Eliza’s Daughter (27 page)

‘Mr Morton, I wish to relieve myself,' I said on the first day. ‘What arrangements are made for that?'

‘None,' he said shortly.

‘Then be so good as to ask the boatmen to turn their eyes away from me.'

He plainly thought this was tedious and finical of me; the sailors had shown no such delicacy when answering the call of nature.

At noon a meal of black bread,
bacalhau
(which is dried salted fish), olives and wine was available to the boatmen as they went about their work, and to me as I perched on a crate of sardines doing my best to keep my feet from being trodden on as the men moved about.

Huddling under the Duke's waterproof cloak, I resolved to write him a letter, as soon as I was able, to inform him how invaluable this garment was proving.—But I would not tell him, yet, about the death of Pullett; that would make him too sad and anxious.

The food became sodden as we ate, but since the black bread was hard, and the dried cod fiercely salty, having it rinsed with rain was no disadvantage.

At dusk on the third day, we reached Peso da Régua, a fair-sized village scattered for half a mile along the steeply sloping bank. Many vineyards have warehouses and lodges here, since there is a good anchorage. Our
barco
was tied up and Mr Morton escorted me to a
pousada,
which was far from luxurious; my bedroom was a garret with a baked clay floor, the bed was a wooden plank, and the goatskin blanket so scanty and verminous that I was glad, again, to wrap myself in the Duke's waterproof cloak. The rafters, too, were swarming with bugs. Supper was not bad, however: a soup composed of chicken, bacon, rice, beans, bread and I know not what other ingredients. I would have liked to explore the village but, as the rain continued to lash down, thought it best to retire, Mr Morton having promised to arrange mule transport for me to Vila Real early on the following morning.

***

‘One mule and
two
men?' I inquired doubtfully after breakfast (black bread and a drink of milk). ‘And that mule looks fit only for the knacker's. And why do I need two guides? Surely one would be sufficient?'

‘Mules are still in very short supply,' Morton said sourly. Today the note of irritation was even more noticeable in his tone. Plainly he longed to be rid of me. ‘During the French wars, both mules and oxen vanished entirely. And it is better you have two guides, for defence. You may encounter bands of
gallegos
travelling south. They are wild, lawless beings. These men are there to protect you. Their names are Manuel and João.'

‘Very well. Thank you,' I said, not troubling to mention that the two escorts looked fully as capable of villainy as any
gallegos. ‘
Do they know the way to Vila Real?'

‘Of course! It is about seven leagues, but the ways are very mountainous and un-posted. You should reach your destination before dark, however.'

‘Thank you,' I said again, set my foot in the wooden stirrup and mounted. The two guides held each a stirrup on either side and trotted, keeping pace easily enough with the mule, which maintained a kind of steady shamble, half walk, half trot.

Our road at first climbed steeply zig-zag up the hillside between vineyards. The rain had ceased and the day at last was glorious; I could not forbear a lifting of the heart, as I surveyed the immense prospect of mountains, deep river valley and terraced hillsides that lay about me all glittering and new-washed.

The roads, it is true, were amazingly bad, little better than goat-tracks, and, once we reached the rolling country high above the river valley, they were very confusing, running hither and thither in all directions. I could see that in misty or rainy weather, without the sun as a guide, it would be easy to lose oneself.

Manuel and João were a laconic, not to say surly, pair, exchanging no more than a couple of syllables every half hour or so. But, when the sun stood overhead, Manuel said, ‘It is time to eat' – or, at least, that is what I assumed he meant.

By now we had long left the Douro valley and were in a high, mountainous region, very sparsely populated. A few of the fields were cultivated, but the houses, if any, were mostly in ruins, where the French armies had passed, laying waste. Pine woods grew on some of the slopes, and the ravines were thickly grown with chestnut trees.

I reined in the mule and dismounted.

Morton had provided us with a bundle of food, fastened to the crupper. I untied this, and passed bread and smoked sausage to the two men, then sat on a rock – we were in a kind of glen, near the foot of a cliff – to eat my own share of food.

The guides bolted down their portions; then the one called João moved away (to relieve himself, I assumed); absently watching his companion, I noticed his eyes widen and his lips compress; then he made a kind of gesture, to attract my notice, and suddenly called out:
‘
Senhora –
'

Following the direction of his eyes, which were
not
on me, I flung myself to one side, almost in time – but not quite – to avoid a heavy glancing blow from the rear, which fell on the side of my head. João had stolen up behind me, intending to dash out my brains with a rock.

I had a long knife concealed in my high riding-boot. I plucked it out, and stabbed him with all my strength in the chest.

‘
Jesus-Maria!'
he gasped, and fell bleeding to the ground.

Manuel, meanwhile, had snatched up my waterproof cloak (which I had earlier discarded as too hot). He made for the mule, but I anticipated him, grabbing the reins, and threatening him with the knife, although my head still sang from the blow and my heart was pounding fiercely.

But Manuel on his own offered little threat. Abandoning his comrade, he fled off, clutching my cloak, scrambled round the corner of the cliff and was soon out of sight.

About to remount the mule, I hesitated, debating within myself what I ought to do about João. The region here was a desolate one; so far we had encountered not a single soul; if I left him here, would he bleed to death?

Holding the reins, I cautiously approached him and found, to my shocked astonishment, that he was dead; my knife must have penetrated his heart. (It was indeed extremely sharp; it had been another journey-gift from the Duke, along with the handsome pair of boots which had been made with great ingenuity to hold, in one boot a weapon, in the other, a purse.)

While I was thoughtfully resheathing my blade and considering with some gravity and bewilderment the fact that I had killed a man, had in one single moment deprived a fellow-creature of his life for ever, I was startled almost to fainting-point to hear a voice address me.

‘
Hola, Señora!
It seems that you made a bad choice of travelling companions!'

Looking past the mule, and the dead body, I saw two strangers regarding me. Both were large, swarthy, untidy men, with black ringlets, velveteen breeches and wide-brimmed, dusty hats.

‘We were witnesses to what happened,' said one. ‘We were up there, on top of the crag, we saw that vermin there pick up the rock to smash in your head –
Dios! –
what a blow
that
would have been! And we saw you, Señora, spring aside and finish him off with as neat a lunge as any matador,
brava! –
and then we saw the other cowardly rogue make off. And good riddance to him! But what of this one?'

‘He is dead,' said I. ‘But I did not mean to kill him.'

‘
Morra!
Let him go. He is no loss to the world. But you, Señora, you are not Portuguese, surely?'

‘No, I am English. And you are not Portuguese either, I think?'

‘No, lady, we are wine-treaders from Spain, come south to earn a few honest reales. At home we are charcoal-burners.'

They beamed at me with great goodwill.

‘You are
gallegos?
But I thought they always travel in troops?'

‘So we are a troop. But we left our companions at the top of the cliff to come to your assistance.'

‘That was very chivalrous of you! And now you can add to your kindness by telling me if I am on the right track to Vila Real?'

‘Quite right,' said they. ‘Just continue on with the sun behind you, and you should be there in three hours. But would you wish us to accompany you?'

‘No, no, that is kind and courteous of you, but I shall do very well.'

‘
Bueno
!
As the Señora wishes. What shall we do with this rubbish?' pointing to the dead João.

‘I don't know. Drop him in a ditch, perhaps.'

There was a crevice below the cliff, where gorse and brambles grew. They stowed him in there, out of sight, first prudently going through his pockets, which yielded a few silver coins. These they shared out scrupulously – first having offered them to me. But I refused with horror.

‘Evidently the Señora is not used to war. The winner takes the spoils.'

‘No,' I said, ‘I am not used to war. I would prefer for you to have the money. And I am very glad you came by when you did.'

Indeed I was. Their friendly presence had lightened that bleak moment when I must face the fact that I had committed murder.

‘The Señora will be lucky in her life, I think,' said one of them, looking in a calm, uncommiserating manner at my right hand still grasping the mule's rein. ‘She is a
d
*******.' And he used a Spanish term that was unfamiliar to me.

‘Just the same, she should be on her guard,' said the other. ‘The peasants around here – who, I may say, are a barbarous, backward race – many of them believe that a person with such hands as the Señora's must be a
l
*****.'

Another unfamiliar word.

‘What is that?'

‘One who is a man or woman by day, but at night becomes a wild beast and runs about devouring sheep or children.'

‘Oh, a werewolf. Perhaps that is why those two guides thought it best to make away with me.'

‘Not so! They simply acted according to their natures. If we encounter the other rogue, we will cut his liver out. Now, Señora, is there anything else, any other service we can render you? Would you wish to meet our companions? They are very good sort of men.' He beamed at me again. Indeed, both of them, rough-looking as they were, seemed very good-hearted and well-disposed, not at all the way the
gallegos
had been described to me.

I thanked them heartily, but said I had an urgent errand to seek out a sick friend and must be on my way.

‘Adios,
Señora, then.
Vaya con Dios.'

‘Vaya con Dios
to you also.'

And so we parted. I shall remember them all my life.

Considerably cheered by this encounter I continued on my way, keeping the sun behind me as recommended, and presently, in the distance, over a few wooded ridges, I saw the spires of what must be the town of Vila Real, the Royal City.

The mule was plodding along more and more slowly. I would sell it in Vila Real, I decided, and if possible buy another. It was indeed fortunate, I thought, that João and Manuel had not known how much money I carried, or they would have made a much more determined attempt to murder me. My hat, in which I had constructed a false crown of black leather, was lined with banknotes, as well as my travel documents. And the left-hand boot held enough gold moidores to buy a vineyard. Thanks to the Duke.

One day, I thought, I would tell the Duke about the death of João. Nobody else. And not in a letter.

As the mule slowly trudged on its way, I meditated on the death I had caused, trying to teach myself, as I knew I must, how to give this happening a place in my mind without excessive horror or needless guilt. Oddly, what I most felt was a wish that I had known the man better. His death seemed –
was –
so much that of a random stranger. If only he had been Dr Moultrie! Or Squire Vexford! Or his brother! Or one of the Bath Beaux. I could then have felt there had been a purpose and a value in removing him from the human race. But about this man I knew nothing, not even if he had a wife . . .

***

Vila Real is a largish shabby town, with large shabby houses and wide streets, and a feeling of being perched high up on a wide and windy plain. It seemed quiet and subdued; the elderly men all walked about wrapped in shawls. I inquired my way to the nunnery and there learned, with some exasperation, that Lady Hariot and her afflicted child had indeed stayed there with the nuns, for some considerable time –
‘
Eu! la doenta!' –
but that, seizing the chance when a train of merchants went by with supplies, they had transferred – or planned to do so – to Lamego, a city south of the Douro, where there was a famous church, Nossa Senhora dos Remédios, approached by a great many steps, where miraculous cures were performed; or were said to be performed. Doubtless, the nuns said hopefully, by now the poor little one had recovered the use of her limbs.

The Holy Sisters were delighted to offer me a bed for the night. I was accommodated in a cell, whitewashed and spotless, where I slept on a rush pallet – or, at least, tried to sleep; the image of Manuel's face, his eyes twitching aside to watch his comrade pick up the rock, the instantaneous knowledge that my life depended on rapid movement, getting away – these things kept me awake, or plagued me with fearful dreams, from which I woke gasping to find that I had hurled myself off the mattress on to the floor.

In the morning, studying myself in the tiny glass (no bigger than a crown piece) which Pullett had given me for a last Christmas gift (ah, poor Pullett!), I discovered that the crack on the head which João had dealt me had left its legacy in the shape of two notable black eyes, glossy and contused, from which my own bleary optics peered out painfully.

‘Ay, ay!' cried the sisters in horror. ‘What
happened
to you?'