The beggars below snatched up their lantern and their knives and faded into the gabled shadows. Two men were crossing the square; they were monks walking silently, hoods up, arms folded in sleeves; they went into a building beside La Inclusa; the clang of the door echoed across the square.
It was cold, and I went back and sat on the bed, then on impulse pulled on my stockings and went to the door and opened it. The house was built round the patio and some light came in through the passage window as I went down the first flight of stairs.
My only thought tonight was to see how easy or how difficult it might be to leave this house when the time came one did not know what would be bolted and barred or whether any guard was kept; but when I reached the first floor where the two main bedrooms and the living-room were I heard the murmur of voices and saw a light under the door of the Prada bedroom. I had time only to squeeze into the shadow of a heavy Cuban mahogany chest when the door opened and Father Rafael came out. A woman’s hand came through the door; he bent and kissed it, then strode away, the only sound being the scuff of his sandal heels and the rustle of a silk robe. Immediately he had disappeared the light under the door went out and I was alone and could almost have been persuaded that this was a part of the earlier dream.
I leaned on the stone balustrade and looked down into the patio. I had found these Spanish people far kinder than I had ever supposed them to be; for all the danger and the unspoken menaces that surrounded me I had not lacked for casual friendship; I had even wondered what Catholicism meant that men should fight it so bitterly. Now in this moment I remembered again the words of the Puritans at home.
I was about to go down the last flight when somebody moved in the patio. It was Sebastiano, the negro who often guarded the door. He had been squatting beside the fountain, and if I had gone down he would have caught me. His keys were rattling as he moved to the great door and presently he opened it and Senor Prada came in followed by his personal servant carrying a lantern. There was a conversation, Prada sounded tired and irritable. To stay on the balcony would be to invite discovery, so I stole back up the stone flight and then up the creaking wooden flight to bed.
Over the next week I worked day-long at Spanish. When Rodez tired I went to Mariana.
Mariana had beautiful teeth, and it was not hard to make her laugh. Always she called me at pincho, but I never challenged her translation, knowing well enough that if I did she would shrug it off or somehow turn the point against me.
I went again to the palace; once to help Rodez with moving and arranging some English books. But on the second occasion I was confronted by the terrible priest with the face like a vulture and spent two chilling hours in his company being instructed in the tenets of the faith. I wished fervently that I had the true learning of a Protestant. I lacked the knowledge to confound his specious reasoning, yet instinctively knew it must be evil and corrupt; I had been brought up on the evils of Rome. That night I prayed for guidance and courage. There must come a moment soon when I must refuse to hear any more of his sly and perverted arguments; to listen to them was almost as much of a blasphemy as to heed. Yet to stand up and tell him he was an agent of the Devil needed a cold courage, a desperate faith that was hard to come by.
The third time at the palace I was called in, again with Rodez, to wait at the table of Captain Lopez de Soto, the copper-haired young fanatic who was secretary to the Adelantado of Castik. De Soto was entertaining some dozen guests in a party recently arrived from Italy. Three were priests and five were Genoese naval officers, members of the entourage of Prince Giovanni Andrea Doria, who had just arrived in Madrid. Talk was sometimes in Spanish, sometimes in Italian and for the most it was of naval power and the Spanish building programme and the prospects of an early attack on England.
After it, one of the civilians called me to him. “They tell me you are a Killigrew.”
A narrow sun-tanned face, a mop of brown hair; the eyes were blue, eccentric, slightly squinting; it was a different face from any seen of late.
“Yes, sir.”
“And a prisoner, I’m told. Fresh out of England. The trees will be budding there soon.”
“You are English I “
“Much better than that, boy.-Do they still dance the Halan-tow at Helston?”
I stared. “You’re … from Cornwall?”
“Yes. Though it’s more than 13 years since I was there. I think sometimes of the preached alleys, the primroses, the violets. How is your father?”
“You know him?”
“As a young man. I was born at Tolverne up the river from your place.”
I choked with delight and relief at seeing a friendly face. The three months away from home might have been three years. As I grasped his hand I remembered what young Thomas Arundell had said that night at Tolverne. ‘And Uncle Thomas who went on a pilgrimage to Rome thirteen years ago and never returned.’
“This means much to me …”
“Oh, aye, I well know. I was 30 when I left, not a boy in his teens, and I stayed away from choice not because I had to; but the old place still has its pull. Always, always I’ve promised myself a sight of it again. But that nasty old woman lives too long.”
“I saw your family, sir, just before Christmas. I was coming from Truro and spent the night at Tolverne.”
“Ah … My brother’s family, you mean. And how fares Sir Anthony? Now that Hell is nearer I suspicion he is making efforts to avoid it.”
I told him about his nephew Jonathan’s wedding and all the family news. Even though my pleasure drained off a little as I realised this man had cast in his lot with the enemy, just knowing he was a kinsman was an encouragement to hope.
I said: “Do you know what they intend with me here?”
“I? Nay, I’ve just arrived. But there are many English scattered through Italy and Spain. You may take heart.”
“Protestant English?”
He gave me a look. “You must change that. Oh, I know the Killigrews have always been on the side of the reformed Church, but I can tell you why: it was for what they got out of it, not from religious fervour. Three quarters of Killigrew land was Church land. I do not suppose many of your ancestors would cling to a faith that it was not in their interest to cling to and I’d advise you to change while this Spanish forbearance lasts.”
I said: “What did you mean, sir, by saying that Sir Anthony was nearer Hell?”
“As all heretics are when they grow older and nearer death. But if there is God’s justice he’ll not escape by amending his ways now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Ah, boy, you’re too young to remember. There was a saintly Jesuit priest called Cuthbert Mayne arrested in Cornwall just before I left. He was hanged, drawn and quartered at Launceston. My brother was on the jury that tried him. An Arundell, by God! To bring such shame on the name! By Christ, all the saints in Heaven must have turned away their faces!“
I stared across at a picture of the Virgin; she had a strange wide-awake expression like some newly opened flower, and she seemed to be listening.
I said: “Mr Arundell, can you help me?”
“What in?”
“I want no part in in religion or in war. I only want to go home.”
His face hardened. “Then it is time you grew up. No one now, of a surety no one with your name, can draw aside from the greatest issue of the age. Are you for Christ or AntiChrist? Is that not important enough to kill indifference? There’s no choice in between, and I cannot help you to one.”
I said curiously: “But sometime don’t you hope to come home? “