had taken them an immensely long time to come to the decision that I should be paid an allowance, and even longer to conclude what this should be, but a figure had finally been agreed on and sent with a note to the effect that this was my stipend for a quarter of a year. It seemed to me a princely amount and I felt rich. Without hesitation, therefore, I laid out substantially on shotguns, ammunition, ropes, and rock-climbing equipment, in case Don Manuel had retreated to some giddy crag.

When we returned to the meeting place, Pedro and I laden with our heavy bundles, we saw that Juana and Sister Belen were there before us with smaller bundles. But we had waited for many minutes before Doña Conchita arrived in a flurry of apologies.

"The folk in this town are so slow! Many of them, in the stores, seem downright simple," she murmured placatingly in her pretty voice. "They hardly seem to understand what one says to them."

Tomas, who came behind her with a great load of purchases, quickly helped her into the carriage and, with expressive looks and a whispered commentary from Pedro, we were on our way again. We rode along a broad valley, through cultivated land, with here and there a tiny village. Mountains rose in the distance on either side, those to the north snowcapped and shaggy. There was no suggestion today of stopping for a picnic; possibly Doña Conchita felt contrite over having delayed us in Pamplona; or perhaps she was engaged in inspecting her purchases.

"She looked as if she had bought enough apparel for a brigade," muttered Pedro. "Let us hope that it included some warm stockings for those poor barefoot sisters."

With the coming of dusk we reached a small town called Tiermas, because of the hot springs that are there. Sister Belen told me that it was once a Roman town; General Pompey (from whom Pamplona takes its name) used to bathe his gouty feet in the hot mineral waters. Since no inn there had room for us all, Pedro and I put up at a very small albergue while the ladies were housed in a more comfortable establishment.

"Felix," said Pedro, when we had eaten our modest supper and were settling into our flock beds, "I saw something very odd in Pamplona. It was after we had bought the guns, and while you were talking to the old crone behind the shoe stall. I could hardly believe my eyes."

"Well—what did you see?" I asked. "Don't keep me in suspense."

"You remember in Zamora—at the saddler's shop—the fat man who was asking for a saddle with a pillion seat—do you remember him?"

"Yes indeed, very well; what of him?"

"Well, there he was again in Pamplona—buying a pack of cards at a tobacco shop! The very same man! Do you think it can possibly be accident—or coincidence?"

"Hardly. Did he see you?"

"I am not sure. But could he have followed us—all the way from Zamora?"

"He would not have needed to," I said, thinking it over.

"What do you mean, Felix?"

"Why—if he knew our destination; if he knew that we were going in search of the madman who has taken refuge somewhere in the mountains near Berdun; then he would know that we must pass through Pamplona, and he could get there much more directly than we have been obliged to do, traveling by way of Bilbao and waiting three days for the Reverend Mother's leave to depart."

"But that," said Pedro indignantly, "sounds as if we are walking into a trap. And if there is one thing that annoys me, it is being taken for a fool. Especially by a fat fellow like that one."

"Well—" I yawned and wriggled myself more comfortably into the flock. "At least we
know
that we are walking into a trap, and that gives us some small advantage."

"But who is setting this plaguey trap?"

"I only wish I knew!"

T
HE
following day brought us to Berdun, where Manuel de la Trava's brother, Don Ignacio, lived. By now we were in late spring or early summer; but it was a cool year; although the sun shone brightly enough, up here in Aragon, with the snowcapped Pyrenees so close, the suns rays had little heat in them yet, and a brisk wind, coming off the snows, kept us from wishing to leave off our warm jackets. The new green corn rippled in silky waves, the willows and poplars along the well-filled watercourses bowed under the breeze and flashed their young leaves; everything was green and flowing, larks and nightingales sang, and thousands of small bright flowers spangled the grassy banks of the roads.

By all rights I ought to have been happy. Six months ago, if I had known that I would be traveling through the Aragon valley in company with Juana, I would hardly have believed that such a piece of good fortune lay ahead of me; yet now I rode along beside Pedro, troubled, anxious, and perplexed; because of this I felt quite ashamed of myself, and as if I ought to be apologizing to God for my bad manners.

When I was younger—at that time, five years ago, when I made the journey through the mountains with Juana—I used, now and then, to hold conversations with God, often finding comfort, and sometimes wisdom, in the answers He gave me. But with the addition of years, and the worldly kind of wisdom that is picked up from friends and professors, I had, little by little and without being aware of it, grown less adept at picking out the voice of God from all the other sounds of every day.

There were so many of those, and they were so loud.

Now, riding beside Pedro, between two orchards of flowering almond trees, I addressed God internally, trying to find the old ease and freedom of question and answer.

"My dear Father in heaven," I said to Him, "please forgive my ingratitude—for such I fear it must seem to You—that I am not simply bubbling over with joy at being permitted to make this journey in Juana's company. I
am
unbelievably glad to see her again—don't mistake me there—and to find that she has not changed in the least, but it
is so
difficult and uncomfortable and baffling to be able to talk to her only in the presence of other people—people like Doña Conchita—" Then I stopped, feeling how uncivil it was to whine and grumble at God in this manner; besides, I was sure He was not interested in my opinion of Conchita. "Listen, my dear Father," I began again. "I am quite sure You have some clear purpose in sending us on this expedition—just as You had in helping Juana and me drive away the demon from that man who had taken over the robber band. So, wont You please tell me
what
Your purpose is this time? Or at least, dear God, just give me a hint? For, to tell You the truth, I feel very troubled and worried—I feel there is something badly wrong, and I don't know what it is—" I glanced at Pedro, who rode beside me with brows knit and lips compressed; he had just the same feelings about our errand, I was sure.

"Of course, dear Father, if You think it's best for me to remain in ignorance, I will try to accept that," I ended, as we began riding up the steep hill into Berdun.

Berdun, like Pamplona, sits on a bluff in the middle of the valley. But it is a tiny town—the whole of it would fit into one of my grandfather's large orchards. In the old days, men banded together on this little hilltop to defend themselves from the Goths, the Vandals, the Moors—its houses have been sacked and burned over and over, hundreds of times, but always doggedly built up again. Now the town seems old and quiet—the last time it was pillaged was 400 years back; like a peaceful cat, paws curled, tail ducked, it drowsed above us on its sunny hill as we rode upward.

"
Ay, Dios!
" remarked Pedro, grinning, "the Escaroz carriage is never going to get through
there
!"

The only way into the town was under an exceedingly low and narrow arch, through which the road, which had already twisted in several sharp bends as it climbed the bluff, now angled its way round yet another hairpin corner.

"What is the trouble, Tomas? Why do you not continue?" called Conchitas soft voice, and her head came out of the carriage window.

"This place was built for pygmies, not men," grumbled Tomas, getting down to open the carriage door. "The señora will have to walk—it is not at all dignified."

Pedro and I had already dismounted and tethered our mules to stanchions in the outer wall; now, with Conchita and the two sisters, we walked through the arched gateway into Berdun. We found the Calle Mayor, where Don Ignacio lived, without the least trouble, since there were only two streets in the town, running parallel, neither of them as wide as a cart track. But the houses, built of stone, were tall and handsome, and that of Don Ignacio de la Trava had a great ancient coat of arms carved over its door.

Pedro had acquired a good deal of information about the de la Trava brothers from Tomas the coachman, and had passed it on to me. They came of an exceedingly ancient family, he said, and claimed descent from the
ricos hombres,
or great lords of medieval times, and, before that, from the Romans and the Moorish kings. Formerly they had been very rich, owned great tracts of land, villages, churches, towns; they had complete powers over the people who lived on their estates, and many ancient privileges, such as freedom from taxation. Their incomes had once been counted in hundreds of thousands of ducats. But during the last century, the family had fallen into debt, spent much too much at the king's court in Madrid, on travel and luxury, and on lavish dowries for their daughters. Lands had had to be sold. Now little remained, save a ruined castle in the mountains, a vineyard or two in the region of Zaragoza, a house in Madrid, and estates around Berdun. There were two brothers left: Manuel, the elder, the Marquis of Urraca, who, since he inherited no money, had joined the army as a young man, fought in the Royal Corps of Spanish Artillery under the French, become a colonel, and lost an eye at the battle of Vitoria. When the French wars ended, he was denounced as a Bonapartist and a Liberal, obliged to live under police supervision. For a time he was banished to Santiago de Compostela, but, after his marriage, permitted to return to Madrid. Then, having been so rash as to write pamphlets criticizing the state of the country, he had been thrown into prison.

The younger brother, Don Ignacio, was quite a different character. Originally destined for the church, he had been unable, because of some illness, to become a priest, and so took a minor position at Court when King Ferdinand was restored to the throne, for he was an ardent royalist. At first successful and popular, for he had been a very handsome fellow and knew how to make himself agreeable, he fell on hard times, and, when his illness worsened and he lost his looks and good spirits, retired to Berdun, where he lived on his share of what was left of the family estates.

What, I wondered, did the two brothers feel for one another? Were they attached? Devoted? After such very different lives and histories?

Now the front door—on which Pedro had been, all this while, methodically tapping with an ancient iron door knocker shaped like a serpent—suddenly flew open. Within stood a massive woman in black dress and voluminous apron, who looked at us with great ill-temper.

"No need to batter the house down!" she said. "I heard you. I was coming. It is a long way from the kitchen."

In her hand she held—oddly enough—a pair of black silk shoelaces. I supposed that she had been, perhaps, washing or ironing them when we disturbed her. But it was odd that she had not taken the time to lay them down somewhere.

"Doña Conchita de la Trava is here," I said. "I think her brother-in-law is expecting her."

"
Ay, ay,
" the woman answered shortly. "The señor is out just at present—how did
we
know what time of day to expect the lady? He will be back in due course."

"I hope it will be convenient for us to come in and rest," Doña Conchita said in her soft pretty voice. "We have been traveling all day..."

With visible reluctance, the housekeeper let us in, along a dark hallway floored with shiny red tiles, and up a steep, highly polished stair to a long chamber with several windows that commanded a wide view, southward, across the valley. Its furnishings had once been handsome but were now shabby and worn. Conchita sank into an armchair, the two sisters stood by the window, I waited by the door.

"I will inform His Excellency of your arrival when he returns," the housekeeper said shortly, and was going away, when Conchita halted her by asking for a little refreshment.