Bridle the Wind (10 page)

But again Juan surprised me.

‘My name is Benedictus!' he whispered softly. ‘Benedictus, the bell ringer. Oh! how I love to ring the bells when M. le Curé gives me the order! Tin-tan, din-dan, bim-bam, bom, bo! And the voices of the bells fly away through the valleys, warning the villagers that thunder is on the way and prudent men must take cover. Tin-tan, din-dan, bim-bam, bom, bo!'

There followed a longish silence; I could not imagine what was happening; then Father Vespasian's voice, angry, but at least under control, said, ‘What foolishness is this? You talk like a simpleton. Come, answer my questions!'

‘I
am
a simpleton,' whispered Juan. ‘My sufferings have turned my wits. Oh, hé, hé, hé, what a poor boy am I. Tin-tan, din-dan, bim-bam. Do not come too near me; the lightning seared me and I might pass right through you like a sword.'

‘Be silent, boy! I am going to lay my hand on your head.'

‘No, no!' shouted Juan – if one can shout in a whisper, he did so. ‘Do not touch me! Felix! Felix! I want Felix! I will have no one near me but Felix!'

Deciding that the time had come for me to take a hand, I summoned all my courage and walked into the room, extending a bunch of rosemary in my hand. Bowing politely to Father Vespasian, I said, ‘Here, Juan, Father Pierre said that you were to hold this rosemary and keep sniffing it. The fragrance will help to clear your nose and throat – '

Father Vespasian said, ‘How
dare
you come into this room when I am here!'

He was very pale, I noticed, and sweat ran in droplets on his skull-shaped forehead.

To my huge relief Father Pierre had pattered up the stair and at this moment followed me into the sickroom, murmuring, ‘I think it is time, now, for the patient to rest, Father Vespasian.'

The little room seemed very crowded with the three of us in there, and Juan burst into a sudden fit of loud childish sobs and huddled himself under the covers of his bed, whining out, ‘Go away! Go
away, every one of you! I do not want you, I want no one at all.'

Father Vespasian swung on his heel and left the room, summoning me, with his glaring eye, to follow him.

And when he was downstairs: ‘Has that young vagabond confided in
you?'
he inquired of me fiercely.

Conscious of the frightened gaze of Father Pierre and Father Antoine, as they awaited my reply, I stammered out: ‘No – no, Father Abbot. Well, yes – a little. But no – n-not in any particular – '

‘How did you come to know that he would be suspended in that thicket?'

‘I heard his voice – '

‘From halfway down the beach? Do not lie to me, boy! Father Antoine heard nothing. How could you hear him from such a distance? What did he tell you about himself?
What is the connection between you?'
‘There is no connection between us,' I said. ‘Except that I found him and I am sorry for him. And he told me nothing that I am at liberty to pass on.

‘If you will not tell me, you must be beaten!'

Father Pierre made a slight gesture of protest, but I felt quite calm.

‘Beating will not make me tell what I have no right to reveal.'

‘We shall see!'

Father Vespasian was as good as his word. After Sext next day two of the strongest monks, Father
Hilaire and Father Sigurd, disrobed me and ceremonially scourged me three times round the disused cloister, while Father Domitian read out a Penitential Psalm and Father Vespasian watched. Those brawny monks fairly laid on, too!

Father Hilaire quietly informed me, between blows, that he took no pleasure in what he did, but was obliged to obey the orders of his Abbot; Father Sigurd made no such attempt to vindicate himself, but simply thwacked away at me with a tarred rope's end, as if he thoroughly enjoyed the task.

Afterwards – when I was reeling and half dizzy from pain – Father Vespasian said to me, ‘Have you changed your mind?'

‘No!' I gasped.

‘Well, you can tell your friend in the sickroom that the same treatment awaits him, as soon as he rises from his bed, unless he sees fit to mend his ways and answer my questions. Now you had best go to the chapel and ask God to cleanse your mind of rebellious thoughts.' And he walked off towards his lodge.

But Father Domitian led me back to the infirmary, where Father Pierre, in silence but with a red face of indignation and tightly closed mouth, put first cold, then hot, compresses on my back until the agony was somewhat dulled, and then gave me a drink that sent me off to sleep for twelve hours.

3

The Gente; the causeway; I go to seek
old Pierre; and have doubts of him;
Juan and I fall out over poetry;
and go to the grotto, where we are
caught in a storm

The novice Alaric woke me.

‘Lie still,' he ordered. ‘I am going to rub you with this oil of crushed wheat which Father Pierre has sent for you. Father Vespasian commanded that if you did not present yourself at Prime you were to be beaten again.'

‘Ugh,' I croaked, shifting with difficulty on the hard pallet, ‘What o'clock is it? How soon is Prime?'

‘Not for another ten minutes. Turn over now, while I rub your back.
I
should know how much this oil will help you; I am beaten often enough,' he said cheerfully. ‘And Father Pierre always finds time to rub me afterwards. But now he is looking after the boy you rescued.'

The rubbing did indeed loosen stiff muscles and ease my sore back and thighs. I expressed my gratitude to Alaric for his rising earlier than he need have done in order to come and tend me. But he told me that he always rose early, for it was his task to ring the bell that summoned the fathers from their beds.

‘Father Antoine is doing that for me today,' he explained.

Then I perceived, under the orderly surface of obedience in this place, a quiet network, the purpose of which was to protect, so far as possible, the victims of Father Vespasian's injustices.

‘Thank you, Alaric; I will do very well now,' I told him, and rolled off the pallet. Despite my words I could not avoid letting out a hiss of agony as I came upright. But walking soon improved matters, and in Chapel I took some pains to hold myself upright and easy, as if I were in the best of health and quite untroubled. Father Vespasian's cold green eye dwelt on me several times, but he did not send for me, and after High Mass I repaired as usual to the infirmary, where Father Pierre told me that the patient was improving steadily and had swallowed warm milk thickened with a little maize meal.

‘He has been asking for you. I did not tell him that you had been beaten,' the infirmarian warned me. ‘Such tidings would only distress him, in his low state.'

I could see the wisdom of this, but it was annoying to be greeted by Juan with fretful reproaches. ‘Where have you been for so long? I would sooner have had you than that ugly old father.'

‘Father Pierre is very kind, and knows far more than I do about caring for sick people,' I said, beginning to rub his swollen throat with goose grease.

‘I don't care! He is ugly and red-faced and smells of garlic.'

Juan himself, I noticed, had either consented to Father Pierre's washing him, or had found strength to manage his own ablutions. A basin of soapy water stood on the floor by the bed, with a towel. His skin shone, and he smelled clean, like a young kitten. All the tarry tangles had been removed from his hair, by the simple expedient of cutting it very short, so that it hung over his forehead and round his head in a thick fringe, barely touching his ears and dipping to the back of his neck. Still damp from washing, it appeared now as a very dark brown colour with, here and there, the same coppery tint that showed in his eyes. He had a pale pointed face, still bruised looking from fatigue and starvation; but a touch of more natural colour was creeping back into his cheeks.

I carried away the basin of washing water and, when I returned, congratulated him on the manner in which he had evaded Father Vespasian's questioning by pretending to be simple and saying that he was a
benedictus.

‘What in the world put such a notion into your head?'

‘Oh,' he said, ‘there are such people in Beam; every village has one. Only,' he added, ‘they are mostly old women, so they are called
benedicta.
They ring the church bell to keep away devils and warn of storms. Sometimes they are thought to be witches. Good ones, of course.

‘But now pay attention, Felix,' he went on, in
quite a brisk, peremptory manner, although he was still obliged to talk in a whisper. Father Pierre had told me that this condition might continue for a week or two, since the throat muscles had been so badly stretched and abused. ‘I have considered carefully your offer to accompany me into Spain,' he told me, ‘and I accept it. Father Pierre has given me your history, and I believe that you have no connection with the ones who abducted me, and that you would have no wish to harm me. Father Pierre says that you travelled to England and back.' He gave me a dubious look, as if wishing, nonetheless, that I showed a few more signs of worthiness to be his travel companion. I could not help smiling a little, inside myself, at his condescension, but replied staidly that I would do my best to justify his confidence.

‘I know this country better than you,' he asserted.

‘That is certainly so. I do not know it at all.'

‘So
I
had best choose our way over the mountains. Since we have no passports, and the Gente will be on my trail, we must go secretly.'

‘We must, indeed.'

First, I thought, we have to get ourselves out of the Abbey; but for that, my friend, we had better wait until you are in somewhat better case.

‘I have been giving some thought to our route,' he continued, ‘and I have decided that our best course will be to consult an old gardener who used, when he was younger, to work for my father. Pierre has had many dealings with the smugglers who
bring sheep and wine in from Spain. He told me once there was a cave they used for their trips, with entrances in both France and Spain. It is on the mountain called La Rhune, where the witches used to congregate. When I am better we will go to see old Pierre, and he can guide us to this cave.'

‘Are you quite sure you can trust him?' I asked, with a grain of doubt. ‘After all, your own nurse, you say, betrayed you – and this man has had dealings with smugglers. Are you certain that he is reliable?'

Juan gave me a haughty look.

‘If I say he is honest, you have no need to question it!'

‘Very well,' I replied, but inwardly resolved to ask Father Antoine if he could provide me with a map of the mountains, in case there proved to be any difficulty about Juan's plan. Old Pierre might, after all, have died, or moved away.

Then I told Juan about the three petitioners who had come to the Abbey – the midget, the tall white-headed man, and the cripple with terrible sores. Immediately all his confidence left him. He turned white as whey and began to shake.

‘Oh, mon Dieul
They are the ones – the three leaders of the troop! They are after me already, then! The midget is Gueule, the big one Cocher, and the cripple Plumet. Of course he is not really crippled. His sores are made with mustard and saffron and spearwort and ratsbane. And he pricks his nostrils to make them bleed, and chews a bit of soap to simulate foaming at the mouth. But
what shall I do, where can I hide, if they are seeking for me here?'

‘They do not yet know for sure that you are here,' I said, and explained about Alaric's denial. ‘He believed what he said, so that may throw them off the scent.'

‘Oh, they are certain to catch me in the end!' Juan buried his face in his hands, apparently giving way to complete despair. ‘While I was with them I told them that tale that I was a
benedictus,
a kind of warlock, that if they did me any harm I could put a curse on them. And they half believed it, they were a little afraid of me. They are French, you see, they are not Eskualdunak.'

‘Eskualdunak?'

‘Basque,' he said impatiently. ‘But now, you see, they will know that my story was not true; for they hanged me, and no harm has come to them.'

‘Still, you did not die,' I pointed out. ‘So they may believe that is due to your magic powers.' And there may be more truth in that than you know of, I thought but did not say.

Juan's face brightened at my words. His spirits seemed very elastic – they soared or fell at a trifle.

‘I used to say a little poem in Euskar – in the Basque language,' he boasted. ‘I told them it was a witch poem made up by my great-great grandmother. She was a real witch, Marie Dindart, she was burned in the great witch-burning at Sare, two hundred years ago.'

‘Your great-great grandmother?'

‘Well, perhaps great-great-great.' He dismissed
that as of no importance. ‘She was my ancestress. At all events the troop hated the poem. They used to cross themselves when I said it and huddle at the other end of the cave.'

‘How does it go?'

‘What does that mean?'

‘Oh, it is nothing – a shepherds' song. “I ask for nothing/Better in life/I don't suppose in the whole world/There's a happier man than I.” But I used to recite it in
such
a way – squinting my eyes together over my nose, and turning up the corners of my mouth to make two great dimples' – he demonstrated, looking very wild, placing his thumbs in his cheeks and waving his fingers – ‘that it really terrified them.'

I began to see that there was more in Juan than just a scrawny, frightened boy.

After Sext I managed to slip to the side of Father Antoine and asked if, anywhere in the Abbey, there might be a map of this region, and the mountains to the south. He looked at me thoughtfully, then gave a slight nod.