Текст книги "Lion Triumphant"

Автор книги: Philippa Carr

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Honey had always wanted to be loved, had blossomed with love; and there was no doubt that Luis adored her.

The wedding was celebrated at the Hacienda and there was feasting and the people of the surrounding villages were invited to come and dance which they did in the gardens. It was a wonderful sight with the girls and young men in the traditional costumes dancing the Andalusian dances which had been brought from the mainland. They danced and sang to the tunes played on the timple and I heard for the first time the Isa and the Folias.

Songs were sung praising the newly married couple and marriage in general, and afterward the bride and groom returned to the bedchamber and there was none of that ribaldry which would have accompanied such a ceremony at home.

That night I lay sleepless for a long time and I thought: We are farther from home than ever. Honey has accepted her fate and if we could go home now she would not leave her husband. Honey has become one of them. And how could I go and leave Honey here?

I thought: If my mother knew where I was; if I might see her now and then, I could do worse than marry Felipe. He would be a good and devoted husband; Roberto loved his father—how could I separate them?

I was becoming more and more convinced that my life lay here.

In my dreams I took Don Felipe’s hand and I was to be married in the Cathedral, for I would adopt his faith; and then I heard the childish tinkling laughter of Isabella.

And I awoke with the words “Not while Isabella lives” ringing in my ears.

Felipe wished us to take a trip inland …

It would be good for the children, he said. I had only seen the great mountain Pico de Teide from the sea. I should see how truly magnificent it was. He himself had to go to another part of the island, and while he was away our nursery should be transported to a house in the valley which he used sometimes. His servants would look after us. We would come back refreshed after our little holiday.

I knew that there was some motive behind this suggestion. Don Felipe was a man of mysteries. One would often wonder how much his inner feelings belied those which he expressed, but this, in a manner, was a source of fascination to me.

When I learned that there was to be an auto-da-fé in La Laguna I thought I understood. Members of his household would be expected to attend and I was known to be an important member of that household—the Governor’s mistress. If I were absent, this would be noted. He did not wish to expose me to that which he knew was abhorrent to me; moreover, he would doubtless fear that I might betray my repulsion. Hence our trip into the mountains.

I was touched by his concern for me. I was beginning more and more to enjoy basking in his care for me.

We set out on mules with packhorses to carry all that we wished to take with us. We had a litter in which the children traveled and Honey. Jennet, Manuela and I took it in turns to ride with them. Sometimes we would carry one before us on our mule. It was a great game to them.

Carlos, with Jacko in his wake, was adventurous. What one would expect, I thought, of Jake Pennlyon’s sons. I believe he had completely put behind him those nightmare days in the shack behind the Casa Azul. He was a child who would come through life unscathed, like his father. There was nothing of poor Isabella in him; he was all Jake Pennlyon. Jacko would be the same, for he followed Carlos in all things.

It was not a long journey, some thirty miles in all, and I was struck by the exotic beauty of the land. We passed a magnificent old dragon tree which was said to be over two thousand years old. I remembered that it was from the resin of this tree that the native Guanches stained their skins when they went in to do battle with their Spanish conquerors. John Gregory—with whom I had formed a kind of understanding—told me of this. Richard Rackell also accompanied us and we took about six servants and a party of half a dozen strong men in case we should need protection.

I was amused by the amount of trouble Don Felipe had taken to get us away from La Laguna.

We arrived in due course at the house in the mountains where we were to stay. We were treated with great respect since we had come from the Governor’s Hacienda. And there in the shadow of the white-topped Pico de Teide we spent some pleasant days.

We rode out into the mountains; we gathered golden oranges; we played games with the children. It was a happy time. Honey missed Don Luis, who had remained behind to take charge in Felipe’s absence. As for myself I was content to be there in those impressive surroundings dominated by the great conical mountain. Felipe had given me books in Spanish so that I might learn something of Spain and improve my knowledge of the language. In these I had read of the Canaries too and of Tenerife in particular, which had been given the name of the Garden of Atlas in which golden apples grew. These were the oranges and the dragon trees were set there to guard this delightful spot.

It was with some regret that I turned my mule homeward toward La Laguna.

There a shock awaited us.

Isabella was dead.

A terrible fear came to me and hung over me like a dark shadow, for Isabella had fallen from the top of the staircase on the Casa Azul and broken her neck. It had happened five days after we had left—on the day of the auto-da-fé.

I was aghast. It had happened so neatly. I was away; Don Felipe was away. How many times had he said: “If it were not for Isabella”?

I wished that he had never mentioned marriage to me. I wished that Isabella was still in the patio at the Casa Azul playing with her dolls.

Don Felipe had come home. He greeted me courteously but coolly; but I was aware of the intensity of the passion which he suppressed.

Jennet was agog with excitement. It was she who told us how it had happened. She had had a detailed account from her lover in the stables.

I made her tell me all she knew.

“’Twere like this, Mistress,” she said, “’twere the day of the auto and the whole household had gone into Laguna.”

“Pilar would not leave her.”

“She did. She did this once. You see it was the day of the auto … a sacred duty to go.”

I closed my eyes. Oh, God, I thought. Everyone was sent away … because it was the day of the auto-da-fé. It was a sacred duty to attend. Everyone was afraid of not attending … and even Pilar went. Had he planned it just so?

“And what of her … the poor young creature?”

“Well, she didn’t go, Mistress. None ’ud expect her to. She was to stay behind with her dolls.”

“Someone was with her?”

“Edmundo, the big man…” Jennet could not help the lilt in her voice, even when recounting such an event as this, at the mention of Edmundo, the big man. “He were there. Working in the garden. He could see to her if she was took bad. They say he could lift her when she was kicking and screaming as easy as though she were a rag doll.”

“Someone else was in the house, surely?”

“Two of the maids … silly little things.”

“Where were they?”

“They said they’d left her sleeping. It was hot … and she was taking her siesta. The next thing she was found at the bottom of the staircase.”

“Who found her?”

“The two maids. They went to her room and she weren’t there. Then they came down the stairs and there she was lying there. They said there was something strange about the way she lay there. And then they went and looked and they ran screaming to Edmundo. He saw what was wrong and left her just as she’d fallen. ‘She’s gone,’ he said. ‘Poor mad soul. She’s gone.’”

I had closed the shutters and was lying on my bed. I wanted to lie in the darkness, but even so that brilliant sun penetrated between the shutters and there was some light in the room.

The door opened slowly and Felipe was standing by the bed, looking down at me.

I said: “You should not be here.”

“I had to see you.”

“There are other places.”

“To see you alone,” he said. “Now she is dead…”

“So recently dead, so strangely dead,” I interrupted.

“She fell and killed herself. It is a wonder she did not fall before.”

“She fell when she was more or less alone in the house. Everyone but the two maids and Edmundo had gone to the auto-da-fé. Pilar had gone.”

“It was their duty to go. It was rarely that she was left almost alone in the house.”

“It needed only once.”

“She is dead. You know what that means. I am free.”

“It is not wise to say such things. The servants listen.”

He smiled faintly. “Once I so cautioned you.”

“It is of more importance now than then.”

“You are right. We will wait, but the waiting will be easy because in the end I shall have my heart’s desire.”

“You remember my Queen and her lover. He had a wife, Amy Robsart. She died. She fell down a staircase. Why, how like this! It could almost seem that one who had been impressed by that incident had decided to repeat it.”

“Lord Robert Dudley murdered his wife with your Queen’s connivance.”

“Did he? I think you are right. Some say it was suicide. Some an accident.”

“But many knew the truth.”

“The Queen dared not marry him.”

“It was because she would not stomach a rival on the throne.”

“That … and because to have married him would have been to connive at murder … and maybe run the risk of being suspect.”

“That may be.”

“Don Felipe,” I said, “you are in like case. Amy Robsart’s servants went to a Fair; yours went to an auto-da-fé. Then when the house is almost empty your wife dies.”

“Many times she has been saved from inflicting harm on herself.”

“And this time there was no one to save her. There will be people to talk. If you married now, Don Felipe, there might be some to say you had rid yourself of a wife to do so.”

“I am the master here … Governor of these islands.”

“My Queen was the mistress of England. She was wise.”

He looked momentarily forlorn; then he lifted his head and I saw the stern pride of him, the determination to succeed. It was this which had made him undertake the intricate operation of bringing me to Tenerife. He was now equally determined to marry me, to proclaim Roberto his legitimate heir. He would stop at nothing.

And I asked myself: Felipe, what part did you play in this? You were not here when Isabella died. But you did not come to England to bring me here. You are a man who sets himself a goal and employs others to carry it out. Have a care, Don Felipe.

He held out a hand to me, but I did not take it.

“Go now,” I said. “Take care. Let no one see in what direction your ambitions lie.”

He left me then and I lay on in my darkened room.

Isabella was buried with accompanying pomp.

It was said that she had been possessed by devils as she had attempted to descend the stairs and as she had been seen to do so many times fell and so met her death.

Death set a shadow over the household. Only in the nursery did it fail to penetrate and Honey and I spent a great deal of our time there. The weeks began to pass; we fell back into our routine.

Often I would think about Isabella and wonder what had really happened. Had she suddenly missed Pilar? Had she gone to look for her? I thought of her often, standing at the top of that staircase and then suddenly falling to the bottom. I pictured her lying there. Poor little Isabella.

How often had he said: “If it were not for Isabella”? But he had been away.

Lord Robert Dudley had been away from Cumnor Place at the time of his wife’s death; but that did not exonerate him from murder.

Men such as Sir Robert and Don Felipe did not do evil deeds themselves. They employed others to do them for them.

Edmundo was at the Casa Azul; he was the strong man; he had picked up Isabella and carried her as though she were a rag doll. He was Felipe’s servant. Would he do anything his master asked … anything?

So ran my tormented thoughts.

Six months had passed and Felipe said to me: “It is time we married.”

“It is too soon,” I said.

“I cannot wait forever.”

“Six months ago you had a wife.”

“I have no wife now … nor did I ever have a wife.”

“I know it to be unwise.”

“I will protect you. Shortly we shall go to Spain. I must take you with me.”

“We should wait awhile.”

“I will wait no longer.”

“I am undecided. I think often of my home. My mother will never forget me. She mourns me now.”

“Tell me you will marry me and I will have a message sent to your mother. It is folly. It is dangerous. But this I will do to show you how much I care for you.”

I looked at him and I felt a great tenderness surge over me. He held out his arms and I went toward him. I was held firmly against him. I could no longer resist love such as he was offering.

Had I not learned most bitterly that one does not hold out for the perfection of one’s dreams? Honey knew it. She had taken Edward and enjoyed some happiness and now with Luis. And this man had proved to me that he regarded me with a tender devotion which amazed even himself. I could not reject that.

He said: “My love, you shall write a letter to your mother. You will tell her that you are well and happy. John Gregory shall take it. We will arrange it. The next ship that leaves shall carry him. There is one stipulation: You must mention no names; you must not mention where you are. I must run no risks. But, my Catalina, this shall be done. You will see how I love you!”

And so I promised to marry Don Felipe.

We were married quietly in the little private chapel of the Hacienda. I was not unhappy; sometimes I laughed within myself, for I could not help remembering the occasion of my humiliation when I had no alternative but to submit to him; I remembered how he had ordered that I should wear gowns made for Isabella, use scent which was hers, so that as he lay with me he should imagine I was the beautiful girl bride. There was no one but myself he wished to think of now. But Isabella was a shadow between us. More so for him than for me.

How changed everything was. How he loved me, this strange quiet man! How strange that he, whose emotions were so rarely aroused, should feel this searing passion for one of an enemy race, a race he despised as barbarians; and here was one who was typical of that race—and yet he loved her.

I never forget that he had allowed me to send a letter to my mother. I used to dream of her in the old Abbey garden and I held imaginary conversations with her. I believed I was never far from her thoughts.

Perhaps by now, I would promise myself, she is receiving that letter. She is weeping over it; she would tuck it into her bodice and say: “My darling Cat’s hands have touched this!” And it would never leave her.

So I must be grateful to Felipe.

He loved me and he loved our son. To us alone did he show that part of his nature which was capable of loving. It had once occurred to me that when he loved it would be with a single-minded devotion. How right I had been! He now gave to love that intensity of passion which he had once given to revenge.

He abandoned himself to moments of great happiness and at the very heart of that happiness was myself and our son.

He loved to lie on our bed with me in his arms and talk of our future. I loved to hear him say our boy’s name. He said it differently when we were alone together. I felt an emotion welling up within me because such a cold stern man could love so much.

“Catalina, Catalina, my love,” he would whisper to me.

He was indeed happy and it is gratifying to realize one has brought such joy to another human being.

His first task was to legitimize Roberto. Ships came now and then from Spain to Tenerife bringing men from the Escorial, where Felipe’s master lived in spartan state. Papers came from Madrid and he gleefully showed them to me.

“Roberto is my firstborn,” he said. “It is now as though we had been married when he was born. There will be no barriers to his inheritance.”

“And Carlos?” I asked.

His brow darkened. He had never liked Carlos although he had accepted his presence in our nurseries to please me.

“He shall have nothing of mine, but his mother’s family will make him a rich man.”

That contented me.

Felipe talked often of the time when we would go to Spain. He was anxious to return now. Don Luis was ready to take over his responsibilities. There was no reason why we should not go.

We were blind to imagine that we could have married and none question it. The Queen of England had not dared to marry her lover after her lover’s wife had died mysteriously. Should the Governor of a small island be less immune?

There were whispers.

It was Manuela who first brought them to my knowledge.

“Mistress,” she said, her brow puckered, “they are saying you are a witch.”

“I … a witch. What nonsense is this?”

“They are saying that you have bewitched the Governor. He were never as he is with you, before.”

“Why should he be. I am his wife.”

“He had a wife before, Senora.”

“This is nonsense. You know what the Governor’s first wife was like.”

“She were possessed by devils.”

“She was simpleminded, half-mad.”

“Possessed, they say. And that you commanded the devils to possess her.”

I burst out laughing. “Then I hope you tell them what fools they were. She was possessed before I ever knew of her existence. You are aware of that.”

“But they says she was possessed and you sent the devils to possess her.”

“They are mad themselves.”

“Yes,” she said uneasily. But that was the beginning.

They watched me furtively. When I went into La Laguna I was aware of averted eyes and if I turned sharply I would find people were looking back at me. Once I heard the whispered word “Witch.”

At the Casa Azul the shutters were closed. I heard that Pilar walked through the house lamenting. She stood at the top of the stairs and called to Isabella to come back to her, to tell her what happened on that fateful afternoon.

Felipe pretended to be indifferent to the tension which was building up, but he did not deceive me. He came to our bedroom one evening and his face was set and anxious. He had spent most of the day in La Laguna.

He said: “I would we were in Madrid. Then this nonsense would end.”

“What nonsense is this?” I asked.

“There has been much talk. Someone has been to La Laguna and talked recklessly. There is no alternative. A certain course will be taken.”

“What course?”

“I am speaking of Isabella’s death. There is to be an inquiry.”

Manuela sat mending Carlos’ tunic. Her hands trembled as she did so.

I said: “What ails you, Manuela?”

She lifted her great sorrowful eyes to my face.

“They have taken Edmundo away to be questioned. He was the one to find her. She was lying at the foot of the staircase with her neck broken. He was the one. They will question him.”

“He will satisfy them with his answers,” I said, “and then he will come home.”

“People who are taken for questioning often do not come back.”

“Why should not Edmundo?”

“When they question,” she said, “they will have the answer they want.”

“Edmundo will be all right. He was always so good with Isabella. She was fond of him.”

“She is dead,” said Manuela, “and he is taken for questioning.”

I had learned since Manuela came to us that she and Edmundo had both been in the retinue Isabella had brought with her from Spain. Manuela had been one of her maids and Edmundo had known how to look after her when she was “possessed.” When the raiders had come Manuela had hidden and so saved herself; and she had been with Isabella during the months of pregnancy and the birth of Carlos. She had loved the child and tried to protect him from the alternate devotion and dislike of his mother; and when the boy had been put in charge of that dreadful harridan she had done what she could to help him.

It was understandable that she should be sad because Edmundo had been taken in.

I was astonished at the outcome of the questioning. Edmundo confessed that he had murdered his mistress. He had stolen a cross studded with rubies from her jewel box to give to a girl whom he wished to please. Isabella had caught him in the act of taking the cross and because he feared the consequences he had suffocated her by placing a damp cloth over her mouth. Then he had thrown her down the stairs.

He was hanged in the plaza of La Laguna.

“That is the end of the affair,” said Felipe.

I could not get out of my mind the memory of big Edmundo lifting poor Isabella so gently in his arms as I had seen him do when she was suffering.

“He was so gentle,” I said. “I cannot believe him capable of murder.”

“There are many sides to men and women,” Felipe answered.

“It is hard to believe this of Edmundo,” I said.

“He has confessed and the matter is at an end, my love.”

I was disturbed but glad that I could consider the mystery solved.

Christmas came and went. I thought of home and the mummers, the wassailing and the Christmas bush. I wondered whether John Gregory had reached England yet and whether my mother had my letter.

What a Christmas gift that would be for her!

To Felipe’s disappointment I had not conceived. I was not sure whether I was disappointed or not. I longed for children, and yet I could not forget Isabella; even though Edmundo had confessed to murdering her, she still seemed to stand between me and my husband. Sometimes I felt that my husband was a stranger to me. I never thought for one moment that he had ever loved Isabella. I believed him when he said that there had been one love in his life and that I was that love. That was something he could not hide. His love for me was expressed a hundred times during a single day. It was in the very inflection of his voice. Moreover, I had given him Roberto—a sturdy little fellow now three years of age… But there was something Felipe held back even from me, and perhaps for this reason I willed myself not to conceive. The fact remains that I did not, although I was not unhappy.

It was never cold in Tenerife, for there was very little difference between the winter and summer; the only unpleasant days were those when the south winds blew from Africa and this was not frequent. I liked the damp warm atmosphere and I did not want to leave it for the extremes of temperature which I believed we should experience in Spain. I often thought of the cold winter days at home in the Abbey. Once the Thames had frozen and we had been able to walk across it. I remembered sitting around the great log fire in the hall and how the mummers had slapped their frozen hands into life before beginning their performance. I remembered so much of home; and sometimes I felt a dull pain in my throat, so great was my longing for it.

Yet here I had a husband who loved me and a sweet son.

In January the Cavalcade of the Three Wise Men took place and we took the children into La Laguna to watch it. What excitement there was and I listened with delight to the chattering children.

Yes, there was so much that I enjoyed.

Time slipped away and it was Holy Week and this was a time of great celebration. There were more processions in the town and when I saw the white robed figures coming from the Cathedral I was reminded so poignantly of the day I had sat in the plaza and looked on the misery of men, I felt suddenly nauseated; and a poignant longing for home swept over me.

I had talked of my sudden desire for home to Honey and she admitted that she felt this too. She was adored by Don Luis; she had her little daughter even as I had my son; but our home was something we should never forget; and I believe that at the very heart of it was my mother—for Honey as well as for me.

We had ridden into La Laguna on our mules to see the Holy Week procession and left the children at home because we feared they might be hurt in the crowds. Honey and I stood side by side. There were two grooms with us; we were never allowed to go far without protection. And as we stood on the edge of the crowd I felt someone press against me.

I turned sharply and looked into a pair of fanatical eyes which looked straight into mine.

“Pilar,” I said.

“Witch,” she hissed. “Heretic witch.”

I started to tremble. Crowds in this plaza brought with them such hideous memories.

I said to Felipe: “I saw the woman Pilar in the town. She hates me. I could see by the way she looked at me.”

“She was devoted to her charge. She had been with her since her birth.”

“I think she believes that I am responsible for her death.”

“She is distraught. She will grow away from her grief.”

“I have rarely seen such hatred in any eyes as was in hers when she looked at me. She called me a witch … a heretic witch.”

I was unprepared for the change in Felipe’s expression. Fear was clearly to be seen as his lips formed the word “heretic.” Then suddenly that control which was so much a part of his character seemed to desert him. He took me into his arms and held me tightly against him.

“Catalina,” he said, “we are going to Madrid. We must not stay here.”

A terrible fear had begun to overshadow me. When darkness fell I would often fancy I was being watched. I could not specifically say how. It was just that I would hear footsteps which seemed to follow me; or the quiet shutting of a door when I was in a room, so that it seemed that someone had opened it to watch me and then quietly shut it and gone away. On one or two occasions I fancied someone had been in my room. Some familiar object had been moved from its place and I was sure I had not done this.

I admonished myself. I was allowing my imagination to take possession of my good sense. Since Isabella’s death and my marriage—the one a natural sequence of the other—the tension had been gradually rising. I could not forget Pilar’s face when she looked at me and whispered those words: “Witch. Heretic witch” and in my mind had conjured up such horror as I dared not brood on.

It came into my mind that there was hatred around me. Some evil force was trying to destroy me. I knew this was so when I found the image in my drawer.

I had opened it unsuspectingly and there looking up at me was the figure. It was made of wax and represented a beautiful girl with black hair piled high and in that hair was a miniature comb. Her gown was of velvet and the resemblance struck me immediately. Isabella! It could not be meant to resemble anyone else.

I picked it up. What horror possessed me then, for protruding from her gown, at that spot beneath which her heart would have been, was a pin.

Someone had put the thing in my drawer. Who? Someone had made that thing in the image of Isabella. Someone had stuck a pin through the heart and put it in my drawer!

I stood there with it in my hand.

The door had opened. I looked up startled and saw a dark reflection in the mirror.

To my relief I realized that it was only Manuela.

I held the figure crushed in my hand and turned to her. I wondered whether she noticed how shaken I was.

“The children are ready to say good night,” she said.

“I’ll come, Manuela.”

She disappeared and I stood staring at the thing in my hand; then I thrust it to the back of the drawer and went to the nursery.

I could not listen to what the children were saying. I could only think of that horrible thing and its significance.

Who had put it there? Someone who wished me ill. Someone who was accusing me of bringing about Isabella’s death. I must destroy it with all speed. While it was there I was unsafe.

As soon as I had tucked the children in and kissed them good night I went back to my room.

I opened my drawer. The figure had disappeared.

I told Felipe what I had found and I was immediately aware of the terrible fear this aroused in him.

“And it was gone?” he cried. “You should never have put it back in the drawer. You should have destroyed it immediately.”

“It means that someone believes I killed Isabella.”

“It means,” he said, “that someone is trying to prove that you are a witch.”

I did not have to ask him what that meant.

“I was accused of that on the ship,” I said. I shivered. “I came near to a horrible death.”

“Some of the sailors must have talked. We must get away from here quickly.”

He speeded up preparations for our departure.

Fear had certainly entered the Hacienda. The great shadow of the Inquisition hung over us. Sometimes I would awaken shouting, having dreamed I was in that square. I was looking on from the box … looking on at myself in the hideous sanbenito. I could hear the crackle of flames at my feet. I would awake crying out from my dream and Felipe would take me in his arms and comfort me.

“Soon,” he said, “we shall be safe in Madrid.”

“Felipe,” I asked, “what if they should come and take me … how would they come?”

He answered: “They come often at night. There would be the knock on the door. We should hear the words: ‘Open in the name of the Holy Office.’ Those are the words none dare disobey.”

“And they would take me away then, Felipe. They would question me. I should answer their questions. What have I to fear?”

“All have something to fear when they fall into the hands of the Inquisition.”

“The innocent…”

“Even the innocent.”

“If they believe you to be a witch they would take you,” he said. “If they should come by night I shall hide you. We must pretend that you have disappeared, that you are indeed a witch and you have invoked the Devil to aid you. There is a secret door in the bedchamber.” He showed it to me. “You will hide in here until such time as I can save you.”

“Felipe, would Pilar inform against me?”

“It may well be,” he answered. “And if she does they will come for you.”

“Do you believe she has?”

“I cannot say. People are wary of going to the Holy Office even to lay information against others, for it has happened that in so doing they have become involved themselves. We will pray that Pilar has not said to others what she has said to you.”

I trembled in his arms and he said soothingly: “It is not like you to be afraid, my love. We will outwit any who come against us.”

“If you hid me, Felipe,” I said, “would that not be an act against the Inquisition?”

He was silent.

I went on: “You would act against the Inquisition for my sake? You would preserve a heretic in your house because you love her?”

“Hush. Do not say that word, Catalina, even when we are alone. We must be watchful. I will speed on our departure. Once we have left this place we shall be safe.”