Lisbon

a novel by

VALERIE SHERWOOD

NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY

A DIVISION OF PENGUIN BOOKS USA INC., NEW YORK PUBLISHED IN CANADA BY PENGUIN BOOKS CANADA LIMITED, MARKHAM, ONTARIO

Copyright © 1989 by Valerie Sherwood

All rights reserved. For information address New American Library. Published simultaneously in Canada by Penguin Books Canada Limited

NAL BOOKS TRADEMARK REG. U S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA HECHO EN DRESDEN, TN, U S A.

Signet, Signet Classic, Mentor, Onyx, Plume, Meridian
and NAL
Books
are published
in the United States
by New American Library, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc.,

1633 Broadway, New York, New York 10019,
in Canada
by Penguin Books Canada Limited,

2801 John Street, Markham, Ontario L3R 1B4

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Sherwood, Valerie.

Lisbon : a novel / by Valerie Sherwood.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-453-00614-0 I. Title.

PS3569. H455L5 1989

813'.54—dc20    89-3426

CIP

Designed by Leonard Telesca
First Printing, September, 1989 23456789

DEDICATION

To glamorous Fluffy, my beautiful long-haired Persian cat, Fluffy who came to us as a half-grown kitten, just fur and bone, so near starvation I feared the kitten would drop dead before managing to consume that first bowl of milk I proffered, Fluffy of the big green wondering eyes and enormous ruff and short white gloves and high white boots, with a snowy white waistcoat and an enormous burst of frosty white fur at the throat, the whole effect made more formal by a satiny black coat and big sweeping plumelike black tail, Fluffy the “sleeping beauty” who loves to dream the days away and play madly at night, affectionate Fluffy of the high sweet treble meow and soft gentle purr, to Fluffy who—for all that obviously aristocratic lineage—was set on a path of despair when first we met and who has won through to the lordly position of premier pet in our household, to Fluffy so obviously suited for a wandering life of “castle to castle,” this book is affectionately dedicated.

In the dim reaches of the past when thick ice sheets crept down over Europe and cold northern mists obscured I he continent, there was facing the broad Atlantic a land of sunshine and flowers. And from time immemorial there was human habitation near the mouth of the great river that flowed down from the Pyrenees, striking southwest-ward to the sea.

From the cave dwellings of Stone Age peoples to the hilltop fortresses of the Lusitanians, men had lusted for this land and for this port. Warriors from many lands claimed it, fought for it, died for it. Phoenician traders took the port and sailed from it until the Romans drove them out. The Romans left their blood here—and their children. Here they imposed their Pax Romana until the land was wrested from them. Vandals, Visigoths, Iberians all held sway here. The invading Moors from Africa held it for almost half a thousand years and left behind their water wheels and their mosques. Then the crusaders swept through on their way elsewhere, and Christian rule returned to the ancient city.

When new lands were discovered beyond the western ocean, daring Portuguese traders developed a far-flung empire and built a glittering capital near the mouth of the river.

That river was the Tagus and the city was Lisbon, an opulent paradise of Western civilization.

But there was a snake in their Eden.

Offshore from this earthly paradise the ocean's blue depths concealed a sleeping monster that those who had sailed these waters on the black lateen-sailed Phoenician ships or the long Roman galleys or the magnificent vessels of the East India trade never knew existed.

Deep down offshore, concealed from view, lay the Gorringe Bank, a massive fault line, a deep rip in the earth’s crust that stretched its licking tongue along the dark sea floor from the mouth of the Mediterranean out into the wild Atlantic. Along this fault gigantic submarine mountains had been pushed up where the colliding continental plates of Africa and Europe ground together, locked in a titanic struggle hidden from man s eyes by the blue depths of the Atlantic Ocean. Indeed had the Gorringe Bank risen from sea level instead of through mud and sediment from the deep sea floor, from its roots it would have reared up seven miles—more than a mile higher than Mount Everest.

And yet this awesome escarpment lay unseen beneath the waters, and the wooden sailing ships rode over it unsuspecting, never dreaming that forces that could trigger the destruction of the port from which they sailed lurked far below.

Looming before the city, offshore, slumbering, these submerged mountainous cliffs—for all their giant bulk— rested uneasily along the treacherous line of the fault. Inevitably, powered by the overwhelming pressure of colliding continents, one day a portion of that fault would move—and when it did, it would bring the city of Lisbon tumbling down.

Nothing lasts forever.

This is the story of Lisbon in the gallant last days of her Golden Era when she stood unmatched for wealth and beauty—and it is the story of the beautiful English girl whose fate was so strangely intertwined with the fate of the doomed city.

Her story began among the crags and fells and mists in the north of England, but we find her in Lisbon, where she has been for less than a fortnight. . . .

—Valerie Sherwood

 1

In a little while the morning sunlight would pour down in a shower of gold upon Lisbon’s pink palaces and tile-roofed mansions and magnificent churches—a golden shower even more extravagant and sparkling than the recent rain of gold and diamonds that had poured in from the Portuguese colony of Brazil, to fill Lisbon’s coffers and make this gleaming city of light, set like a jewel into Europe’s western coast, rich beyond the dreams of avarice.

But dawn was yet to break over the expensive houses of the fashionable Portas del Sol, high above the city. At the front door of one of the newer ones, a flat-fronted mansion of stone, a sleepy servant held a torch, and into its glow two horses came out of the darkness, led by another servant.

“But I thought you said there would be a coach?” came a warm female voice from just inside; then the striking young woman who was speaking came through the tall oak door. Charlotte would have been considered an exceptional beauty in any country—and especially in Portugal, where so many dark-skinned invaders over the centuries had left an olive tone imprinted upon the complexions of the people—with her bright golden hair, flaming red in the wavering light of the torch, and her fair peach-bloom complexion that spoke of English skies. She was four and 
twenty, of medium height, and there was spirit and poise in every line of her slender body. As she walked, she was pulling on a pair of peach kid gloves whose color blended with the handsome, tight-bodiced, full-skirted gown of apricot silk that swayed about her lissome small-boned figure.

“I have changed my mind,” said the tall dark man who now brushed by her. He was booted and dressed for travel in a dark suit heavily ornamented with gold buttons and braid.

“But, Rowan, you know I do not ride!” A desperate note had crept into her voice.

Silhouetted against the light of the torch, he turned and swung around to face her. “Yes, I am aware that you are afraid of horses, Charlotte,” he drawled. “And also of the reason,” he added lazily.

A tremor went through Charlotte’s slight frame. How unkind of Rowan to remind her that as a tiny child she had seen her father trampled to death by a pair of careening runaway horses! It was true enough that she had never since been able to rid herself of her fear of them.

“Then since you
are
aware of that, Rowan—” she began. “Spare me the details,” he cut in. “I have decided not to take you with me after all.”

Charlotte stared up at the tall figure of her husband in disbelief. “But . . . but you woke me from a sound sleep not an hour ago and told me to dress, that we were leaving at once for Evora! You said—”

“Never mind what I said.” His tone was crisp. “I have changed my mind. I will take João with me and leave Vasco to look after you.” He frowned. “This mission is too important to drag a woman along. ”

As he moved toward the saddled horse, the torchlight flickered over his dark face as she stared at him, trying to understand. His moods had been always mercurial, but it seemed to her that ever since their arrival in Lisbon, Rowan had behaved like a madman, changing his mind abruptly with every wind that blew, out at all hours himself, yet insisting that she keep to the house. She was aware—for he had told her so less than an hour ago when h
e had shaken her awake in the darkness of her bedchamber—of the urgency of his projected meeting. As she was pulling on her clothes, she had surmised that this must be the reason behind Rowan’s wildly shifting moods— and indeed the reason for their hurried trip to Portugal. Rowan was in London so much, away from her. How could she know what intrigues he might be mixed up in?

Behind her now in the wide doorway a new face loomed, round and indignant and wearing a servant’s ruffled cap. She was grumbling audibly and her muttered words came over Charlotte’s shoulder. “Why did you wake Mistress Charlotte if you wasn’t taking her with you?”

Charlotte averted a clash between Rowan and the servant girl with a swift, “Be silent, Wend. ” And turned again to face her husband, who had been eager enough to “drag a woman along” an hour ago. “I am wondering the same thing, Rowan. Why
did
you change your mind about taking me with you?”

The tall man studied her for a few moments before he spoke. Then abruptly he laughed.

“Perhaps I decided that I did not desire your company after all, Charlotte. But at least you shall have the privilege of watching me ride away. ” He vaulted to the saddle, moving with the easy grace of the born horseman. “I leave you to imagine why.”

Bright spots of color flamed Charlotte’s cheeks.

“No, I do
not
know why!” she flashed. “And I pray that before you leave you will be good enough to tell me!”

But the heavy lids had closed halfway down like shutters over those consuming dark eyes. “We will not quarrel before the servants, Charlotte,” he warned her silkily. And now that you have been so amiable as to dress to see me off in the dawn, you may tell me good-bye. ”

“Good-bye, Rowan.” Charlotte’s voice was wooden. He had moments of great tenderness, this man she had married, but they were overshadowed by moments like these. And worse.

“Oh, just one more thing. ” He had signaled to João but now reined up in the very act of riding away. “You are not 
to roam around Lisbon, Charlotte. I expect you to stay in the house until I return.”

Charlotte felt her teeth clench. “And when will that 
be?”

He shrugged. “At least a week. Do not expect me before that—I may be longer.” Without waiting for a response from his wife, who had gone pale with anger, he rode away, clattering over the cobbles. João, now mounted, followed him.

Charlotte would have been amazed at what her husband was thinking:

The lying wench! Smiling at me guilelessly with those melting violet eyes that always shake my resolve. How do I know what she has heard, what she may already be planning? Well, she will find me ready!

And then he thought of how tempting she had looked in bed when he had roused her but an hour ago, of how he had almost postponed this venture just so that he might join her in that big square bed and feel her wondrous softness against his hard body and savor her sweetness. He was lost in a vision of satin thighs and lacy ruffles and passion that always overcame him at her touch.

She was a witch, she held him in thrall!

He groaned into the darkness, and behind him, riding silently, João, who spoke no English, wondered what the altercation had been about.

From the doorway Charlotte watched the two of them disappear into the darkness. She waited until the sound of their hoofbeats faded away. Then she turned to Wend, who was tugging at her sleeve, entreating her to come back inside and get some sleep.