"Good morning, Monsieur Verne. Did you sleep well? You
look a little pale."
"A good morning to you, Don Fernando. Yes, I slept very
well, thank you," /until that damned little owl decided to perch
outside my window and hoot all night, and then Passepartout called me and Rebecca
told us that she had almost been burned to a crisp and that your
youngest son may be involved in weapons smuggling, that is/, Jules did not
say. He was still trying to decide whether he was more upset by Rebecca's
news, or by the owl.
"Well, I'm glad to hear it. I was afraid the weather
here would be a trifle hot for you."
/Oh, more than a trifle hot, in fact/, Jules refrained
from commenting, and then smiled politely at his host, who in
turn was looking at the horse that Miguel had saddled and was guiding towards them.
"Here is 'Nube', monsieur Verne. Would you care to ride
her?"
"Well, Don Fernando, I already told you..."
"Yes, yes, I know. But indulge me, monsieur. She is
very sweet and I dare say you'll find her gait quite comfortable."
Jules shrugged and nodded, taking the reins and struggling
to reach the stirrup. The mare was quite tall. Miguel offered him his
cupped hands and helped him up to the deep, comfortable saddle. 'Nube'
wriggled her ears and shifted her weight, giving him an intelligent look
with her soft, liquid eyes.
"Just sit, monsieur Verne. Sit down and guide her with
knee and heel. She has a delicate mouth."
Jules sighed. More horse gibberish. But he obediently tapped
the mare's shining flanks with his heels and she took away, followed
by Don Fernando's benign gaze. Then the old man was joined by Fogg.
"Is that the paso fino, Don Fernando?"
"Indeed it is, Phileas."
"She is quite lovely."
"I'm just starting the line. But it's showing great
promise. Now, you said yesterday that you'd like to see the Andalusians in
the field, is that not so?"
"If it isn't too much trouble."
"Not at all, not at all. That's why you came here in
the first place, after all. Please come with me."
The horses were out in a wide, grassy field that made a wonderful
setting for them. Leaning on the fence, Phileas let his eyes
wander, apparently at random, picking up movement, shape and gait
and letting the patterns settle in his mind before trying to decide on one
of the wonderful beasts.
"They are all very beautiful," he said, absently.
"They are. But, Phileas, is something troubling you?
You seem a bit, how do you say... under the weather."
Phileas cursed silently and turned to Don Fernando with a
smile.
"I'm sorry, Don Fernando. I'm perfectly all right. I
was just reflecting on how much time has passed since I came here.
Manuel was barely a child then, and now he's a grown man."
He wasn't going to say anything. He wasn't. Don Fernando
might give him a clue about Manuel, that was all.
"Ah, yes," Don Fernando smiled, a happy grin of
paternal pride. "He is a fine young man, my Manuel. Maybe too warm-blooded, but
of course, it's only to be expected. Youth, you know. You were much
like him, Phileas."
Phileas let out a surprised laugh.
"I was hardly the fervent believer in the Republic that
Manuel is!"
"No, you were always the Royalist, I remember,"
Don Fernando said. "But the passion, the fire, was there. You seem to have settled
down now, but I remember how you and your brother took a couple of
unbroken horses without my permission, and rode them."
Phileas blushed. It had been a wager between him and Erasmus.
It had cost his brother a broken wrist, and him a nasty bump on
the head.
"No, no," Don Fernando continued, "you and
Manuel are much alike. Of course, now, his head is full of these hare-brained republican
ideas, but he will surely grow out of them." There was a hint of
bitterness in the old man's voice. "Though sometimes I wonder if that
would be a good thing."
"You don't mean that, Don Fernando."
"I am old, Phileas," Don Fernando said, staring
straight ahead. "I am old and I have seen much. I was too young when Napoleon invaded
us, but I was old enough to be aware of the consequences it brought
to everybody. I have seen this country sold to the Bonapartes
and recovered at the cost of thousands of lives, only to be offered in a silver
plate to a, let's not mince words, damned bugger of a king who didn't
deserve a single drop of the blood that was poured in his name, so
much blood that all the rivers turned red. Time and time again, the people
of this patch of land have been deceived, robbed, lied to, and massacred
by the monarchs they kept on foolishly loving. I thought, back in
'23, that we were on to something good, only to see those hopes squashed under
the most despicable absolutism. And there's a limit to the number
of times a man can get up again after falling down."
Phileas felt his throat dry and constricted. When had Don
Fernando lost so much of his hope? And what had happened to him, to Phileas
Fogg, who heard his own thoughts echo with the dry, joyless sound of
the gentleman's words?
"And now a brainless slut of a woman, who only cares
about herself and her lovers, sits on the throne, while all around me the farmers
and workers die of hunger and suffer under the tyranny of laws
that would have been considered too harsh even for the Huns!" the gentleman's
hand closed in a fist. "Spain has always paid honor with
backstabbing and integrity with scorn, Phileas. I am an old hidalgo, and I
know this. This is a country born of the blood of Cain, intent on killing her
most brilliant children and rewarding only greed, treachery and
envy. Oh, I know this."
There was a brief pause. Don Fernando's face was hard and
set, as if carved in wood, his back very straight.
"But I am Don Fernando de Villares y Solferit, and my
lineage can be traced to the days of King Alfonso X. As an hidalgo and a
gentleman I owe my loyalty to the Crown, however misguided, however ill-fated.
Of whatever the Spanish Crown was in the past, only some pathetic
rags remain now. But I am bound to these rags, and I must honor my name
in consequence, or go down in disgrace. My son Manuel will have
to face, God knows, hard enough choices. I pray that he, at least, is spared
the humiliation of having to serve the unworthy monarchs to whom
I had to bow even as my face reddened in shame."
The old man looked sideways at Phileas, who was very still,
and smiled faintly.
"I can't blame Manuel for being a republican,"
he said. "He has good reasons for becoming one. As long as there isn't another
war, I would welcome the end of all I am and all my name stands for, if
that means we do not have to suffer people like Fernando VII or Isabel
II again. But Spain likes chains, Phileas, either using them on others
or wearing them herself. I don't think that a republic is something the people
are prepared for, not just now."
Phileas looked at him.
"In my experience, Don Fernando," he said softly,
"No one can ever say what the people are or are not prepared for."
Don Fernando sighed, collecting himself, and shook his head,
chuckling under his breath.
"Ah, yes, well... You may be right there. I never had
much success predicting political events. But, this is hardly the topic
to talk about in such a lovely morning, isn't it? And I am distracting you
from the horses."
Phileas turned fully towards the Spaniard, watching him in
silence for a long instant. Then he grasped the older man's hand and
shook it firmly, earnestly, the handshake of two comrades in arms
that had just lived through the same desperate battle and find each other in
the bloody aftermath, checking how much of them has survived. Don Fernando's
eyes narrowed slightly, and something like understanding, and
maybe sorrow, dawned in them.
"I see," was his only comment, and then he cleared
his throat, starting to say something, when Phileas interrupted him. He had been
looking at the horses again.
"Ah. That one." he said, breathlessly, his eyes
trained in one of the horses. Don Fernando followed his gaze and laughed.
"Ay, Phileas, you have keen eyes. Indeed, she is a beauty,
isn't she?"
"That barely does her justice." The horse that
had caught his attention was a young mare that would have made Pegasus weep with envy.
She was jet black, not a single white hair anywhere, and her lines
were so pure and elegant that she looked more like a sculpture, a Da Vinci
dream of a horse. The proud, arched neck supported a small head of
broad forehead, shining eyes in which intelligence shone like stars,
and the most delicately shaped ears. Everything from her silken mane to
the perfect, dainty hooves, was pure pleasure to behold. The muscles moved
like the sea under her impossibly black and glossy coat. The ground
seemed to want to rise to meet her steps in gratefulness for being
trod by her. Phileas devoured her with his eyes and didn't find any fault
with her.
"You always had an eye for female beauty, as I remember,"
Don Fernando chuckled. "She is the daughter of Azabache, the best
horse of my friend Augusto Vaquer, of Jerez de la Frontera. His descendants
are counted among the best horses in the world."
"Don Fernando, I have never in my life seen such a magnificent
creature."
"I believe you. But, alas, I cannot offer her to you."
"Oh," Phileas deflated somewhat. The mare looked
even more desirable with every step she took. "Is she spoken for?"
"Not really."
"Is she maybe sick, is there some defect I haven't...?"
"No, as a matter of fact she is very healthy, fast,
and strong too."
"Or she doesn't have the brains to accept training,
perhaps...?"
"Not in the least. She is, as far as I can tell, the
most intelligent horse I've ever met."
"Oh. Of course, then, you'll want to keep her for yourself.
I quite understand."
"Not at all. I would be very glad to get rid of her."
Phileas frowned.
"Don Fernando, I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Well, you see, Phileas," Don Fernando said, watching
him kindly, "you are a good friend. In all good conscience, I could not offer
her to you. I would be doing you a disservice."
Phileas eyed the old man in disbelief and then looked at
the mare again. She had broken into the most lovely canter, her mane
and tail floating as a dark cloud behind her.
"She's a fiend from Hell, Phileas," Don Fernando
explained. "She is the meanest, most wicked, most vicious beast I have ever seen
in all my life. She bit off two fingers from my best trainer, Tomás,
and has broken more bones and equipment than any other horse in the whole
of Andalucía. And you never see her coming: she is cunning
and can bide her time so well that the best riders this side of the river Tajo have
all been defeated by her. Why, we even changed her name, because 'Dulzura'
didn't suit her at all. The worst part is, she answers to her new
name as she never answered to the old."
"And what is this new name?" Phileas asked, fascinated.
"'Pesadilla'."
Phileas let out a bark of a laugh that quite startled Don
Fernando.
"Sir, I thank you for your concern. But after what you
have told me, I think that mare and I are certainly made for each other.
Could I ride her?"
"Phileas! I cannot possibly allow it, it would put you
at terrible risk!"
"I insist," Phileas said in a voice like a razor,
watching the mare intently. Ah, yes. He would, indeed, ride his very own Nightmare.
"He didn't say anything, really. His expression was
enough. Don Fernando actually burst out laughing."
Rebecca chuckled and patted 'Festivo'. The horse had a long,
easy stride and didn't seem to tire; she liked him more and more.
"In fact," Phileas continued, making 'Preciosa'
prance a little, just for show, "when Verne dismounted he had a most curious
glassy stare. He looked at the mare as if he couldn't believe it."
"I guess that a man that can believe in impossible things
finds it harder to believe in possible, if unusual, ones," Rebecca
said with a smirk. "I gather that you are interested in the mare?"
"Oh, I bought her directly," Phileas said. "I
just haven't told Verne yet."
He didn't tell Rebecca about the black mare. His firm resolve
to possess her had faltered after his first disastrous try to
ride her. It had taken 'Pesadilla' all of two minutes to get him off her back,
and though his pride had suffered more than his bones, he had recognized
the marks of a very, very tough mount. He would not have an easy time
getting her to accept him, if indeed she ever would. She was all Don
Fernando had said and more.
"It would be a miracle indeed, if Verne would come to
Shillingworth and rode our horses willingly," Rebecca said, smiling. Then
she sobered up. It was the first moment they had for themselves since the
morning, when a terse message from Estepa had informed Rebecca that after
the meeting Manuel had gone straight back to the cortijo, and that he
was still trying to find out who the other man was. It was now the
afternoon, and under the excuse of a ride through the countryside, Phileas
and Rebecca were going to the drop point to look for clues, and, in Rebecca's
case, to think of the next step.
And she needed to think very carefully indeed. She looked
at Phileas. He was calm and collected, last night's brief emotional outburst
forgotten or at least well buried. He was still taking a
discreet second position in the affair, although more worried and upset since
the news of Manuel's implication. She understood him: she had liked Don
Fernando from the start, along with his whole family, and hated to see
Manuel involved in something so terrible as what she had witnessed
last night.
But, as her mentor and guardian Sir Boniface had taught her
so long ago, 'personal' and 'important' were two very different things,
and now, the important part was to stop those fearsome fire-throwers
from reaching the republican radicals. Or anyone else, for that
matter.
"I should have followed them last night," she said
aloud, her teeth clenching in self-directed chagrin.
"That would have been a very stupid thing to do,"
Phileas said curtly, following her thoughts without effort. "You were in
no position to do so."
"Maybe. But now, a number of these diabolical things
may be loose in Seville, for the radicals to use."
"They are hardly discreet," Phileas said. "I
doubt they would issue them as sidearms to wear under the coat. And besides, they
don't seem very reliable, do they?"
Rebecca gulped and nodded. How could he talk so casually
about that? She had felt the depth of his distress last night. His wordless,
raw distress, matched only by her own fear when she had time
to think about what could have happened. But now it was a new day, and all
the masks and dams and walls and defenses were firmly in place again. On
both of them.
The funny thing was that finding out that they both still
needed the masks had been a comfort, something familiar to fall back
into when emotions were running too high for them both and they couldn't
afford it. Like right now.
What counted was that they both knew what was behind the
masks, and were not afraid to take them off anymore.
It took them a surprisingly short time to reach the drop
point by the river. It was a pleasant little spot by daylight, with the
water sparkling under the sun and the birds singing sweetly from
the trees.
"Ah," Phileas said, and Rebecca gulped again. A
broad patch of burnt grass betrayed the place where the boxes had been. Apparently
the second test had been successful. Phileas had dismounted and was
examining the grass.
"Naphta," he said, smelling his fingertips and
frowning. The physical evidence of the power of that weapon was quite terrifying:
the grass had been burned well down to the roots.
"That fire would stick to anything it reaches,"
he said, trying not to picture what it could do to a person. To Rebecca.
Rebecca, obviously trying not to think the same thing, was
by the river.
"Here's where they moored the barge. And over there,"
she pointed, "are the cart marks."
"Mmh. A quite heavy cart, I would say. The marks point
towards the road to Seville."
"Where they get lost among all the other marks on the
road," Rebecca snarled. "Dammit, Phileas, I should have followed that
cart!"
"Rebecca, my dear: if you had stayed a second more behind
those boxes, you would have been scorched, just as this grass. And you
could not get out, be seen, and follow the cart afterwards."
He was right, of course. But that left her at a dead end,
depending on whatever Estepa could find about the man in the overcoat.
She hated being in the defensive; there had to be some way to trace
these people.
Of course, there was one way, but she was very reluctant
to take it.
"We have to confront Manuel," she said glumly.
"Make him take us to where the weapons are."
Phileas stood up, staring into empty space, his expression
deeply unhappy.
"There has to be another explanation for what you saw.
There has to. Manuel would never get involved in something like this."
Never. Nunca. Rebecca shook her head.
"Is that what the facts say, or what you want to believe,
Phileas?" she said, throwing back at him his words from that horrible mission
years ago, in Turkey. She saw him acknowledge the blow and close
his eyes in regret. She could not leave things like this.
"I feel the same way. And in fact, what I saw was not
so terrible; at least he was not the one trying out that fire thrower. We
need to find out who No Neck is. And Leather Coat. They are the key to
this affair, and if Estepa cannot give them to us, Manuel will have to."
"Yes." Phileas said, simply. "He will have
to."
