Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (15 page)

“—and Matilde is coming with us to feed the infant,” the priest concluded.

At that moment, a loud wailing came from another room. She hurried off and returned with a newborn. I thought, My God, now we're kidnaping children! Then the woman explained with a shrug, “She is mine. One week ago on Friday.”

This is it, I thought. Forget being an actress; I'm with an escaped circus, some sort of wandering bedlam. I'm in the middle of a nightmare. “Help me out of this wretched belly, will you, Matilde?” I sighed.

Antonio and Patrizia Olivares were, at least, a well-to-do couple. I was delighted and relieved when my royally commissioned wardrobe caught up with us the following morning as we prepared to depart. Sure enough, its transportation required a mule with a small wagon and driver, so they were added to our menagerie. We human travelers had our own carriage, in which we travelled facing forwards and Matilde, carrying her namesake, sat facing us. I had also been immensely relieved to discover that my miniature pistols, along with powder and caps, were packed in their faux book in a portmanteau. I transferred the book to my reticule, just in case. Although this made it bulge, I decided I'd prefer to be taken for a bookworm than be taken by surprise.

In the light of morning as we bowled south towards the border, my stomach now full and head no longer aching, with birds singing and the fields around waving with wheat, I found it hard to believe in the necessity of our scheming. “Are there really such people as
bandoleros?
” I asked the
padre,
who sat sunk in misery or some other bleak emotion. “I mean, now that the war is over, it seems silly to—”

“In the north, war is never over,” Matilde answered. “I doubt it ever will be. And the
bandoleros
are alive and well.”

Father Miguel narrowed his eyes and shot me a glance at this.

It turned out that Matilde was originally from Figueres and the hope was that her knowledge of the Spanish north, its peoples and dialects, would help deflect any—“unlikely” said the Jesuit—difficulties we might encounter. By now I didn't trust that word “unlikely” at all. I remembered Concepción and Clotilde using it to describe their greedy exploration of my new finery, in the “unlikely” event that I might not return. My Irish heritage began to assert itself: Every time anyone said such-and-so was “unlikely,” my fingers would jerk with the desire to cross myself, out of superstition more than anything, since I'm not a devout Catholic in any sense of the word.

The routes through the mountains had been established by pilgrims bound for Santiago de Compostela, a holy city at the extreme western edge of northern Spain. We were headed for the southeastern pass, the one hugging the coast. This restless journeying had begun after the Crusades, when the Christian soldiers had returned from Jerusalem and no longer knew what to do with themselves when they weren't killing and maiming infidels. From what I gathered, this coastal route was the easiest, most well travelled, and least likely to harbour pockets of ruthless
bandoleros
ready to slit pilgrims' throats for a few coins and a scallop shell.

From Toulouse, the three-day route took us to Carcassonne, then to the coast city of Narbonne and south to Perpignan, where we took on some provisions before heading for the border, a few miles north of Figueres.

The weather did indeed change as we moved into the coastal foothills of the Pyrenees. All of us had been perspiring and fanning ourselves in the heat as we crossed the flat fields around Carcassonne, but now we pulled cloaks and hoods from our baggage and sat back in the coach with its windows half-closed. We passed through lush forests of holm oak and tall coney pines, and a fine wet mist in the mornings floated along the rolling, rocky hills. Greens of all hues, from chartreuse and lime to silvery olives, punctuated by an almost black conifer shade.

A little town, just a hamlet whose name I can't recall, was the border point. Before reaching it, Father Miguel had gone into a kind of stupor
of concentration—perhaps he was praying, I didn't know, but it made me very anxious.

“Is our crossing all that dangerous?” I asked.

“We shall see.”

Very comforting. My heart began to thump against my bodice.

Matilde leaned forwards to hand me the baby, plunking her into my arms as if she were a parcel of laundry, then sat back with her hands folded in her lap and her eyes on the passing scenery. Looking down into the infant's tiny face, all sleepy and peaceful, my nervous palms sweating onto her blanket, I wished I could recapture such innocence and lack of dread. What did I think was going to happen? I'm just a quiet young mother, I told myself, testing it out. No one will hurt such a creature. Not these lovers of Madonna, not these good Catholic men. Calm. Calm and peace.

The border patrol was very thorough. They were small, tough, dark people with snapping black eyes and wiry frames. They wore soldierlike uniforms and carried several weapons—rifles as well as pistols in holsters. Numerous other small groups of travelers stood or sat about, looking confused and in some cases, weeping. The
padre
(my husband Antonio) handed over our visas with a manly growl, and we were told to step aside while they searched our belongings. One of the young guards was looking me up and down with a rather frightening intensity, especially fixing upon the baby at my breast. I jiggled her in what I hoped was an adoring way and kept my eyes on the ground. Our luggage was pawed through. I was particularly distressed at the way my new wardrobe was being handled, but there was nothing I could do. I was glad I had the pistols with me; I kept my reticule tucked against my skirt, half hidden by the folds of material. After a few minutes of intense questioning, the priest seemed to pass the gauntlet of scrutiny; it was fascinating to hear his usually deep and ghostlike voice transform into that of a harried Spaniard on his way to Madrid, but with a modicum of respect for the northerners' cause. Very layered performance, and though I hated to admit it, impressive.

After that, our drivers were questioned. Next, Matilde; she charmed the guards, with her local dialect and the few sweet but saucy jokes they
exchanged. And then it was my turn. The guards came close and surrounded me (I nearly let out a frightened squawk at the proximity of their guns and leather boots, especially remembering the muff pistols bulging in my reticule) but they all, as one, bent their heads to look at little Matilde. As she waved a fist, they began to coo in their gruff voices. Father Miguel's (husband Antonio's!) eyes were fixed on me warningly; I summoned up thoughts of all the paintings of Madonnas I'd seen in my lifetime and attempted to copy that look, but as the gravelly cooing went on, and as one bolder young man with a large hooked nose and greasy mustache put his face even closer, I caught his eye not upon the baby's face but upon my bosom (which, it is true, was heaving a bit in trepidation), and I couldn't help but murmur, “I hope you enjoy what you see.” As soon as it slipped out, I realized it was a foolish remark to make, but I was so nervous. His eyes flicked up to mine and his brow wrinkled. I smiled very sweetly and fastened my eyes back to the baby (now beginning to wriggle and fuss under such acute scrutiny), hoping that the guard hadn't really heard what I'd said or had misunderstood it. He glanced at his companions, then over at Father Miguel. I decided to speak up. “Husband?” I said. “Antonio dearest, may I ask these kind gentlemen if they have finished questioning me? I am most tired.” All of the guards, except the hook-nosed one, jostled each other and moved back hurriedly at my request, with a few abashed chuckles, a slap to each other's shoulders, and a muttering of “
bebé bonita,
little innocent . . .”

Hook-nose had a quick whisper with the senior guardsman. After a moment, “Your papers are in order, Señor Olivares, and extremely thorough,” the older man said, looking ferocious. “Otherwise we would have had no choice but to detain you overnight while we ascertained the veracity of your visas. However,” and he looked at his younger compatriot who was still openly examining me (I could tell, because I could feel the burning gaze through my clothing), “you must have friends in powerful places. In the south. Your business must be great.”

“It is,” the priest said, “so if there is nothing further . . .”

“The south always gets what it wants. While we pick up the pieces, isolated and neglected.”

Hook-nose had his hand on his holster, for some horrible reason. Now our interlocutor did as well. It seemed everything was about to go badly awry, all because the ferocious one had remembered his feudal chagrin at being given orders from the rich centre, and Hook-nose was nursing a different, long-held grudge. But Matilde suddenly stepped forwards, holding her arms out to me for the baby, saying, “Señora, forgive me, it is time that the infant be fed.” With a modest little curtsy to the weapon-laden crew, she took baby Matilde and returned to the carriage, where her bodice was loosened and the feeding begun. They couldn't see any of this, but the suggestion was there, hanging in the air. I could see it transforming the faces of even the two who stood bristling before us. They knew what was happening just out of sight; they couldn't help it, their inner vision turned to the peace and joy of their earliest memories, their first happiness. Amazing, really, what the state of new motherhood (and two lovely, heavy breasts) will do to grown men. Before we knew it, we were back in our carriage and galloping down the road.

I collapsed with relief and then had an attack of hilarity, laughing until I'd given myself hiccups. Father de la Vega seemed disgusted at this unstoppable display, though Matilde (burping her baby) smiled and patted my knee. My first encounter with northern desperadoes, and a dreadfully temperamental lot they were, with their hair-trigger reactions and twitchy fingers.

“Don't you think that hook-nosed one looked a lot like Juan's henchman, except shorter?” I gabbled, still catching my breath. “You must know who I mean. The dark fellow in Paris, glass eye, tall, looks like a pirate—”

“Pedro Coria.”

Matilde looked over at us, eyes suddenly sharp and curious.

“Is that his name?” I asked, hoping to learn more.

“I know him well,” de la Vega muttered. “He is not a henchman, as you ignorantly put it, he is an associate. Coria is a northerner, but he's joined the Cristinos.”

“Well, whatever he is, he could be cousins with those ones!” Still laughing, I lifted the reticule onto my lap, produced the faux book, and opened it with a flourish. “Just imagine if they'd seen me with these!”

Father Miguel moved swiftly to grasp my wrist. His face had gone even whiter than usual. “You idiotic woman, they would have murdered us if they had found you concealing those.” Matilde was also regarding me grimly.

I gave my arm a tug, hoping to get him to release me.

“Put them away! This cannot be borne!” He shoved me, covered his eyes with a hand, and closed us out. Mutterings and prayers followed, for a good long time, while Matilde and the baby both kept their eyes upon me. It seemed my nervous jag was well and truly over, dashed against three stern countenances.

We travelled on towards Madrid, a trip of a fortnight's length. During the day, I was stimulated by the sights and sounds that greeted us as we galloped along, and as we proceeded south the weather again grew hot, which I adore. But the Jesuit was right, the situation
was
impossible, it couldn't be borne: When we pulled up at the first hotel, the
padre
and I (to keep up the charade) had perforce to share a room. They insisted upon giving us the best matrimonial suite, and the owner was proud to point out their superior linens (by lifting and caressing a corner between his fingers), after which he cocked an eyebrow and waggled it, man to man, at Father Miguel. My faux husband went rigid with displeasure and blushed from his toes to his shaved crown, while I made some modest sort of comment, thanking the owner for his kindness and escorting him to the door. Matilde bustled about, helping us get settled and establishing herself publicly as our baby's nurse, though I do believe she found it quite amusing to observe the Jesuit's unease at domestic confinement.

Unpacking my portmanteau, Matilde pulled out from its hiding place amongst a number of soft articles a small, decorated box lined with satin.

“What is this, señora?” Matilde asked, looking inside.

There was nothing in it. Nothing visible, anyway.

“A reminder,” I told her, feeling suddenly ill. In the swirl of travel, I'd almost forgotten, but the Grimaldis meant business and I must render. A pair of small ears depended upon me. How much time would they give me before . . . ? I said a prayer and sent it winging to the little girl with black hair and sea-dark eyes.

Matilde gave me a nod, then took her baby off into their own little room where they seemed very happy with each other.