I knew too that by turning away from her I had done my hopes of escape a mortal disservice. If any one could have helped me it would have been she if she were my lover, she had just the generous reckless nature not to count the risk to herself.
As the days passed dissatisfaction and self-criticism grew. Could I have been slightly less fastidious, slightly more calculating, I would have had the best of all worlds.
Thomas Arundell was staying in the square in front of the palace, and I went to see him with Rodez to keep me company. I found him admiring several pictures he had bought, and for a time he seemed reluctant to drag himself away from them.
“So, Maugan. You are going to the auto de fe next week?”
“I do not know.”
“Yes, he is,” said Rodez.
“As a spectacle,” said Mr Arundell dryly, “it may be interesting. But in Rome they gave up such displays about a thousand years ago.”
“Sir,” said Rodez, “this is a solemn act of faith not a vulgar wild beast show.”
Arundell went across to the easel in the corner of the room. “There are blues and greens here which defy analysis, which seem to come of a supernatural commingling of colour. I have seen such colours again and again this week on the canvases of the painter, Dominica Teotocopoli. They are a revelation. D’you know anything of painting, young man?”
“No, sir.”
“A pity. Some of the Killigrews have a turn for art. And piracy, of course. A strange family. Nearly as strange as the Arundells, and we, God knows, are devious enough. Passionate in all things, even in wrong-headedness. You think my brother is serious in his reconversion?”
“He risks his freedom for it.”
“Well … well. You seem widely informed in some matters. Do you know my sister Alice?”
“No, sir.”
“She lives now, I’m told, in seclusion in Tregony, having like me never wavered in her faith. The family split, young man, she and I true, Anthony and Henry turncoats. I am glad Anthony is trying to save his soul even if so late in the day; not so Henry, I’ll warrant, a damned stubborn dyed-in-the-wool heretic if ever I saw one. Alice was my favourite she’s still unmarried I’ll wager, like the rest of us. I’d like you to take this letter to her if you return.”
“If I “
Mr Arundell glanced at Rodez. “No, well, it’s no more than a rumour but there’s a rumour abroad that you may be sent home.”
“Sent home?”
“Oh, I know nothing of it. There was talk of an exchange of a prisoner or something of the sort. Of course that may well come to nothing. But if it should, then I want you to take this letter, for I have had no word from Alice for five years.”
“Gladly.” My mind was in some sort of leap-frog.
Mr Arundell went on talking; he was a great talker and I stayed for nearly an hour. For a time I was in a half world of my own, yet ever and again I would make a desperate effort to attend to what he said, lest some further hint might be dropped. For the most part he talked about painting, which seemed to be the subject nearest to his heart. I wondered if he would ever come back to England, as he clearly hoped, and if he came whether it would seem too grey and cold to him after so many years in the southern sun.
I ventured at last to interrupt him again with a question, and he said:
“Come back to your true religion, boy; that’s the important thing, and if you’re a good Catholic the Spaniards will be far more likely to release you, since they’ll be sending home a Christian and not a heretic. Tis only a matter of time, boy, before this secession of the northern countries comes to an end: there is no wisdom or reverence in it: they fight for the devil. Have you had instruction since you came to Madrid?”
“Someone I don’t know his name from the Holy Office has seen me several “
“Oh, they are far from being the best teachers. They’re auxiliaries of the King of Spain saving your presence, Mister Rodez. Get you a good Jesuit, who draws his spiritual message straight from the Vicar of Christ in Rome. You will find such a man infinitely persuasive and infinitely comforting. Ask Seitor Prada, he’ll know such a one.”
“We have a Benedictine in our household,” said Rodez sullenly.
Mr Arundell had picked up a small painting. “See this, Maugan Killigrew. Done by the same artist in Toledo. Observe the slender elongated figure of Christ. Do you not get from it an impression of a supernatural being, an earthly form transcended by the Holy Spirit? It is supreme painting, such as I have never seen before. Some day I will hang it in my own house in my own country, when religion is preached there once again! May it be soon, for I grow no younger. My father died at twenty-nine, and we come not of a long-lived stock.”
On the way home I pestered Rodez to explain what Thomas Arundell meant, but Rodez said he had heard nothing of my going home. Rodez was in a sulky mood for he had not liked Mr Arundell’s outspoken words on things Spanish. I asked Rodez about the auto de ye, and Rodez said, yes, it was to be in honour of the 1 6th birthday of Prince Philip the heir to the throne and the King’s only surviving son.
As we came to the door of the house the old soldier with the withered hand who had spoken to Mariana was waiting there. Rodez told him brusquely that Senor Prada was not in and would not be in; if he wished to see him he must come again in the morning, and be here early. The old soldier muttered: “It is all very well, but my employment has ended. Hunger drives talents to do things which are not on the map.” He slouched away.
I had been only three months in Spain, less than two in Madrid, but by now I was fully understanding the language; it had come suddenly in the last two weeks as a result of all the concentrated effort.
When we got in we found the house in a great commotion. Mariana storming through the kitchen in one of her moods had upset a pan of boiling water and scalded her foot and leg. Maids and servants were still running with unguents and smelling salts, and two apothecaries were in attendance.
I did not sleep well that night. With Mariana in pain servants were kept at the stretch, and I heard footsteps on and off until dawn. But what really kept me awake was another dawn that of hope. Even now one hardly dared to speculate lest it was some trap set to weaken resistance. Supposing 1 was now confronted by the gray-faced priest: would I be right in dissembling one more time? Whatever happened, he must be avoided now.
For some days I was not allowed to see Mariana, for she kept her room and apothecaries visited her almost hourly. On the fourth morning after her accident, Rodez going in, I followed him and was startled by her pallor and evident pain. No one had told me if the scald was severe or slight, and I had felt that Mariana, being Mariana, would have made a commotion in either case; but I saw that she was feverish and ill. Rodez going to one side of the bed, I approached the other where her duenna sat stitching, but when Mariana saw me she turned on her side and began to talk brightly to Rodez of the week’s entertainments that she was missing. When at last there was a pause I said:
“I am sorry you have had such an accident, Mariana.”
She said to Rodez: “How is it the little piojo is in my room? Did he creep under the door?”
I said: “Last summer I was shown how to make a salve to cure burns. I was shown it by a witch.”
Mariana said: “And no doubt cured the Queen of England with it when she burned her fingers on a candle snuffer.”
“No, I have not seen it in use. But she was a wise woman who taught me.”
“Well,” said Rodez, “it could do little worse than these apothecaries have done.”