Tapestry of Fear (7 page)

“My friend!” I jerked my head upright. “But you never said.… Where is she? Is she hurt? What happened?”

“She is waiting for you in Bayonne. With Luis. She telephoned the inn at six this morning.”

Relief swamped me. Ridiculously I wanted to cry. “But
how?
In heaven's name,
how
did she get Luis across the border?”

The warm, friendly eyes smiled. “ That is a mystery. But I am not surprised. Not knowing Miss Daventry. She is a very enterprising lady.”

“She is indeed,” I said fervently. “ I only wish I was with her.”

“And miss all this excitement?” Javier asked, turning towards me, his eyes alight.

“It's not excitement. It's a bloody nightmare,” I said crudely, and saw Jose give a flicker of a smile.

“What are you going to do with our private collection?” Javier asked him, nodding towards the smouldering men.

“A day without food or water will do them no harm, and by then we will have sailed safely to Bayonne.”

“No matter how deep on French soil you go, I will hunt you down, Villada.” The officer spat at him. “The French government doesn't want to upset Madrid. And the French police are our allies.”

“But the French Basques are not,” Jose said, picking up his gun and thrusting it into his holster. “And France has a law of political refuge that will shelter us. Be grateful for the fact that we haven't killed you.”

“You're going to pay, Villada,” he hissed, shaking with fury. “You scum! You bloody Basque bastard, you.…”

“Javier,” Jose said, ignoring the flow of obscenities. “It is time to go, they won't wait for us long. The tide will change in another hour.”

The officer glowered, spitting at us as we filed out of the room, his bitter voice still cursing us as we stood in the shade of the pear tree, the shadows lengthening around us as the blood-red sun sank behind the mountain.

“Will you be able to make it?” Pedro asked Jose anxiously. “ It is a hard climb and Alison is already exhausted.”

“Make what?” I asked, filled with fresh alarm.

“To Lindaraja,” Jose said off-handedly. “ I told you before. It is our only chance.”

“But I thought we were going by boat, you said someone was waiting for us.”

“Let's hope the idiots in there are just as gullible,” he said dryly, nodding his head in the direction of the cottage. “Pedro and Javier are returning to Miguelou to track down Garmendia. We are going in the other direction. Upwards,” he pointed to the mountain. I licked dry lips, saying hoarsely: “Isn't it possible to go round? Why is it necessary to climb the summit?”

“There is no way round without running into road-blocks. At Lindaraja we can pick up horses and equipment. Our only chance is to cross into France across country. We need to start now, before the rest of the light fails, I'm banking on the fact that the exact whereabouts of our friends wasn't known. If it was we stand no chance. If it wasn't, then we have perhaps a day in hand.”

Javier handed him a torch and flask. “ Good luck,” he said, and turning to me grinned. “Perhaps a night out in Bayonne, eh?”

“If I ever live to see it,” I said bitterly.

Jose had already turned and was striding out, leaving a trail of trampled marguerites behind him, Pedro gave me a comforting pat on the back, and facing the inevitable, I turned to follow. As I did so Javier pulled the stocking mask away, his dark curls rumpled like a small boys. He moved forward and kissed me on the cheek. “Good luck, and may the Saints go with you,” he said.

With my eyes suspiciously bright I turned my back on him and followed Jose up the dust blown track.

The twilight was deepening rapidly, the mountain crests dark and menacing against the last lingering rays of the sun. We rounded the dark mass of the rhododendrons, the pine-needles rustling beneath our feet as we picked our way carefully to the lake.

The luminous surface of the water glittered silk-black as we skirted its banks, my shoes sliding on the dampness of fallen leaves and slippery moss. Minutes later we were in the open. The first faint stars glimmering in the darkened sweep of the sky as we stood on the narrow path that girdled the mountains flank. From the bottomless depths on my right hand side the wind came in flurrying gusts and I halted, my heart beating painfully.

He turned round, eyebrows raised questioningly. I cringed back against the comfort of the trees as far from the blind abyss as I could possibly get. I said haltingly: “ I can't do it. I'm sorry, Jose. But I can't walk out there in the darkness … the drop is sheer …”

With surprising gentleness he grasped my hand, labouring with his injured arm to hold the torch.

“Let me,” I said hesitantly, taking it from him. I shone it downwards, a brilliant shaft of light, on the treacherous path. The pine-woods on our left soughed and danced beneath the growing wind, the sheer drop on our right pulling me dizzily towards it as stronger and stronger headwinds pulled at my hair, my dress, tugging me towards the lip of crumbling stone. Inch by inch we edged our way painfully along, Jose's hand never leaving mine, urging me persistantly onwards, keeping me away from the pull of the cliff, away from danger.…

It was an eternity of dark and fear and harsh breathing before the path led inwards, losing itself beneath the thick trunks of the pines and groves of impenetrable bushes. The blackness was thick now, pressing out everything but the beam of bright light from the torch, as we plunged into the depths of the trees, stumbling over gnarled roots, finding a way round the matted thickets, and all the time we were climbing steadily higher, pushing aside damp and fluttering leaves, the wind roaring now, tossing the branches of the trees, whipping my hair across my face as I pushed away clawing brambles, striving to find a clear passage through the maze of fallen boulders and the web of clinging vines.

The trees began to thin and as I raised the torch higher, all I could see ahead in the arrow of dazzling light was rocky ground, perilous with inky-black gullies and high above, the fierce, forbidding buttresses of the mountain rising crest after crest.

Jose's pace never slackened, with laboured breathing we scrambled over great boulders and slithered over avalanches of loose stone.

Then at last, despairingly, I felt Jose's great weight no longer supporting me and leading me on, but leaning heavily against me, his breath coming in harsh rasps. As we skirted a fall of rock he stumbled, swearing viciously. I held him, the sweat soaking my body, exhaustion engulfing me. He sank to the ground and I crouched beside him, unscrewing the flask of spirits that Javier had given him. He drank deeply, pushing the flask back into my hand. I took one mouthful then another, the strong spirit burning my throat, warming my tired body. I leaned back, eyes closed, drawing on whatever reserves of strength remained. When I opened them Jose was already struggling to his feet, the dressing on his shoulder moist and gleaming. I stretched out a hand tentatively and he turned away.

“Your shoulder …” I began, but he thrust the flask back into his pocket.

“We've nearly done it,” he said, his voice hoarse with fatigue. “One last push. Come on.”

I thrust my body beneath his good arm, and the nightmare journey began again. The shale beneath our feet slipped and slid like a live thing till we were on hands and knees, literally clawing our way upwards.

The moon had risen, pale and luminous, lighting the way before us. The mountains peak rose in sharp silhouette, an indomitable barrier between us and safety. Exhaustedly we clambered upwards, circling the gullies that sliced the rock asunder, inching our way step by careful step, in constant terror that the ground beneath our feet would give way, would topple us down the stark walls of rock, smashing into the pitiless scree.

I wiped the perspiration from my face, struggling for breath, amazed at Jose's strength, terrified that at any moment it would fail, with shaking hand I pointed the torch up and above me. The summit was there, a bare sheet of naked rock, glittering sleekly beneath the yellow ray of light. The wind whistled about our ears as we stood high and exposed, half-senseless with fatigue. With one last superhuman effort we moved upwards again, scrabbling for handholds where no handholds were, slithering backwards whole feet at a time, clutching desperately at any crevice, any ledge, any fissure that we could haul ourselves up by. My hands were numb, my mind a blank. Just one more step forwards, one more leverage upwards … I could feel hysteria rising in my throat as I clung and scraped and dug my way towards the summit.

Then the ground shelved, the wind tore at us in deadly gusts, but nothing rose ahead. No inky-black wall of rock, no dreadful buttresses, no unclimbable slabs of sheer stone. With a sob I sank to my knees, Jose's arm around my shoulders as he gasped painfully: “We made it! Thank God, we made it!”

The wind tore the words away from him, flinging them to the elements as we clung together like children, my frozen body wracked by sobs. Then, from the great high vaulted summit we edged our way downwards, grappling for footholds, clutching at any finger hold possible, till with hands grasped we staggered onto turf and moss and the ground beneath our feet no longer slid in cascades of loose earth and flurries of pebbles, but was firm and solid and safe. The dark malevolence of the peak was behind us now, below were trees and shadowy leaves and the carpets of pine-needles and narrow tracks made by unseen animals. Wearily we stumbled into the depth of the woods, resting every few yards against the bole of a tree, the branches shrouding us with shelter, the pine-needles comfortingly soft beneath our feet. Even the wind had dropped, whispering down through the leaves, fanning our burning faces.

Suddenly his grip on my hand tightened, his body taut, straining his ears for another, foreign sound. Faintly I heard it too, the distant whinny of a horse being carried on the night wind. My muscles tightened in panic but Jose's face was exultant.

“It's Roque! He's come to meet us!”

“Are you sure?” I gasped anxiously. “What if it's the police?”

He shook his head. “ No. It's Roque. Javier said he'd try and get a message through and he has.”

I didn't have the strength to ask who Roque was. I didn't care. By the tone of Jose's voice it meant friends and help and an end to the horror of the blackened mountainside.

Pressed close together, supporting him as much as my exhausted body could, his heart hammering against mine, we began to inch forward one painful step at a time. Through the cover of the trees a silent figure emerged, breaking into a run as he saw us. I was vaguely aware of his exclamations of shock and thankfulness and then, bruised and weary beyond all endurance I fell to the ground and would have stayed there uncaringly if the stranger had not said gently:

“Please. Can you help me get him into the saddle?”

I swayed to my feet, exerting every ounce of strength left to help Jose. He sagged in the saddle semi-conscious, his arm hanging lifelessly, the bandages sodden with blood.

Roque mounted another horse and hoisted me up behind him. Like a rag-doll I clung blindly, my arms around his waist, hanging on precariously as we descended the mountainside, the horses picking their way slowly and carefully. Bumping and swaying I closed my eyes, succumbing to utter weariness.

It was only the sound of other voices and the bright flare of burning torches that aroused me. Dazedly I stared around me as unknown hands lifted me from the horse and strong arms carried me across a splendid courtyard. A fountain of sparkling water rained down in a delicate mist and then we were in a large hallway where glittering chandeliers dazzled my eyes, shining down onto a floor of gleaming marble. Wonderingly I looked around me as I was gently lowered into a velvet covered chair, a kaleidoscope of colour surrounding me. Silk lined walls of glowing flame, rugs of honey-pale saffron, glowing shadows flickering across dark paintings in heavy guilded frames. Vaguely surprised that delirium was so sweet I closed my eyes, drifting off into sleep.

I dreamt that I was being carried up a sweeping flight of stairs, past high arched windows of stained glass, the glimmering light shining on panes of vermilion and emerald and topaz. That gentle hands were removing my shoes, that the soft burr of women's voices crooned above my head as my body sank into a soft bed and I was covered with crisp sheets. Then the fever eased and I slipped into deep sleep, dreaming intermittently of Jose and Miss Daventry and with somewhere, just beyond my grasp, a sickening sensation of fear and dread.

I lay back against the soft pillows, gazing uncomprehendingly at the slatted shutters through which the sunlight fell in broad golden bars. I turned my head, searching for familiarity. My room at the inn had been plain and austere. The only colour the coral-red of the wild roses that Carmen gathered daily, brilliant and defiant against the simple walls of stark white. Here, the walls were covered with a tracery of delicate carving in rich dark wood. Gorgeous wall hangings hung luxuriously, the dancing arrows of sunlight bathing them a soft gold. The bed I lay in was huge and grandiose, a four poster with fragile lace canopy and silk sashed drapes. Above me gilded angels and cherubs frolicked and danced and through the half open shutters I glimpsed a tiny balcony crammed with pots of scarlet geraniums and troughs of sweet-smelling bouganvillea.

I swung my feet off the bed and ran to the window. Below me the morning light shone brilliantly down onto a courtyard surrounded by walls of pale ochre. Tendrils of hanging creepers with star shaped leaves trailed the sun-baked walls and wisteria blossom hung in violet blue clusters, clinging to the swirls and loops of wrought iron window balconies, cascading over shaded archways. Through them I glimpsed horses and the shine of bridles and polished harnesses.

A fountain spouted a stream of water from the open mouth of a bronzed fish, the sun glistening through the fine spray, misting the myriad droplets into a thousand sparkling diadems.