Over one long week, during the hottest part of the day, the Nobleman of the Tower worked hard and fruitfully. On that particular morning, after ringing the bell in the corridor, Bento had twice pushed open the library door, informing his master, ‘Lunch is ready and it’s getting cold.’ Gonçalo merely grunted a ‘Yes, I’m coming . . .’ without looking up from the page before him or taking his pen off the paper, the nib flowing ever onwards like a light keel through calm waters, so eager was he to finish his first chapter before lunch.
Ah, but the sheer effort of writing that dense, difficult chapter, with the whole vast Castle of Santa Ireneia to construct, and an entire period of Portugal’s vanished history to condense and hone into robust shape; with the Ramires troops to equip, ensuring that all the saddlebags were full of food, that not so much as a crossbow bolt was missing from the boxes, all of which had to be loaded onto the backs of the mules! Fortunately, the previous evening, he had already moved Lourenço Ramires’ soldiers out of the castle — helmets and lances glittering and the standard fluttering in the breeze — and off on their way to bring aid to Montemor.
And now — at the conclusion of the chapter, night had fallen, the curfew bell had been rung, the beacon lit in the barbican tower, and Tructesindo Ramires had gone down to the ground floor of the castle to take supper — from outside the gates came three loud blasts on a bugle announcing the arrival of some nobleman. Without even asking his master’s permission, the steward let down the drawbridge, its iron chains creaking, to fall with a hollow clatter onto the stone supports. The person arriving in such haste was Mendo Pais, a friend of Alfonso II and the head of his council; he was married to Tructesindo’s oldest daughter, Dona Teresa, the one whose flowing locks, long white neck and light, bird-like step had earned her the title in the Ramires family of the Royal Egret. The Lord of Santa Ireneia ran out into the courtyard to embrace his beloved son-in-law, ‘a burly knight, with reddish hair, and the snow-white skin of the Visigoths . . .’ Hand in hand, they went back into the vaulted room lit by torches fixed to the walls by roughly fashioned iron rings.
Taking pride of place was the heavy oak table, surrounded on all sides by benches, except at the head of the table, where, before a coarse linen cloth set with tin plates and gleaming mugs, stood the seignorial throne — with its crude carving of a goshawk — on which Tructesindo had slung his sword and his silver-damasked belt. Filled now with pine twigs, no fire burned in the vast, soot-blackened fireplace behind the throne, with its mantelpiece adorned with shells, bottles of leeches and two bunches of palms brought from Palestine by Gutierres Ramires the Traveller. To one side of the fireplace, a falcon, still in full feather, dozed on its perch; and below it, on the flagstones, on a bed of reeds, two enormous hounds were also sleeping, snouts resting on their paws, soft ears limp on the ground. In one corner a barrel of wine rested on oak trunks. Between the iron grilles covering two narrow slits in the wall, a monk, his face hidden by his hood, was sitting on a large wooden chest, reading a parchment scroll by the light of a guttering candle. Thus Gonçalo furnished that gloomy Afonsine hall with details stolen from Uncle Duarte, Sir Walter Scott and various stories published in Panorama. Ah, but the effort involved! And, having placed on the monk’s lap a folio printed in Mainz by Ulrich Zell, he had to cross out the whole of that erudite sentence when, thumping the table, he remembered that the printing press had not yet been invented when his ancestor Tructesindo was alive, and that the learned monk would have had to make do with ‘a yellowing manuscript’.
And pacing the echoing flagstones, from the fireplace to the door covered by a leather curtain, Tructesindo, his long white beard spilling over his folded arms, was listening to Mendo Pais, who, as a friend and relative, had journeyed there unaccompanied and armed only with the short sword and saracen dagger hanging from the belt he wore about his grey woollen tunic. Mendo Pais had arrived covered in dust, having travelled in haste from Coimbra to beg his father-in-law, in the name of the King and of the oaths of loyalty Tructesindo had sworn, not to take sides with the Leonese and with the Princesses. And he set out all the arguments brought against them by the learned notaries of the King’s council: the resolutions drawn up by the Council of Toledo, Pope Alexander’s Papal Bull, the ancient Visigothic Code! Besides, what wrong had their royal brother done to his sisters for them to summon the Leonese hosts to the lands of Portugal? None! King Afonso had denied the Princesses neither authority over nor revenue from the castles and towns bequeathed to them by King Sancho. The King’s sole concern was that not an inch of Portuguese soil, whether uncultivated or inhabited, should lie outside his royal command. They called him mean and grasping, but had he not handed over to Dona Sancha eight thousand gold maravedis? And how had his sister shown her gratitude? By allowing the Leonese to cross the border and capture the beautiful castles of Ulgoso, Contrasta, Urros and Lanhoselo! Instead of fighting alongside the Knights of the Cross at the Battle of Las Navas, Gonçalo Mendes, the head of the House of Sousa, had placed himself at the service of the Princesses, and was, like a Moor, laying waste to Portuguese cities from Aguiar to Miranda! And the renegade standard with its thirteen roundlets sable had already been seen flying above the hills of Além-Douro — and, hot on its heels, now came the wolfish pack of Castros! All of this represented a very real threat, and, worse, it came from Christian soldiers fighting against the Kingdom, giving Moors and Muslims free rein in the South! How could the honourable Lord of Santa Ireneia, who had so staunchly helped to create the Kingdom now be a party to its destruction, to helping monks and rebellious princesses to the very finest of its lands! Thus spoke Mendo Pais, pacing furiously up and down and becoming so overheated with effort and emotion that twice he filled a wooden bowl with wine and drank it down in one gulp. Then, wiping his lips with the back of one trembling hand, he said, ‘Yes, by all means, go to Montemor, Senhor Tructesindo Ramires, but go with a message of peace and goodwill to persuade Dona Sancha and the other Princesses to do the honourable thing and once again swear loyalty to the person who is now their father and their King!’
The great Lord of Santa Ireneia stopped pacing and, frowning, fixed his son-in-law with a hard look, his eyebrows as bushy and white as brambles on a frosty morning.
‘I will go to Montemor, Mendo Pais, but I will go there to offer my blood and the blood of my men so that justice shall be done to those who deserve justice.’
Angered by this heroic stance, Mendo Pais said:
‘What can be sadder than that the good blood of good men should be spilled merely out of vile revenge? Know this, Tructesindo Ramires, in Canta-Pedra, Lopo de Baião the Bastard, is waiting with a hundred lances to block your way!’
Tructesindo raised his huge head and gave a laugh so clear, so proud, that the hounds uttered a fearsome growl and the falcon woke up on its perch and slowly stretched one wing.
‘That is good news indeed, and raises my hopes still higher! But tell me, sir, do you bring me such cheering news in order to intimidate me?’
‘To intimidate you? I know perfectly well that you would not be intimidated if the Archangel Michael himself descended from Heaven bearing his flaming sword aloft and with all the heavenly host behind him! But I married into your family, and although I will be of no help to you in this battle, I nonetheless wanted to give you due warning.’
Old Tructesindo clapped his hands to summon his servants:
‘Let us have supper then! Come and dine with us, Brother Múnio! And you too, Mendo Pais. And for the moment, forget your fears.’
‘I will! After all, what possible harm could come to you from a hundred lances coming to meet you on the road — or even two hundred?’
And while the monk was rolling up his parchment scroll, Mendo Pais approached the table, slowly unbuckling his sword belt:
‘Only one thing weighs on me, which is that on this day, you, my own father-in-law, will be at war with the Kingdom and with the King.’
‘My dear son and friend, I may be at war with the Kingdom and with the King, but I will be at peace with my honour and with my soul!’
This proud, loyal cry did not appear in Uncle Duarte’s poem, and when this unexpected burst of inspiration came to him, the Nobleman of the Tower threw down his pen, and gleefully rubbing his hands, cried:
‘There’s talent for you!’
He finished the chapter there and then. He was exhausted, having been at his desk since nine o’clock, reliving with great intensity, and without his breakfast, the magnificently energetic exploits of his powerful ancestors! He numbered the sheets of paper and carefully locked his copy of The Bard away in the drawer. Then, standing at the window, his waistcoat unbuttoned, he boomed out those final words in a gruff, grave voice, just as Tructesindo would have done, ‘I may be at war with the Kingdom and with the King, but I will be at peace with my honour and with my soul!’ And he really did feel stirring within him a true Ramires soul, a twelfth-century Ramires soul, sublimely loyal, truer to his word than a saint to his vows, and, in order to remain true, blithely forfeiting wealth, contentment and life!
Then Bento, who had given one last desperate ring of the bell, flung wide the library door:
‘It’s Pereira, sir. Pereira is downstairs in the courtyard, wanting to speak to you, sir.’
Gonçalo Mendes frowned impatiently at being thus dragged down from the heights where he had breathed the same air as the noble spirits of his ancestors:
‘Oh really! Pereira, you say, but which Pereira?’
‘Pereira, Manuel Pereira from Riosa, the Brazilian.’
Pereira was a farmer with land in Riosa, and was nicknamed the Brazilian because he had inherited twenty contos from an uncle who had travelled the rivers of Pará selling goods to the natives. With the money, Pereira had bought land, taken on the lease of Cortiga, the famous home of the Counts of Monte-Agra, wore a fine frockcoat on Sundays, and had sixty votes on the parish council.
‘Tell him to come up and we can talk over lunch. And set another place at table.’
The dining room, with its three glass doors opening onto a covered verandah, was still adorned — an inheritance from his grandfather Damião (the translator of Valerius Flaccus) — with two beautiful Arras tapestries representing The Expedition of the Argonauts. A vast mahogany cabinet was home to a splendid, albeit motley collection of porcelain from Japan and India, while the still lavish, gleaming remnants of the celebrated Ramires silver — which Bento was constantly, lovingly cleaning and polishing — were displayed on the marble-topped sideboard. However, Gonçalo, especially in Summer, always lunched and dined on the bright, cool balcony, where the floor was covered in matting and the lower halves of the walls were decorated with fine eighteenth-century tiles, and where, in one corner, there was a wickerwork sofa, piled with damask cushions, where one could enjoy a leisurely cigar.
When Gonçalo went in, carrying his as yet unopened morning papers, Pereira was waiting for him, leaning on a large scarlet parasol, staring pensively out at the estate, which stretched as far as the poplar trees on the banks of the stream called Coice and the rolling hills of Valverde. He was a stiff old man, all skin and bone, with a broad, dark, ugly face, tiny blue eyes, and a sparse, already white beard that straggled down over a huge collar held in place by two gold studs. A man of property, accustomed to the city and to dealing with people in authority, he shook hands with the Nobleman of the Tower and nonchalantly accepted the chair drawn up for him at the table, which was dominated by two tall antique cut-glass jugs, one full of lilies, the other of vinho verde.
‘So what fair wind brings you to the Tower, my friend? I haven’t seen you since April!’
‘It’s true, sir, not since that great thunderstorm on the Saturday before the Election!’ said Pereira, stroking the handle of his parasol, which he held between his knees.
Ravenously hungry and eager for his lunch, Gonçalo rang the small silver bell on the table, then, laughing, said:
‘And I assume that as surely as rivers flow down to the sea, your votes, my friend, went, as usual, to the eternal Sanches Lucena!’
Pereira laughed too, a pleasant laugh that revealed his very bad teeth. Well, the constituency did, after all, belong to Senhor Sanches Lucena, who was a wealthy man, decent, knowledgeable and always ready to help. And since he had, in April, also received the backing of the Government, not even if Our Lord Jesus Christ were to return to Earth in order to stand for the seat of Vila Clara, not even He could dislodge Senhor Sanches Lucena!
Wearing a glossy black jacket over his splendid apron, Bento was approaching slowly with a dish of scrambled eggs, when the Nobleman, who had now unfolded his napkin, immediately scrunched it up again and threw it down in disgust:
‘This napkin has been used before! How often must I tell you, I don’t mind a napkin that’s torn or darned or patched, but I want it white and clean every morning and smelling of lavender!’
Then noticing Pereira discreetly shifting his chair away from the table, he said:
‘Aren’t you having any lunch, Pereira?’
No, the Nobleman was most kind, but he would be dining with his son-in-law in Bravais that evening, to celebrate his grandson’s birthday.
‘Bravo! Congratulations, friend Pereira! Give your grandson a kiss from me. But surely you’ll have a glass of vinho verde.’
Gonçalo examined the scrambled eggs only to reject them, demanding ‘a proper family lunch’, always a delicious, lavish affair, beginning with a thick soup made from bread, ham and vegetables, which had been his childhood favourite and which, as a boy, he used to call ‘the big bowl’. Then, buttering a cracker, he said:
‘Well, frankly, Pereira, your Sanches Lucena does the constituency no good at all! True, he’s an excellent fellow, respectable, generous, but silent, absolutely silent!’
Pereira slowly dabbed at his hairy nostrils with a red handkerchief rolled into a ball.
‘He knows his business, he thinks prudently . . .’
‘Yes, but those prudent thoughts don’t emerge from his brain! Besides, he’s really old, Pereira. How old is he now? Sixty?’
‘Sixty-five. But he comes from sturdy stock. His grandfather lived until he was a hundred. I knew him when he was still running the shop . . .’
‘What shop was that?’
Screwing his handkerchief into a still tighter ball, Pereira expressed his surprise at the Nobleman’s ignorance of Sanches Lucena’s origins. His grandfather, Manuel Sanches, had been a linen merchant in Oporto, in Rua das Hortas. And he married an extremely handsome girl, who was always dressed up to the nines.
‘I see,’ broke in Gonçalo. ‘That’s all very praiseworthy. People who grow rich and rise up in the world, I mean. And I agree with you, Pereira, that the constituency should send a man like Sanches Lucena to Lisbon, a man with land, roots, interests, a name, but he should also be a man with talent, with pluck. A deputy who, in important matters, in moments of crisis, stands up and carries the Chamber with him! And in politics, Pereira, it’s the man who shouts loudest who gets the most done. Look at the road to Riosa, for example! It’s never got further than the drawing board, but if Sanches Lucena was the kind of man who would shout a little louder in Parliament, your carts would be creaking down that road right now.’
Pereira shook his head sadly.
‘You may be right. We do need someone to speak up for that road to Riosa. Yes, perhaps you’re right.’
The Nobleman had fallen silent, concentrating on the delicious-smelling soup served up in a tureen and garnished with sprigs of mint. Then Pereira drew his chair closer, gripped the edge of the table with hands that half a century of working the land had made black and hard as roots, and explained that the reason he had dared to trouble the Nobleman, even interrupting his lunch, was because they would be beginning to cut some timber over near Sandim that week, and before other such matters got in the way, he wanted to talk to him about renting the land belonging to the Tower.
Gonçalo paused, spoon in mid-air, a look of pleased astonishment on his face:
‘You want to rent the land around the Tower, Pereira?’
‘Yes, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Now that Relho has been dismissed . . .’
‘But I’ve already spoken to Casco about it, José Casco from Bravais! We pretty much agreed a price some days ago, no, more than a week ago now.’
Pereira scratched his sparse beard, slowly, deliberately. That was a shame, a great shame . . . He had only found out on Saturday about the upset with Relho. If it wouldn’t be breaking a confidence, how much rent was he intending to charge?
‘There’s nothing confidential about it, old man! I’m charging nine hundred and fifty mil-réis.’
Pereira took his tortoise-shell snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket and inhaled a large pinch of the stuff, meanwhile staring down at the floor. That was a great shame, especially for the Nobleman. Still, if he’d given his word . . . It really was a shame, though, because he genuinely liked the land; he had considered approaching him in June, and even though times were hard, he might be able to offer one thousand and fifty or even one thousand one hundred and fifty mil-réis!
In his excitement, Gonçalo forgot about the soup, and his slender face flushed scarlet at the prospect of such an increase in rent, and of renting the land to such a wealthy man too, a man with money in the bank and who was, to boot, the best farmer in the area!
‘Are you serious, Pereira?’
The old farmer set the snuffbox firmly down on the tablecloth:
‘Sir, I would not joke with you about such a matter. It’s a serious offer, and I can have the contract drawn up as soon as you like, but since you’ve already reached an agreement . . .’
He had picked up his snuffbox again and was resting one large hand on the table prior to getting up, when Gonçalo, nervously pushing away his plate, said:
‘Listen, I haven’t given you all the details of my discussions with Casco. You know how these things are: Casco came, we talked, I asked for nine hundred and fifty mil-réis and a pig at Christmas-time. Initially, he agreed, then he said no. He came back with a friend, then he came back again with that same friend, his wife, his godson and his dog! Then he came again on his own. He walked around the land, measuring it and sniffing the earth; I think he may even have tasted it. You know what Casco’s like! Then, finally, one afternoon, he gave in and agreed to the nine hundred and fifty mil-réis, but no pig. I gave way on the pig. We shook hands, drank a glass of wine, and he said he’d be back shortly to sort out the lease. I haven’t seen him since, and that was nearly two weeks ago! He’s probably changed his mind, gone back on his word. In short, I have no firm agreement with Casco. We simply had a conversation in which we established, as a basis, a rent of nine hundred and fifty mil-réis. I hate matters being left so vague, and I was already thinking of looking for someone better.’
Pereira was scratching his chin uneasily. When it came to business deals, he liked absolute clarity. He had always got on well with Casco. And he would not for all the world want to interfere in an agreement made with Casco, who could be violent and quick to anger. So to avoid any subsequent unpleasantness, he wanted to be quite clear. If no contract had been signed, fine, but hadn’t the Nobleman and Casco both given their word?
Gonçalo Mendes Ramires, who had rapidly finished his soup and filled his glass with wine to calm himself, shot Pereira an almost stern look.
‘What a question! If I had given Casco my word, the word of Gonçalo Ramires, do you think I would even be discussing renting the land with you now?’
Pereira bowed his head. This was true. In that case, he would make his offer. And since he knew the property and had already made a valuation, he would offer the Nobleman one thousand one hundred and fifty mil-réis, but no pig. He would not keep the family provided with milk, vegetables or fruit either. The Nobleman, being a bachelor, didn’t really need it. An ancient household like the Tower, however, inevitably swarmed with servants and other hangers-on. They all took their share, they all abused their situation. Anyway, that was his offer. Besides, the orchard and the vegetable patch provided enough for the Nobleman and even for his staff. Both the orchard and the vegetable patch required a little more care too, and he, out of love for the Nobleman and simply for his own pleasure, would sort it out and leave it immaculate. As for any other conditions, he accepted those set out in the old lease. They could sign the contract next week, on Saturday. Was it a deal?
After a moment during which he blinked nervously, tremulously, Gonçalo held out his hand to Pereira.
‘Yes, let’s shake on it. You have my word.’
‘And may the good Lord bless it,’ added Pereira, leaning hard on his parasol in order to get to his feet. ‘So, we’ll meet on Saturday, then, in Oliveira, to sign the contract. Will you be signing it or will Father Soeiro?’
The Nobleman was thinking.
‘No, it can’t be Saturday. I will be in Oliveira on Saturday, but it’s my sister’s birthday . . .’
Giving a fond smile, Pereira once again revealed his bad teeth.
‘Ah, and how is Senhora Dona Maria da Graça? I haven’t seen her for ages! Not since last year, at the procession of the Stations of the Cross in Oliveira. An excellent lady and always so friendly! And Senhor José Barrolo? Another truly excellent person. And that estate of his, Ribeirinha! It has the best land for twenty leagues around! Beautiful! His neighbour André Cavaleiro’s estate, Biscaia, is nothing in comparison, it would be like comparing a thistle to a cabbage.’
The Nobleman of the Tower was peeling a peach and smiling.
‘Nothing of André Cavaleiro’s is any good, neither his land nor his soul!’
Pereira seemed surprised. He imagined that the Nobleman and Cavaleiro were still close friends. Not as regards politics, but privately, man to man.
‘What me and Cavaleiro? No, we’re not close politically or otherwise. He’s a horse, and a contrary one at that.’
Pereira did not respond, staring down at the tablecloth. Then, summing up, he said:
‘So that’s all arranged then, we’ll meet on Saturday, in Oliveira. And if it’s all right with you, we can call in and see the notary Guedes and get everything signed and sealed. You, of course, will be at your sister’s house . . .’
‘Yes, come over at three o’clock, and we can talk to Father Soeiro about it.’
‘It’s been an age since I saw Father Soeiro too!’
‘The ungrateful wretch hardly ever comes to the Tower now. He’s always in Oliveira with my sister, who is the apple of his eye. Can I not even tempt you to a glass of port, Pereira? All right, until Saturday then. And don’t forget to give your grandson a kiss from me.’
‘I certainly won’t, sir. How could I? And please don’t get up. I know the way, and I’ll pop into the kitchen for a chat with Rosa. I’ve known everyone here at the Tower since your father, God rest him, was living here. And I always hoped to have the pleasure of one day seeing the land around here cultivated the way it should be!’
Over coffee, with the newspapers lying forgotten beside him, Gonçalo was still savouring that excellent deal. Two hundred mil-réis more in rent. And with the land around the Tower being cultivated by Pereira, whose agricultural expertise and love for the soil had transformed the barren lands of Monte-Agra into a marvel of wheatfields, vineyards and vegetable plots! Besides which, he was wealthy enough to be able to pay in advance. And the fact that such a canny, careful man as Pereira should be so eager to rent the land was further proof of the Tower’s worth. He almost regretted not having wheedled more out of him, say, one thousand two hundred mil-réis. Anyway, it had been a very profitable morning! And there really was no written agreement binding him to Casco. They had merely had a conversation about the possibility of him renting the land, a possibility to be discussed in more detail later, on the new basis of a rent of nine hundred and fifty mil-réis. And how foolish it would have been for him, out of some scrupulous sense of respect for a vague conversation, to have turned down Pereira and stuck with Casco, a mere labourer, the sort who scrapes a living from the soil, leaving it poorer with each year that passes, depleted and drained.
‘Bento, bring me my cigars! And tell Joaquim to have the mare saddled and ready for half past five. I’m going to Feitosa! Today’s the day!’
He lit a cigar and returned to the library. He immediately reread that magnificent last line, ‘I may be at war with the Kingdom and with the King, but I will be at peace with my honour and with my soul!’ Ah, in those words lay the soul of the Portuguese as they used to be, with an almost religious devotion to their word and their honour! And still holding the sheet of paper, he stood on the balcony, looking out at the Tower, at the dusty arrow slits with their iron grilles, at the sturdy battlements, still intact, and around which a flock of pigeons now fluttered. On how many mornings, in the cool of dawn, had old Tructesindo leaned on those battlements, then new and white! All the land round about, whether cultivated or not, would doubtless have belonged to the great man. And Pereira, who, at the time, would have been either a tenant or a serf, would only have dared to approach his master on his knees and trembling. He would certainly not have offered him a resounding one thousand one hundred and fifty mil-réis. Then again, of course, Tructesindo would not have needed the money. Whenever the money chests were growing empty, and his dependents were beginning to mutter about not being paid, the great man could always raid the ill-defended granaries and wine-cellars of the nearby villages, or, at a bend in the road, he could ambush a steward returning from collecting the royal rents or a Genovese peddler of knicknacks, his mules laden with merchandise. Underneath the Tower (or so his father had told him), lay the dark feudal dungeon, now full of rubble, where you could still see the chains fixed to the pillars and, on the vaulted roof, the ring from which the victims of strappado would be hung, and the holes in the flagstones where the rack had once stood. And in that dank, silent cave, stewards, peddlers, clerics and even members of the bourgeoisie from other towns would have howled and screamed beneath the whip or on the rack, until, as they lay dying, they gave up their very last maravedi. Ah, how much pain and torment had it seen, that romantic Tower of which Videirinha had sung so sweetly in the moonlight?
Then suddenly, with a shout, Gonçalo snatched up a volume by Sir Walter Scott and flung it pitilessly, like a stone, at the trunk of a beech tree. He had spotted Rosa the cook’s cat climbing up, claws gripping the branch, back arched, to raid a blackbird’s nest.
When, that evening, the Nobleman of the Tower, elegant in his new riding outfit, polished leather gaiters and white suede gloves, stopped outside the door of Feitosa, an old man in ragged clothes, with shoulder-length hair and a long, straggly beard, immediately got up from the stone bench where he was eating some slices of sausage and drinking from a gourd, to inform him that Senhor Sanches Lucena and Senhora Dona Ana had gone out for a ride in the carriage. Gonçalo asked the old man to ring the bell for him. And handing a visiting card to the young servant who opened the elaborately gilded wrought-iron gate on which the letters S and L were intertwined above the coronet of a count, he asked:
‘Is Senhor Sanches Lucena well?’
‘Yes, sir, he’s a little better now . . .’
‘Has he been unwell, then?’
‘Yes, sir, three or four weeks ago, he was gravely ill.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Please do tell your master how very sorry I am to hear that.’
He summoned the old man who had rung the bell, intending to reward him. And, intrigued by the man’s long beard and hair, like that of some beggar out of a melodrama, he asked:
‘Do you beg for alms locally?’
The man looked up at him with bleary eyes, reddened by the dust and the sun, but cheerful too, almost contented.
‘I sometimes visit the Tower too, sir. And thanks be to God, they treat me very well there.’
‘The next time you visit, tell Bento . . . you know Bento, don’t you?’
Of course he did, and Senhora Rosa too.
‘Well, tell Bento to give you some trousers! The ones you’re wearing now are barely decent.’
The old man smiled, a slow, toothless smile and looked proudly down at the filthy rags flapping about shins blacker and barer than branches in winter.
‘Yes, they’re a bit the worse for wear, but Dr Júlio says they suit me like this. Whenever I go by his house, he always takes my picture with his camera. Just last week in fact. He even took one of me with chains on my wrists and with me holding up a sword. He said he was going to show it to the Government.’
Laughing, Gonçalo spurred on his mare. He was thinking now of riding a little further on to Valverde, then coming back via Vila Clara, hoping to tempt Gouveia over to the Tower to share the meal of spit-roasted goat to which he had already invited Manuel Duarte and Titó last night at the club. However, as he crossed Cruz das Almas, where the lovely, poplar-lined road to Corinde meets the hill leading to Valverde, he stopped, noticing, in the distance, over towards Corinde, the seemingly confused encounter of a wagonload of wood, a butcher’s cart, a gesticulating woman wearing a scarlet headscarf and mounted on a donkey, and two farm labourers carrying hoes. Then, suddenly, the whole conglomeration broke up — the woman trotting away on her donkey and disappearing behind some trees; the cart jolting off amid a small cloud of dust; the wagon proceeding on its creaking way to Cruz das Almas; and the labourers heading down across a haymeadow to another field. The only person left on the road was a man, apparently helpless; he had his jacket slung over his shoulder and was limping slowly, painfully along. Curious, Gonçalo rode over to him.
‘What’s wrong? What happened to you?’
Resting all his weight on one leg, the man looked up at Gonçalo, almost fainting, his face contorted with pain and running with sweat.
‘A very good afternoon to you, sir! What else could it be, but one of life’s misfortunes!’
And still wincing, he told his tale. For some months he had had a sore on his ankle, which refused to heal, despite the application of poultices, myrtle powder and special charms . . . And he was just walking over to Dr Júlio’s place, to repair some steps for a friend of his who had malaria, when, bam, a rock came loose and struck his bad leg, scraping the skin, grazing the bone and leaving him in the sorry state he found himself in now. He had even torn off his shirt tail to staunch the bleeding before binding up the wound with his scarf.
‘But you can’t possibly walk like that, man. Where do you live?’
‘In Corinde, sir. My name’s Manuel Solha from the hamlet of Finta. I’ll get there somehow or other.’
‘And what about all those people who were here just now? Could none of them help you? There was a cart and two great strapping men . . .’
A sudden movement, a stubborn attempt to put weight on his injured leg, made the man cry out. Yet he still managed to smile, even though the pain had left him gasping for breath. What did the Nobleman expect? We all have our lives to live, although the girl on the donkey had promised to go to Finta to tell his people. And perhaps one of his boys would ride over on the mare he had bought at Easter, and which, alas, was also lame!
The Nobleman of the Tower immediately jumped lightly down from his horse.
‘One mare is as good as another, so here’s mine . . .’
Solha stared at Gonçalo open-mouthed.
‘Good Lord, sir. You mean I should ride while you walk?’
Gonçalo laughed.
‘Look, with all this talk about who’s walking and who’s riding, all this “please, sir” and “no, sir”, we’re losing precious time. Get into the saddle, keep your seat and off you go to Finta!’
‘No, sir, I can’t do it. I’d rather stay here and starve, with my wound going bad on me.’
Gonçalo stamped his foot authoritatively.
‘Up you get! And those are orders. You’re a mere labourer with a hoe, and I’m a graduate from Coimbra University. I know what I’m doing and I’m the one giving the orders.’
Submitting at once to this dazzling display of Superior Knowledge, Solha silently grabbed the horse’s mane, respectfully put one foot in the stirrup, helped by Gonçalo, who, without bothering to remove his white gloves, carefully supported Solha’s other bandaged, bloodstained foot.
Then, once he was in the saddle, Solha gave a sigh of relief.
‘All right?’ asked Gonçalo.
The man merely murmured the name of Our Lord, in gratitude and astonishment at such kindness.
‘This is the world gone mad, sir, with me up here, riding your mare, and you, the Nobleman of the Tower, walking along below!’
Gonçalo made light of the matter. And to pass the time, he asked about Dr Júlio’s estate, where major works were being carried out and a vineyard planted. Then, since Manuel Solha knew Pereira the Brazilian (who had considered renting Dr Júlio’s land), they talked about that intelligent man, and about the wonders of his house, Cortiga. Relaxed now, sitting upright in the saddle, enjoying this easy conversation with the Nobleman of the Tower, Solha forgot about the wound and the pain, which was diminishing. Beside him, attentive and smiling, the Nobleman walked briskly along in the white dust.
Thus engaged, they approached Bica-Santa, one of the most famous places in that lovely area. There the road, cut out from the hillside, grows wider to form an airy terrace, and you can see the whole valley of Corinde, so rich in farmhouses, trees, wheatfields and streams. And that hill, thick with oak trees and moss-covered rocks, is home to a celebrated spring, whose waters, in the days of King João V, were said to be a cure for stomach ailments; so revered were its waters that a devout lady from Corinde, Dona Rosa Miranda Carneiro, had ordered a marble tank to be built and for the water to be channelled from on high so that it now beneficently flows through a bronze spout, beneath the image and protection of Santa Rosa de Lima. Around the tank are two long curved stone benches, shaded by the oak trees’ spreading branches. It provides a quiet retreat where people can pick violets, enjoy a picnic, and on Sunday afternoons, ladies from the surrounding area come as a group to listen to the blackbirds and enjoy the view over the bright, verdant, well-populated valley.
However, before it reaches Bica-Santa, close to the village of Serdal, the Corinde road bends sharply, and it was there that the mare pulled up short, obliging the Nobleman of the Tower, unsure of Solha’s horsemanship, to grab hold of the reins. A carriage suddenly appeared, a caleche upholstered in blue and drawn by a pair of horses covered in white netting to keep off the flies. Sitting very erect in the driver’s seat was a moustachioed coachman, wearing a uniform with a scarlet collar and a hat with a yellow hatband. Gonçalo was still holding the mare’s reins, like a helpful muleteer on a dangerous path, when he spotted old Sanches Lucena sitting on one of the stone benches next to the spring, a blanket over his knees. Beside him, a footman was crouched down, using a clump of grass to clean the boot that Dona Ana was holding out to him, leaning forward slightly as she caught up her linen dress with one hand and rested her other gloveless hand on her slender waist.
The disconcerting sight of the Nobleman of the Tower tugging at the reins of his mare, while a labourer in shirtsleeves sat happily ensconced in the saddle, shattered the sleepy peace of Bica-Santa. Sanches Lucena stared goggle-eyed, as did his glasses, and curiosity brought him suddenly to his feet, craning his neck, his blanket slipping onto the grass. Quickly withdrawing her boot, Dona Ana adopted the dignified pose one would expect of the mistress of Feitosa, and, as if it were a sceptre, grasped the gold handle of her gold lorgnette, which hung on a gold chain. Even the footman smiled in astonishment at Solha.
However, with his usual nonchalant elegance, Gonçalo immediately greeted Dona Ana, enthusiastically shook Sanches Lucena’s startled hand, and gaily congratulated himself on such a fortunate encounter! He had just come from Feitosa, where, much to his dismay, he had been informed by a servant, who was doubtless exaggerating, that the deputy had been unwell. So, how was he? He looked the picture of health!
‘Isn’t that right, Dona Ana! A perfect picture of health!’
With a slight coquettish turn of her head — which sent a soft tremor through the white feathers on her red straw hat — she said in a slow, deep, affected voice that made Gonçalo cringe:
‘Sanches’ health, thank heavens, is much improved.’
‘Yes, it is a little improved,’ murmured the thin, hunched old man, drawing his blanket back over his knees. ‘Thank you for asking.’
Then — so ablaze with curiosity that a blush almost covered his waxen features — he fixed his glinting glasses on Gonçalo.
‘Forgive me, sir, but what are you doing here on the road to Corinde, on foot and with a farm labourer mounted on your horse?’
Smiling, especially at Dona Ana, whose wonderfully dark, deep, liquid eyes, so serious and reserved, were also awaiting an answer, Gonçalo explained what had happened to the poor man, whom he had found on the road, in terrible pain and dragging his injured leg.
‘So I offered him my mare. And if you will allow me, I must arrange for him to continue his journey.’
He went back over to Solha, who, intimidated by the presence of the master and mistress of Feitosa, at first sat hunched on the saddle, hat in hand, as if trying to appear smaller, and then made as if to take his feet out of the stirrups in order to dismount. Gonçalo, however, told him to ride straight to Finta and send one of his sons back with the mare to Santa-Bica, where he intended to linger a while with the deputy. And when Solha set off, turning round in the saddle and bowing madly, as if propelled reluctantly onwards by the Nobleman’s friendly smiles and waves, Sanches Lucena gave voice to his astonishment.
‘Well, really! The last thing I expected to see was Senhor Gonçalo Mendes Ramires walking to Corinde, holding the reins, while a labourer rode beside him on his horse. It’s the Good Samaritan all over again, only even better!’
Gonçalo laughed and sat down on the bench next to Sanches Lucena. He was sure that the Good Samaritan could not have deserved such a favourable mention in the Gospel simply for offering his donkey to an ailing Levite; he must have done far more virtuous things than that. Then smiling at Dona Ana, who was seated on the other side of Sanches Lucena and peering, with majestic slowness, through her lorgnette at the trees and the spring with which she was already more than familiar, he said:
‘It must be two years, Senhora, since I had the honour . . .’
But Sanches Lucena let out a cry:
‘Sir, you have blood on your hand!’
Startled, the Nobleman looked down. There were two dark red stains on his white suede glove.
‘Oh, it’s not my blood. It must have happened when I helped Solha onto my horse with his injured foot . . .’
He tore off the soiled glove and flung it into the weeds growing up behind the stone bench. Then, still smiling, he went on:
‘No, I haven’t had the honour of meeting you, Senhora, since that ball put on by the Baron das Marges in Oliveira, his famous Carnival Ball. Yes, that was more than two years ago, when I was still a student. I remember that you were splendidly dressed as Catherine of Russia . . .’
And even while he enfolded her in the gaze of his fine, affectionately smiling eyes, he was thinking, ‘She’s certainly a gorgeous creature, but so vulgar. And that voice!’ Dona Ana also remembered the ball.
‘You’re mistaken, kind sir. I wasn’t dressed as a Russian, but as an Empress.’
‘Yes, yes, the Empress of Russia, Catherine the Great. And so tastefully dressed too, such a lavish costume!’
Sanches Lucena slowly turned his gold-rimmed spectacles on Gonçalo, wagging one long, pale finger.
‘And I remember that your sister, Senhora Dona Graça, was dressed as a peasant from Viana. Oh, it was a wonderful party, wasn’t it, but then Marges always takes such pains over everything. And you know, I haven’t spoken to your good sister since. I’ve only glimpsed her from afar at mass.’
Besides, he spent little time in Oliveira now, even though he had a house there and servants and stables, because, whether it was the fault of the air or the water, he didn’t know, but life in the town simply didn’t seem to suit him.
Gonçalo’s ears pricked up.
‘Oh, really, sir. What’s been the trouble?’
Sanches Lucena gave a bitter smile. The doctors in Lisbon couldn’t agree. Some said it was his stomach, others his heart, but there was clearly something amiss with some vital organ. And he suffered such terrible bouts of pain. Fortunately, with God’s grace, a sensible diet and plenty of milk and rest, he hoped to survive for a few more years.
‘Of course you will!’ cried Gonçalo gaily. ‘But don’t you think that perhaps spending time in Lisbon, in Parliament, engaged in politics, the murky world of politics, might be too tiring, too agitating . . .’
No, on the contrary, Sanches Lucena always felt rather well in Lisbon, better even than at home, at Feitosa. Besides, Parliament was a distraction, and then too he still had friends in the capital, a very select circle of friends, of course . . .
‘I’m sure you know one of these excellent people — a relative of yours, Dom João de Pedrosa.’
Gonçalo knew neither the man nor the name, but he nevertheless murmured politely:
‘Ah, yes, Dom João . . .’
And stroking his white whiskers with one bony, almost transparent hand, on which glittered a sapphire signet ring, Sanches Lucena went on:
‘And not just Dom João either. Another of our friends is a close relative of yours too. We’ve often spoken of you and your house, for he also belongs to the first rank of nobility — Arronches Manrique.’
‘Such a dear man, so charming, so amusing!’ added Dona Ana, with an enthusiasm that caused her chest to rise and fall, her tight bodice emphasising the youth and perfection of her figure.
Gonçalo had never heard of that high-sounding name either, but he didn’t hesitate to say:
‘Oh, yes, of course, Manrique. But you know, I have so many relatives in Lisbon and I go there so rarely. And what about you, Senhora Dona Ana . . .’
Sanches Lucena, however, was still relishing this conversation about noble relatives.
‘Naturally, you have many historic family connections in Lisbon, indeed, you are, I believe, the cousin of the Duke de Lourençal . . . Duarte Lourençal! As a supporter of Dom Miguel, or perhaps out of habit, he doesn’t use his title, but he’s still the legitimate Duke de Lourençal, and represents the House of Lourençal.’
Smiling attentively, Gonçalo had unbuttoned his jacket and was feeling for his old leather cigar case.
‘Ah, Duarte, of course. Yes, we are cousins, at least he says we are and I believe him. But I understand so little about family trees! In fact all the noble families of Portugal are so mixed up that we’re all related in some way, not through Adam, but through the Visigoths. And what about you, Dona Ana, do you prefer life in Lisbon?’
Then, realising that he had taken out a cigar and distractedly bitten off the end without asking her permission, he said:
‘Oh, forgive me, Senhora. I was about to smoke without even asking if you . . .’
She nodded, lowering her long eyelashes:
‘The gentleman is perfectly at liberty to smoke. Sanches doesn’t smoke, but I rather like the smell.’
Gonçalo thanked her, repelled by her coarse, affected tones, and the awful way she addressed him in the third person, but all the while thinking, ‘What beautiful skin! What a lovely creature!’ And Sanches Lucena continued inexorably on, again wagging one thin finger:
‘The person I know best, though, is not Senhor Dom Duarte Lourençal, for I have not yet had that honour, but his brother, Senhor Dom Filipe. An estimable gentleman, as you no doubt know. And such a talented cornet-player too.’
‘Really?’
‘You mean you’ve never heard your cousin, Senhor Dom Filipe Lourençal, play the cornet?’
Even the lovely Dona Ana grew animated at this, the languid smile on her full lips, as red as ripe cherries, revealing her small, white, gleaming teeth.
‘Oh, he plays wonderfully well. Sanches loves music, and so do I. But, of course, here in the village, there are so few . . .’
Gonçalo flung down his match and exclaimed with genuine enthusiasm:
‘Oh, but you should hear my friend, Videirinha — he plays the guitar sublimely.’
Sanches Lucena was bemused by both the name and its vulgarity. But Gonçalo said simply:
‘He’s a great friend of mine, from Vila Clara. José Videira, the pharmacist’s assistant.’
Sanches Lucena’s glasses grew even rounder with amazement.
‘A pharmacist’s assistant, the friend of Senhor Gonçalo Mendes Ramires!’
Yes, they had been friends ever since they were at school together. Videirinha even used to spend the holidays at the Tower with his mother, who was the household’s seamstress. Such a genuine, good-hearted lad. And a real genius on the guitar.
‘He’s written a terrific ballad entitled The Fado of the Ramires. The music is from a well-known Coimbra fado, but he wrote the words, which are all about my ancestors, their legends and other doubtless apocryphal stories. And it’s just brilliant. He was at the Tower just a few days ago, Titó was there as well.’
Sanches Lucena was equally taken aback by this childish name.
‘Titó?’
The Nobleman laughed:
‘That’s our nickname for António Vilalobos.’
Then Sanches Lucena opened wide his arms, as though some beloved person had just appeared on the road before him:
‘Oh, António Vilalobos! Why, he’s one of our best and most loyal friends! An excellent gentleman! He favours us with a visit almost every week.’
Now it was the Nobleman’s turn to be astonished — Titó had never once mentioned this friendship — not at Gago’s or at the Tower or at the club — when the name of Sanches Lucena was being bandied about during their political discussions.
‘Oh, so you know . . .’
Dona Ana, who had suddenly sprung to her feet and was now bending down to pick up her glove and her parasol, reminded her husband how cold it could get in the late afternoon, with the mist rising up from the warm valley:
‘You know how bad it is for you. And it’s not good for the horses either, standing there all this time.’
And Sanches Lucena immediately, fearfully, drew from his pocket a thick white silk scarf to wrap around his neck. Fearful for the horses too, he rose unsteadily from the bench and gave a weary wave to the footman to pick up the blanket and tell the coachman to get ready. Then, bent and leaning heavily on his stick, he walked back over to the balustrade that separated the road from the steep drop down into the valley. And he confessed to Gonçalo that this was his favourite walk in the area. Not just because it was beautiful — for its praises had already been sung by ‘our own dear Cunha Torres’ — but because he could sit there on the stone bench, enjoying an unimpeded view of all his lands.
‘You see over there, beyond that wood, as far as the plain and the hill behind it, where that big yellow house is, and beyond the pine forest, well, that’s all mine. The pine forest is mine too. Over there, from the line of poplars onwards, beyond the flood plain, that’s mine as well. The land by the little church belongs to Monte-Agra, but further on, past the oak copse and on up the hill, that’s all mine too!’
The thin, pale finger, the bony arm sticking out from the sleeve of his black cashmere jacket, reached out over the valley. The pastures, the fields of rye, the heath, it was all his. And behind that scrawny, broken figure, with his hat pulled well down on his head, his silk scarf wrapped about his protruding ears, stood Dona Ana, as slender and healthy and clear as a marble statue, a dreamy smile on her greedy lips, her magnificent bosom filling with pride; she was accompanying this long enumeration, her lorgnette fixing on each pasture, pine forest and field, and thinking, ‘It’s all mine!’
‘And over there, behind the olive grove,’ concluded Sanches Lucena respectfully, ‘that is all yours, Senhor Gonçalo Mendes Ramires.’
‘Mine?’
‘Yes, yours, sir, or rather, your family’s. Don’t you recognise it? The road to Santa Maria de Craquede runs behind the windmill. That’s where the tombs of your ancestors lie. Another of my favourite walks. Just a month ago, we paid a long visit to the ruins, and I was most impressed. The ancient fragment of cloister, the great stone tombs, the sword hanging from the vault above the central tomb. It’s really very moving. And I thought it quite beautiful, a sign of real filial respect on your part, to have that bronze lamp kept burning day and night.’
Gonçalo smiled and mumbled a response, because he had no memory of a sword and had never ordered anyone to keep the lamp burning. However, Sanches Lucena was now asking a particular favour of Senhor Gonçalo Mendes Ramires, which was to give them the honour of driving him back to the Tower in their carriage. Gonçalo hurriedly declined. No, really, he couldn’t. He had arranged with the injured man to wait there for his mare to be returned.
‘My footman will wait here and bring your mare to the Tower.’
‘No, if you’ll forgive me, I would prefer to wait. I’ll take the short cut via Crassa afterwards, because Titó is expecting me at the Tower at eight o’clock.’
Standing in the middle of the road, Dona Ana urged her husband to hurry up, reminding him again of the imminent cold and damp of night. Resting one bone-thin hand on his sunken chest, Sanches Lucena still insisted on telling Gonçalo that this had been an unforgettable afternoon for him.
‘Because I have seen a truly rare sight: Portugal’s greatest nobleman walking along the road to Corinde, leading his horse, while a labourer sat astride it!’
Helped by Gonçalo, he finally climbed awkwardly into the carriage. Dona Ana was already installed among the cushions, holding in her hands, like a sceptre, the gleaming handle of her gold lorgnette. The footman also took up his position at the rear and folded his arms; then the luxurious caleche, along with the horses’ gleaming white harness, plunged beneath the outspread branches of the beech trees, into the silence and darkness.
‘What a bore!’ exclaimed Gonçalo, regretting the waste of such a lovely afternoon. Sanches Lucena was simply unbearable, such a name-dropper and so proud of his ‘select circle’ and of all his possessions — ogling them over hill and dale! His wife was undeniably a splendid piece of flesh — as befitted a butcher’s daughter — but she hadn’t a smidgen of grace or soul. And her voice, dear God, what a voice! Such pedants, such sycophants. All he wanted now was to get his mare back and gallop home to the Tower, where he could vent his feelings on Titó — that apparently intimate friend of Feitosa — and his disgust for all things Sanchesian.
The mare soon arrived, ridden at a fast trot by Solha’s son, who, when he saw the Nobleman, immediately dismounted, bowing and blushing and stammering his thanks, hat in hand, saying that his father had reached home safely and asking Our Lady to repay him for his kindness.
‘Yes, all right, all right. Give my regards to your father and wish him a swift recovery. I’ll send someone over to ask how he is.’
Then he leaped onto his horse and galloped off down the easy path to Crassa. However, when he reached the Tower, he found one of Gago’s boys with a message from Titó, saying that he could not dine with him that night at the Tower because he was leaving for Oliveira that week!
‘What nonsense! I’m leaving for Oliveira too, but I’m still having supper tonight! He could even go with me in the carriage. What was Senhor Dom António doing when you left him?’
The boy thoughtfully scratched his head.
‘He came to our house so that I could bring you the message, sir. I think he must be going to a party, because he went into Cosme’s shop to buy some firecrackers.’
These unexpected firecrackers filled the Nobleman with intense envy.
‘And do you know where the party is?’
‘I don’t know, sir, but it must be quite a do, because Senhor João Gouveia ordered two big plates of rissoles from the cook.’ Rissoles! Gonçalo felt as bitter as if he had been betrayed.
The ingrates!
Then he thought of a delightful way to have his revenge.
‘Well, if you see Senhor Dom António or Senhor João Gouveia later today, be sure to send them my regrets, and tell them that I’m holding a big party at the Tower tonight, with lots of ladies present, including Senhora Dona Ana Lucena. Don’t forget, will you?’
Gonçalo ran up the stairs, laughing at his own brilliance. That night, though, at nine o’clock, after a slow, tedious supper with Manuel Duarte, he went into the portrait gallery, barely lit by the gilded lamp in the corridor, to fetch a box of cigars. Happening to glance out of the open window, he saw a man down below in the shadows cast by the poplar trees, prowling around and spying all about him. When he looked more closely, he thought he recognised Titó’s powerful shoulders and bovine gait, but it couldn’t possibly be him. The man was wearing a hooded jacket. Feeling curious, he tiptoed over to the balcony, but the figure had already headed off down the road, vanishing under the trees along a lane that ran past the Mirandas’ place to emerge further on in Portela, next to the first houses in Vila Clara.