Mariana bought a fan, a blue cravat, a bundle of white candles, two boxes of sweetmeats. As we turned to go home a shabby man of about fifty carrying some rolls of cloth stopped and spoke to her. A sardonic handsome man with gray-brown hair, a big moustache and a withered hand. Mariana bought a piece of the cloth and moved on.
“My uncle is much in demand with old friends,” she said curtly. “They remember their schooldays when they have favours to ask.”
“Who was that?”
“An old soldier who escaped three times from the Turks and was three times recaptured. He lives now by writing ballads for blind beggars to sing.”
A man went past in a brown cassock carrying on his back a great cross that seemed too heavy for him to bear. There was a mask across his face.
“A penitent,” said Mariana impatiently. “His confessor has imposed this on him, and since he is a person of quality, he does not wish to be recognised. Come, pincho, you’ve seen enough for one morning.”
“Why do you call me that?”
“Assuredly it is just a fancy.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means a louse.”
When we got back to the door of our house I opened it for her to go in. She looked me up and down with her brilliant eyes. It was like standing under a shower of cold spray.
“Do you like the name?”
“No.”
“Perhaps one day you will prove it is not true.”
“Perhaps.”
“Have you ever had an americebada?”
“What is that?”
“What would you guess?”
“Something to eat?”
She laughed. “Let us go in.”
That night Señor Andres Prada returned, and the following morning he sent for me. He was sipping chocolate in the study he used above the patio, and wore a gold embroidered morning gown. With him were two other men, one much younger with dark copper hair and the eyes of a zealot, whom I later learned was called Pedro Lopez de Solo; and a stiff-haired, cautious faced, stout man called Estaban de Ibarra.
“This is the boy Killigrew.”
Both men spoke halting English. They began to question me.
All the questions related to England and many of them to my father.
Some of them seemed designed to trap me, as if they were privately testing the accuracy of what I said against information of their own. They spoke of our neighbours, of Hannibal Vyvyan: how often did he keep the fort at St Mawes, and when he was away who took his place? Then they worked up the river to the Trefusises, the Enyses, the Arundells. It was fascinating how much these men knew already, and in what detail. But sometimes their interpretation was quite wrong, and I was careful not to correct them.
After a while they broke off and began to talk among themselves. Although I could not follow all they said, five weeks of careful listening had given me a smattering of Spanish.
I was dismissed and went down into the patio itself, which was tiled in blue and green, with a tiny fountain playing. Vines and other plants climbed up the walls and across the trellis which almost cut out the sky. Rodez was there idly eating a green walnut, and Father Rafael sat in the rocking chair reading his breviary.
I found my hands and knees were trembling.
“Mariana has been telling that you walked out with her yesterday,” Rodez said.
“Round the square, yes.”
“Mariana has a taking for you. Have a care.”
“I do not think so, or she would not call me el pincho.”
“Why not?”
I was still thinking of the three men upstairs. “Well, it means a louse.”
Rodez laughed. “Never believe it. El piojo is the louse. This is Mariana’s amusement.”
“What does el pincho mean, then?”
“It means the Handsome One.”
“Oh,” I said, surprise for a moment gaining over apprehension. “And what is an amencebada?”
“Now I know she has the fancy for you! Perhaps I should not say take care, for perhaps it is already too late!“
“Rodez.” The voice came from the balcony above, cutting through Rodez’s laughter like a knife through tallow.
“Sir?”
“I want you.”
When Rodez had disappeared I stood for a minute or two watching the goldfish moving lazily in the pond beneath the fountain. I heard a page of the breviary turned. Father Rafael, no doubt, was keeping an eye on me as well as on his prayers, but I felt unequal to the task of addressing him.
Señora Prada came into the patio and asked Father Rafael a question. Their Spanish was quick and colloquial, but I gathered that she asked where Andres was, and he told her he was upstairs and the names of his callers. She said, was he going to the Palace tonight and Father Rafael said, yes, there was to be a meeting of the junta de Noche. She said, oh, that was good. More passed between them that I could not follow at all; but because I could not I had more time to notice the intimacy of their conversation.
Rodez came down again and I heard Señor Prada showing his visitors out.
“Who were they?” I said to him. “Who were those men?”
He shrugged. “Two who order this country, my friend. Like my uncle: behind the stage.”
“Yes, but what did they want with me?”
“We Spaniards do not fail for lacking the attention to detail. You? You are just one of the details.”
“Details of what?”
“Who knows? The information you give us is filed away. If-it is ever needed, then it will be used. See?”
“What is the junta de Noche?”
“A committee, an inner council, which works under the King.”
“Are they do they belong to it?”
“The young one, Captain de Soto, does not. He is an outsider, but is secretary to the Adelantado. The Adelantado of Castile is the highest military officer of the crown. Does that satisfy you?”
“And the other?”
“Estaban de Ibarra? He, with my uncle, is joint secretary of the Junta de Noche.”
I said: “I do not understand. I am a boy of sixteen. In England I could not, would not, be interviewed by by Sir Robert Cecil, by the Earl of Essex, nor even by his secretary. I am a nobody. What is my value here?”
“Little enough, assuredly. But be thankful for your own sake that it is something.”
CHAPTER TWO
That night I dreamt of Sue Farnaby. She kept crying: “Maugan, Maugan!” her voice lost and hoarse. I began to cry out: “Sue, Sue, Sue! ” in reply, panting each word in effort and in agony. When I woke some sound was ringing in my ears, and I think I must have been crying the name aloud. I was soaked with sweat and for minutes could not shake free of the dream.
It was dark in the room but a light was flickering from the square, three wavering bars on the ceiling. I got up and went to the lattice. There were no lights in the houses opposite but there was a lantern glimmering on the cobbles below. Yesterday an old mule struggling to drag a load of gravel had died there and the body had been left where it fell. Now two beggars were hacking at the carcase for what they could take away.
Sue’s cries were still ringing in my ears. I could not stay in this house any longer letting time and opportunity slip away: there must be some escape.
First, first I must improve my Spanish, at least to the point of understanding and being understood. Second, I must lay hold on some money, for in any country there were people who would give their services or hold their tongues for gold. Third, I must plan a way back.
I had to begin to make plans now. Madrid was right in the centre of Spain, impossibly situated for a fugitive, but it would be better to die on the way than to stay on here in weak luxury until one’s uses were done.