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Pacing his room until late at night, Gonçalo brooded on the bitter certainty that, throughout his life (almost since his schooldays), he had suffered ceaseless humiliations. And they were all born of the simplest of intentions, as safe and sure for any other man as flying is for a bird, but for him they always ended in pain, shame or loss! At the start of his life, he had enthusiastically chosen a confidant, a brother, whom he had invited into the quiet intimacy of the Tower, and that man had, first, blithely stolen Gracinha’s heart, then villainously abandoned her! Then he conceived the perfectly ordinary ambition to enter political life, but chance immediately forced him to bend the knee and accept the influence of that same man — who was now a powerful figure of authority — the man whom he, for long, embittered years, had loathed and mocked. And when he once again welcomed that man into the family home and flung wide the doors of the Casa dos Cunhais, trusting in his sister’s honesty and unshakeable pride, his sister immediately, and without a struggle, surrendered to her former deceiver on the very first afternoon she found herself alone with him in the auspicious shade of a gazebo! Most recently of all, he had considered marrying a woman who promised to bring him great beauty and a great fortune, then a friend from Vila Clara happened past, whispering, ‘The woman you have chosen, Gonçalinho, is a slut with a string of lovers!’ True, he did not love that woman with a strong and noble love, but he had nevertheless decided to accommodate his uncertain fate very comfortably in those beautiful arms of hers; then, with crushing inevitability, came the customary humiliation. Destiny really did seem to be laying into him with extraordinary venom.

‘But why?’ murmured Gonçalo, glumly taking off his jacket. ‘Why so much disappointment in such a short life? Why me?’

He fell into his vast bed as if into a tomb, and buried his face in his pillow with a sigh, a tender, pitying sigh for his star-crossed, hopeless fate. And he recalled Videirinha’s presumptuous lines, which he had sung that very night:

Ancient house of the Ramires,

Pride and flower of Portugal!

How that flower had faded and how puny that pride seemed now! What a contrast between him, the last Gonçalo, holed up in Santa Ireneia, and those great ancestors of his, as set to music by Videirinha, all of whom, if History and Legend were to be believed, had led such triumphant, glorious lives! No, he had not even inherited from them the one quality they had all shown down the ages — spontaneous courage. Even his father had been a fearless Ramires, and when trouble famously broke out at the Riosa Fair, he had advanced, armed only with a sunshade, against three rifles, cocked and ready to fire. He, on the other hand . . . yes, in the privacy of his darkened room, he could freely bemoan having been born with that most heinous of faults, an uncontrollable weakness of the flesh, which, whenever he was faced by a danger, a threat, a shadow, forced him to retreat, to flee. To flee from Casco. To flee from that rogue with the fair side whiskers who, on the road and, later, outside an inn, had insulted him for no reason, simply to demonstrate how brazen and bold he was. Such shameful, easily frightened flesh!

And what about his soul? In the silent gloom of his room, he could hear his soul whimpering too, for his soul was filled with the same weakness that made him susceptible to any influence, on which he was borne along like a dry leaf by whatever wind might blow. Cousin Maria could bat her clever eyes at him and advise him, from behind her fan, to set his cap at Dona Ana, and he, aflame with hope, would immediately build a presumptuous Tower of good fortune and luxury on Dona Ana’s money and beauty. And what about the Election, that wretched Election? Who had propelled him into that Election, into that indecent reconciliation with Cavaleiro and all the ills that followed? Gouveia, and with just a few subtle arguments insinuated to him from over the top of his scarf as they walked from Ramos’ shop to the post office! Even at home, he was ruled by Bento, who imposed on him tastes, foods, walks, opinions and cravats! Such a man, however intelligent, is an inert mass that the world is constantly shaping into various, contradictory forms. João Gouveia had made of him a servile candidate. Manuel Duarte could turn him into a vile drunk. Bento could easily encourage him to wear around his neck, not a silk cravat, but a leather collar. What a wretched fate! And yet a Man is worth only as much as his Will, and all of Life’s pleasures lie in the exercise of that Will. For if a strong Will encounters only submission, then it has the delight of being serenely in control; if it meets with resistance, then there is the still greater delight of engaging in an interesting struggle. However, no strong, manly pleasure can ever be born of inertia, which allows itself to be led silently along, as mute and malleable as wax. But surely he, being descended from so many strong men famous for their Will, surely he must have some portion of that hereditary energy hidden away somewhere in his Being, warm and dormant like a hot coal beneath the ashes. Possibly. However, in his stunted, stultifying existence at Santa Ireneia, those embers would never reignite and become a fierce, useful flame. No, poor him! Even in his soul, where most men find true liberty, he would always be oppressed by his enemy Fate!

With another long sigh, he pulled the covers up over his head. He did not fall asleep, though; the night was nearly over, four hollow chimes had already rung out from the clock in the corridor. Then, in the bewildered, weary wake of that jumble of misfortunes, through his closed eyelids, Gonçalo saw looming out of the darkness, pale faces parading lowly past.

They were very ancient faces, sporting old-fashioned ancestral beards, faces scarred by brutal metal weapons, some flushed as if still in the heat of battle, others smiling as majestically as guests at an opulent gala, all clearly accustomed to commanding and vanquishing. Peering over his sheets, Gonçalo recognised in those faces the genuine features of old Ramires men, faces he had seen before in blackened portraits, or as with Tructesindo, a face he had imagined would suit the rigour and glory of his deeds.

Slowly but ever more clearly, faces emerged from among the dense, pulsating shadows, quick with life; their bodies were now becoming visible too, robust bodies encased in rusty chain-mail tunics or glittering armour or swathed in dark, dull cloaks that hung in many folds, or wearing magnificent brocade doublets on which jewelled necklaces and belts glinted; and all were armed, with weapons from every possible period of history, from a Gothic club made from the root of an oak tree and bristling with spikes to a ceremonial dress sword beribboned in silk and gold.

Unperturbed, leaning back against his pillow, Gonçalo did not for a moment doubt their marvellous reality! Yes, these were his Ramires ancestors, his formidable historical grandfathers — a majestic assembly of his entire race brought back from the dead — all hurrying from their scattered tombs to the nine-centuries-old house of Santa Ireneia to gather round his bed, the bed in which he had been born. He even recognised some of the most valiant of these ancestors, for, after repeated readings and rereadings of Uncle Duarte’s poem and Videirinha’s loyal fado, they were constantly in his imagination.

That man over there was clearly Gutierres Ramires the Traveller, wearing the same white tunic emblazoned with a great red cross that he would have worn when he raced from his tent to storm the walls of Jerusalem. That very fine-looking old man, holding up one hand, was, he felt sure, Egas Ramires, refusing to receive King Fernando and the adulterous Leonor in his chaste home. That other man — with the curly, reddish beard, singing as he waved the royal standard of Castile — could only be Diogo Ramires the Troubadour, still filled with the joy of that radiant, victorious morning after the Battle of Aljubarrota. In the uncertain light cast by the mirror he saw the soft, tremulous scarlet feathers on the helmet of Paio Ramires as he armed himself before going off to save Saint Louis, King of France. Swaying slightly, as if rocked by the humble waves of a vanquished sea, Rui Ramires was smiling at the English ships, which, prow to prow with his flagship, were submissively striking sail. And leaning on the bedpost, with his young, fair face, Paulo Ramires, standard-bearer to the King on the fateful fields of Alcácer — his helmet gone, his metal cuirass sundered — was gazing down at him as gently as a loving grandfather . . .

That look of attentive tenderness from the most poetic of the Ramires made Gonçalo feel that all his ancestors loved him, that they’d come from the darkness of their various tombs to watch over him and help him in his weakness. He gave a long groan, threw back the bedclothes, and opened his heart to them, painfully describing to his resurrected ancestors the vengeful Fate that weighed on him, how tirelessly it heaped upon his life sadness, humiliation and loss! Then the point of a weapon glinted in the darkness, accompanied by a muffled cry, ‘My grandson, my dear grandson, take my never-broken lance!’ Then the hilt of a bright sword brushed his chest and another grave voice spoke urgently, ‘Grandson, my dear grandson, take this sword — consecrated at Ourique!’ And then an axe with a glittering blade thudded onto his pillow, along with the haughty, confident words, ‘This axe, which broke down the gates of Arzila, will never be defeated.’

Like shadows borne along by a transcendental wind, his formidable ancestors paraded past, all offering him their strong, proven weapons, ennobled throughout the ages in crusades against the Moors, in long-drawn-out sieges of castles and towns, in splendid battles against the insolent Castilians . . . His bed was surrounded by the heroic glitter and clank of iron. And those forebears of his kept proudly shouting, ‘Grandson, take our weapons and vanquish thine enemy Fate!’ Gazing sadly at these flickering shadows, Gonçalo said only, ‘Oh, my ancestors, of what use to me are your weapons, when I lack your soul?’

He woke very early, with, in his head, the tangled remnants of a nightmare in which he’d spoken with the dead, and then, with none of the indolence that usually kept him snugly between the sheets, he pulled on a dressing gown and flung open the windows. What a beautiful morning! A late September morning, soft and clear and fine; not a cloud in the vast, immaculate blue sky; and the sun already touching the woods on the distant hills with an autumnal sweetness. And yet, despite the bright, pure morning instilling him with hope and good cheer, Gonçalo remained plunged in yesterday’s gloom, which lingered in his sad mind like mist in a deep valley. And with a sigh, he slouched glumly across the room in his slippers and rang the bell for Bento, who soon arrived with a jug of hot water so that he could shave. Accustomed to the Nobleman waking up in the best of moods, Bento — troubled by Gonçalo’s silent, sluggish demeanour — asked if he’d had a bad night.

‘Yes, dreadful!’

In a lively, reproving voice, Bento immediately put this down to his master having enjoyed so much of that muscatel brandy, which was very sweet and over-stimulating. A burly gentleman like Senhor Dom António could cope, but a more highly-strung man like his master should never touch the stuff, or, at most, only half a glass.

Gonçalo looked up, surprised to be confronted, at the very start of his day, by such a flagrant example of the dominion over him that everyone apparently felt entitled to impose — precisely what he had been complaining about throughout the whole of that long, bitter night! There was Bento telling him how much brandy he should drink. Indeed, Bento went on:

‘You drank more than three glasses last night, which really won’t do, but then I’m partly to blame for not taking the bottle away.’

Faced by such blatant despotism, the Nobleman rebelled:

‘Will you stop laying down the law. I will drink however much brandy I want!’

At the same time, he dipped his fingers into the water in the jug to test the temperature:

‘This water’s lukewarm!’ he exclaimed. ‘How many times do I have to tell you: I need boiling-hot water for shaving.’

Bento gravely dipped his finger into the water too:

‘The water’s near enough boiling, sir. You don’t need it any hotter than that for shaving.’

Gonçalo stared at Bento furiously. What? More objections, more laws?

‘Go and fetch me some more water this instant! When I ask for hot water, I expect it to be boiling hot. Honestly! Stop telling me what to do. I don’t want moral platitudes, I want obedience!’

Bento observed Gonçalo with growing amazement. Then, slowly, his dignity wounded, he picked up the jug and left the room. Gonçalo was already regretting his violent reaction: Poor man, it’s not his fault that my life is such a directionless failure! Besides, in such an ancient household, it was both traditional and proper to have equally ancient servants, and Bento — the perfect embodiment of that blend of impertinence and loyalty — after long years of proven devotion, had earned the right to take such liberties.

Face still flushed and puffy, Bento returned with a jug full of steaming water. And to pacify him, Gonçalo said sweetly:

‘Lovely day, eh, Bento?’

A still disgruntled Bento merely murmured:

‘Hm, lovely.’

Gonçalo was quickly soaping his face, anxious to make peace with Bento, to restore his usual fond authority over him. Finally, still more gently, almost humbly, he said:

‘Well, since it’s such a lovely day, I think I’ll go for a ride before lunch. What do you reckon? It’ll be good for my nerves, and you’re quite right, that brandy really didn’t agree with me at all. Anyway, Bento, would you be so kind as to tell Joaquim to have my horse ready. A good gallop is sure to calm me down. But, first, I need some nice hot water for my bath. Hot water has a calming effect too, which is why I need it good and hot. You’re behind the times in that respect, Bento. All the doctors agree that hot water, at sixty degrees Fahrenheit, is best for the health.’

And after a quick bath, as he was getting dressed, he confided his woes to Bento:

‘Ah, Bento, Bento, I need more than a short ride to calm my nerves. I need a proper journey. My heart is heavy, and I’m tired of the same old places, Vila Clara, Oliveira, with all their gossip and backbiting. I need bigger places, more distractions.’

Now entirely reconciled and rather touched, Bento reminded his master that soon, in Lisbon, he’d find a very fine distraction in the form of Parliament.

‘I don’t even know if I’ll get into Parliament, Bento. I don’t know anything. Nothing seems to be turning out as I expected. Besides, Lisbon isn’t what I need either. I need a long, long journey — to Hungary, to Russia, to places where there are adventures to be had.’

Bento smiled rather loftily at this idea. And handing the Nobleman his grey velveteen overcoat, he commented:

‘It does indeed seem that there’s no shortage of adventures to be had in Russia, sir. According to the papers, they rule with the whip. But you know, sir, adventures can be found much closer to home. Why, your own father, may he rest in peace, had that set-to with Dr Avelino da Riosa just outside the gates here, when he lashed out at the doctor with a whip, and he got stabbed in the arm.’

Gonçalo was pulling on his leather gloves and looking in the mirror.

‘Poor Papa, he didn’t have much luck either. But speaking of whips, Bento, give me that hippopotamus-hide whip you found the other day. It could prove useful.’

On leaving the house, the Nobleman of the Tower set off, with no particular aim in mind, along the usual road to Bravais. When he reached Casal Novo, however, where two children were playing ball beneath the oak trees, it occurred to him that he could visit the Viscount de Rio-Manso. The company of that serene, generous old man would be sure to soothe him. And if he happened to be invited to lunch there, the famous garden where he’d first met ‘Rosebud’ would drive away all his sorrows, and he could even pay tender court to her.

All that Gonçalo could remember about the garden was that it overlooked a road lined with poplars, somewhere between the hamlet of Cerda and the scattered village of Canta-Pedra. So he took the old road that descends from the oaktrees in Casal Novo down into the valley, between the Avelã hills and the ruined monastery of Ribadais — the historic place where Lopo de Baião had defeated Lourenço Ramires. The rather wearisome, unlovely road wound along between hedges and stone walls, but the honeysuckle growing among the ripe blackberries gave off a wonderful scent; the cool silence was made still cooler and more delightful by the fluttering wings of passing birds; and such was the radiant blue of the clear sky that a little of its serene glow installed itself in Gonçalo’s soul. Feeling the gloom lifting somewhat, Gonçalo trotted along at a leisurely pace. When he passed through Casal Novo, he heard the Bravais church clock strike nine; and after skirting round a rather bare field, he paused idly to light a cigar next to the old stone bridge that crosses the stream there. The stream had almost dried up in the summer heat and was little more than a trickle of dark water, flowing under the broad leaves of the waterlilies and pushing through the thick, choking reeds. Ahead, in the shade of a clump of poplar trees, beside a grassy field, the stones of a washing-place gleamed whitely. On the other side, in an old boat that had run aground, a boy and a girl were deep in conversation, bunches of lavender forgotten in their laps. Gonçalo smiled at this idyllic sight, then was surprised to discover, on one end of the bridge, his own coat of arms, roughly carved, showing a huge goshawk reaching out its fierce talons. Perhaps those lands had once belonged to his family, or maybe one of his kindlier ancestors — to help the labourers and their beasts — had built the bridge over what would then have been a torrent. Perhaps it had been built by Tructesindo, in pious memory of Lourenço Ramires, who had been vanquished and captured on the banks of that same stream!

Beyond the bridge, the path wound past stubble-filled fields, and in that year of plenty, the stacks glowed big and golden. In the distant hamlet, wisps of smoke rose up from the low roofs of the houses and vanished instantly into the brilliant sky. And Gonçalo felt all his melancholy leaving his soul and disappearing, just like those wisps of smoke, into the lustrous blue above. A flock of partridges flew up from the stubble and Gonçalo galloped after them, shouting and wielding his strong whip, which whistled through the air like a thin blade.

Soon afterwards, the path curved, skirting round a stand of cork oaks before dipping down to become a stony, dusty track overgrown with brambles. At the far end of that track, the sun glinted on the freshly whitewashed wall of a one-storey house with a low front door set between two windows, with a newly patched roof and a courtyard shaded by a huge, dark fig tree. At one corner there was a low stone wall, then a hedge, and further on, an old wicket gate that opened onto a shady garden. The empty expanse in front of the house was strewn with masonry and wooden beams; the smooth, well-maintained road that began there seemed to Gonçalo to be the road to Ramilde. Up ahead, as far as a pine wood in the distance, there were only empty plains and fields.

Sitting on a bench by the door, with a rifle leaning against the wall, a well-built lad wearing a green woollen cap was pensively stroking the muzzle of his dog. Gonçalo stopped:

‘Excuse me, do you happen to know the best way to the house of the Viscount de Rio-Manso?’

The lad raised his dark face with its faint, youthful down and made as if to doff his cap.

‘You need to follow this road until you reach the quarry, then turn left, keeping close to the plain . . .’

At that moment, however, a burly man with fair side whiskers appeared at the door; he was in his shirtsleeves and wore a silk cummerbund about his waist. With a start, Gonçalo recognised the hunter who had insulted him on the Nacejas road and, on another occasion, outside Pintainho’s inn, had whistled jeeringly at him. The man shot the Nobleman a dismissive glance. Then, leaning in the doorway, he told the boy off:

‘What are you doing giving him directions, Manuel? This road isn’t intended for asses!’

Gonçalo felt himself turn pale, and felt the blood in his heart pounding furiously in a mixture of fear and rage. Yet another insult from the same man and, again, entirely unprovoked! He pressed his knees into his horse’s flanks, ready to gallop away, then, trembling, he managed to stammer out:

‘How dare you? This is the third time you’ve insulted me. I’m not the kind of man to get involved in public brawls, but I know your face now and, sooner or later, you’ll get your comeuppance.’

The other man immediately snatched up a short staff and, with a defiant lift of his chin, stepped out into the road, in front of Gonçalo’s horse:

‘Well, here I am. Give me my comeuppance now, because you’re not going any further, you piece of Ramires sh—’

A kind of mist came down over the Nobleman’s horrified eyes. And suddenly, on a blind impulse, as if swept along on a furious wave of pride and strength that rose up from the very depths of his being, he let out a yell and made his horse rear. He didn’t even know what he was doing, only that a staff had been raised threateningly against him. The horse again reared angrily, its head back. And Gonçalo caught a glimpse of the man’s great dark hand grabbing the reins.

Then, standing up in the stirrups, he lashed out with his whip, which whistled through the air, catching the man on the side of his face and dealing him such a blow that the man’s ear hung loose, spurting blood. With a cry, the man stumbled backwards. Gonçalo launched another attack, another stinging blow, which this time caught the man’s mouth, tearing his lips and doubtless dislodging teeth and hurling him, screaming, to the ground. The horse’s hooves trampled the man’s broad splayed legs, and Gonçalo again leaned down and again struck him hard, slashing face and throat, until the man’s body lay limp and as if dead, dark blood drenching his shirt.

A shot rang out! And startled, Gonçalo saw that the boy was holding the smoking rifle, but was clearly terrified and unsure what to do next.

‘You cur!’

He urged his horse forward, his whip held high, and the terrified boy blundered across the space in front of the house, intending to leap over the ditch and escape across the fields!

‘You cur! You cur!’ Gonçalo was screaming.

Confused and frightened, the boy tripped on a stray beam, but he had already struggled to his feet and was running away when the Nobleman slashed at his neck with the whip — a neck immediately bathed in blood. Hesitantly, holding up his hands in self-defence, he was still unsteadily retreating when he fell and hit his head on the corner of a post, and more blood poured from that wound too. Then Gonçalo, panting, reined in his horse. Both men were lying motionless! Good God, could they be dead? Blood flowed from both bodies onto the dry ground. The Nobleman of the Tower felt a kind of brutal joy — but a horrified cry came from within the courtyard.

‘Someone’s killed my boy!’

An old man, head bowed, was running from the wicket gate to the door of the house, keeping close to the hedge. So effectively did the Nobleman spur on his horse to stop him that the old man collided with the horse’s panting, sweating, foam-covered chest. And faced by that restless beast pawing the ground and by Gonçalo, still standing up in his stirrups, face aflame, whip at the ready, the old man fell to his knees in terror and cried out urgently:

‘Please, sir, don’t hurt me, for the love of your own dear father, Dom Vicente Ramires!’

Gonçalo kept him there for a moment frozen in that tremulous, supplicant pose, beneath the vengeful glare of his eyes, and he took proud pleasure in the sight of those calloused, pleading hands, begging for mercy and invoking the name of Ramires, which had once again become a name to be feared — its heroic prestige restored. Then, drawing back his horse, he said:

‘That wretched boy fired at me! I’m not sure I can trust you either! Why were you running to the house? To fetch another rifle?’

The old man flung his arms wide, offering his bared chest as witness to the truth of what he said:

‘Sir, I swear on my life and on my boy’s life too, I don’t even own a staff!’

Gonçalo was not convinced. If he rode off now down the road to Ramilde, the old man could easily run into the house, grab another rifle and shoot him treacherously in the back. Then with a presence of mind made keener by this encounter, he thought of a sure safeguard against any such ambush. He even smiled to think of Dom Garcia Viegas the Wise and his ‘war tactics’.

‘Walk ahead of me along the road!’

Still abjectly kneeling, the old man did not, at first, react. Then he beat his gnarled hands on his thighs, almost too overwhelmed with emotion to speak:

‘Sir, sir, how can I leave the boy here unconscious?’

‘The boy’s only stunned. I’ve seen him move. It’s the same with that other wretch over there. Come on, start walking!’

And at this irresistible command from Gonçalo, the old man, having slowly brushed the dust from his trousers, began to walk along the road, head bowed like a captive, his long arms hanging loose by his sides, and muttering hoarsely to himself, ‘Why this now? Ah, dear God, why me?’ He would stop occasionally and stare up at Gonçalo, his dark eyes filled with fear and hatred. Then, urged on by another command to walk, he would walk. Further on, where a cross had been erected to the memory of the murdered Abbot Paguim, Gonçalo recognised a broad track that led to the Bravais road and which was known locally as the Caminho da Moleira. He forced the old man to go down that solitary lane, and the man was filled with dread, thinking that Gonçalo was leading him away from the busier roads in order to be able to kill him at his leisure. He began moaning, ‘I’m going to die! Holy Mother of God, I’m going to die!’ And he continued this moaning and groaning, tripping over his own feet, until they emerged onto a road with steep sides overgrown with gorse. Then suddenly filled with a new dread, the man spun round, his hands clutching his head:

‘You’re not arresting me, are you, sir?’

‘Keep walking! Go on, run! We’re going to trot now!’

The horse trotted, and the old man ran awkwardly ahead, panting like a bellows at a forge. After a mile, Gonçalo stopped, fed up both with his prisoner and with the slow pace. Besides, before the man could run home, grab a rifle and return to take his revenge, Gonçalo would have ample time to gallop back to the Tower! With furrowed brow, he boomed out:

‘Halt! You can go home now, but, first, tell me the name of your house.’

‘Grainha, sir.’

‘And what’s your name and the boy’s?’

Mouth agape, the old man hesitated before answering:

‘I’m João and my boy’s name is Manuel, Manuel Domingues, sir.’

‘You’re lying, of course. And the other rogue with the side whiskers?’

The old man immediately blurted out:

‘He’s Ernesto de Nacejas, the local bully and skirt-chaser, and he’s really led my poor boy astray.’

‘Well, tell those two scoundrels who attacked me with a staff and a rifle that they’re not going to get away with just a beating — they’ll have to deal with the law too, and there’ll be no escaping that. Off you go!’

Gonçalo stayed for a while in the middle of the road, and watched the man hurrying away, wiping the sweat from his brow and forcing his weary legs onwards. Then he galloped back to the Tower along the now familiar road.

And the wild joy he felt plunged him into daydreams and fantasies. He had the sublime feeling that he was galloping across the heights on a legendary warhorse so large and magnificent that he could touch the bright clouds. And below, in the cities, men recognised in him a true Ramires, like the ones in the history books, those who had demolished towers and changed the fate of kingdoms, and who’d left in their wake — the wake left by mighty men — a murmur of admiration and shock. And quite right too! For when he left the Tower that morning, he would never have stood up to so much as a determined boy brandishing a stick, but then, suddenly, outside that isolated house, when that brute with the side whiskers had hurled his filthy insult, something, quite what he didn’t know, had surfaced inside him and overflowed, stiffening every sinew with skill and strength, and filling every vein with burning blood and every pore with a contempt for pain and his soul with indomitable courage. And now he was returning, like a new man, proud and virile, free at last from the shadow that had cast such a painful pall over his life — the limp, shameful shadow of his fear! Now he felt that if all the bullies in Nacejas were to come at him with staffs raised, that something-or-other deep inside his very being would once again be released, and with every vein pulsing, every nerve tensed, he would launch himself into the delicious clamour of battle! He was, at last, a man! When, in Vila Clara, Manuel Duarte or Titó, puffing out their chests, started recounting their various exploits, he would no longer withdraw into silence and roll a cigarette, not just because of his disheartening dearth of exploits, but, above all, because of the humiliating memory of past cowardices.

And on he galloped, gripping the handle of his whip, as if he were on his way to still more thrilling encounters. Once he had passed Bravais, seeing the Tower ahead of him, he galloped still harder. And strangely, it seemed to him that the Tower was more ‘his’ now, and that a new affinity, founded on glory and strength, made him still more the lord of his Tower!

As if to welcome Gonçalo in a more dignified fashion on his triumphal return home, the two heavy doors of the great gate — normally closed — stood wide open. He rode into the centre of the courtyard, shouting:

‘Joaquim! Manuel! Come quickly!’

Joaquim emerged from the stables, his sleeves rolled up and with a sponge in one hand.

‘Quickly, Joaquim! Saddle up Rossilho and go straight to a place on the Ramilde road called Grainha. I’ve just been involved in a terrible fight there! I think I may have killed two men. I left them lying in a pool of blood. Don’t tell anyone you’re from the Tower, because they might attack you! Just find out what happened and whether or not they’re dead! Hurry, hurry!’

Stunned, Joaquim went back into the dark stables, and from one of the balconies above came astonished cries:

‘Good God, Gonçalo! Whatever’s happened?’

It was Barrolo. Without dismounting and seemingly unsurprised to find Barrolo there, Gonçalo immediately gave him a garbled account of the fight. An arrant scoundrel had insulted him, and another had fired at him. And both had ended up lying beneath his horse’s hooves in a pool of blood.

Barrolo left the balcony and rushed down into the courtyard, waving his short, plump arms, wanting to know exactly what had happened. Trembling now with weariness and emotion, Gonçalo dismounted and explained in more detail. He had been riding along the Ramilde road and some lout had insulted him! He had gashed the man’s mouth and lopped off one ear. Then the other fellow, a big lad, had fired off his rifle. Gonçalo had ridden straight at him and dealt him such a blow that he’d fallen backwards and hit his head and lay there as if dead.

‘But dealt him a blow with what?’

‘With this whip, Barrolo. It’s a fearsome weapon. Titó was quite right. I would have been lost if I hadn’t had it with me.’

Barrolo gazed open-mouthed at the whip. It really was stained with blood. Gonçalo also looked at the whip and at the blood. Human blood! Fresh blood, which he had caused to be shed! And his pride was mingled with such a feeling of pity that he turned quite pale:

‘What a terrible thing!’

He then inspected his jacket and his boots, horrified at the blood spattering them. Dear God, he even had blood on his gaiters. In his anxiety to get out of his stained clothes and wash, he raced up the stairs, with Barrolo at his heels, mopping his brow and muttering, ‘What a thing to happen and on the public highway too!’ Gracinha suddenly appeared in the corridor, having come up from the kitchen; she, too, looked deathly pale, and Rosa, behind her, was clutching her head in dumb terror.

‘What’s happened, Gonçalo? Goodness, whatever’s happened?’

Then, finding Gracinha at his side, in the Tower, at this magnificently proud moment, when he had just overcome real danger, Gonçalo forgot all about André, the gazebo, his own feelings of humiliation, and as he embraced her and kissed her beloved cheek, all his displeasure melted into tenderness. Clutching her to his breast, he sighed gently, like a weary child. Then, squeezing her poor, trembling hands, he gave a slow, fond smile, his eyes moist with confused emotions, confused joy, and said:

‘It was awful, Gracinha, really horrible. Especially for a peace-loving fellow like me. Imagine.’

And as they walked together slowly down the corridor, he gave a fresh account to a breathless Gracinha and a horror-struck Rosa: the meeting, the vile insult, the bullet that missed him and the scoundrels soundly whipped, and the old man marching ahead of him along the Ramilde road like a captive, moaning and groaning. Pressing her hands to her bosom, Gracinha could only murmur:

‘But, Gonçalo, what if one of them is dead?’

Barrolo, his face scarlet, roared out that such scoundrels richly deserved to be dead. And if they were only wounded, they deserved the ultimate punishment of being transported to Africa! They must send a message to Gouveia to tell him what had happened. Then the floor trembled with eager footsteps, and a frantic Bento appeared before Gonçalo, anxious and agitated:

‘What happened, sir? They say there was a serious fight.’

And at the door to his study, where they were all gathered now, listening intently, the story began again, for the benefit of Bento, who drank it in, a slow, pleasurable smile gradually spreading across his face, his tear-filled eyes shining, as if he had shared in his master’s victory. Finally, he declared loudly and triumphantly:

‘It was the whip, sir. What saved you was the whip I gave you!’

It was true. Touched, Gonçalo embraced his old servant, who, overcome, cried out to Rosa, to Gracinha and to Barrolo:

‘Our master did for them with that whip! You could easily kill a man with it! The rascals are dead. And it was the whip that did it, the whip I gave my master!’

Gonçalo was calling now for hot water to wash off the dust and sweat and blood. Bento rushed back along the corridor and down the stairs to the kitchen, all the while yelling, ‘It was the whip that did it, the whip I gave my master!’ Gonçalo went into his bedroom, accompanied by Barrolo, and set down his hat on the marble-topped chest of drawers with a great sigh of relief, the relief of finding himself, after such a violent morning, among sweet, ordinary things, treading his old blue carpet, running one hand over the mahogany bed in which he had been born, breathing the air coming in through the open windows, where the familiar branches of the beech trees were waving a greeting to him in the breeze. With what delight he approached the mirror with its gilt columns, and looked and looked at himself, as if at a new and much-improved Gonçalo, whose shoulders seemed broader, his moustache more curled.

It was only when he turned away from the mirror and saw Barrolo waiting there, that he was suddenly gripped by intense curiosity:

‘But what are you two doing here at the Tower this morning?’

They had made the decision the previous evening, during tea. Gonçalo didn’t visit, didn’t write, and Gracinha was worrying herself sick about it. He, too, had been alarmed by Gonçalo’s sudden disappearance after leaving that unexplained basket of peaches. And so, thinking that the horses needed a trip out, he had said to Gracinha, ‘Shall we go to the Tower tomorrow? In the phaeton?’

Barrolo paused.

‘Besides, I need to talk to you, Gonçalo. I’ve been worried about something lately too.’

The Nobleman placed two cushions on the divan and sat down.

‘What do you mean worried? About what?’

With his hands in the pockets of his flannel jacket, which fitted rather snugly around his plump thighs, Barrolo stared glumly down at the flowers on the carpet:

‘It’s such a bore really. One can’t trust anyone . . . not even one’s friends!’

In a flash, Gonçalo imagined Cavaleiro and Gracinha at the Casa dos Cunhais making no secret of the feelings that had once overwhelmed them in the gardens of the Tower. And he expected poor Barrolo to open his heart, to bemoan his fate, dogged by suspicions or perhaps having witnessed certain intimate moments. The supreme emotion of the fight had swept into the shade all the cares that had so oppressed him only hours before: in the freshness of that new-found courage, all of life’s difficulties suddenly seemed to him as easy to defeat as those two scoundrels; and he did not fear what his brother-in-law was about to tell him, confident that he could reassure and calm that gentle, submissive soul:

‘So Barrolo, has something untoward happened?’

‘I’ve received a letter.’

‘Ah!’

Barrolo gravely unbuttoned his jacket and produced from his inside pocket a large wallet of shiny green leather, bearing a monogram in gold. And it was the wallet that he showed to Gonçalo first, with a proud smile.

‘Nice, eh? A present from André, poor old chap. I think he may even have had it sent specially from Paris. The monogram is very chic, isn’t it?’

Gonçalo was waiting, greatly alarmed. At last, Barrolo took a letter out of the wallet. It had clearly been crumpled up, then smoothed out again. The Nobleman only had to glance at the tiny writing on the sheet of lined paper to declare confidently:

‘It’s from the Lousada sisters.’

And leaning on one elbow, he read slowly and serenely, ‘Dear Senhor José Barrolo, Despite the nickname, Barrolo the Dimwit, given you by your friends, you have lately shown great intelligence in allowing the governor, the noble André Cavaleiro, to resume his close friendship with you and your worthy wife. For your wife, the lovely Gracinha (who had, of late, appeared lacklustre to the point of drabness — something we were all rather concerned about), has suddenly blossomed again and the colour’s back in her cheeks, ever since she has been able to enjoy the excellent company of the district’s first gentleman. You have behaved as every zealous husband should, eager that your charming wife should be happy and healthy. Hardly to be expected in someone whom all of Oliveira considers to be its most illustrious fool! Our sincere congratulations!’

Gonçalo very quietly stuffed the letter into his pocket, a letter which, only days before, would have plunged him into a mood of infinite bitterness and anger:

‘It’s definitely the work of the Lousada sisters. And you actually believed such nonsense?’

Cheeks ablaze, Barrolo retorted:

‘What do you take me for? I’ve always hated anonymous letters. And then there’s that rude comment about my friends calling me a dimwit. Terrible, isn’t it? Can you believe it? I can’t. But it’s created ill feeling between me and the other fellows. I haven’t been back to the club since. A dimwit. Why? Because I’m a simple soul, frank and hospitable? If the lads at the club call me a “dimwit” behind my back, they’re being most ungrateful. But I really can’t believe it’s true.’

He shambled disconsolately round the room, his hands behind his back, resting on his large posterior. Then, standing before the divan, where Gonçalo was watching him pityingly, he added:

‘As for the rest of the letter, it’s so stupid, so garbled, I didn’t understand it at first. Now I do. They’re saying that Gracinha and Cavaleiro are having an affair. At least that’s what I think they mean. But it’s utter nonsense. Even the bit about our “close friendship” is a lie. Since that last supper, the poor fellow has only visited three or four times, at night, for a game of cards, along with Mendonça. And now he’s gone off to Lisbon.’

It was the Nobleman’s turn to be surprised.

‘Gone to Lisbon, you say?’

‘Yes, he left three days ago.’

‘Has he gone for long?’

‘Oh, yes, he won’t be back until mid-October, in time for the Election.’

‘Ha!’

At this point, Bento burst into the room, still bubbling with excitement and carrying a jug of hot water and two lace-edged towels. Standing before the mirror, Barrolo was slowly rebuttoning his jacket:

‘See you later, then, Gonçalinho. I’m going down to the stables to see the horses. Do you know, they made it all the way from Oliveira without a rest, and kept up a cracking pace too. They didn’t even break sweat! You’re going to keep that letter, are you?’

‘Yes, I want to study the handwriting.’

As soon as Barrolo had closed the door, the Nobleman again launched into the delicious story of the fight, reliving every surprise, every detail, acting out his manoeuvres on his horse, snatching up the whip to demonstrate the resounding thwacks he had delivered, slicing through flesh and drawing blood. Suddenly, standing there in his underwear, he said:

‘Bento, bring me my hat, will you? I think the bullet might have grazed it.’

Both of them studied and scrutinised the hat. Bento, so enamoured of the whole exploit, thought the crown of the hat was indeed slightly dented, almost singed.

‘The bullet must have brushed right past it, sir.’

With the grave modesty of a strong man, the Nobleman dismissed the idea:

‘No, I don’t think so. When the rascal fired, his arm was already shaking. We should thank God for that, Bento, but I really wasn’t in any great danger!’

Once dressed, Gonçalo walked about his room and reread the letter. There was no doubting that it came from the Lousada sisters. However, that malicious slander, aimed with grubby malice at poor, chubby-cheeked Barrolo, would cause no real harm, rather it would serve the almost beneficent purpose of cauterising a wound, like a fiery brand. What had shocked poor Barrolo more was the revelation that his ungrateful friends had given him that cruel nickname, which they apparently bandied about in the club and in the Café da Arcada to gales of equally ungrateful laughter. He had scarcely grasped the other dreadful insinuation — that Gracinha was blossoming again in the warmth of Cavaleiro’s love, a suggestion that, with distracted, entirely innocent disdain, he had barely bothered to take in. However, the letter that had whistled past Barrolo like a stray arrow would strike Gracinha, would wound her in her pride, her highly impressionable modesty, showing the poor fool how her name and even her heart were already being dragged through the mud by the Lousada sisters’ base calumnies! Such deeply humiliating knowledge would clearly not extinguish a feeling that had failed to be extinguished by far more personal and more painful humiliations, but it would speak to Gracinha’s natural reserve and wary circumspection. And now that André had escaped to Lisbon, it would work away at her, in silence and solitude, without his tempting presence to spoil its soothing, healthy influence. And so that vile letter could work to Gracinha’s advantage, like a dire warning nailed to a wall. Having been rancorously written by those two females with the intention of bringing grief and scandal to the Casa dos Cunhais, it might perhaps reestablish peace and gravity in that threatened household. Gonçalo was pleased to think that, on such a happy morning, such a piece of evil work might bring about good!

‘Bento, where is Senhora Dona Graça?’

‘She went up to her room a little while ago, sir.’

It was the room where she had slept before she married, a bright, cool room with a view of the orchard, and still furnished with her lovely marquetry bedstead, the famous dressing table that had belonged to Queen Maria Francisca of Savoy, and the sofa and chairs upholstered in pale cashmere on which, over long years, Gracinha herself had embroidered the black goshawk of the Ramires coat of arms. Whenever Gracinha came back to the Tower, she loved to spend time in her room, reliving the years before her marriage, rummaging around in the drawers, leafing through the old English novels kept in the small glass cabinet, and simply standing on the balcony, gazing out at the beloved grounds of the house, which stretched as far as the Valverde hills, and down into the green garden, so much a part of her life, where every tree spoke to her, where every verdant corner was like a corner of her own mind.

Gonçalo went upstairs and knocked on the closed door, asking, as he used to, ‘May your brother come in?’ She ran in from the balcony, where she had been watering the plants in their old glazed pots, plants that Rosa constantly, lovingly tended in Gracinha’s absence. She immediately blurted out the thought filling her mind:

‘Oh, Gonçalo, how wonderful that we should come to the Tower today of all days!’

‘Yes, you’re right, Gracinha, it really is extraordinarily lucky. And I didn’t feel in the least surprised to see you either! It was as if you were still living in the Tower, and I had met you in the corridor. It was different with Barrolo — when I got off my horse, I was thinking, “What the devil is Barrolo doing here? How on earth did he get here?” Odd, isn’t it? Perhaps it’s because, after that fight, I felt rejuvenated, with new blood in my veins, and thought I was back in the days when we used to long for another war in Portugal, with us besieged in the Tower, with our standard flying and our “troops” hurling stone balls at the Spaniards.’

She laughed to remember those heroic imaginings. And with her dress tucked between her knees, she resumed her slow watering of the pots, while Gonçalo, leaning on the balcony, contemplating the Tower, was again assailed by the idea that there was now a closer relationship between him and that noble remnant of Santa Ireneia, as if his own long-unproven strength had finally become welded to the centuries-old strength of his race.

‘You must be so tired, Gonçalo, after that very real battle of yours!’

‘No, I’m not tired, but I am hungry, yes, very hungry and with a splendid thirst on me!’

She immediately put down the watering can, gaily shaking her hands to dry them.

‘Well, lunch won’t be long. I’ve been working in the kitchen with Rosa and making a Spanish-style fish stew. It’s a new recipe from the Baron das Marges.’

‘So it’ll be as insipid as he is, then.’

‘No, it’s actually rather spicy. The Vicar-General gave him the recipe.’

And watching her as she sat at Queen Maria Francisca’s dressing table, hurriedly pinning up her hair, he decided to take advantage of that moment of privacy and hastened, somewhat uncomfortably, to broach the subject troubling him:

‘Anything happening in Oliveira?’

‘No, nothing, it’s just very hot.’

Running his fingers slowly over the delicately intertwining lilies and laurels on the mirror frame, he said cautiously:

‘I’ve heard that your friends the Lousada sisters are still very active.’

Gracinha shook her head innocently:

‘The Lousada sisters? No, they haven’t been to visit at all.’

‘They’ve been busy plotting though.’

And when Gracinha’s green eyes grew wide with bewilderment, Gonçalo pulled from his pocket the letter, which now weighed on him like lead:

‘Look, Gracinha, it’s best if we talk plainly. This is the letter they wrote to your husband a few days ago.’

In an instant, Gracinha had devoured the terrible words. Waves of blood rushed to her cheeks as she desperately wrung her hands, crushing the letter as she did so.

‘So, Gonçalo, does he . . .’

Gonçalo immediately reassured her:

‘No, Barrolo took no notice. He even laughed about it. And I did too when he showed it to me. And the proof that we both consider it a lot of old nonsense is that I’m showing it to you now quite openly.’

Pale and dumb with terror, holding back the bright tears brimming in her eyes, she crumpled the letter in her clasped and trembling hands. Gonçalo felt for her deeply and, very gravely, very tenderly, said:

‘You know what these small towns are like, Gracinha, especially Oliveira. You need to be very careful, very reserved. It’s entirely my fault, though. I resumed a friendship that should never have been resumed. I am truly sorry. But, believe me, I have spent many a bitter day here at the Tower because of this false and dangerous situation, which I myself frivolously created out of mere foolish ambition. I didn’t even dare come to Oliveira. Today, for some reason, after this morning’s “adventure”, it all seems to have disappeared, to have melted into a great shadow. My heart no longer burns as it did, which is why I can talk to you openly and calmly.’

She began to weep uncontrollably as if her poor weak heart would break. With renewed tenderness, Gonçalo embraced her bowed shoulders, shaken with sobs. And clasping her to his bosom, he whispered these words of advice:

‘Gracinha, the past is dead, and for the sake of all of us and our honour, we need it to stay dead. Or that it should, at least, in your every gesture, appear to be dead. I’m asking you for the sake of our family name!’

Folded in her brother’s arms, she said with infinite humility:

‘He’s left. He’d grown tired of Oliveira!’

Gonçalo stroked her head, which she, in her humiliation and distress, had again pressed to his bosom, as if seeking the merciful balm she sensed within.

‘I know, I know, and that just shows me that you have been strong, but you must remain aloof and vigilant, Gracinha. For now, though, try to calm yourself. And let us never talk about this incident again. Because that’s all it was, an incident, one that I provoked, fool that I am, out of sheer thoughtlessness and ambition. It’s over and forgotten now. So calm yourself and rest. And when you come downstairs, make sure all your tears have dried.’

He slowly released her from his arms, to which she clung as if to her most certain refuge, her most longed-for consolation. Then he made to leave, overwhelmed by emotion and also fighting back tears. He was stopped by a timid, supplicant moan.

‘Gonçalo, do you think . . .’

He turned and embraced her once more and planted a slow kiss on her forehead.

‘I think that if you follow my advice, you will show great dignity and great determination.’

Then he did at last leave, shutting the door behind him. On the narrow staircase, only dimly lit by a skylight, he was still wiping away the tears when he bumped into Barrolo, who was coming upstairs to find Gracinha and to hasten on lunch.

‘Gracinha will be right down,’ said the Nobleman quickly. ‘She’s just washing her hands. She’ll join us shortly. But why don’t we go to the stables before lunch? We owe my beloved horse, my saviour, a visit, don’t you think?’

‘Heavens, yes, we most certainly do!’ cried Barrolo, enthusiastically heading back down the stairs. ‘She’s a big, bold beast, isn’t she? But I bet she sweated more than my horses. Imagine! All the way from Oliveira and not a drop of sweat on them. Wonderful creatures! But then I do take excellent care of them!’

In the stable, they both stroked and patted Gonçalo’s horse. Barrolo suggested giving her a large ration of carrots. Then, so that Gracinha would have plenty of time to calm herself, the Nobleman showed Barrolo into the orchard and the vegetable plot.

‘You haven’t been to the Tower for nearly six months, Barrolo! You must see the progress we’ve made, now that Pereira’s in charge.’

‘Oh, I’m sure. He’s a great man, Pereira! But, you know, Gonçalinho, I’m really hungry!’

‘Me too!’

It was striking one o’clock when they went out onto the balcony, where the table awaited them, beautifully laid and decked with flowers. Gracinha, sitting on the divan, was engrossed in reading an old Gazeta do Porto. Despite much splashing with cold water, her lovely eyes were still red, and to justify this and her rather exhausted air, she complained, blushing, of a headache. It was all the emotion and excitement of Gonçalo’s exploit.

‘I’ve got a headache too,’ declared Barrolo, walking round the table. ‘Mine comes from hunger though. Do you know, all I’ve had this morning is a cup of coffee and a boiled egg!’

Gonçalo rang the bell, but the person who came bursting in through the French doors, breathless and smiling broadly, was Joaquim, the stableboy, who had just returned from Grainha.

Gonçalo leapt to his feet:

‘What news?’

‘I went straight there, sir,’ exclaimed Joaquim, his breast swelling with pride. ‘And there were crowds of people. Everyone knows about it. A girl from Bravais saw it all, from inside the courtyard. Then she ran off and spread the word. But the old man, Domingues, who lives in the house, him and his son, they’ve both taken off. Apparently, the boy wasn’t badly hurt at all. If he did fall over and faint or whatever, it was out of fright. Ernesto de Nacejas, though, he’s in a really bad way. He was carried to the house of a friend who lives nearby, in Arribada. It seems he’s got no ear and no mouth either. And he used to be the darling of all the girls in the neighbourhood too! Then he was taken to the hospital in Vila Clara, because his friend couldn’t really do much for him. The crowd, though, they all side with you, sir. Old Domingues was a rogue, and as for Ernesto, no one could stand him anyway, and they were all afraid of him. So you’ve done everyone a favour, sir!’

Gonçalo glowed with pride. And it was a relief to know that no greater harm was done than the loss of the local Don Juan’s good looks!

‘So what’s the crowd doing there? Just talking and looking around?’

‘Yes, they won’t go away. They keep pointing at the blood on the ground and the stones your horse kicked up. And now they’re saying it was an ambush, that you were fired at three times, and that, afterwards, in the woods, three masked men attacked you, but that you gave them a good thrashing too!’

‘So that’s the legend growing up around me, is it?’ said Gonçalo.

Bento came in, bearing a large, steaming dish of food. The Nobleman smiled, patted Joaquim on the back, and told him to give orders to Rosa to open two bottles of old Port wine for this family occasion. Then, resting his hands on the back of his chair, he murmured gravely:

‘Let us, for a moment, think gratefully of God, for today he saved me from a grave danger.’

Barrolo bowed his head reverently. Gracinha sighed softly and said a brief prayer to herself. Then, as they were unfolding their napkins, and Gonçalo was praising the fish stew, Crispola’s youngest son pushed open the French doors again, clutching ‘A telegram from town’! Everyone stopped, forks in mid-air, wondering what it could be. There had been so many shocks and surprises that morning! But a triumphant, pleasurable smile was already spreading over Gonçalo’s slender face:

‘Oh, it’s nothing. It’s from Castanheiro, about the chapters from my Novella that I sent him. He’s a good lad.’

And leaning back in his chair, he slowly read out the telegram, lingering over the words. ‘Chapters of novel received. Read to friends. Great enthusiasm. A masterpiece. Well done.’

His mouth too full to speak, Barrolo applauded. And Gonçalo, not even noticing the plate of fish Bento had set before him, filled his glass with vinho verde, his hand trembling slightly. Then with a blissful smile on his lips, he said:

‘What an excellent morning this has been. Extraordinary!’

Despite Gracinha and Barrolo trying to persuade him to go back with them to Oliveira, Gonçalo declined, eager to finish the final chapter of his Novella that week, before finishing his lazy round of visits to influential voters in the constituency. Thus he would conclude both the work of Art and the work of Politics, and God be praised, complete the task he had set himself for that very fruitful summer!

He returned to the manuscript of his Novella that very night, and in the wide margin, wrote the date and a note, ‘Today, in the parish of Grainha, I had a terrible fight with two men, who attacked me with a staff and a rifle. I gave them both a sound thrashing.’ Then he slipped easily into that redolently medieval passage, in which Tructesindo Ramires, in his pursuit of the Bastard, entered Dom Pedro de Castro’s encampment, lit by flickering, smoky torchlight.

The old warrior gave a grave, warm welcome to his Portuguese cousin, who had once brought his mighty troops all the way from Santa Ireneia to Enxarez de Sandornim when the Castros had to do battle there with the Moorish hosts. Then, in the vast tent, full of glittering weapons and carpeted with the skins of lions and bears, Tructesindo, still struggling to control his grief, told him of the death of his son Lourenço, wounded in the Battle of Canta-Pedra and then slain by the Bastard of Baião’s knife, outside the walls of Santa Ireneia, with the sun in the vault of the sky gazing down on such treachery! Old Castro indignantly thumped the table, on which lay a gold rosary and some large chess pieces; he swore on Christ’s life that never, in his sixty years of battles and horrors, had he heard of so vile a deed. And clasping Tructesindo’s hand, he ardently offered to help him in his quest for holy vengeance by lending him his entire army — three hundred and thirty lancers and a solid body of foot soldiers.

‘By all that’s holy, what an expedition this will be!’ roared Mendo de Briteiros, his red beard aglow with delight.

Dom Garcia Viegas the Wise, however, realised that in order to take the Bastard alive, as befitted a revenge to be savoured slowly, he would be better served by a small, silent body of knights and just a few foot soldiers.

‘But why, Dom Garcia?’

‘Because the Bastard, having left his foot soldiers and all the pack-mules by the side of the stream, is clearly heading for Coimbra, where he can join the King’s men. Along with his exhausted band of lancers, he will have spent the night at the castle of Landim, and, at first light, will certainly take the shorter way along the old Miradães road, which winds through the Caramulo hills. Now I happen to know that, beyond the place known as the Poço da Esquecida, there is a pass, where a few knights and some crossbowmen, strategically positioned among the scrub, will be able to catch Lopo de Baião like a wolf in his lair.’

Unconvinced, Tructesindo pondered this plan and ran slow pensive fingers through his long beard. Old Castro was equally unconvinced, preferring to take on the Bastard in the open, where his large number of lancers would not only have the advantage, but could then gallop gaily on to lay waste to the Baião lands. Then Garcia Viegas begged his cousins from Spain and from Portugal to come outside with him into the bright torchlight where they could see more clearly. And there, surrounded by curious knights and lit by torches, Dom Garcia crouched down and, with the point of his dagger, drew in the dust the route that his ‘hunt’ would take, thus demonstrating to them the beauty of his plan. The Bastard would set off from Landim at dawn. At moonrise, they, too, would set off, with twenty knights from both the Ramires and the Castro troops, so that men from both parties could enjoy the fight. Further on, they would post crossbowmen and archers among the undergrowth, always assuming that Senhor Dom Pedro de Castro would do the Lord of Santa Ireneia the great honour of lending him such excellent aid and help keep the Bastard encircled. Ahead, in order to grab the villain by the throat, would go Senhor Dom Tructesindo, who, as Lourenço’s father, should, in God’s eyes, be the avenger. And there, in that narrow pass, they would unhorse him and bleed him like a pig, and since his blood was unclean, they would find, a mere stone’s throw away, plentiful water in which to wash their hands, in the pond known as the Pego das Bichas — the Pool of Leeches.

‘An excellent plan!’ murmured Tructesindo.

And shooting a fiery glance at his Spanish knights, Dom Pedro de Castro roared out his approval:

‘Christ’s wounds, if my great-uncle Gutierres had had Senhor Dom Garcia as his captain, the men of Lara would not have escaped when they took the Boy-King with them all the way to Santo Estevão de Gurivaz! It’s agreed then, my cousin and my friend! To horse at moonrise, ready for the hunt!’

And they withdrew into the tents, where a roast kid was already growing golden over the fire for supper and, from among the carts laden with grapes, the stewards were carrying in heavy wineskins full of wine from Tordesillas.

It was with that supper in the encampment (which took place in solemn silence, because the guests’ hearts were veiled in mourning) that Gonçalo finished work on his fourth chapter for the night, writing another note in the margin, ‘Midnight. A full day. I fought and I worked.’ Later, in his room, while undressing, he sketched out in his mind the brief, tumultuous battle in which the Bastard would be captured like a wolf in his lair, at the vengeful mercy of the men from Santa Ireneia. However, in the morning, before lunch, when he was just about to sit happily down to work, he received two telegrams, which provided a delightful distraction from his ardent pursuit of the Bastard of Baião.

Both telegrams were from Oliveira, one from the Baron das Marges, the other from Captain Mendonça, both congratulating the Nobleman on ‘having escaped that terrible ambush and laid low those two scoundrels from Nacejas’. The Baron added, ‘Bravissimo. You’re a hero!’

Gonçalo was so moved that he showed the telegrams to Bento. The impressive news of his exploit had obviously spread as far as Oliveira.

‘It was Senhor José Barrolo who told them!’ said Bento. ‘And just you wait, sir, just you wait. Even the people in Oporto will know about it soon!’

When the clock struck noon, the vast figure of Titó erupted into the corridor, accompanied by João Gouveia, who had arrived from the coast the previous evening, and, on hearing the news at the club, had immediately raced to the Tower to embrace him, first, as a friend, before appearing in his more official capacity at the trial. Then, still in Gouveia’s embrace, Gonçalo asked very generously that no action should be taken against the bandits. The administrator refused point-blank, citing the Principle of the Law and the need to hand down a harsh punishment, so that Portugal would not revert to the barbarous days of João Brandão de Midões. He and Titó lunched at the Tower, and afterwards, Titó jokingly proposed a toast, which he gave in his usual bellowing tones, comparing Gonçalo to the elephant, ‘normally so good and so long-suffering, but who suddenly turns and tramples on the world!’

Lighting a large cigar, João Gouveia demanded a detailed account of every lunge and scream, so that, in his role as administrator, he could gain a clear understanding of the matter. Using the balcony as his stage, Gonçalo recreated the whole heroic story, reenacting the blows he had dealt by whipping the divan (which ended up in shreds), and even imitating the way the braggart from Nacejas had fallen to the ground, half-fainting and drenched in blood. The administrator and Titó then visited the historic horse in the stables, and Gonçalo showed them his leather gaiters drying in the sun in the courtyard, washed clean of all bloodstains. At the door to the house, João Gouveia earnestly clapped the Nobleman on the back:

‘You know, Gonçalo, you really should put in an appearance at the club tonight . . .’

Gonçalo did as his friend advised and was greeted like the victor of some famous battle. In the billiard room, at old Ribas’ suggestion, a great bowl of hot punch was brought in, and Comendador Barros, his face flushed, insisted that, on Sunday, a thanksgiving mass should be held in the church of São Francisco, which he would be proud to pay for, damn it! When Gonçalo left, accompanied by Titó, Gouveia, Manuel Duarte, and other club members, they found Videirinha, who didn’t belong to the club, but who had been waiting for the Nobleman to appear, so that he could sing him the two new verses — written that very evening and lauding him above all the other Ramires of History and Legend!

The party sat down by the fountain. The guitar thrummed lovingly. And Videirinha’s voice, which came straight from his soul, rose up through the mute leaves of the Judas trees:

The Ramires of other ages

Conquered with the lance,

This one uses a whip,

How strange is time’s dance!

The famous Ramires of old

Whole generations apart

Relied for strength on their arms,

His strength lies in his heart.

On hearing this clever conceit, his friends cheered Gonçalo and the House of Ramires. And as the Nobleman, much moved, was walking back to the Tower, he was thinking:

‘It’s odd. All these people genuinely seem to like me!’

His excitement was even greater when, bright and early, Bento woke him up with a telegram from Lisbon. It was from Cavaleiro, who had learned of the attack from the newspapers and was sending him enthusiastic greetings and congratulations on the happy outcome and on his bravery.

Sitting up in bed, Gonçalo roared:

‘Heavens above! Even the newspapers in Lisbon are talking about it, Bento! We’re famous!’

Famous indeed! For during that whole delicious day, the telegraph boy, breathless and limping, kept coming to the door of the Tower with more telegrams, all of them from Lisbon: from the Countess de Chelas; from Duarte Lourençal; from the Marquis and Marchioness of Coja; from Aunt Louredo offering congratulations to her bold nephew; from the Marchioness of Esposende hoping that her dear cousin had given due thanks to God! — and lastly, from Castanheiro, exclaiming, ‘Magnificent! Worthy of Tructesindo himself!’ In the library, Gonçalo flung up his arms in amazement:

‘What on earth have those newspapers been saying?’

And in-between the telegrams came visits from all the influential gentlemen of the district — a terrified Dr Alexandrino, fearing a return to the politics of Costa Cabral; old Pacheco Valadares de Sá, who was not in the least surprised by his noble cousin’s actions, because the Ramires blood, like the blood of the Sás, had always run red-hot; Father Vicente from Finta, who, along with his congratulations, brought a small basket of some of his famous moscatel grapes; and finally, the Viscount de Rio-Manso, who, clasping Gonçalo to him, was moved to tears, almost proud that the fight should have broken out on the road when ‘his dear friend and Rosa’s dear friend’ had been on his way to visit them. Blushing furiously and smiling broadly, Gonçalo patiently went over the incident and accompanied those gentlemen to the door, where, as they mounted their horses or got into their carriages, they all smiled up at the old Tower — standing firm and dark in the sweet light of that September afternoon — as if paying homage not only to the hero of the day, but to the centuries-old basis of his heroism.

And running up the stairs to the library, the Nobleman, still astonished, again wondered out loud:

‘What on earth are those newspapers saying?’

He could not sleep in his eagerness to read them, and when Bento rushed into his room with the morning’s post, Gonçalo sat bolt upright and threw back the sheets as if he were sweltering. Hastily leafing through the Século, he found the telegraphed report from Oliveira, describing the attack, the shots fired, and the Nobleman’s immense courage, with only a whip to defend himself. Bento practically snatched the paper from the Nobleman’s trembling hands and ran to the kitchen to announce the glorious news to Rosa!

That afternoon, Gonçalo hurried into Vila Clara, to the club, in order to devour the other newspapers from Lisbon and from Oporto. All carried the story and all joined in celebrating it. The Gazeta do Porto believed the attack was politically motivated and railed against the Government. The Liberal Portuense, however, lay the blame at the door of certain vengeful republicans in Oliveira for ‘this appalling attack, which almost brought about the death of one of the greatest Noblemen of Portugal and Spain and one of the most prodigious talents of the new young generation’. The Lisbon newspapers focused on the ‘remarkable courage of Senhor Gonçalo Ramires’. And the most ardent of all was A Manhã, which published a very wordy article (doubtless written by Castanheiro), recalling the heroic traditions of that illustrious House, describing the beauties of the Castle of Santa Ireneia and concluding thus, ‘We now await, with renewed impatience, the publication of Gonçalo Ramires’ Novella, based on the deeds of his ancestor Tructesindo in the twelfth century, and which is due to appear in the first issue of the Annals of Literature and History, the new magazine from our dear friend, Lúcio Castanheiro, that worthy restorer of Portugal’s heroic consciousness!’ Gonçalo’s hands trembled as he read the papers, and João Gouveia, greatly impressed, stood eagerly devouring the articles over his shoulder, occasionally murmuring:

‘You’re going to get a huge number of votes, Gonçalinho!’

On returning to the Tower that night, Gonçalo found a rather troubling letter. It was from Maria Mendonça and written on perfumed paper, the same perfume that had so sweetly emanated from Dona Ana at Santa Maria de Craquede:

‘We only found out this morning about the terrible danger you were in, and we were both deeply moved. At the same time, though, I (and not only I) felt very proud of my cousin’s magnificent courage. The courage of a true Ramires! I won’t come to the Tower to embrace you (at the risk of compromising myself and provoking envy), because one of my little ones, Neco, has a bad cold. Fortunately, it’s nothing very serious. Here, though, even the little ones are longing to see the hero, and I don’t think anyone on either side would find it so very extraordinary were you to appear here the day after tomorrow (Thursday) at around three o’clock. We could take a turn about the garden and even have tea, in the good old-fashioned way of our ancestors. Won’t you come?

Many, many regards from Ana, and from me, Yours etc.’

Gonçalo smiled thoughtfully, rereading the letter and breathing in its perfume. Cousin Maria had never so blatantly propelled Dona Ana into his arms. And Dona Ana was clearly allowing herself to be propelled, willingly and with her eyes closed. Ah, if it was only a matter for the bedroom, but, alas, it would also involve the church! And he could again hear Titó’s booming voice on the steps outside the house’s green door, with the moon bright above the dark trees, ‘That creature had a lover, and you know I never lie!’

Then he slowly took up his pen and replied to Dona Maria Mendonça:

‘Dear Cousin, I was deeply touched by your concern for me and by your congratulations. Let’s not exaggerate, though! All I did was whip the bullies who attacked me. An easy enough task for someone who, like me, happens to own an excellent whip. As for that visit to Feitosa, which would, of course, have been a delightful prospect, I regret to say that I cannot come either on Thursday or on any other day this month. I am extremely busy with my book, the Election and my move to Lisbon. The age of serious work has dawned for me, bringing to a close that sweet age of country walks and daydreams. Please give my deepest respects to Senhora Dona Ana, and my very best regards to you and wishes for a speedy recovery to dear Neco. I remain your devoted and grateful cousin, etc.’

He slowly folded the letter, and as he stamped his seal on the green wax, he was thinking, ‘That rascal Titó has deprived me of two hundred contos!’

During the whole of that soft late-September week, Gonçalo worked hard on the final chapter of his Novella.

At last the vengeful morning dawned when, in the wild ravine that Garcia Viegas the Wise had proposed for the ambush, the knights of Santa Ireneia, joined by the finest of Castro’s lancers, took Baião’s men by surprise in their race to reach Coimbra. The fight was brief and inelegant, with no bold, skilful use of arms — more like a wolf-hunt than an attack on a nobleman. And that is precisely what Tructesindo wanted — with Dom Pedro de Castro’s heartfelt approval — because this was not a matter of engaging an enemy in combat, but of capturing a killer.

Before day had broken, the Bastard had set off in haste from the castle of Landim, paying so little heed to his own safety that he sent ahead of him no scout to reconnoitre the paths. The larks were singing when, at a fast canter, he entered that ravine, which runs between steep, rocky, gorse-grown cliffs and is known as the Racha do Mouro — the Moor’s Ravine — ever since Mahomet first created it so that the Moorish Governor of Coimbra could escape Fernando the Great’s Christian troops, in hot pursuit of both him and the kidnapped nun riding on the saddle behind him. No sooner had the last of the Bastard’s lancers entered the ravine than, from the far end, came the closed ranks of the knights of Santa Ireneia led by Tructesindo, his visor up and with no buckler, merely brandishing a javelin, as if he were out on a leisurely hunt. Bursting forth from the dense trees concealing them appeared Dom Pedro de Castro’s men, lances at the ready, sealing off the one escape route as effectively as the iron grille of a drawbridge. From behind the hills, like water from a broken dam, flowed a whole dark company of rough foot soldiers! The fearsome Bastard was caught, lost! Yet still he furiously unsheathed his sword and whirled it about his head, crowning himself with glittering light. Then with a feral scream, he launched his horse at Tructesindo. However, from out of an obscure knot of slingsmen emerged a curling hempen cord, which wrapped about the Bastard’s neck and hauled him from his Moorish saddle onto the boulders, his long sword breaking off at its golden hilt. And while the still astonished knights of Baião allowed themselves to be surrounded, a great wave of whooping foot soldiers, like mastiffs attacking a boar, dragged the Bastard over to the side of the ravine, where they stripped him of buckler and dagger, tore his tunic of purple wool, wrenched off the fastenings of his helmet, and spat in his face, on his proud, beautiful golden beard!

Then the same brute mob lifted him up and placed him, tightly bound, on the back of a strong pack-mule and laid him down between two narrow boxes of arrows, like a trophy from a hunt. Foot soldiers stood guard over that proud knight, the same Bright Sun who had lit up the House of Baião — now wedged in-between two wooden boxes, with cords binding feet and hands, in which was placed a branch from a thistle bush, as a symbol of his treachery.

Meanwhile, his fifteen knights lay scattered on the ground, overpowered by the furious onrush of lances that had felled them; some, in their black armour, lay as still as if they were sleeping, others were twisted and disfigured, their mutilated flesh bulging grotesquely from the gashes in their chain-mail tunics. Their squires were pitilessly driven at spear-point to the edge of a precipice, as if they were a filthy band of cattle thieves, and there they ended up having their heads chopped off with axes by the bearded Leonese troops. The whole ravine stank of blood like a butcher’s yard. In order to identify the Bastard’s companions, a group of knights went around unbuckling gorgets and lifting visors, furtively stealing the silver medallions, lucky charms or small bags of relics worn by all God-fearing men. In one neatly bearded face, smeared with blood and spit, Mendo de Briteiros recognised his cousin Soeiro de Lugilde, with whom, on St John’s Eve, he had danced and sported at the castle of Unhelo, and now, sitting in his high saddle, he bowed his head and said a devout Hail Mary for that poor, unconfessed soul. Dark, melancholy clouds were casting a pall over that August morning. And standing apart, at the entrance to the ravine, beneath the shade of an ancient holm oak, Tructesindo, Dom Pedro de Castro and Garcia Viegas the Wise were all in agreement that the Bastard, that most ignominious of villains, should suffer an appropriately slow, painful and ignominious death.

Like someone laboriously pushing a plough through stony ground, Gonçalo spent the whole of that sweet September week describing the grim ambush. And on the Saturday, in the library, his hair still wet from his shower-bath, he sat at his desk, rubbing his hands, because with just two more hours of intense work, he would finish his Novella, his Great Work — and before lunch too! And yet he found the sordid end of that story almost repellent. In his poem, his Uncle Duarte had barely sketched it in, with the lofty, punctilious disdain of a poetically-minded nobleman, who, confronted by a scene of brutish violence, merely sings a brief lament, puts down his lyre and sets off instead down gentler paths. And when he took up his pen again, Gonçalo, too, genuinely regretted that his ancestor Tructesindo had not killed the Bastard in the heat of battle, with one of those marvellous blows with his sword, so easy to celebrate in prose — slicing through both knight and horse and resonating down the centuries.

But no, beneath the shade of the oak tree, those three knights were slowly concocting a truly ghastly revenge. Tructesindo had wanted to return to Santa Ireneia and build a gallows in front of the gates, on the very spot where his son’s dead body had been thrown down, and there, after a sound whipping, hang the villain who had killed his son, thus giving him a suitably villainous death. Dom Pedro de Castro, however, advised a swifter, but still pleasurably vengeful death. Why ride all the way back to Santa Ireneia and waste that August day, when they could be on their way to Montemor to help the Princesses? Why not tie the Bastard to a beam, at Dom Tructesindo’s feet, like a Christmas pig on a spit, and have a stableboy singe his beard and then another, with a kitchen knife, slit his throat and let him slowly bleed to death?

‘What do you think, Dom Garcia?’

Dom Garcia Viegas the Wise unfastened his iron helmet and wiped the sweat and dust of battle from his deeply-lined face:

‘Gentlemen and friends! We have much nearer at hand a far better punishment, with no need for long journeys, for just beyond these hills lies the Pego das Bichas. And we do not even have to go out of our way, because from there, via Tordeselo and Santa Maria da Varge, we can go directly to Montemor, as straight as the crow flies. Trust me, Tructesindo! I will arrange a death for the Bastard more painful and humiliating than any known since Portugal was a mere county ruled by the Asturians.’

‘More humiliating for a knight than hanging, my friend?’

‘You will see, my friends, you will see!’

‘So be it! Sound the horns.’

At a command from the standard-bearer Afonso Gomes, the horns were sounded. A group of crossbowmen and Leonese attendants surrounded the mule on which the Bastard lay bound. And led by Dom Garcia, the small party set off for Pego das Bichas, with the lancers trotting along as blithely as if they were going on a country ride, all chatting, boasting and laughing about the morning’s events.

Hidden among the hills, not two leagues from Tordeselo and its beautiful castle, was the Pego das Bichas. It was a place of eternal silence and eternal sadness. Uncle Duarte had written four perfect lines describing the desolation and harshness of the scene:

No trilling bird sings on a swaying branch!

No fresh flower grows beside the fresh stream!

Only rocks and scrub and grim banks,

And, in the midst, the Pego, dark and dead!

And when the first knights galloped to the top of the hill and saw it in the melancholy of that misty morning, all talk stopped, and they reined in their horses, taken aback by the sheer desolation of the place, a place for witches and ghosts and souls in torment. At the bottom of the steep bank, down which the horses skidded and slipped, lay an open expanse dotted with muddy pools, almost sucked dry by the summer heat, but still glinting dully among the large boulders and the low-growing gorse. At the far end, half a crossbow-shot away, was the Pego, a long, narrow pool, its surface utterly smooth and black, apart from some still blacker patches, like a sheet of tin grown rusty with time and weather and neglect. All around rose the hills, thick with tall, wild scrub, crisscrossed by reddish, gravelly tracks like trails of blood, and topped by rocky outcrops glinting white as bones. So heavy was the silence and the solitude that even old Dom Pedro de Castro — a man who had travelled far and wide — even he was alarmed:

‘What an ugly place! I swear by Christ and by the Virgin Mary that, before us, no man redeemed by baptism has entered here.’

‘But, Senhor Dom Pedro de Castro,’ said Garcia Viegas the Wise, ‘many a splendid soldier has been here, and even in the days of Dom Soeiro and your own King Fernando there was a famous castle built on these banks. Look over there!’

And he pointed to one end of the pool, where, emerging out of the black water were two sturdy stone pillars, burnished, like fine marble, by the wind and the rain. A wooden walkway built on slimy, half-rotten posts connected the bank to the larger of the pillars. Halfway up hung an iron ring.

Meanwhile, the foot soldiers had spread out along the bank. Dom Garcia Viegas dismounted, calling for Pêro Ermigues, the captain of the Santa Ireneia crossbowmen. And standing beside Tructesindo’s horse, smiling and taking pleasure in everyone’s surprise and bemusement, he ordered the captain to have six of his strongest men lift the Bastard down from the mule, lay him on the ground and strip him bare, leaving him as naked as he was when his whorish mother brought him into this grim world.

Tructesindo looked at Garcia Viegas, frowning:

‘Surely to God, Dom Garcia, you’re not simply going to drown the villain and sully this innocent water!’

Other knights also protested at such a peaceful and relatively benign death. Dom Garcia’s beady eyes looked around, glittering with triumph and delight:

‘Fear not, gentlemen! I may be old, but the Lord God has not yet deprived me of all my wits. He will neither be hanged nor have his throat cut nor be drowned. He will, gentlemen, be bled very slowly to death by the great leeches that fill this black water!’

Thrilled, Dom Pedro de Castro slapped one armoured thigh:

‘Christ’s blood! Having Senhor Dom Garcia in our company is like having Hannibal and Aristotle all rolled into one, for any advice we could possibly want, be it military or political!’

A murmur of admiration ran through the ranks:

‘An excellent idea!’

And Tructesindo beamed and bellowed:

‘Get to work, crossbowmen! And you, gentlemen, withdraw to the slope of the hill, where the view will be better, for what we are about to see will be a spectacle indeed.’

Six crossbowmen were already lifting the Bastard down from the mule. Others surrounded him, carrying coils of rope. And like butchers skinning a cow, the whole rough crew fell upon the unfortunate man, removing helmet, tunic, greaves, armoured shoes, and finally his thick, filthy undergarments. Held by his long hair and by his feet — into which sharp nails dug as they struggled to hold him fast, his arms gripped by other strong, hard arms — the Bastard still had energy enough to struggle and writhe and roar, spitting reddish foam into the anonymous faces of the rabble.

Among the dark crowd swarming over him, his naked body gleamed white, bound now by still thicker cords. Slowly, grown breathless and hoarse, his furious roaring faded away. And one after the other, the crossbowmen stood up, puffing and panting and wiping the sweat from their brows.

The knights of Spain and Santa Ireneia had, by now, dismounted and stuck their lances in the ground among the rocks and the gorse. Every inch of the slope was packed with men, like the stands at a jousting tournament. On one of the smoother rocks, in the sparse shade of two rather scrawny thornbushes, a pageboy spread out sheepskins for Senhor Dom Pedro de Castro and the Lord of Santa Ireneia. However, only Dom Pedro took advantage of this opportunity to rest, unbuckling his gold-inlaid corselet.

Tructesindo remained erect and silent, his gloved hands resting on the hilt of his long sword, his deep-set eyes fixed eagerly on the gloomy pool that would avenge his son by dealing out a foul and bestial death. And along the edge of the pool, foot soldiers and a few Spanish knights were stirring the muddy water with the tips of arrows or lances, curious to see the black creatures lying hidden in the depths.

Suddenly, at a shout from Dom Garcia, the moving spirit behind the spectacle, all the foot soldiers still gathered round the Bastard drew back to reveal his powerful body, white and naked on the black earth, a thick reddish pelt covering his chest, his manhood smothered in another thicket of reddish hair, and his entire body wound about with hemp cords to keep him immobile. So rigid was he kept by those bindings that not even his ribs rose and fell, only his eyes glowed red, bulging horribly with horror and rage. A few men ran to see the famous man of Baião in his ignoble nakedness. The Lord of Argelim said loudly and mockingly:

‘I knew it! The body of a virgin, with not a mark on it!’ Leonel de Samora scraped the point of his metal shoe along the poor wretch’s shoulder:

‘Regard this Bright Sun about to be extinguished in the blackest of waters!’

The Bastard closed his eyes tight shut, and two large tears rolled slowly down his cheeks. However, a loud cry rang out from the banks:

‘Justice! Justice!’

It was the commanding officer from Santa Ireneia, who was pacing up and down, brandishing his spear, and roaring out:

‘Justice! Let justice be done to that murderous dog by the Lord of Treixedo and Santa Ireneia! Justice for a dog, for the son of a bitch, who committed foul murder and who will die an equally foul death!’

He repeated this cry three times to the men crowding the slope. Then he stopped and bowed humbly to Tructesindo Ramires and old Castro, as if bowing to the judges on their bench.

‘On with it!’ cried the Lord of Santa Ireneia.

Immediately, at a command from Dom Garcia, six crossbowmen, their legs wrapped in thick blankets, lifted the Bastard’s body as if they were lifting a corpse on a sheet and carried it into the water, as far as the tallest of the granite pillars. Others, dragging coils of rope, ran along the slippery wooden walkway. With a shout of, ‘Steady now! Steady! Raise him up!’ the Bastard’s strong white body was, with considerable difficulty, plunged into the water up to the groin, then propped against the pillar, to which he was tied with a long cable looped through the iron ring, leaving him hanging there, as securely as a furled sail tied to the mast. The crossbowmen then scrambled out of the water, immediately tearing off the blankets and rubbing their legs, terrified that some of the bloodsucking beasts might be clinging to them. The others returned along the walkway, pushing and shoving. Lopo de Baião was there on display for that slow, showy death, with the water up to his waist, with cords coiled about him up to his neck, like a slave bound to a post; and one thick lock of his fair hair was caught back on the iron ring, revealing his pale face, so that all could enjoy to the full the humiliating death of that Bright Sun.

The attentive hush of the gathered host waiting on the slopes of the hills made the misty silence of that desolate place still sadder. Not a ripple disturbed the surface of the water, stained black like a rusty sheet of tin. Among the rocky outcrops above, archers had been posted by Dom Garcia to keep watch on the barren lands around. A flock of jays flew past high up, cawing. From the lances stuck in the ground pennants fluttered in the breeze.

To rouse and chivvy the indolent leeches, some foot soldiers were throwing stones into the muddy water. A few of the Spanish knights were already complaining about the time they were wasting in that silent place. Others, to prove that the infamous creatures would never come, went and crouched on the edge of the pool, plunging their bare hands tentatively into the black water, then shaking them dry, laughing and mocking Dom Garcia the Wise. Suddenly, though, a tremor ran through the Bastard’s body; in their furious efforts to break free of their bonds, his powerful muscles squirmed and swelled beneath the cords, like wriggling snakes; through his bared teeth came roars and groans, insults and threats aimed at cowardly Tructesindo and at the whole Ramires race, whom he condemned, within the year, to burn in the fires of Hell. Indignant, one of the Santa Ireneia knights snatched up a crossbow and was about to shoot, when Dom Garcia stopped him:

‘For God’s sake, my friend, don’t deprive the leeches of so much as a single drop of that fresh blood. See how they come!’

A shiver ran through the thick water; around the Bastard’s submerged thighs, large bubbles rose to the surface, and from them a beast emerged, then another and another, glossy and black, undulating through the water and attaching themselves to the white skin of the belly, to which they clung, sucking and growing instantly plumper and glossier with the slowly flowing blood. The Bastard had fallen silent, and his teeth were loudly chattering. Even coarse foot soldiers turned away in disgust, spitting into the gorse bushes. Others, though, urged the creatures on, shouting, ‘Go to it, ladies!’ And gentle Samora de Cendufe protested at such a dull death! Why, a dose of leeches was what you might prescribe for someone with haemorrhoids! This is less like a sentence handed down to a Nobleman, and more like a prescription from a Moorish herbalist!

‘What more do you want, Leonel?’ said Dom Garcia cheerily, glorying in his triumph. ‘This is just the kind of death that will be set down in books! This winter, there won’t be a fireside in all the houses from the Minho to the Douro, where this story won’t be told. Just look at our cousin Tructesindo Ramires! He must have witnessed many a fine scene of torture in his long life as a soldier, but see how he enjoys it, how he stares — how he marvels at it!’

On the hillside, next to his spear, which his standard-bearer had stuck in-between two rocks, and which stood as still as he did, old Ramires did not for a moment take his eyes off the Bastard’s body, so filled was he with fierce delight, with sombre joy. He could never have expected such a magnificent revenge! The man who had bound up his son, had him carried on a litter, then slit his throat before his very eyes, was now shamefully naked and tied up like a pig, bound to a pillar, submerged in filthy water and being bled dry by leeches, while two armies, the very finest in Spain, watched and jeered! That blood, the blood of a hated race, would not be absorbed by the dry, churned-up earth after a day of battle, flowing from an honourable wound made through sturdy armour, no, it would vanish drop by quiet, obscure drop, drunk by those loathsome creatures emerging greedily from the mud and returning, sated, back to the mud, where they would vomit up the proud blood filling them. In a pool, into which he had plunged him, slimy creatures were quietly drinking the knight of Baião! What family feud had ever known a sweeter revenge!

With inexhaustible pleasure, the old man’s cruel heart watched the leeches climbing up and wandering over that securely bound body, like a flock of sheep climbing the hill they graze upon. The man’s belly had already disappeared beneath a black, viscous layer, pulsating and gleaming with warm, wet blood. A row of them were sucking away at his stomach, which was contracted in fear, and from which a slow fringe of blood seeped out. The dense reddish hair on the chest, as dense as a jungle, deterred many of the undulating beasts, which left a trail of mud behind them. A heaving tangle of them were draining blood from one arm. Those who were already swollen and glossy with blood let go and fell softly back into the water; but others hungrily took their places. Blood flowed weakly from the abandoned wounds, held back by the cords, from which it dripped like very light rain. Globules of wasted blood floated in the dark water. And yet even as he was being sucked dry, even as he was oozing blood, the wretch still kept growling out vile insults and threats of death and hellfire against the Ramires race! Then, with a gasp that almost broke the cords, his mouth horribly wide and desperate, he began to shout hoarsely, pleadingly, ‘Water! Water!’ And in his despair, his fingernails, which one cord had pinned against his sturdy thighs, were tearing at his flesh, digging into the open wounds already swimming with blood.

This furious tumult finally faded away into a long, weary groan, until he appeared to have fallen asleep, his beard shining beneath the sweat that covered it like a very heavy dew, his dreadfully pale lips parted in a crazed smile.

As for the crowd scattered over the hillside like spectators at a tournament, their initial barbarous eagerness to observe this new form of torture was beginning to wane. And it was nearly time for their midday rations. The commanding officers of Santa Ireneia and of the Spanish troops ordered the trumpets to sound. Then the whole of that stark wilderness sprang into life as the men set to work as if in an ordinary encampment. The mules carrying the stores of both sides had stopped behind the hills, on a brief scrap of pastureland, where a clear stream dribbled over the pebbles and in among the roots of the weeping alder trees. The famished foot soldiers raced over the rocks to the line of pack-mules where they received from the provisioners and other attendants their allotted slice of meat and large crust of black bread; sitting in the shade of the trees, they ate slowly and silently, scooping water from the stream with wooden bowls. Then they lay down on the grass or set off together up the other hillside, through the scrub, in the hope of finding some prey to hunt and kill. Beside the pool, the knights, sitting on thick blankets around the open saddlebags, were slicing off large chunks of pork meat with their daggers and taking long draughts from plump wineskins.

At the invitation of Dom Pedro de Castro, Dom Garcia the Wise was sitting beside him and eating from a large wooden bowl full of ‘Pope’s cake’, a cake made from honey and fine flour, into which both were slowly dipping their fingers, which they then wiped clean on the lining of their helmets. Only Tructesindo was neither eating nor resting, still erect and silent before his standard, flanked by his two mastiffs, feeling it his cruel duty not to miss a single shudder or moan or dribble of blood in the Bastard’s slow agony. In vain did Dom Pedro offer him a silver pitcher to quench his thirst after that long, hard excursion, praising his own Tordesillas wine as the equal of any from Aquila or Provence. Tructesindo did not even respond, and Dom Pedro de Castro, after throwing two loaves to the faithful hounds, began talking to Garcia Viegas about the Bastard’s stubborn love for Violante Ramires, which had led to so much murder and mayhem.

‘You and I are fortunate, Senhor Dom Garcia! We are too old and tired and spent to be bothered by such temptations. When I was fighting the Moors, a physician once told me that a woman is like a soothing, scented breeze, but one that leaves everything tangled and confused. You only have to see how the men in my family have suffered for them. Driven mad by jealousy, my father stabbed my own sweet mother Estevaninha. And she was a saint, the daughter of the Emperor! Passion can make a man do almost anything. Even die, like this man here, drained dry by leeches before a crowd of men eating and jeering. But what a very long time he is taking to die, Senhor Dom Garcia!’

‘But he is dying, Senhor Dom Pedro de Castro, and with the Devil beside him to carry him off.’

Yes, the Bastard was dying. Bound now by blood-soaked cords, he was a monstrous sight, a scarlet and black ghost covered by the sticky, sucking, pulsating creatures and by the slow threads of blood that flowed from every wound, like water streaming down a blackened wall.

The desperate breathing had stopped as had his anger and any attempt to struggle against his bonds. Limp and inert as a bundle of clothes, his glazed eyes would occasionally open horribly wide and peer about him in uncomprehending horror. Then his head would droop, pale and flaccid, his lips hanging open, his mouth a black hole from which dripped a bloody drool, while from his swollen, closed eyelids there oozed a strange mucus, like tears thickened with blood.

The foot soldiers were returning from their meal and crowding the edges of the pool, staring in astonishment and making cruel jokes at the expense of that hideous body still covered with leeches. The young squires were collecting together blankets and saddlebags. Dom Pedro de Castro had gone down to the edge of the muddy water with Dom Garcia to have a closer view of the man dying this strange death. And a few other gentlemen, bored with the delay, were putting on their coats of mail and muttering, ‘The man’s dead! It’s over.’

Then Garcia Viegas shouted to the captain of the crossbowmen:

‘Ermigues, go and see if there’s any life left in that blood-drenched thing!’

The captain ran along the wooden walkway and, grimacing, touched the livid flesh, then held the blade of his dagger to the man’s mouth.

‘He’s dead!’ he cried.

He was indeed dead. Within its tight bonds, the flesh was turning purple and the body was shrinking, shrivelled, drained, empty. The blood, no longer flowing, was coagulating into dark scabs, where a few shiny leeches were still stubbornly sucking. A few latecomers continued to make the ascent. Two huge creatures were flailing around in one ear. Another obscured an eye. Bright Sun was now nothing but a heap of putrescent ordure. Only the lock of fair hair, caught back in the iron ring, glowed like a flickering flame, like a remnant left behind by that ardent soul now flown.

With his dagger still unsheathed, the captain waved it in the air as he approached Tructesindo, crying:

‘Justice is done, the justice you demanded — the murderous dog is now dead!’

Then Tructesindo shook one hairy, threatening fist and, in a raucous voice that echoed around the rocks and hills, declared:

‘He is dead! And a similarly infamous death awaits any man who treacherously insults me or my family!’

Then, setting stiffly off up the hill through the gorse, he waved to his standard-bearer:

‘Afonso Gomes, sound the horns. And if you so please, Senhor Dom Pedro de Castro, let us to horse once more — for you have been to me a good and loyal cousin and friend!’

Dom Pedro smiled and waved his hand:

‘By the Holy Mother, it has been my pleasure and honour. Yes, to horse. For Senhor Dom Garcia Viegas promises us that we shall reach the walls of Montemor while the sun is still high in the heavens!’

The foot soldiers were already forming into ranks, and the rested horses, made skittish by those murky waters, were being led along the banks by the young squires. With the two standards unfurled — the black goshawk and the thirteen roundels — the cavalcade trotted away up the steep hill, sending loose stones skittering down. At the top, a few knights turned in their saddles to look silently back at the Bastard of Baião, left there to rot, tied to the pillar, in the solitude of the Pego das Bichas. But when the line of crossbowmen and slingsmen trooped past, they hurled shouts and jibes and vile insults at the ‘murderous dog’. Halfway up the slope, a crossbowman turned and unleashed a furious arrow, which only pierced the water. Another followed, along with a stone; the barbed arrow stuck in the Bastard’s side, just above a black knot of leeches. The captain bawled, ‘Close ranks! March!’ The train of pack animals advanced, beneath the crack of whips; the provisioners picked up large stones and flung them at the dead man. Then the peasants driving the carts marched past, in their brief leather kilts and carrying short spears, and the foreman picked up a lump of dung and threw it, hitting the Bastard’s face and smearing his fine golden beard.