The Winding Stair (14 page)

‘Yes I can. Look! The path is much better this side of the thicket. I believe it will take me down by the stream.'

‘It will take you further than that.' He was shaking with fright. ‘It will take you straight to Hell!'

‘Iago! What in the world do you mean?'

‘Don't you remember,
menina
? Surely you must have been told about the Jaws of Death when you were a child? It's not safe down there.' He seized Rosinante's reins to turn her in the narrow path and lead her back out of the shadow of the oaks into the hot sunshine of the plateau. He was white and sweating with terror, and she forbore to question him until he had led the mule some little way back up the road above the pressing floor. At last she pulled Rosinante to a halt in the shade of a huge bay tree. ‘Now, Iago, explain.'

He crossed himself and looked about him nervously. ‘Don't make me.'

‘If you don't, I shall go right back there.' She made as if to turn Rosinante.

‘No, no; not that! I'll tell you – but you've really not heard of the Jaws of Death?'

‘No. I know we did not go down there as children, but that was just because it was too far.'

‘I suppose your grandmother did not want you told. I've only been here a few years, but everyone on the place knows about the Jaws of Death. It's death to go down there. You know about the
bruchas
?' Again he crossed himself.

‘The Portuguese witches? Of course. Maria used to tell us stories of them when we were children. But that's all they are, stories.'

‘Not here,' he said. ‘Maybe in England, they are just stories. It's different here. My cousin Batista said the same as you. He'd been to school; at the
Necessidades
in Lisbon; his mother had ambitions for him; he was going to become Pope, was Batista, or a Cardinal anyway. Well – he came here, one year, to help with the vintage. He said there should be a short way to the sea, down there—' He looked around nervously. ‘We told him, all of us; we warned him, but he would go. He set out, one hot morning, very like this one, only it was October; we were busy treading the grapes. It was darkening for a storm. We were working against time. God forgive me, I forgot all about him for a while, but when the lightning came, I knew. It was the
bruchas
. We found him, five days later, down in the cove where the sardine boats land. There wasn't a scratch on him, not a thing to show how he
died. But I'll never forget his face. He'd seen the
bruchas
. It's death to see them …'

The
bruchas
, Juana wondered, or the Sons of the Star? She shivered. Much of the time, these peaceful sun-drenched days, she contrived to forget about the cavern in the cliff, and the dark assignation she must keep there at the end of the month, but Iago's terror was infectious. She was glad to be back in the upper valley where labourers, here and there among the vines, shouted cheerfully to each other as they worked.

Iago must have talked. Mrs. Brett sent for Juana that evening. ‘You've been exploring. You're not to. I told you that you must not even think about the entrance to the cavern. I mean it, Juana.'

‘I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't think. I only wanted to find a way to the sea.'

‘You can't afford not to think. I can't do without you, Juana. Iago may be a superstitious fool, but he's right about the Jaws of Death. To go down there is to sign one's death warrant.'

‘So there is an entrance—'

‘I said don't think about it.' The old lady was white with anger. ‘Are you tired of living, Juana?'

‘I'm a little bored with it.' The answer surprised Juana herself. But it was true enough. What was there to do in this castle where hordes of half trained servants made it not only unnecessary but impossible to lift a finger for oneself.

‘Ungrateful!'

‘I'm sorry.' She meant it. ‘But you must see there's no one here for me to talk to.' It was extraordinary. Back in England she had longed for just this solitude that was weighing so heavily on her now.

Surprisingly, Mrs. Brett laughed. ‘Mr. Varlow was quite right,' she said. ‘He told me that a few weeks of sunshine would make a new creature of you. I just didn't expect it to happen so fast.'

‘What else did he say?'

‘That you had character, if not—' She stopped.

‘If not looks. Don't spare my feelings, grandmother. If I am to work with Mr. Varlow (and it seems I must) the fewer illusions there are between us, the better.' Illusions! Something inside her still shivered in useless anguish at memory of those days of sun-drenched, delusive happiness back at Forland House. Never again. ‘There's something we ought to think about. If Mr. Varlow
must really pretend to court me, how am I to receive his attentions?'

‘What do you suggest?' Her grandmother's tone showed surprised respect.

Juana's first instinct was to say that she would treat her suitor with disdain, but wiser councils prevailed. ‘I think I shall play hot and cold. Too young to know my own mind? That kind of thing? It won't do to be too discouraging. Only (one thing I must insist on) you will explain to him what I am doing.'

‘Insist?' It was not a word often used to Mrs. Brett. She took it well. ‘Portugal is certainly doing you good, child. Very well. Since you insist, I'll make a chance to explain. And in the meantime, no more adventuring down the Pleasant Valley.'

Had the family been discussing her explorations? Her Uncle Miguel asked her, over breakfast next morning, whether she would oblige him by taking her ride that day up to the Cork Convent, the curious eyrie high up on the ridge, where a group of Franciscan monks lived, piously uncomfortable, in cork-lined cells. ‘I have a letter to be delivered to the Prior there,' he explained. ‘Some business about my Little Brothers of St. Antony.'

‘Of course I'll go.' Juana had pleasant memories of childhood excursions to this high point, and of being made much of by the monks who lived there. ‘But I won't be back in time for dinner, surely?'

‘No indeed. It would hurt the Fathers' feelings if you did not dine there. Outside, that is. Unaccompanied females are not allowed in their cloisters. But on a day like today—'

‘I shall enjoy it.'

She was grateful to Miguel. It was good to get away from the castle, and the Pleasant Valley, and even, she admitted to herself, from her family. From Prospero and Miguel who moved so silently about the castle and in whose voices she was always searching for echoes of the Sons of the Star. No doubt it was merely her imagination that made her test their words and phrases for hints of a knowledge that matched her own. And Elvira – how mad was Elvira?

It had rained a little in the night and the air on the ridge road was fragrant with scents of lavender and thyme and a whole botany of flowering heathers. Juana's spirits rose at the idea of a day's outing, and she was glad, too, that it was Tomas,
not Iago, who had accompanied her. When they turned off the Sintra road on to the track that led up the higher ridge running down to Cabo Roca, he stopped to wait for her: ‘This is better than the Pleasant Valley,
menina
?'

‘No
bruchas
here?'

He crossed himself. ‘Don't speak about them!'

The monks gave them a royal reception. They had been late starting because Miguel had thought of a last-minute postscript to his letter. It was well past noon when they climbed the last steep path to the monastery and the Fathers had already eaten, but they insisted that Juana sit down on the little stretch of level, sweet-smelling turf outside their curious abode while they prepared a meal for her. It took a long time coming, and appalled her, when it did, with its high-flavoured cabbage and strong, saffron-coloured rice. Still, the dessert was delicious, and Juana forgot a slight anxiety about how time was going on as she quenched a raging thirst with peaches and nectarines.

But the sun was sinking towards the Atlantic, and a hint of mist shrouded the distant view of Cape Espichel. She rose to her feet to thank the Prior for his hospitality, and say goodbye. She had forgotten how long it would take. He made a speech. She made a speech, amazed to hear herself doing so. Imagine, in England, making a speech.

Even Tomas was beginning to look anxious when they finally got away. ‘We must lose no time,
menina
, if we are not to be benighted.'

‘No.' She dismissed the thought that it might be wise to ask for a couple of lay brothers to accompany them with torches. By what she had seen of the way they did things at the Cork Convent, it would be full dark by the time they were ready. Better to go on and lose no time. A pity, of course, that there was no moon. But at least it meant that there were almost two weeks to go until the next meeting in the cavern below the castle.

By the time they reached the Sintra road the colour was ebbing fast from the hills. ‘We're late.' Tomas was having difficulty keeping up the pace she set.

‘I'm afraid so. Take my bridle; Rosinante will help you along.'

‘Thank you.' He looked over his shoulder nervously. ‘I wish you'd not gone down the Valley yesterday.'

‘Don't be absurd, Tomas.' But his obvious fright was infectious. She found herself looking ahead at a dark little wood of
ilexes and wishing the road did not go through it. Tomas had seen it too. His grip on Rosinante's bridle tightened and the mule slowed down.

‘Don't, Tomas!' It came out sharper than she meant. She must not let him see that she had caught his fear. ‘Gently,' she went on. ‘Give poor Rosinante a chance.'

They were into the shadow of the ilexes now and suddenly Rosinante stopped dead. ‘See what you've done.' Juana kicked the mule, but she refused to budge, setting her ears back and gazing mutinously ahead. ‘Give her a pull, Tomas. We don't want to stay here all night.' She was fighting panic now, but managed not to show it.

‘What do you think she sees,
menina
? The
bruchas
?' Turned back toward her, his face showed white in the shadows as he pulled unavailingly at the mule's bridle.

‘You know better than that. Pull harder.'

At last, reluctantly, Rosinante moved forward into the darker shadow of the wood, with Tomas still walking close beside on the pretext of encouraging her. What did he really fear, Juana wondered, the
bruchas
, or, like her, illogically, horribly, the Sons of the Star?

Absurd of course. They were half way through the little wood now and she could see light ahead. Ridiculous to have been so frightened. Ridiculous? There was movement in the wood around her. Muffled figures emerged from the bushes. She had time for one scream before something heavy and stifling was thrown over her head and she was dragged struggling from the mule's back. Behind her, the sound of scuffling told her that the same thing must be happening to Tomas.

And all the time, worst of all, not a word was said. Struggling and stifling under the heavy weight of the blanket, she had no idea how many men surrounded her. She tried to speak, but the blanket was held too tight around her face; she tried to stop in her tracks, but inexorable hands forced her along – back, she thought, along the road toward Sintra.

The blanket stank of horse and she thought with irrational rage what a sordid way this was to die, thought, illogically, of Gair Varlow, and heard, suddenly, the sound of a horse ridden hard toward them.

One horseman. Coming to her help? Gair Varlow? Mere self-delusion
to think so. No doubt this was the leader of her attackers. And if not, what could one man do?

But her captors had stopped, were whispering together, unintelligible through the thick folds of blanket. The horseman sounded very near now, slowing down, no doubt to enter the wood. Then he was upon them: ‘What's going on here?' A strange voice, speaking Portuguese. ‘Let her go!' The sound of blows, a scuffle, a curse … She was pushed violently to the ground and lay for a moment, dazed, before she realised she was free and managed to throw off the stifling folds of horse-blanket.

Heather pricked sharply through her light riding habit. She was lying by the road just outside the little wood. Near her, Tomas lay prone, swathed in another blanket, muttering prayers under his breath. Sitting up, she looked back along the road. A commotion in the thick growth of cistus and myrtle below it showed where her attackers had fled. Now a solitary horseman appeared from behind an outcrop of rock and rode back toward her. She had never seen him before. Brown skin, dark curling hair cut short, an air of command that turned to solicitude as he jumped down from his horse, threw the reins carelessly on its neck, and bent over her. ‘Useless to follow them further,' he said in Portuguese. ‘An army could hide in that scrub. But you're not hurt, cousin?'

‘I don't think so.' She took the hand he held out and rose shakily to her feet. ‘Thanks to you.' His hand firm on hers, was hot, very slightly damp, and infinitely reassuring. She looked at him, puzzled: ‘Cousin?'

‘You must be Juana Brett.' And as she nodded, wordlessly, he raised her hand to kiss it. ‘I'm your cousin, Vasco de Mascarenhas. Is it too much to hope that you have heard of me?'

‘Of course I have.' She had indeed. He was the wild one of her mother's family. There was a long story, she knew. Her head was beginning to ache and it was hard to think straight.

‘You're hurt! I'm a brute to keep you standing here.' He took her arm solicitously to lead her back into the shadow of the wood, and she was grateful for the support. ‘Thank God I got here in time,' he went on. ‘I told the old lady she should never have let you ride so far alone.'

‘I had Tomas.'

‘Much good he was! Get up, you!' He stirred Tomas with his
foot. ‘Stop snivelling and catch your mistress's mule.' And then to Juana as Tomas rose trembling to his feet: ‘But what happened? Who were they?'