Bridle the Wind (11 page)

I told him, too, about the three beggars, and Juan's fear of them.

‘They said they intended to come back today, so
that the cripple might be healed. What can I do? Suppose they ask Father Vespasian about Juan? Suppose they say he is their boy?'

I felt certain that Father Vespasian was not open to advice or persuasion. It would be no use at all asking him not to reveal Juan's presence in the Abbey.

‘If they are really the ones who hanged that poor boy,' Father Antoine said in a troubled tone, ‘we ought to send for the gendarmes and have them apprehended. But since they are petitioners at the Abbey, I feel sure that Father Vespasian would not permit that.'

‘There they are now,' I said.

The three had stationed themselves just inside the great gate of the Abbey. They huddled, with heads bowed, in positions of humble respect, but I noticed their eyes darted in every direction, watching the monks who came and went, studying the different doors and windows, to see who passed through or looked out, observing the walls themselves, as if measuring which would be the easiest to climb. That is to say, the midget and the thin white-headed fellow looked shrewdly about; the third man, as before, had his head bound up in bandages, and the sores upon his arms, and on his stumps of legs, were even more horrible in appearance than they had been on the previous day.

‘Juan does not wish to tell the gendarmes about them,' I muttered to Father Antoine. ‘He says the
rest of the troop would be certain to take revenge on him if he did so.'

‘Well, I will have to think about what can be done.' Father Antoine sighed anxiously. ‘Father Vespasian is looking this way. Do you go and stand by Father Pierre.'

The healing ceremony proceeded as it had on former occasions: the humpbacked cripple with the hideous sores was brought up in front of Father Vespasian, who solemnly blessed and prayed over him and sprinkled him with holy water. During which process the sick man appeared to go through a fearful paroxysm – even though Juan had told me it was all a pretence, I found myself almost taken in, so naturally did he foam at the mouth and bleed at the nostrils, while his eyes rolled horribly, right up inside his head, until only the whites showed.

There were no other patients that day, so we all sang a hymn while the healing was supposed to be taking effect.

Under the towel that Father Vespasian had flung over him, I noticed that the cripple was skilfully and surreptitiously undoing some buckle behind his back, and contriving to rub his skin with the napkin. And so, when the hymn was done, he was able to arise with loud shouts of pretended astonishment and joy; his legs and feet, which had in some cunning fashion been buckled up behind his back, dropped down to support him, the hump disappeared from between his shoulders, and a
swift scrub with the napkin had removed most of the foam, blood, and mustard from his face and arms. He stood up straight: a tall and strikingly strong-featured man with long thick black curls, broad forehead, and black shaggy brows. He was dressed all in black sheepskin.

‘A miracle! A miracle! By your holy power I am brought back to health and strength!' he bawled, falling on his knees and clasping the Abbot's ankles while he slobbered kisses on his feet. ‘Oh, my lord Abbot, is not this the most wonderful cure you have ever achieved?'

The other two beggars followed their friend's example and clustered round Father Vespasian, who looked highly gratified, and smiled on them graciously.

Oh, heavens above! I thought. Now they are certain to ask the Abbot about Juan, they will pretend that he is their lost nephew or something of the kind, and he will tell them all they want to know –

But at that moment the Abbey bell, up in the tower, began to peal a wild tocsin, or alarm call. This had not happened during my stay there – or not while I was in my right mind, at least – but I knew that such a peal was the signal for all the monks to leave what they were doing, and run down to the beach, to aid a ship in trouble.

So, on this occasion, a score of black-clad forms went scampering through the gate and down the track. Father Vespasian followed them. I noticed that he clapped his hands over his ears, and seemed
distressed by the sound of the bell, which somewhat puzzled me. He seemed to go rather to get away from the sound than for any other purpose. Nobody paused to ask who had rung the alarm; the day was a dull and misty one, and in such weather shipwrecks often do occur.

I did not stop to see if the beggars had gone with the monks; my own purpose was elsewhere. I ran to the infirmary, took the stairs three at a time, and knocked on Juan's door.

‘Who is it?' came his frightened voice.

‘It is I, Felix. Quick, there is no time to lose; you must leave your room and follow me. The men who abducted you are in the Abbey, and they may come looking for you here.'

Half lifting, half carrying him, I had him down the stairs in no more time than it takes to tell, and opened the door from the surgery that led out into the monks' pelota ground, locking it again behind us.

Juan shivered, looking about the open space in dismay.

‘Here is no hiding place!'

‘We do not need one,' said I. ‘They cannot get out through the door. I have brought the key. We will sit here on the step and listen.'

Sure enough, about five minutes later, we heard low voices beyond the door, in the surgery, and steps on the stair.

‘The brat was here for sure,' muttered a voice. ‘These are their sick quarters.'

The voice spoke a mixture of French and thieves' cant which I could only just understand.

‘That's Gueule,' whispered Juan. ‘He says
icigo
for
here
.'

‘The little devil's gone now, anyway,' said another voice. ‘The bird's flown.'

Somebody rattled the door. Juan trembled and clutched me.

‘That only leads to the cliff. No use, it's locked, anyway.
Maladetta,
I can hear all the fat monks coming back' (he used a very obscene word, which I omit) ‘we had best be away out of here.'

The footsteps died away in the distance. Setting my eye to the keyhole I could just see the midget dart out through the surgery door and shut it behind him. Next moment I had Juan inside again and, picking him up bodily, ran up the stairs to place him back in his bed. There were signs that the room had been entered – the covers had been torn off the bed, and a jug of water overturned.

Juan looked ready to faint from fright, but I said cheerfully, ‘Don't you see, this is lucky for you. Now they will think that you have already left and gone elsewhere. They will cease to watch this place.'

‘I do not think they are so easily deceived,' said Juan. ‘But,' he added dejectedly,‘Ithank you for helping me. You were very quick.' He sounded somewhat resentful, I thought, as if he wished it had not been my quickness that saved him from capture.

The members of the Community returned,
greatly perplexed at the false alarm which had summoned them to the beach, and Father Vespasian in a high state of annoyance. Alaric the bell ringer would certainly have been liable for yet another beating, had not Father Domitian been able to assert that Alaric had stood by him all through the healing ceremony. Nobody was able to say by whom the bell had been rung. Only I had seen Father Antoine slip away through the cloister, and I said nothing.

After Vespers, Father Pierre called me aside. He was frowning, and looked deeply anxious.

‘Father Vespasian has announced his intention of interrogating Juan publicly tomorrow,' he said. ‘I represented to him, and also to the Prior, that the poor boy is still in no state to be questioned, but – but Father Vespasian merely replied that he was confident his touch would heal the boy and make him sensible enough to answer questions. And of course I could not argue with that.'

No; not after the example of miraculous healing we had just been privileged to watch this very afternoon, I said to myself; but I kept silent.

‘Father Antoine and I have consulted together about this,' Father Pierre went on in a worried manner. ‘We both decided that the boy – that Juan – is quite unfit to be taxed with questions or – or to be punished, as he undoubtedly will be, if he displeases the Abbot again.'

I thought about the beating I had received. An ordeal such as that, I was sure, would undo all
the good of Father Pierre's care; might even kill the boy.

‘It is not to be thought of,' Father Pierre said earnestly. ‘We both agreed on that.'

You did not say so when
I
was to be beaten, I thought, with a touch of indignation; and the voice of God sounded inside my head, clear as a hunting horn, with a kind of laughing impatience: Come, now, Felix! You are always demanding to be treated as a man, not as a boy. When you
are
accorded man's status, are you going to cry and whine, and say the usage is too hard?

I straightened up my aching shoulders and said to Father Pierre, ‘How do you plan to prevent this interrogation?'

‘Tomorrow is the Feast of St Gabas,' he told me. ‘There will be a special celebratory Mass three hours after midnight, preceded by extra prayers and meditation in the chapel. The whole Community will be there. High tide this night is at three in the morning....' He gave me a very straight look out of his little shrewd grey eyes. Father Sigurd passed near us at that moment, and Father Pierre, slightly raising his voice, added, ‘And Father Mathieu tells me that you have some experience in bricklaying and masonry. He asked me to show you a place in the garden wall which is crumbling and requires rebuilding; you are to carry stones and mortar there this afternoon, then repair it tomorrow between Mass and Sext.'

‘Certainly, father.'

‘Come, and I will show you the place.'

When we were out in the monks' pelota ground, a sudden impulse made me ask, ‘Father Pierre: can
nothing
be done about the Abbot? It is so dreadful!'

‘No, child; our Rule binds us. We must obey him. But never fear;
le bon Dieu
doubtless has some purpose behind it all, and will show us that, in His own good time.'

‘But has Father Vespasian always been – as he is?'

‘Oh, no,' replied Father Pierre. ‘He had a troubled history as a young man, before he entered; I myself knew him then. He loved a lady who would not have him – there were angers and grievances. But he was – no different from others then. Impatient, yes; but governed by reason. His –
change
– began seven years ago when a man was brought to the Abbey suffering from snoring.'

‘From
snoring?'

‘He snored by day as well as by night; awake as well as asleep. Oh, it was a dreadful sound! Blood streamed from his eyes, and a terrible hissing speech from his mouth. This,' explained Father Pierre, ‘was before Father Vespasian had come to his full, present power of healing, but already he had achieved some remarkable cures. He laid his hands on the snoring man – who in that very minute lost his symptoms and rose up as normal as you or I. But, at the same instant, Father Vespasian dropped down in a dead swoon and lay so for thirty-six hours. Ever since that day ...' His voice trailed off, his eyes looked down, absently, frowningly,
over the wide bay, for we stood at the highest corner of the kitchen garden. Then he shook himself, sighed, and added, ‘As I said, God will certainly display His purpose when He sees fit. Now, here is the corner of the wall which needs mending. You see?'

‘Yes, my father.'

‘You will fetch building materials immediately from the pile by the porter's lodge, and bring them here, as much as you think sufficient.' And he hurried away, his black robe flapping.

I spent the next hour following his instructions.

On my way to None, later, Father Antoine intercepted me.

‘Ahem! Have you managed to finish the task that Father Pierre showed you, Felix?'

‘Yes, father.'

‘You are a good boy. Now, come into the scriptorium a moment, I wish you to lift down some heavy volumes for me.'

At his bidding I climbed up a ladder to a high shelf and fetched down several massive book-boxes, which I placed on a table for him. Close to where I had laid them I noticed a map, unrolled on the table, with weights holding it open.

Casually Father Antoine indicated it.

‘See, here is our Abbey and the shoreline. There is Bayonne; here, St Jean de Luz. These are the passes over the mountains. That village there, Has-parren, that is where I come from. My widowed sister, Madame Mauleon, still lives there; she is a
good, kind woman, always ready to help those in distress. . . .'

‘Any sister of yours, father, would be that, I am sure.'

‘Bless me, there is the bell for None! I must hurry off and have a word with the Prior. Close the door behind you, my boy, when you have taken down that last box.'

‘Certainly, Father Antoine.'

When I quitted the scriptorium, it was with the map tightly rolled up under my belt. And, though I shut the door, I left one of the windows unlatched.

At the close of None I observed Father Vespasian speaking to Father Pierre; his look was stern, his gestures vigorous, and he glanced once or twice, briefly, in my direction. This caused me some concern; did the Abbot propose further punishment for me?

It was not quite so bad as that, but inconvenient enough.

‘Father Vespasian forbids you to sleep any longer in the infirmary building,' Father Pierre told me sadly, when the Abbot had left him, striding away to his lodge. ‘You are to return to the novices' dortor. It seems that Father Vespasian does not -does not wish for any further association between you and Juan.'

‘I see, father,' I said, thinking fast. What a good thing I had left that window open! God must have been guiding me. ‘Well, I – I thank you for your many kindnesses, Father Pierre. And I am sorry to
work for you no longer. I will go to Father Domitian now.'