The latest issue of the Gazeta do Porto, with that vengeful letter, was due to break over Oliveira on Wednesday morning, the day of cousin Maria Mendonça’s birthday. While Gonçalo (protected by his pseudonym Juvenal) was not afraid of having some kind of ugly confrontation with Cavaleiro in the streets of the town, or even with one of Cavaleiro’s servile bully boys (for instance, Marcolino from O Independente), he nevertheless decided to withdraw discreetly to Santa Ireneia on Tuesday, on horseback, with Barrolo accompanying him as far as Vendinha, where both sampled the white wine recommended by Titó. Then, in order to revisit the memorable places where, in his Novella, Lourenço Ramires and the Bastard of Baião so disastrously crossed swords, he took the road that passes through the orchards of the scattered village of Canta-Pedra and leads eventually to the road to Bravais.
He had ridden past the glass factory at a leisurely trot, and then past the cross, a favourite perch for the pigeons fluttering down from the factory’s pigeon loft, when, at the window of a very neat little house surrounded by vines, there appeared a pretty, slender, dark-haired girl, wearing a blue jacket and a cheap embroidered chambray scarf over her thick, wavy hair. Reining in his mare, Gonçalo greeted her with a charming smile:
‘Excuse me, young lady, is this the way to Canta-Pedra?’
‘It is, sir. When you reach the bridge, turn right and head towards the poplars, then it’s straight on from there.’
Gonçalo smiled and said jokingly:
‘I would much rather stay here.’
The girl blushed, and as he rode on, the Nobleman turned in his saddle to admire her face looking out from between the two pots of carnations on the windowsill of that neat, whitewashed house.
At that moment, a hunter emerged from a shady path leading off from the main road; he was wearing a jacket and a red beret, had a rifle slung over his shoulder, and was followed by two pointers. He was a handsome, strapping fellow, and everything about him oozed arrogance and conceit, from the tread of his large white shoes to his swaggering walk and silk sash, from his fair side whiskers to the haughty way he held his head. He saw the Nobleman’s smile and instantly understood his gallant intentions. He stopped and, slowly, arrogantly, fixed him with his fine, thicklashed eyes. Then he walked scornfully past him, making no attempt to move out of the way of the horse, indeed, he almost brushed the Nobleman’s leg with the barrel of his rifle. Further on, he pointedly, dismissively cleared his throat, and the click-clack of his boots sounded even more insolent.
Gonçalo spurred on his mare, immediately cowed by fear, by the wretched shiver that always ran through him whenever he was confronted by any danger or threat, and which irresistibly forced him to withdraw, to retreat, to run away. When he reached the bridge, furious at his own timidity, he again reined in his horse and peered cautiously back at the pretty white house. The strapping young fellow was leaning on his rifle, standing by the window where the dark-haired young woman was still looking out from between the two pots of carnations. And glancing up at the girl, the man laughed, and then, head high and with the tassel on his beret sticking up like a fiery crest, he gave the Nobleman a defiant wave.
Gonçalo Mendes Ramires set off at a gallop along the leafy, poplar-lined road that follows the stream known as the riacho das Donas, the Ladies’ stream. In Canta-Pedra, he did not (as he had intended to do for the benefit of his Novella) pause to study the valley, the winding stream, the ruined monastery, or, on the hill opposite, the windmill that stands on the blackened stones of the ancient and celebrated mansion known as Avelãs. The sky had been heavy and overcast since morning, and was now growing darker over towards Craquede and Vila Clara. A warm breeze stirred the dry leaves, and heavy drops were already pitting the dust when he, still galloping, reached the road to Bravais.
Arriving back at the Tower, he found a letter from Castanheiro. The Patriot wanted to know if his Tower of Dom Ramires was finally being built for the greater glory of literature, just as the other Tower had been built, in more fortunate times, for the greater glory of arms. And he added a postscript, ‘I am planning to put posters on every corner of every town in Portugal, announcing in letters a yard high the long-awaited appearance of that redemptive journal, the Annals! And since I also intend to promise people your precious little Novella, I need you to tell me if, in 1830s style, it has a tempting subtitle, such as Episodes from the Twelfth Century or Chronicle of the Reign of Afonso II or Scenes from Medieval Portugal . . . I do think we need a subtitle. Just as the foundations of a building give it height and solidity, so it is with subtitles. So, my dear Ramires, put your ferocious imagination to work!’
The Nobleman was delighted by the idea of endless numbers of posters bearing his name and the title of his Novella printed in strident colours, pasted on every corner of every town in Portugal. And that night, to the sound of heavy rain beating down on the leaves of the lemon trees, he again took up his manuscript and resumed where he had stopped, at the sonorous, expansive first lines of Chapter II.
In those lines, in the cool of the dawn, Lourenço Mendes Ramires, with his company of horsemen and foot soldiers, was riding to Montemor to bring succour to the Princesses. However, when he rode into the valley of Canta-Pedra, Tructesindo’s valiant son saw the mercenary troops led by the Bastard of Baião, who had been waiting since dawn (just as Mendo Pais had warned) to block their way. And then, in this tale of blood and murder, there appeared, as unexpectedly as a rose growing in the crevice in a fortress wall, a romantic episode, of which Uncle Duarte had sung with such poignant elegance.
Lopo de Baião’s fair good looks — like those of a nobleman descended from the Visigoths — were so well-known throughout the region of Entre Minho e Douro, that he was nicknamed The Bright Sun, and that same Bright Sun was passionately in love with Dona Violante, Tructesindo Ramires’ youngest daughter. On St John’s Day, at the Lanhoso estate, amid the bullfights and jousting, he had met that splendid young woman, about whom Uncle Duarte, in his poem, had written these dazzling, charming lines:
A liquid fire burns in those two dark eyes!
Her hair so thick, like lustrous, plaited ebony!
And she, too, had clearly given her heart to that resplendent, golden youth, who, on that festive day, after his displays of skill in the bull ring, had been presented with two embroidered sashes by the noble mistress of Lanhoso, and, later that night, had at the banquet, danced with extraordinary grace and elegance. However, Lopo was a bastard child of the Baião line, whose quarrels with the Ramires over land and sovereignty had been simmering since the days of Count Dom Henrique, an enmity that had been further fuelled by the disputes between Teresa of León and Afonso Henriques, when, at the council of Barons, held in Guimarães, Mendo de Baião, who took the Count de Trava’s part, and Ramires the Butcher, milk-sibling of the young Infante, each threw down the gauntlet. And, true to that centuries-old hatred, Tructesindo Ramires had harshly, arrogantly refused to give Violante’s hand in marriage to the oldest of the Baião sons — one of the heroes of the Battle of Silves — who, at Christmas, had gone to the castle of Santa Ireneia on behalf of Lopo, his nephew, and made almost submissive offers of friendship and sweet peace. This rebuff had outraged the Baião household, who were proud of Lopo, even though he was a bastard child, because of the lustre his courage and gallantry brought to the family name. And then Lopo, his heart and pride wounded, and in order both to slake his unquenched desire and to sully the pure name of the Ramires, had attempted to kidnap Dona Violante. It was in the spring, when the meadows around the Mondego were already growing green. The gallant lady, escorted by relatives and by serfs from the family estate, was travelling from Treixedo to the monastery of Lorvão, where her aunt, Dona Branca, was the abbess. Uncle Duarte had put into verse that romantic episode:
Next to the Moorish fountain,
There among the elms,
The procession came to a halt . . .
Lopo, who, with his men, had been watching from a hill, suddenly appeared amid the elms surrounding the fountain. However, at the onset of that brief battle, a cousin of Dona Violante, the Master of the Palace of Avelim — an imposing figure — disarmed him and forced him to kneel for a moment beneath the glittering blade of his dagger. Then, with his life intact, but filled with silent rage, the Bastard galloped off, along with the few men who had accompanied him on that audacious assault. And ever after, the rancour between the two families had burned ever more fiercely, until, at the beginning of the war of the Princesses, there the two enemies stood, face to face, in the narrow valley of Canta-Pedra! Lopo had a troop of thirty lancers and more than a hundred crossbowmen from the royal ranks. Lourenço Mendes Ramires had fifteen horsemen and nineteen foot soldiers.
August was drawing to an end, and the long, hot summer months had turned all the grass in the famous pastures yellow, as well as the leaves of the alders and the ash trees growing on the banks of the stream whose meagre waters slipped over the glossy pebbles with a drowsy murmur. On the hill, towards Ramilde, among the still impressive ruins overgrown with brambles, stood the fire-blackened Round Tower, all that remained of the old house of Avelãs put to the torch during the fierce battles between the Salzedas and the Landims, now inhabited by the plangent soul of Guiomar de Landim, the Ill-Matched. On the highest hill, which dominated the far side of the valley, stood the new walls of Recadães, with its sturdy battlements and turret, more suited to a fortress than a monastery, where the monks were peering out of the windows, troubled by the sight of the glittering weapons that had been filling the valley since dawn. The nearby villages were clearly equally troubled, for hurrying up the hill to that holy, walled refuge could be seen a train of people carrying bundles or travelling in covered wagons, and driving along the few cattle they owned.
When he saw such a large company of soldiers waiting in the shade of the ash trees along the banks of the stream, Lourenço Ramires brought his horse and his troops to a halt next to a pile of stones topped with a rough wooden cross. His scout dismounted and under cover of his leather shield, went ahead to reconnoitre, only to return at once, unscathed by arrows or stones and shouting:
‘They’re Baião’s men and men from the royal troops as well!’
So the way ahead was blocked, and their own forces vastly outnumbered. Bold Ramires did not, however, hesitate to advance and engage in battle. Even had he reached the valley alone, and with a fragile hunting lance as his only weapon, he would still have taken on the whole of the Bastard’s army. Meanwhile, Baião’s commanding officer had come prancing forward on a rather scrawny chestnut horse, his sword held high above his plumed helmet, uttering these words of warning, which echoed round the valley:
‘Stop, stop, there is no way through! The King in his mercy has ordered the noble Lord of Baião to spare your lives if you will withdraw quietly and without further ado!’
Lourenço Ramires responded:
‘Crossbowmen, fire!’
The arrows whizzed and whistled through the air. Santa Ireneia’s few horsemen rode down into the valley, lances at the ready. And beneath the hastily unfurled standard,Tructesindo’s son stood up in his iron stirrups and raised the visor on his helmet, so that the enemy could see his fearless face as he hurled proud, angry insults at the Bastard:
‘Summon as many villainous followers as you wish, but I will be at Montemor tonight, over their dead bodies and over yours!’
And mounted on his bay horse, which was covered by a chain-mail net adorned with gold, the Bastard raised one iron-clad hand and shouted:
‘Go back! Because you will return whence you came, you treacherous trickster, but only if I am merciful enough to send your father your body on a litter!’
In Uncle Duarte’s poem, these fierce, defiant cries rolled forth in serenely measured lines. Gonçalo fleshed out those lines (feeling the heroism of his ancestors gusting through his soul like a wind blowing in from the open countryside) and immediately brought those two valiant bands together in combat. A huge battle ensued, a great clamour of voices:
‘Forward men!’
‘To the death!’
‘Hold hard for Baião!’
‘Victory for the Ramires!’
Amid the thick dust and the general uproar, crossbow bolts and rough clay balls from slingshots whistled through the air. Small groups of horsemen from Santa Ireneia and from the royal troops charged and clashed and arrows pierced flesh to the sound of lances splitting, then both sides retreated, leaving behind, on the churned-up earth, mortally wounded men writhing and screaming, while others, disoriented, staggered off into the shelter of the trees and the coolness of the stream. In the noble heart of the struggle, the rearing horses panted beneath the weight of their chain-mail coats, and the blades of their riders’ swords gleamed and clanged as they skewered their opponents’ shields; now and then, some stiff, armoured gentleman slipped from his red leather saddle and hit the soft ground with a metallic clatter. Horsemen and foot soldiers, however, as if engaged in a tournament, barely had to cross lances to fell their adversary, who would crumple to the ground, armour and all, amid proud, frenzied cries; but the full brunt of their murderous fury was felt by the opposing hordes, felled by great swords or slain by axes, their metal helmets crushed as if they were clay pots.
Lourenço Ramires cut through Baião’s troops and the royal host as lightly as a man scything through green grass. With every onward stride of his sturdy steed, which foamed and furiously shook its halter, he provoked curses and cries of ‘Dear God!’ as another chest was pierced and arms wheeled in agony. His one aim was to exchange blows with Lopo, but the Bastard, usually so bold and aggressive in battle, had not moved from the hillside that morning, where a circle of lances protected him like a stockade, from behind which he urged on his men with shouts, not blows. In his desperate desire to break through that living wall, Lourenço spent all his energies on bellowing hoarsely for the Bastard to show himself and heaping him with insults, ‘Varlet!’ ‘Knave!’ Blood was slowly trickling out from beneath his chain-mail hood and dripping down from his shoulder onto his tunic. An arrow had penetrated the hinge of his leg armour and more blood was flowing from that wound, soaking the oakum lining. Then his mighty stallion, its haunch pierced by an arrow, stumbled and fell, its girth strap snapping as it rolled on the ground. Jumping free from his stirrups, Lourenço Ramires found himself surrounded by bristling swords and pikes, while from the hillside, leaning forward in his saddle, the Bastard was roaring:
‘Hold him fast and tie his hands!’
Trampling over the bodies writhing beneath his iron-clad feet, the valiant youth, Lourenço Ramires, hurled himself, panting, against the glittering array of weapons, which withdrew and retreated. Lopo de Baião’s triumphant cries only redoubled:
‘Alive, take him alive!’
‘Not as long as I have a soul in my body, villain!’ roared Lourenço.
And he threw himself yet more furiously against that human wall, until a sharp stone struck him hard on the arm, leaving it hanging limp by his side along with his sword, which remained attached to his wrist by its chain, as useless as a spindle. The soldiers quickly secured him, some grabbing him around the throat, others beating his stiff legs until they buckled. Finally, he dropped to the ground like a piece of timber, and, bound with ropes, he lay there, motionless, his head bare of helmet and hood, his eyes tightly shut, and his hair a sticky tangle of dust and blood.
Lourenço Ramires, captured! They laid him on a litter made of twigs and branches, having first hurriedly splashed him with cool water from the stream, and the Bastard — using the back of his hand to wipe away the sweat running down his handsome face and golden beard — stood beside him and murmured sadly:
‘How this grieves me, Lourenço, for we could have been brothers and friends!’
Thus, with the aid of Uncle Duarte, Sir Walter Scott, and titbits from Panorama, Gonçalo pieced together the ill-fated Battle of Canta-Pedra. And with those last words from Lopo, filled with the pain of his forbidden love, he concluded Chapter II, on which he had laboured for three whole days, so immersed in his work that it was as if the world around him had fallen silent and been plunged in darkness.
A barrage of fireworks exploded in the distance, over towards Bravais, where, on Sunday, they were celebrating the festival of Our Lady of the Candles. After those three days of rain, a coolness descended from the soft, washed-clean sky onto the already much greener fields. And since he still had a good half-hour before dinner, the Nobleman grabbed his hat and cane, and set off just as he was, in his old working jacket, taking the narrow path that ran between the wall of the Tower and the fields of rye where the barbican of Santa Ireneia had stood in the twelfth century.
As he walked along that silent, still damp path, Gonçalo was thinking about his formidable ancestors. They were reemerging in his Novella as such solid, resonant figures! And his confident understanding of those Afonsine souls was proof that his own soul was made of the same mettle, and had been carved from the same fine block of gold. A feeble or degenerate heart would have been incapable of describing such brave souls or such valiant times, and it would have been an impossible task for either good Manuel Duarte or kindly Barrolo to understand still less recreate such august characters as Martim de Freitas or Afonso de Albuquerque. He hoped that any critics who read The Tower of Dom Ramires (for Castanheiro had assured him that the Novella would be reviewed in Novidades and in Manhã) would focus on that particular truth. Yes, that was definitely a point to be emphasised (and of which he would be sure to remind Castanheiro!): that all the noblemen of Santa Ireneia lived on in him, their descendant, if not in the form of heroic deeds, then in the same lofty grasp of what constituted heroism. Besides, living as he did under the reign of the ghastly São Fulgêncio, he could hardly destroy the House of Baião, which had been destroyed six hundred years before by his ancestor Leonel Ramires, nor reclaim Monforte with all its towers from the Moors, certainly not with Antoninho Moreno as Monforte’s effete governor! But he could feel the grandeur and the historic legacy of the boldness that had once driven the men of his family to raze to the ground their rivals’ houses and to sack Moorish villages; he was bringing them back to life through Knowledge and Art, restoring to modern life those fearless souls — with their hearts, their clothes, their deadly swords and their sublime arrogance — and, therefore, within the limitations imposed by the spirit and opportunities of his own century, he was a good Ramires, a Ramires full of noble energy, albeit mental rather than martial, as befitted an age of intellectual slackness. And the newspapers — always so ready to criticise the decadence of the Portuguese nobility — should, in all justice, state (and he would remind Castanheiro of this too!), ‘There is at least one nobleman, the noblest of them all, who, in keeping with the forms and customs of his time, both continues and brings honour to the spirit and tradition of his race!’
These thoughts made him tread still more firmly on the ground once trodden by his ancestors, and as he was thinking them, he reached the corner of the estate wall, where his land was separated off from the pine forest and the scrubland beyond by a steep, narrow lane. All that remained of the once grand, ornate gateway, emblazoned with the family coat of arms, were two granite pillars, covered in yellow moss and closed off to straying cattle by a wicket gate made of hastily nailed together planks, half-eaten away by the rain and the years. Just then, emerging from the deep, shadowy lane came a creaking ox-cart laden with firewood and driven by a pretty young woman.
‘A very good evening to you, sir!’
‘Good evening to you, my lovely!’
The cart passed slowly by, and following immediately behind it came a tall, dark, thin man, with a shepherd’s crook over his shoulder, from which dangled a bundle of ropes.
The Nobleman of the Tower saw at once that it was José Casco from Bravais, but, pretending not to have seen him, he continued along the edge of the pine forest, whistling and flicking with his stick at the flowering brambles in the ditch. The other man though, quickened his pace and disturbed the evening silence of the woods by loudly calling out the Nobleman’s name. Heart pounding, Gonçalo Mendes Ramires stopped and managed a forced smile:
‘Oh, it’s you, José! How are you?’
Casco seemed embarrassed, his chest heaving beneath his faded work-shirt. Finally, untangling the ropes from his crook, he stuck its pointed end in the ground:
‘I have always been perfectly clear and honest with you, sir, and I never expected you to go back on your word!’
Gonçalo Ramires slowly, painfully, nobly raised his head, as if he were lifting a great iron block.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Casco. In what way did I go back on my word? Are you referring to the lease of the land around the Tower? Well, that’s news to me. We never actually signed an agreement, did we? You never came to see me again, you vanished . . .’
Casco fell silent, too taken aback to speak. Then, with an anger that made his pale lips and his strong, hairy hands tremble as they gripped the end of his crook, he said:
‘Are you saying that if we had signed a contract, you wouldn’t have been able to back out? But surely a verbal agreement between honourable men is as good as any signature! When I accepted your offer, you even said, “It’s a deal!” You gave your word!’
Cornered, Gonçalo adopted the patient air of a benevolent lord of the manor:
‘Listen, José Casco, this really isn’t the place to discuss the matter. If you want to talk, come to the Tower. As you know, I’m always there in the mornings. Tomorrow, for example, would be fine.’
And he was about to head off into the pine forest, his legs shaking, sweat pouring down his back, when Casco quickly, boldly planted himself in front of Gonçalo, barring his way with his crook:
‘No, no one treats me like that! We must speak here and now. You gave me your word!’
Gonçalo glanced anxiously around, hoping someone would come to his aid. No one, only the silence and solitude of the dense forest. Along the lane, dimly lit by what remained of the daylight, the creaking of the cart was growing ever fainter, ever farther off. The high branches of the pine trees were sighing a drowsy, distant sigh. In the woods, the darkness and the mist were growing thicker. Terrified, Gonçalo took refuge in the idea of Justice and the Law, concepts always guaranteed to terrify countryfolk. His lips were dry and tremulous, but, like a friend gently giving advice to another friend, he managed to say:
‘Listen, Casco, listen! Matters like this can’t be sorted out with angry words. We don’t want any unpleasantness, we don’t want the law to get involved, because that could lead to a trial and to prison. And you have a wife and small children to think of. Listen, if you feel you have some cause for complaint, then come to the Tower and we’ll talk. We’ll find some peaceful solution. But no shouting, all right? The local officer might appear and then it would be gaol for you, my man . . .’
On that deserted path, Casco suddenly grew in height and breadth, as tall and black as a pine tree, filled with a fury that made his burning, bloodshot eyes bulge.
‘Are you threatening me? Not content with doing the dirty on me, now you’re threatening me with prison? Devil take it! Before they put me in prison, I’m going to break every bone in your body!’
He raised his crook, but saved by a flash of reason and lingering respect, he shouted through clenched teeth, his head thrown back:
‘Run, sir, run, before I do something I regret. Run before I kill you, and that really would be the end of me!’
Gonçalo Mendes Ramires ran to the gate between the old granite pillars, leapt over it and scuttled away like a hunted hare, past the vines growing along the wall! At the far end, next to the maizefield, stood an old granite-built storehouse abandoned to the elements, and now filled with the dense foliage of a wild fig tree that had seeded itself there. The Nobleman of the Tower took shelter in that hiding-place of tree and stone and crouched there, breathing hard. Darkness had fallen over the fields, and with it a serenity in which trees and pastures were gently drifting off to sleep. After a time, encouraged by the silence and the quiet, Gonçalo left his cramped refuge and again, although more slowly now, he began to run on the tips of his white boots over the rain-soaked ground, as far as the spring.
Then once more, he stopped, his chest heaving. And thinking he could see a pale shape among the trees in the distance, perhaps some worker in shirtsleeves, he called out anxiously, ‘Ricardo! Manuel! Is anyone there?’ The white blur melted into the shadowy foliage. A frog croaked in a stream. Trembling, Gonçalo followed the path along the wall to the corner of the orchard, where he found a locked door, but so old and rickety a door that it swayed on its rusty hinges. He hurled himself furiously against it, with shoulders made suddenly iron-hard by terror. Two panels gave way, and he slipped through the gap he had created, tearing his jacket on a nail in the process. At last, though, he could breathe easily, safe inside the walled orchard beside the Tower, where the balconies of the house stood open to the evening cool; and in the soft light of the newly risen crescent moon, his dark, thousand-year-old Tower seemed still darker and more weighed down with the years.
Taking off his hat and wiping away the sweat from his brow, he went into the vegetable garden, skirting round the bean patch. And he felt a sudden bitter rage at the vulnerable state in which he had found himself, on an estate normally swarming with people and their dependents! Not a single tenant or labourer had answered his despairing cries! Of his five servants, none had rushed to his aid, and there he had stood, utterly helpless, just a stone’s throw from the threshing-ground and the barn. If a few men were to go out now with sticks or hoes, they could still catch Casco on the road and give him a good thrashing.
Hearing a girl’s light laughter from behind the chicken-run, he crossed the courtyard to the brightly-lit kitchen door. Two boys from the farm, along with Crispola’s daughter and Rosa were sitting there on a stone bench, chatting away in the cool shade of the vine trellis. Inside, the fire was crackling, and a delicious smell of soup filled the air. All of the Nobleman’s anger rose to the surface.
‘What’s all this? A party? Didn’t you hear me call? I just met a drunk near the pine forest. He didn’t realise it was me and went for me with a sickle. Fortunately, I had my stick with me. But I called, I shouted, and nothing! And here you are chatting away, with the dinner still to cook! It’s outrageous! If it happens again, you’re out on the street, all of you. And if one of you complains, you’ll feel the weight of my cane.’
His face was aflame with anger, his bold head held high. Crispola’s daughter vanished into the kitchen, where she hid in a corner behind the kneading-trough. The young men stood up and bowed like two ears of wheat in a high wind. And while poor, terrified Rosa was crossing herself and repeating tearful laments about ‘these awful things that do happen’, Gonçalo quickly calmed down, delighted by the young men’s submissive reaction, for they were both strapping lads and their two thick staffs were leaning against the wall within easy reach.
‘Is everyone in this house deaf? What’s more, the door to the orchard was locked. I had to use force to open it. There’s a gaping hole in it now.’
Then, thinking that the Nobleman was criticising the weakness of that rather neglected door, one of the youths, the braver one with reddish hair and a jaw like a horse, scratched his head and offered this excuse:
‘Sorry about that, sir, but after Relho left, we did reinforce the door and put a new lock on, a good strong one too!’
‘What do you mean, a strong lock!’ roared the Nobleman proudly. ‘I smashed it and your so-called reinforced door, smashed it to smithereens!’
The other youth, shrewder and more confident, laughed and said flatteringly:
‘Good heavens, sir, you must have given it an almighty shove!’
And thrusting out his equine jaw, his companion added:
‘Not half! Because that door was really solid, and, like I said, we put a brand-new lock on it too. Why, we only fitted it after that business with Relho!’
This confirmation of his strength by these two strong young men entirely assuaged the Nobleman of the Tower’s rage, and he replied mildly, almost paternally:
‘At least I’m still strong enough to break down a door, even a new one. What I couldn’t decently do was drag a drunk armed with a sickle all the way to the alderman’s house. That’s what I was shouting for, for you to come and get him and take him there. Anyway, it’s over and done with now. Rosa, give these lads another mug of wine with their supper. And maybe next time you’ll be a bit quicker on the uptake and come when you’re called.’
He was behaving now like a true Ramires from an earlier century, fair and wise, reprimanding his vassals for some misdemeanour, but immediately forgiving them, knowing he could rely on them for future acts of prowess. Then, with his cane over his shoulder like a lance, he climbed the gloomy kitchen stairs. Up in his room, as soon as Bento arrived to help him get dressed for dinner, he began describing his epic adventure all over again, this time adding more terrifying details, which so startled the sensitive old fellow that he stood motionless by the chest of drawers, without even putting down the jug of hot water, the polished boots, and the armful of towels he was carrying. Casco! José Casco from Bravais so drunk that he hadn’t even recognised the Nobleman and had set about him with a huge sickle, shouting, ‘Die, you pig!’ And the master fending off the brute with his cane, leaping to one side so that the sickle struck the trunk of a pine tree instead. Then he had retaliated, brandishing his cane and shouting for Ricardo and for Manuel, as if both were close at hand; and Casco, not knowing what to do, had retreated, stumbling and grunting, down the lane.
‘What do you think, eh? If I hadn’t taken action, the man could have shot me!’
Dripping water from the jug onto the carpet, Bento stood blinking, bewildered and alarmed:
‘But, sir, I thought you said he attacked you with a sickle . . .’ Gonçalo stamped his foot impatiently.
‘At first, yes, he came at me with a sickle, but he was walking behind his cart, where he almost certainly keeps his rifle. After all, Casco’s a hunter and always has his rifle with him. Anyway, I’m safe and well now and back in the Tower, thank God. And thanks, too, to the fact that, fortunately in such situations, I always keep a cool head!’
Then he hurried Bento along because, what with the shock and the physical effort, his legs were positively shaking with fatigue and hunger — not to mention thirst!
‘Especially thirst! A nice cool bottle of wine, a bottle of vinho verde and one of Alvaralhão, so I can mix the two.’
Bento gave a deep, tremulous sigh, filled the basin and laid out the towels. Then, very gravely, he said:
‘There seems to have been a rash of such incidents lately, sir. The same thing happened to Senhor Sanches Lucena up at Feitosa . . .’
‘What do you mean? What’s happened?’
Bento then unfolded the terrible tale that had been brought to the Tower while the Nobleman was away in Oliveira by Rui the carpenter, Crispola’s brother-in-law who was doing some work up at Feitosa. One evening, as dusk was falling, Senhor Sanches Lucena had gone down to the belvedere and two workmen, either drunk or up to no good, were passing by on the road; they started picking on the poor old man, making fun of him, prodding him and laughing. Senhor Sanches very patiently advised them to go on their way and to behave themselves. Then, suddenly, one of them, a big fellow, slipped off his jacket and threatened him with his crook! Luckily, his companion stopped him, shouting, ‘Don’t, he’s our local deputy!’ The big lad had then fled in terror, while the other man fell on his knees before Senhor Sanches Lucena. But the whole thing was too much for the poor gentleman and he took to his bed!
Gonçalo listened to this story, greatly shocked and absentmindedly drying his hands on the towel.
‘And when was this?’
‘As I said, sir, it happened when you were in Oliveira. Either the day before or the day after Senhora Dona Graça’s birthday.’
The Nobleman threw down his towel and pensively cleaned his nails. Then he gave a soft, hesitant laugh:
‘So there is some point in Sanches Lucena being the deputy for Vila Clara.’
And once dressed and having filled up his cigar case (for he had decided to spend the evening in the village, regaling Gouveia with the day’s events), he again turned to Bento, who was putting away his clothes:
‘You say that when the other man shouted, “Don’t, he’s our local deputy,” the drunk came to his senses and fled. You see, it is worth being a deputy! It’s still a position that inspires respect! It certainly inspires more respect than being descended from the Kings of León, but never mind, it’s time for dinner.’
Over dinner, while he drank copious amounts of vinho verde and red Alvaralhão, Gonçalo could not help brooding on Casco’s brazen behaviour. For the first time in the history of Santa Ireneia, a worker from one of the surrounding villages, someone who had grown up in the shadow of the illustrious House — which, for so many centuries, had lorded it over mountain and valley — had insulted a Ramires! And violently too, brandishing his crook at him, right outside the walls of this historic estate! His father used to tell him that when his great-grandfather Inácio was alive, men from Ramilde to Corinde would bend the knee whenever the Nobleman of the Tower passed them on the road. And now there they were threatening him with sickles! And why? Because he had refused to lower his rents just to please Casco, a mere upstart! In the days of Tructesindo, a bold villain like him would have been roasted, like a wild boar, over a crackling fire outside the castle walls. Even in the days of his great-grandfather Inácio, he would have been left to rot in a dungeon. No, Casco could not go unpunished, he’d only be all the bolder, and when they met again, Casco, in his anger and resentment, would not waste his breath on words, but would immediately reach for his rifle. Not that Gonçalo wanted to inflict any lasting punishment on Casco; after all, he had two small children, one of whom hadn’t yet been weaned. But he ought at least to be handcuffed by two policemen and brought before the administrator to stand in that grim room with its view of the prison bars, and be given a tremendous dressing-down by Gouveia, stern and erect in his black frockcoat. Only by such tortuous means could Gonçalo protect himself, because he was not a deputy, and — despite his native talent and his name, his extraordinary lineage and those ancestors who had built the Kingdom — he nevertheless lacked the prestige of a Sanches Lucena, that kind of inestimable prestige that could stop an assailant in his tracks, his weapon frozen in mid-air!
As soon as he had finished his coffee, he told Bento to tell the two lads from the garden, Ricardo and the one with a jaw like a horse, to wait for him in the courtyard, armed and ready. For the Tower still had its own salle d’armes in the form of a small dark room next to the archives, which was home to a collection of dented bits of armour, a hauberk, a Moorish buckler, halberds, broadswords, powder horns, an 1820s blunderbuss, and — in among all this dusty, blackened ironware — three clean rifles, with which the gardeners, on the feast of St Gonçalo, would fire off a few rounds in honour of the saint.
Then he slipped a pistol and a whistle into his pockets and unearthed from a cupboard in the corridor a big old walking stick with an ornately carved handle. And thus equipped, warmed by the red and white wine he had drunk, and accompanied by the two young men looking stiff and important with their rifles over their shoulders, he set off for Vila Clara to find Gouveia the administrator. The coolness and quiet of the night was gradually enfolding the fields. The new moon that had brought about the change in the weather was brushing the tops of the Valverde hills like the shining wheel of a golden carriage. The rhythmic tread of the two labourers’ heavy, studded boots echoed in the silence. And ahead of them, smoking a cigar, Gonçalo was enjoying this march, in which, once again, a Ramires was walking the paths of Santa Ireneia followed by his own personal troops, his armed vassals.
However, when they entered the town, he discreetly left his escort in Serena’s tavern and took the short cut through the market to Simões’ tobacconist’s shop, where Gouveia usually stopped off in order to buy a box of matches and study the lottery tickets in the window before going to play cards at the club. On that night, though, Gouveia was not there. Gonçalo headed off then to the club, and downstairs, on one of the benches in the billiards room, he found a bald fellow — waistcoat unbuttoned, chewing a toothpick, head jutting forward as he contemplated the solitary moves of his opponent — who informed him that his friend Gouveia was ill.
‘It’s nothing serious, just a sore throat, but you’ll be sure to find him at home. He hasn’t left his bed since Sunday.’
Another gentleman, who was stirring his coffee while seated at a table crammed with liqueur bottles, assured him that Gouveia had been up and about that very afternoon, that he had met him at around five o’clock in the Café Amoreira with a woollen scarf round his neck.
Gonçalo hurried impatiently off again, and was just passing the fountain in the square when he spotted Gouveia standing in the brightly-lit doorway of the draper’s shop, talking to an enormously fat man in a white coat and sporting a dark, bushy beard.
Raising one finger, Gouveia immediately said to Gonçalo:
‘So you know already?’
‘What?’
‘Haven’t you heard, man? It’s Sanches Lucena!’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s died!’
The Nobleman stared open-mouthed at Gouveia, and then at the other man, who was, with great difficulty, trying to pull a short, tight glove onto one of his enormous, pudgy hands.
‘Good heavens. When did this happen?’
‘Early this morning. It was very sudden. Angina pectoris apparently, something to do with his heart. Yes, he died suddenly, in bed.’
And they both fell silent, still trying to take in the news of that death, which had shocked all of Vila Clara. Finally, Gonçalo said:
‘I was just talking about him at the Tower. And, as usual, none too respectfully either, poor man.’
‘Me too!’ cried Gouveia. ‘Why, I wrote to him only yesterday, a long letter with a request from Manuel Duarte. But it would have been his corpse that received it.’
‘That’s a good one,’ muttered the fat man, still wrestling with the glove. ‘The corpse receiving the letter. Yes, very good.’
The Nobleman was thoughtfully stroking his moustache:
‘How old was he?’
Gouveia had always assumed he was at least seventy, but, no, he had turned sixty-five in December. But he was completely worn out, a spent force, and of course, he had got married rather late and to a very vigorous woman.
‘Yes, there’s the lovely Dona Ana, a widow at twenty-eight, with no children and the sole heir to a fortune of two hundred contos, possibly more.’
‘Not bad,’ growled the portly fellow, who, having managed to get the glove on, was now struggling to button it up, the veins in his neck bulging with the effort.
The Nobleman felt constrained by this gentleman’s presence, for he wanted to talk openly with Gouveia about the ‘political vacancy’ that had so unexpectedly opened up in Vila Clara with the abrupt disappearance of their traditional leader. Unable to contain himself any longer, he grabbed Gouveia by the button of his frockcoat and dragged him over into the more private shadow cast by the wall.
‘So what’s going to happen next, Gouveia? A by-election presumably, but who will be the candidate?’
Oblivious to the presence of the fat man in the white coat, who, now fully gloved, had lit a cigar and come over to join them, Gouveia set out the facts very plainly:
‘Well, my friend, since Cavaleiro’s uncle is Minister of Justice and José Ernesto is Minister of Home Affairs, the candidate will be whoever Cavaleiro chooses. It’s obvious. Sanches Lucena kept his seat in Parliament because he was the party’s natural choice. He was the most important person in Vila Clara, and the Historicals’ number one man. Since there is now no natural choice for the party, what else can they possibly do but follow Cavaleiro’s personal wishes? You know what a regionalist Cavaleiro is, so logically, he’ll choose a candidate who he believes will continue Lucena’s legacy, someone influential and well established locally. In any other constituency, you might be able to install some made-in-Lisbon deputy, but not here. The new deputy will have to be a local man and pro-Cavaleiro. And believe me, at the moment, Cavaleiro is at a complete loss as to what to do.’
The porcine person with him muttered smugly through clenched teeth, as he puffed away on a vast cigar:
‘I’ll be seeing him tomorrow, so I’ll find out . . .’
Gouveia though, had fallen silent, scratching his chin and fixing Gonçalo with bright eyes, which shone as if illuminated by a particularly happy idea, almost an inspiration. And he suddenly turned to the other man, who was smoothing his dark beard, and said:
‘Well, my friend, that’s settled then, I’ll see you the day after tomorrow. And I’ll send the basket of cheeses direct to the Counsellor.’
He then took Gonçalo’s arm, which he squeezed impatiently. And taking no further notice of the fat man, who was rather more prolix in his farewells, he dragged the Nobleman off to the silence of the main square.
‘Listen, Gonçalo, this is a splendid opportunity for you! If you wanted, in a matter of days, you could be the next deputy of Vila Clara!’
The Nobleman of the Tower stood stockstill, as if a star had suddenly fallen from the sky into the ill-lit square.
‘Listen,’ Gouveia exclaimed again, letting go of Gonçalo’s arm in order to develop his idea more freely. ‘You have no serious commitment to the Regenerationists. You left Coimbra a year ago and are just taking your first steps in public life. You’ve never really taken sides, apart, that is, from firing off the occasional letter to the newspapers, but that doesn’t count!’
‘But . . .’
‘Listen, man! Do you want to get into politics or don’t you? Yes, you do. So what does it matter if it’s with the Historicals or the Regenerationists? Both are constitutional, both are Christians. The important thing is to get a foot in the door . . . And you, unexpectedly, find that door open. What’s to stop you? Your private enmity with Cavaleiro? Mere nonsense!’
He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if dismissing such puerile notions.
‘Yes, mere nonsense! No one died. And deep down, you’re not enemies. Cavaleiro is a man of talent and taste. I don’t know of anyone else in the area who is more like you in spirit, education, manners and traditions. In a small place like this, there’s bound to be a reconciliation at some point, so why not now, when that reconcilation could take you to Parliament! And as I said, as far as finding a new deputy for the Vila Clara constituency is concerned, Cavaleiro will do the choosing!’
The Nobleman of the Tower was almost struggling for breath, overwhelmed by emotion. After a silence, during which he took off his hat and pensively, sadly, fanned himself with it, he said:
‘As you so rightly say, Cavaleiro is all about what’s local or regional, and so he’ll choose someone like Lucena, with money and influence . . .’
Gouveia flung wide his arms:
‘But that could describe you! Good heavens, you have land here, you have the Tower, you have Treixedo. Your sister is extremely rich, richer even than Lucena. And then there’s your name, your family history. You, the Ramires family, have been here, with your estate in Santa Ireneia, for more than two hundred years.’
The Nobleman looked up at this:
‘Two hundred? More like a thousand, or very nearly!’
‘There you are. A thousand years. A family that predates the monarchy or is at least contemporary with it. You, therefore, are more of an aristocrat than the King. Doesn’t that put you above Lucena? And you’re certainly more intelligent than him. Ouch!’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s my throat. It’s still a bit sore. I’m not yet completely well.’
And he decided to go straight back home, because Dr Macedo had forbidden any late nights. Gonçalo accompanied him to his door, where, wrapping his scarf more tightly round his throat, Gouveia returned to his theme:
‘In the Vila Clara constituency, Cavaleiro decides. Now, Cavaleiro is really keen to choose you and launch you into the world of politics. If you’re prepared to hold out a hand to Cavaleiro, the constituency is yours. He’s really, really keen to help, Gonçalo!’
‘I’m not so sure about that, João.’
‘I am.’
And in confidence, in the solitude of the street, João Gouveia revealed that Cavaleiro was eager for an opportunity to resume the fraternal friendship they had once shared. Only last week, he had said (and he quoted), ‘Of all the young men of his generation, none has a longer, more assured future in politics than Gonçalo. He has everything, a great name, a great talent, charm and eloquence. He has everything. I’m still as fond of Gonçalo as I ever was, and I passionately want to get him into Parliament!’
‘Those were his exact words, my friend! That was just six or seven days ago, in Oliveira, after supper, when we were taking coffee in the garden.’
In the shadows, Gonçalo’s face was aflame as he devoured these revelations. Then, slowly, as if candidly revealing the most secret corner of his soul, he said:
‘And I still feel as warmly towards Cavaleiro as I once did, and as for certain personal grievances, well, I can let them go! They’ve grown old, have expired, and are as obsolete now as the quarrels between the Horatii and the Curiatii. As you so rightly say, no one died. Damn it, I was brought up with Cavaleiro, we were like brothers. And you know, Gouveia, whenever I see him, I still feel a mad desire to run over to him and say, “Let’s embrace, André, and let bygones be bygones!” And all that holds me back is timidity, yes, timidity. As far as I’m concerned, I’m ready for a reconciliation, my heart is crying out for it. But what about him? Because I’ve said some very harsh things in my letters to the Gazeta do Porto!’
João Gouveia stood still, his walking stick resting on his shoulder, looking at the Nobleman with an amused smile:
‘Your letters? What did you say in your letters? That the governor is a despot. A Don Juan? My dear friend, what man doesn’t enjoy having the opposition call him a despot and a Don Juan? Do you really think he was wounded by that? No, he was delighted.’
Still troubled, the Nobleman murmured:
‘Yes, but I made disparaging remarks about his moustache and his hair . . .’
‘Gonçalinho, no man is ever going to feel ashamed of his curly hair or his fine waxed moustache. On the contrary, all the women admire him. You’re quite wrong if you think you made Cavaleiro look ridiculous. You simply alerted the female readers of the Gazeta do Porto to the existence of a splendid young man, who also happens to be the Governor of Oliveira.’
And stopping again — this time opposite his house, where the lights were on in the two open windows — he wagged his finger at Gonçalo and gave him one final word of advice:
‘Tomorrow, Gonçalo, have Torto bring round his horse and pair, then jump into the carriage and race into town, burst straight into the governor’s office with open arms and, without further ado, declare, “André, what’s done is done, let us embrace like brothers! And seeing as how there’s a vacancy in the constituency, I’ll embrace that as well!” And in five or six weeks, you’ll be the deputy for Vila Clara, and all the bells will ring out. Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Remember, get in that carriage and go straight to the governor’s office. Although, it might be best to have some pretext . . .’
The Nobleman cried out excitedly:
‘I do have a pretext — no, I mean, I have a genuinely urgent reason to speak to Cavaleiro and the secretary-general. It’s about a tenant of mine. In fact, that was the reason I came looking for you tonight, Gouveia!’
And he quickly rattled off the story of his encounter with Casco, laying it on rather thick so as to make the whole incident seem far more shocking. For weeks, that wretch Casco had been going on at him to let him rent the land around the Tower, but he had already come to an agreement with Pereira the Brazilian and for a far greater sum than the amount Casco had so very grudgingly offered him. Ever since then, Casco had been doing the rounds of all the taverns, muttering dark threats. And that evening, he had emerged suddenly from a dark lane and confronted him, threatening him with his crook! Fortunately, he, Gonçalo, had managed to beat him off with his cane. Now, however, the insult of that crook raised against him hung over his peace of mind, over his life. And if it should happen again, he would shoot Casco as if he were a wild beast. It was, therefore, vital that Gouveia should summon the man, give him a reprimand and lock him up for a few hours.
Gouveia, who had been tentatively feeling his throat as he listened, held up one hand:
‘Ah, you need to go to the governor’s office for that. They deal with any cases involving preventive detention. A reprimand isn’t enough for a wretch like him! He needs to be put in prison, just for a day, say, on half rations. They’ll send me an official letter or a telegram. You’re in real danger. There’s not a moment to lose. Get in that carriage tomorrow and off to the governor’s office with you. Even if only for the sake of Public Order!’
And Gonçalo, shoulders slightly bent, yielded to that sovereign reason: Public Order.
‘Yes, João, you’re quite right. It is indeed a matter of Public Order. I’ll go to the governor’s office tomorrow.’
‘Excellent,’ said Gouveia, giving a tug on the bell-pull outside his house. ‘Give my regards to Cavaleiro. And I promise you we’ll get a huge number of votes, with fireworks and cheering and a magnificent supper at Gago’s. Now you’re sure you won’t come in and have a cup of tea? All right, then, good night. And in two years’ time, Gonçalo Mendes Ramires, when you’re a minister, remember this late-night conversation of ours in Vila Clara!’
Deep in thought, Gonçalo continued on past the Post Office, skirted round the white steps leading up to the church of São Bento, and then, not even noticing where he was going, set off along the acacia-lined path that led to the cemetery. And looking down from that high point, with its panoramic view over the lush fields stretching from Valverde to Craquede, he felt as if an airy space full of bustle and abundance had suddenly opened up in his narrow, solitary, provincial life. A great crack had appeared in the wall by which he had always imagined himself to be irreparably enclosed. A very useful crack, through which he could see the glittering realities of which he had so often dreamed in Coimbra! However, if he went through that crack, its jagged edges would certainly snag either his dignity or his pride. What should he do?
It was true that by opening his arms to that brute Cavaleiro, he was sure to be elected deputy. Given their almost feudal allegiance to the Historicals, the constituency would unthinkingly embrace whichever candidate their leader might indolently choose. Such a reconciliation, though, would mean Cavaleiro’s triumphant return to the peaceful Barrolo household. Gonçalo was, therefore, selling his sister’s peace of mind in exchange for a seat in Parliament. No, for Gracinha’s sake, he could not do it. And in the luminous silence of the path, he gave a heartfelt sigh.
The Regenerationists would not have another chance to get into power for another three or four years, and, during that time, he would be stuck in his little rural hole, playing tedious games of cards at the club, idly smoking a cigarette on the verandah of his sister’s house, with no career ahead of him, his life stalled and stagnating and gathering moss, just like his crumbling, useless Tower! This was a cowardly dereliction of the holiest of duties both as regards himself and his family name. Soon, his fellow graduates from Coimbra would be getting all the best jobs in all the best companies, many would end up in Parliament thanks to such fortunate vacancies as the one left by Sanches Lucena’s death; the bolder or perhaps more servile among them might even end up as Ministers. Only he, who was far more talented, with a far more splendid name, would lie forgotten and complaining by the roadside like a cripple watching the other pilgrims pass him by. And why? Out of some puerile fear of placing Cavaleiro’s bold moustaches too close to Gracinha’s perhaps too easily tempted lips? And yet that fear constituted an insult, a vile insult to his sister’s seriousness of mind, for there was not a woman in the whole of Portugal more serious-minded or purer in thought. That fragile little body — so light that a strong wind might carry her off — contained a truly heroic soul. And Cavaleiro? However seductively he might shake his mane of hair, however languorously he might gaze at her with his long-lashed, liquid eyes, Gracinha would remain as steadfast and unreachable in her virtue as if she were a piece of sexless marble. As far as Gracinha was concerned, Gonçalo could open every door, even throw wide her bedroom door, and leave the two of them entirely alone! She was not, after all, an innocent maiden or even a widow. A strong, spirited husband ruled over the household. And it was entirely up to him to choose who should enter his home and up to him, too, to preserve its tranquillity and modesty. No, his imagined fears about proud, honest Gracinha’s frailty were both perverse and absurd, and he should, with a light and happy heart, sweep them away. And standing there in the bright solitude of the path, Gonçalo made a bold, determined, sweeping gesture.
There remained, however, the matter of his own humiliation. For some years now, in writing and in conversation, in Coimbra, in Vila Clara, in Oliveira and in the Gazeta do Porto, he had repeatedly attacked Cavaleiro! And would he now, back bent, climb the steps up to the governor’s house, murmuring peccavi, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa? What a stir that would cause in town! ‘In his time of need, the Nobleman of the Tower came, crawled and surrendered.’ It would be Cavaleiro’s greatest triumph to have the only man in the area who was still on his feet and fighting, thundering out the truth, suddenly throw down his weapons, fall silent and quietly join His Excellency’s other sycophantic followers. That would be hard, but, then again, surely the interests of the country were more important! And this reason seemed so utterly admirable that, in the dumb street, he roared out ardently, ‘Yes, there’s the country to think of!’
Yes, the country! There were reforms to proclaim and to carry out! In his fifth year at Coimbra, he had given a great deal of thought to the public education system, even reshaping the curriculum, eliminating Latin and literature and other such useless subjects, and focussing firmly on industry and the colonies, with the aim of creating a hard-working population of producers and explorers. And when he and his companions discussed their high-flown ideas for the future and shared out the various Ministries among them, it was always agreed that Gonçalo should be in charge of Education! It was precisely because of his potent ideas and his accumulated knowledge that Gonçalo owed it to the nation to serve in this way, just as, in centuries past, the great Ramires men had sallied forth to battle. And it was for the sake of the nation that his pride as a man must give way to his duty as a citizen.
And who knows what might happen? Many years of camaraderie lay between Cavaleiro and the Nobleman, a camaraderie that had merely lain dormant and might be revived by a new encounter, might immediately fold them in a warm embrace, in which their old grievances would vanish, like so much dust. But why waste time imagining and pondering? One overwhelming, inescapable need was emerging, that of going tomorrow morning to Oliveira, to the governor’s office, and demanding that Casco be taken into custody. His peace of mind and his intellect depended on it. He would never manage to continue working on his Novella or stroll happily into Vila Clara again, knowing that Casco and his rifle might be lurking around corners and in the shadows. And unless he returned to his ancestors’ crude measures and their habit of travelling everywhere with an armed escort, he needed to have Casco tamed and immobilised. He must, therefore, as a matter of urgency, go and see the governor, for the sake of Public Order. And then, when he was standing in Cavaleiro’s office, before Cavaleiro’s desk, Providence would decide, yes, Providence would decide!
Having taken this decision, the Nobleman of the Tower stopped and looked around him. Borne along on that warm tide of thoughts, he had reached the town cemetery, which glowed white behind the railings, like a sheet spread out before him. At the far end of the avenue bisecting the cemetery — pale in the sad, wan moonlight — a scrawny, wounded, ashen Christ hung, nailed on his high, black cross, looking still more wounded and ashen in all the silence and solitude, with one small, guttering lamp at his feet. All around were the cypresses, the shadows cast by the cypresses, the white gravestones, the small crosses on the poorer graves, a dead peace that weighed even on the dead and, up above, the still, yellow moon. The Nobleman felt a shudder of fear run through him, a fear of that Christ, of the gravestones, of the dead, the moon, the solitude. He raced back down the road until the houses of the town hove into view, then went bowling down the main street like a loose pebble. When he stopped near the fountain, an owl in the town-hall tower was hooting, lending a melancholy note to the dark, sleeping town. Feeling still more afraid, Gonçalo ran to the tavern, where he found his men happily playing cards while they awaited his return. He walked back with them through the town to Torto’s house, to ask him to send his coach and pair to the Tower the next morning at nine o’clock.
Torto’s wife gingerly opened the grille in the door and said in a tremulous, hesitant voice:
‘Oh, I’m not sure he can, sir. He’s already got a job on at nine. Would eleven o’clock be any use to you, sir?’
‘No, it has to be nine o’clock!’ bellowed Gonçalo.
He wanted to arrive early at the governor’s house so as to avoid the curious eyes of the gentlemen of Oliveira, who, after midday, gathered in the square and strolled up and down the arcade.
However, at half past nine, Gonçalo — who had been up until dawn, pacing his room, filled with a tumult of hopes and fears — was still not dressed, but was standing shaving before the vast mirror with the gilt columns. He then went, first, to Feitosa, where he left a note of condolence for the lovely widow, Dona Ana. By noon, he was starving and so stopped for lunch at Vendinha, while the horses rested. And it was already striking half past two by the time he finally reached Oliveira and got out of the carriage at the far end of the main square, outside the imposing door of the former Monastery of São Domingos, which his father had commandeered as his magnificent new offices when he was governor.
At that hour, in the cool shade of the arcade that runs along one side of the square (formerly known as the Praça da Prataria — Silver Square — and now renamed Praça da Liberdade — Liberty Square), Oliveira’s gentlemen of leisure, the ‘boys’, were lounging around in wicker chairs outside Leão’s and the Tabacaria Elegante. Gonçalo had cautiously drawn down the green blinds in the carriage, but, in the monastery cloister, which was still furnished with vast benches, he met his cousin, José Mendonça, coming down the steps. The cheerful captain — a slender young man with a trim moustache and slightly pockmarked face — was astonished to see Gonçalo there.
‘What are you doing here, Gonçalinho? And wearing a top hat too! Goodness, it must be some very important matter!’
The Nobleman of the Tower bravely confessed. He had arrived that very moment in order to speak to André Cavaleiro.
‘Is the illustrious gentleman in his office?’ Mendonça drew back, almost horrified.
‘Cavaleiro? You’ve come to speak to Cavaleiro? Holy Mother of God! Has Troy fallen?’
Gonçalo blushed and tried to laugh off this remark. No, there had been no tragedy of the epic proportions of Troy, and he was happy to reveal to Mendonça the matter that had brought him to see the august governor. It was about a man from Bravais called Casco, who, furious because he had failed to gain the lease on the land around the Tower, had threatened him and was now prowling the Vila Clara road at night, watching for him, rifle at the ready. And not daring to ‘deal out justice’ by the hands of his servants, as the Ramires men of old would have done, he was modestly asking the authorities to issue an order so that Gouveia, in keeping with the law and with God’s holy commandments, could restrain that impertinent fellow from Bravais.
‘So, you see, it’s merely a minor matter of public order. Is the great man in his office, do you know? How’s your wife, by the way? Well, I hope. Anyway, I’ll be dining tonight with the Barrolos — why not join us?’
The captain did not move, but instead idly opened his leather cigarette case.
‘What do you think of the latest news about poor Sanches Lucena?’
Yes, Gonçalo had heard about it at the club. Some sort of heart attack, they said. Mendonça lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply:
‘Yes, it was very sudden, an aneurysm according to the newspapers. Why, only three days ago, Maria and I had dinner with them. Dona Ana and I even played the arrangement for four hands of the quartet from Rigoletto. And he seemed perfectly fine, chatting away and enjoying a glass of brandy.’
Gonçalo adopted a sad, sympathetic expression:
‘Poor man. Yes, I met him in Bica-Santa a few weeks ago. A nice chap, charming manners. And, of course, now a vacancy has opened up next to Dona Ana.’
‘Not to mention the vacancy in the constituency.’
‘Oh, the constituency,’ murmured the Nobleman of the Tower with a scornful laugh. ‘Frankly, I’d rather have the widow. She’s a Venus with two hundred contos to her name. Unfortunately, she has a truly hideous voice . . .’
Mendonça hastened earnestly to reassure him.
‘No, no, in private, she doesn’t speak in that affected way at all. She has a really pleasant, natural way of speaking. And what a body, eh? What skin!’
‘She must look splendid in black!’ concluded Gonçalo. ‘Anyway, I’ll see you later. Drop in and see us. I must rush. I’m relying now on Cavaleiro’s strong arm to save me!’
He shook Mendonça’s hand and bounded up the stone steps.
However, the captain, who had set off down Travessa de São Domingos, had his suspicions about that tale of rifles and threats of violence. ‘I smell Politics!’ he thought. And when, after one slow hour had passed, he returned to the square and saw Gonçalo’s carriage still outside the door of the governor’s office, he ran to the Café da Arcada and revealed all to the Vila-Velha brothers, who were leaning pensively on either side of the door to the Tabacaria Elegante.
‘I bet you can’t guess who’s visiting the governor? Gonçalo Ramires! Visiting Cavaleiro!’
Everyone round about stirred in their worn wicker chairs, as if waking from the somnolent silence and torpor of the long summer afternoon. And Mendonça, wildly excited now, told them that since half past two, Gonçalo Mendes Ramires, in person, had been closeted with Cavaleiro for a very important meeting. So great was the general amazement and curiosity that they all leapt to their feet and peered out from behind the pillars of the arcade to spy on the large balcony above the main entrance, where the governor had his office.
At precisely that moment, José Barrolo, wearing white trousers and a white rose in his lapel, came riding round the corner of Rua das Vendas. And the other gentlemen all hurled themselves on him, in the hope of some revelation:
‘Barrolo!’
‘Barrolo, come here!’
‘Quickly, man, it’s urgent!’
Barrolo rode over to the arcade, where his friends gathered round his horse to give him the extraordinary news. Gonçalo and Cavaleiro had been in secret conference all morning! Gonçalo’s carriage had been waiting so long that his horses had almost fallen asleep. And the cathedral bells were already starting to ring!
Barrolo jumped down. And asking a boy to walk his horse, he joined his friends and, like them, stood open-mouthed, staring up at the stone balcony, his riding crop behind his back.
‘I know nothing about it. Gonçalo hasn’t said anything to me,’ he said, still astonished. ‘True, he hasn’t been to town for several days, but not a word! And the last time he was here, for Graça’s birthday, he was still raging against Cavaleiro!’
Everyone thought the whole affair ‘quite extraordinary’! And suddenly, a silence fell, and a thrill of excitement filled the arcade. The balcony doors had slowly opened and out had stepped Cavaleiro and the Nobleman of the Tower, talking and smiling and smoking cigars. Cavaleiro shot a mischievous glance at the ‘lads’ down below, huddled in amazement under the arches, but it was only a glance. Then he disappeared back into his office, and was followed by the Nobleman, who, first, leaned over the balustrade to look down at the carriage below. The friends burst into clamorous cheering.
‘Hurrah! Peace at last!’
‘The War of the Roses is over!’
‘Forgotten, along with those letters to the Gazeta do Porto?’
‘What a turn-up for the books!’
‘Gonçalinho will be Oliveira’s next administrator, that’s for sure!’
‘Or something higher still!’
Then they again fell silent. Cavaleiro and the Nobleman had reappeared, so deep in conversation that they stood for a moment, apparently oblivious to the fact that they could be observed on the ample balcony. Then with fond familiarity, Cavaleiro clapped Gonçalo on the back, as if making public their reconciliation to the general wonderment of the square below. And again they vanished, still engaged in a dialogue that brought them back and forth, from the darkness of the office onto the bright balcony, sleeves touching, the smoke from their respective cigars mingling. In the arcade, the group of ever more excited on-lookers grew in size. When Melo Alboim, the Baron das Marges and the local delegate happened by, they were summoned urgently to join the others, where they hungrily, incredulously devoured the news, gaping up at the old stone balcony, which the sun was now gilding with golden light. The large hands on the clock were approaching four. The two Vila-Velha brothers and the other ‘boys’ withdrew wearily to their wicker chairs. The delegate, who always dined at four and had problems with his digestion, reluctantly left the arcade, begging Pestana, his neighbour, to come to the café later on and tell him all. Melo Alboim, meanwhile, had slipped into his house, which was on the opposite corner of square, facing the governor’s office, and from his window, hidden behind his wife and sister-in-law — both wearing white dressing gowns and with paper curlers in their hair — he trained his binoculars on the balcony of the governor’s office. Finally, the clock struck four. Then the Baron, unable to contain his impatience, decided to go over to the building and ‘sniff out what was going on’.
At that moment though, André Cavaleiro came out onto the balcony again, alone this time, with his hands in the pockets of his blue flannel jacket. And almost immediately, Gonçalo’s carriage set off across the square, with the green blinds half drawn down, revealing to the watching gentlemen’s eager eyes only the Nobleman’s light-coloured trousers.
‘He’s going to Barrolo’s house!’
Barrolo could catch him there, and they all urged Barrolo to get on his horse at once and go home so that his brother-in-law could explain the whys and wherefores of this historic peace agreement! The Baron even held his stirrups for him, and Barrolo trotted eagerly back to Largo d’El-Rei.
Gonçalo Mendes Ramires, however, did not stop at his sister’s house, but continued on to Vendinha, where he had decided to dine and allow the horses to rest. Once he had passed the last houses in the town, he raised the blinds and, with his hat off, took a long, delicious breath of that cool, luminous evening air, cooler and clearer and more consoling than any he had ever experienced. He was returning from Oliveira triumphant! He had finally climbed through that crack in the wall and without his honour or his pride getting scratched or torn on the sharp edges. Blessed be Gouveia, canny Gouveia! And blessed, too, be his canny words on the previous evening in Vila Clara!
True, it had been difficult, that first silent moment when he had sat down stiffly, awkwardly on the edge of the chair, next to His Excellency’s desk. But he had behaved in a dignified, straightforward manner — ‘I find myself obliged (he had said) to consult the governor on a matter of public order . . .’ Looking very pale and nervously smoothing his moustache, Cavaleiro had made the first move, ‘I’m only sorry that you have not come to consult me as your old friend.’ Gonçalo remained withdrawn and resistant, coldly, sadly saying, ‘Well, that is certainly no fault of mine.’ And after a silence during which his lips trembled, Cavaleiro had said, ‘After all these years, Gonçalo, it would be more charitable not to speak of blame, but simply to remember our former friendship, which, at least as far as I’m concerned, remains unchanged, loyal and deep.’ Gonçalo had responded to this touching invocation gently and compassionately, ‘If my old friend André still recalls our former friendship, I cannot deny that the flame of that friendship has never entirely burned out in me either.’ They both then mumbled a few confused words of regret about life’s vicissitudes, and, almost without noticing, reverted to addressing each other familiarly as tu! He told Cavaleiro about Casco’s clumsy attempt to threaten him. Filled with indignation as a friend and even more so as governor, Cavaleiro immediately telegraphed Gouveia with orders to put the thug from Bravais out of commission. Then he and Gonçalo discussed the sudden death of Sanches Lucena, which had shocked the whole town. They both spoke admiringly of the beautiful widow and of her two hundred contos. Cavaleiro recalled how, when visiting Feitosa one morning, he had gone in through the garden gate and found her sitting in a bower of roses adjusting her garter. And what a divine leg she had! And laughing, they both expressed their determination not to marry Dona Ana, despite her two hundred contos and despite that divine leg! They had already resumed the familiar forms of address from their days at Coimbra, calling each ‘old man’ and ‘dear fellow’.
And it was, of course, André who mentioned the unexpected vacancy left by the death of the deputy. Sitting back in his armchair, drumming his fingers on the desk, Gonçalo murmured casually:
‘Yes, of course, his death must have left you in a very awkward situation.’
Nothing more! Just those words indolently spoken as he drummed his fingers. And Cavaleiro had immediately, hastily, insistently, offered him the constituency, first giving him a long look, as if trying to penetrate his mind and sound him out. Then, in a grave, insinuating voice, he had said:
‘If you wanted, Gonçalo, you could put an end to that awkward situation.’
Gonçalo had reacted with surprise and amusement:
‘What do you mean, if I wanted?’
André fixed him with his large, lustrous, persuasive eyes and said:
‘If you wanted to serve your country and become the deputy for Vila Clara, then there would be no awkward situation, Gonçalo!’
If you wanted . . . And faced by his friend’s plaintive insistence, so sincere and so deeply felt, he had agreed with a bow, for the sake of his country:
‘If I can be of any use to you and to the country, then you can count on me.’
And that was that, he had slipped through that jagged crack in the wall with not a scratch to his pride or his dignity! Then they talked openly, pacing up and down the office, from the document-laden shelves to the balcony doors, which André had opened to let out the lingering smell of some paraffin spilled the previous day. André intended to leave for Lisbon that very night, to talk to the government after Sanches Lucena’s unexpected death. And once in Lisbon, he would put forward his dear friend Gonçalo’s name as the only possible candidate, utterly safe and solid, given his name, his talent, his influence and his loyalty. And that was the Election over and done with. Besides (declared Cavaleiro with a smile), the Vila Clara constituency was ‘his property’, as much his as his own private estate. He could, if he chose, elect the stammering, drunken office boy. He was, therefore, doing the nation an enormous favour by introducing them to a young man of such lofty origins and such keen intelligence. Then he added:
‘Don’t give the Election another thought. Go home to the Tower. And not a word to anyone, apart from Gouveia that is. Just wait there quietly for my telegram from Lisbon. Once you receive it, you will then be the deputy for Vila Clara, and you can safely tell your brother-in-law and your friends, and on the following Sunday, come and have lunch with me at Corinde.’
They embraced each other, an embrace that joined those two separated souls once and for all. Accompanying Gonçalo to the stone steps down to the cloister, André — shyly revisiting the past — gave a thoughtful smile and murmured, ‘And what have you been up to lately in that beloved Tower of yours?’ And when Gonçalo told him about the Novella he was writing, André sighed nostalgically for the days of Imagination and Art in Coimbra, when he had lovingly chiselled out the first canto of a heroic poem, The Arzila Border.
They embraced again, and off Gonçalo went, the new deputy for Vila Clara.
In Parliament, he, Gonçalo Mendes Ramires, would represent all the fields and villages he saw through the window of the carriage. And by God, he would represent them well! His mind was already filling up with rich, fertile ideas. In Vendinha, while he was waiting for them to fry him up some sausage and eggs and two slices of fish, he was considering, as a response to the Royal Speech, the harsh, sombre picture he would paint of our Administration in Africa. Then he would issue a call to the nation, one that would rouse it to action and inspire it to invest some of its energies in that potent land, Africa, where, from coast to coast, they could build a greater Portugal, as their supreme glory and supreme source of wealth! By the time the weary horses pulled up to the Tower, night had fallen, and his head was still buzzing with ideas, vast and vague.
The next morning (a Tuesday) at ten o’clock, Bento entered the Nobleman’s room, bearing a telegram, which had arrived in the early hours. Gonçalo assumed it was from the ministry, and his heart gave a joyful leap. It was, however, from Castanheiro, demanding the Novella. Gonçalo screwed up the telegram. The Novella! How could he possibly work on the Novella when he had so much to think about with the upcoming Election? He could not even enjoy his lunch, rejecting dish after dish, because he had to suppress a desperate desire to tell Bento the news. However, once he had impatiently drunk his coffee, he set off to Vila Clara to tell Gouveia. The poor fellow was once more prostrate on his wicker sofa, a poultice pressed to his throat. And all afternoon, in that cramped room with its pale green walls, Gonçalo extolled André’s many talents, ‘a real statesman, Gouveia, a man of ideas!’ praised the current Historical government as ‘the only one capable of getting us out of this mess, Gouveia!’ and revealed the ambitious laws he wanted to draw up concerning Africa, ‘our one great hope, Gouveia!’ Gouveia, occasionally checking that his poultice was still warm, now and then interrupted his silence and immobility to murmur feebly:
‘And to whom do you owe all this, Gonçalinho? To yours truly!’
When Gonçalo woke late on Wednesday, his first urgent thought was of André Cavaleiro, who, at that very moment, would be having lunch in Lisbon at the Hotel Central (to which André had remained faithful ever since he was a boy). And all day, as he smoked cigar after cigar in the silence of the house and the garden, he followed Cavaleiro on his journey as governor, to the Baixa, to Parliament, to the various Ministries. He would, of course, dine with his uncle, Reis Gomes, Minister of Justice. With them would be José Ernesto, Minister of Home Affairs, an old university friend and political confidant. So this very night, everything would be decided!
‘Tomorrow, at around ten o’clock, I’ll get a telegram from André!’
No news reached the Tower, though, and the Nobleman spent that slow Thursday at the window, watching the dusty road along which the telegraph boy would come, a fat lad, whom he would recognise at once by his oilskin cap and his gammy leg. As evening fell, he was feeling so unbearably anxious that he sent a boy to Vila Clara. Perhaps the telegram had been delayed or left on the table by ‘that fool Nunes at the telegraph office!’ No, there was no telegram. Then he became convinced that Cavaleiro must have encountered some difficulties in Lisbon. And all night, unable to rest and filled with a rising, roiling sense of indignation, he imagined Cavaleiro meekly giving in to the minister’s other demands, slavishly accepting as the candidate for Vila Clara an imbecile from some ministry or other, some vulgar party pen-pusher!
In the morning, he scolded Bento for being so late bringing him the newspapers and his tea.
‘And is there no telegram, no letter?’
‘No, sir, nothing.’
He had clearly been betrayed! Well, then, that dastardly man, Cavaleiro, would certainly never cross the threshold of his sister’s house! Besides, what did he care about that mockery of an Election? Fortunately, he had plenty of other ways to prove his worth, ways far superior to sitting in some grubby seat in Parliament! How wretched it would have been, demeaning his talent and his name in the lowly service of fat, bald, ugly São Fulgêncio! And he resolved to return at once to the pure, lofty peaks of Art, and to spend all day on the noble, elegant task of writing his Novella.
After lunch, he managed to make himself sit down and nervously shuffle through some bits of paper. Then, suddenly, he grabbed his hat and again raced off to Vila Clara, to the telegraph office. No, Nunes had received nothing for His Excellency! Then, dripping with sweat and covered in dust, Gonçalo scuttled over to Gouveia’s office, only to be told that Gouveia had gone to Oliveira! Some other candidate had obviously been chosen, and his trust roundly abused! He went home to the Tower, determined to take his revenge on Cavaleiro for this affront to his name and his dignity! He spent the whole of a heavy, misty Friday bitterly pondering what form his revenge would take, a revenge that needed to be both very public and very bloody. The simplest and most satisfying method would be to confront him, one Sunday, on the steps of the cathedral as he was coming out of mass, and tweak the villain’s fine moustache! When night fell, after barely eating any dinner, he was still so riven with spite and humiliation that he put on his jacket and decided to go back to Vila Clara. Too ashamed to return to the telegraph office, he intended to spend the night at the club, playing billiards, enjoying a cup of tea, and cheerfully reading the Regenerationist newspapers, so that if, later on, people should learn of the trap he had fallen into, everyone would recall his insouciant air.
He went down to the courtyard, where the dark, cloud-laden evening was made still darker by the surrounding trees, and as he was opening the gate, he almost collided with a young lad, who came limping along, panting hard, and who, when he saw him, cried out, ‘Telegram, sir!’ The Nobleman snatched it greedily from his hand, then ran into the kitchen, where he berated Rosa for the lack of light, and with a match burning his fingers, instantly devoured the long-awaited lines: Ministry agrees, all settled. In the rest of the message, Cavaleiro merely reminded him that he would be expecting him at Corinde on Sunday at eleven o’clock, so that they could have lunch together and talk.
Gonçalo Mendes Ramires gave the telegram boy five tostões and raced up the stairs to the library, where, by the more reliable light of the oil-lamp, he reread that delicious telegram. Ministry agrees, all settled. In his unfettered gratitude to Cavaleiro, he immediately concocted the plan of a superb supper laid on by Barrolo at the Casa dos Cunhais, thus confirming the reconciliation of the two households. And to bring still more honour to this sweet celebration, he would advise Gracinha to wear a modestly décolleté dress in order to show off her magnificent diamond necklace, the last of the Ramires’ historic jewels.
‘Ah, André, what a gem of a man!’
The Chinese lacquer clock in the corridor grumbled out nine o’clock, and it was only then that Gonçalo noticed the heavy rain falling outside, which he, pacing the library in a great luminous wave of imagined triumphs, had been too absorbed in his own glory to hear splashing down on the stone balcony and on the leaves of the lemon trees.
To calm himself and to make the most of the time he must now spend closeted in his room, he decided to work on his Novella. He really did need to finish it before the great upheaval of the Elections, so that in January, when Parliament re-opened, he could emerge into the world of politics with his ancient name adorned with a halo of Erudition and Art. He pulled on his flannel dressing gown. And seated at his desk, with his usual pot of inspirational tea beside him, he slowly reread the beginning of the second chapter — and he was not at all pleased.
It was set in the castle of Santa Ireneia, on the August day on which Lourenço Ramires had fallen captive in the valley of Canta-Pedra, badly wounded and held prisoner by the Bastard of Baião. Tructesindo Ramires had been told the sad result of the battle by the captain of infantry, who, despite having one arm pierced by a lance, had galloped with desperate speed back to the castle. At this point, Uncle Duarte had slipped into a gentle almost sentimental lyricism, describing the Great Man pacing the salle d’armes, weeping and sobbing in his grief for his son, the flower of all the knights of Riba-Cávado, who had been laid low and bound hand and foot, at the mercy of Baião’s men:
Irrepressible tears burst forth from him,
His armour heaves with his ardent sobs!
In the chapter’s opening lines, Gonçalo had adopted the same harmoniously melancholy tone and described the old man sitting on a stool, head bowed, tears running down his white beard, his large, calloused hands hanging limp like those of some languid maiden, while his two greyhounds sat wagging their tails and watching him with a kind of yearning, almost human sympathy. Now, though, this tearful despair seemed to Gonçalo at odds with Tructesindo’s indomitably violent nature. Uncle Duarte, who belonged to the Balsas family, was not a Ramires and therefore could not have felt the strength of the Ramires blood coursing through his veins, and, being a softhearted Romantic of 1848, he had immediately bathed in romantic tears the fierce face of a twelfth-century warrior, a companion of Sancho I! It was, however, Gonçalo’s duty to restore the Lord of Santa Ireneia to an appropriately epic reality. Putting a line through that whole, false, somewhat vapid opening passage, he tried a different approach and filled the whole castle with alarm and rage. In his sublime, simple loyalty, Tructesindo did not even think about his son — revenge for that foul outrage could wait — but put all his efforts into hastening the preparations, so that he could ride to Montemor and bring the Princesses the succour denied them by that ambush in Canta-Pedra. However, when the Great Man was in the salle d’armes with his commander-in-chief, discussing the final details of the expedition, the sentinels sheltering from the August heat in the towers suddenly saw in the distance, beyond the woods on the river bank, the glitter of weapons and a party of horsemen advancing on Santa Ireneia. Burly Ordonho ran huffing and puffing up the steps to the barbican terrace and immediately recognised the standard of Lopo de Baião and the sound of his Moorish horns, which rang out long and sad over the silent fields. Then, cupping his mouth with his hairy hands, he cried:
‘To arms, to arms! Baião is coming! Crossbowmen, to the battlements! And as many men as possible to the drawbridges!’ And scratching his head with the end of his pen, Gonçalo was still trying to think up some more authentic-sounding, suitably brave and Afonsine call to arms, when the door to the library opened very cautiously, with that irritating, stubborn creak that almost drove him to despair. It was Bento, in shirtsleeves:
‘Could you possibly come down to the kitchen for a moment, sir?’
Gonçalo stared at Bento, blinking and uncomprehending:
‘To the kitchen?’
‘It’s Casco’s wife kicking up a terrible fuss. Apparently, her husband was arrested this afternoon. She turned up here in the pouring rain with her children, one of whom is still a babe in arms. She says she has to speak to you, sir. And she won’t shut up, but kneels there, bathed in tears, along with her children, like a modern-day Inês de Castro!’
Gonçalo muttered, ‘Oh really!’ What a nuisance to have that distraught, screaming woman dragging her needy children to the very door of the Tower! And there he was on the eve of an Election campaign. His constituents would inevitably be touched by her plight — and he’d be the hardhearted aristocrat! He angrily flung down his pen:
‘Oh really, Bento, tell the creature to go away and not to worry. The administrator will release Casco tomorrow. I’ll go to Vila Clara myself before lunch to ask him to do just that. Tell her not to worry and not to distress her children. Go on, quickly!’
Bento stayed where he was.
‘Rosa and I have already told her that, but she won’t believe us. She insists on speaking to you, sir. She walked here in the pouring rain and one of the little ones is really ill and won’t stop shivering.’
Moved by this story, Gonçalo thumped the desk so hard that the loose pages of his Novella scattered everywhere.
‘Honestly, the things I have to put up with. And from a man who tried to kill me too! And now, to top it all, I’m the one who has to deal with the tears and the hysterical scenes as well as with his sick child! This place is just impossible! One day, I’ll sell this house and the land and emigrate to Mozambique or to the Transvaal, somewhere — anywhere — where one isn’t bothered by such petty matters. Anyway, tell the woman I’ll be right down.’
Bento wholeheartedly approved of this decision:
‘Yes, sir, if you wouldn’t mind, especially if it’s to give her good news. It would be such a consolation to the poor woman.’
‘I’m coming, Bento, I’m coming. Don’t you start nagging me too. Really, it’s impossible to get any work done in this house. Another wasted evening!’
He strode off to his room, slamming doors as he went, intending to slip two ten tostão notes in his pocket to console the little ones. When he reached into the drawer, however, he stopped, feeling suddenly embarrassed. What a brutish idea, to try and buy the children off with money, when he’d been the one responsible for having their father taken away, handcuffed and thrown into a dungeon! Instead, he picked up a box of dried apricots that Gracinha had sent him the previous day, a speciality of the Convent of Santa Brígida in Oliveira. And slowly closing the door behind him, he already regretted the unthinking severity of his actions, ruining a couple’s peace of mind. Out in the corridor, with the rain hammering down on the roof and cascading into the courtyard, he was even more troubled and pained by the idea of that poor woman, half mad with anxiety, tramping down the dark road, dragging her drenched and exhausted children through the storm. By the time he went into the kitchen, he was shaking like a criminal.
Through the glass door, he could hear Rosa and Bento comforting the woman with friendly, almost cheerful words, but her wailing and her loud laments for her ‘dear husband’ only rang out all the more shrilly, as if to repel and stifle all attempts at consolation. When Gonçalo timidly pushed open the door, he almost recoiled in fear and horror from the strident grief aimed at him and his mercy! On her knees on the flagstones, her thin hands clasped above her head, and dressed entirely in black — which somehow looked still blacker and more mournful against the red sheet hung up to dry before the fire — the woman burst forth with a tumult of pleas, crying out:
‘Ah, kind sir, have pity! My husband’s been arrested and they’re going to send him into exile, sir, off to Africa. And my poor babies, sir, will be left without a father! For their souls’ sake, sir, for the sake of their happiness, sir, please, please help me. Oh, I know he was wrong, but he was desperate, sir. Have pity on the little ones, sir. My poor husband’s in prison, sir. Please, sir, I’m begging!’
His eyes moist with tears, and still clutching the box of dried apricots, Gonçalo, managed, despite the knot that had formed in his throat, to stammer out:
‘Calm down, woman, he’ll be released tomorrow. Calm down. The order’s as good as given. He’ll be out in no time.’
On one side, bent over the dark sobbing figure, Rosa was saying, ‘Isn’t that what we told you, Maria! He’ll be out tomorrow!’ And on the other side, Bento was impatiently slapping his thigh and saying, ‘Stop your screaming, woman. The Nobleman has given you his word. Your husband will be freed tomorrow!’
With the scarf all awry on her head and one plait unravelling, she would still not calm down, but continued her sobbing and, in-between sobs, kept shouting:
‘I’ll die if he isn’t freed! Forgive me, sir, please, sir, forgive me.’
Gonçalo found this stubborn, endless litany of woes sheer torture, like a nail being hammered in again and again, and finally, he stamped his foot and roared:
‘Listen, woman, and look at me, will you! Stand up, go on, stand up! And look me in the eye.’
Stiff and erect, her hands behind her back as if she, too, were being threatened with handcuffs, she stared at the Nobleman with deep, dark, terrified eyes, and the dark circles around them seemed to fill her gaunt, sallow face.
‘That’s better,’ exclaimed Gonçalo. ‘Now, tell me, do you think I would lie to you when you are so upset? Well, then, calm down, stop screaming, and I promise you, on my word of honour, that tomorrow morning, your husband will be freed.’
And Rosa and Bento cried out in triumphant unison:
‘Isn’t that what we told you, you silly woman? If the Nobleman has given you his word, then tomorrow you’re sure to have your husband back!’
She slowly wiped away her now silent tears with one corner of her black apron, but she was still not entirely convinced and kept her wide, dark eyes fixed hungrily on Gonçalo. Would he really send orders first thing in the morning? Bento was the one who finally persuaded her, saying, almost violently:
‘How can you be so impudent, woman? Are you doubting the Nobleman’s word?’
She let go of her apron, bowed her head and sighed:
‘In that case, sir, thank you, and may it be for the good of all.’
Gonçalo was now looking around for the two children she had brought with her all the way from Bravais through the pelting rain. The baby was sleeping beatifically on the lid of a trunk, where Rosa had carefully covered him with blankets and eiderdowns. However, the boy, who was seven, was sitting huddled in a chair by the fire, drying off like the sheet hanging next to him, his little face aflame with fever, his head drooping with sleep and exhaustion, as he gasped and groaned at the terrible hacking cough sapping his strength, all the while thrusting one small hand through a hole in his grubby shirt to scratch his still grubbier chest. Gonçalo put the box of apricots down on the trunk, and touched the boy’s hand.
‘This child has a fever, and yet you brought him here, all the way from Bravais, on a night like this?’
From the low chair on which she had slumped down, the woman murmured nervously, without looking up:
‘I wanted them to plead with you too, so you’d see that they, poor things, had lost their father!’
‘You’re mad, woman! And do you intend to go back to Bravais now, in the rain, with the children?’ She sighed:
‘I have to. I can’t leave my mother-in-law on her own. She’s eighty years old and crippled . . .’
Then the Nobleman despondently folded his arms at the thought of that journey, in which, all because of his vengeful demands, the lives of two children had been put at risk. Rosa, however, thought that the baby would not be harmed if held tight in his mother’s arms and protected by a thick blanket. The boy, on the other hand, with that cough and a high fever . . .
‘He’ll be staying here,’ Gonçalo declared. ‘What’s his name? Manuel. Right, Manuel will stay here. And don’t worry, Senhora Rosa will take care of him. What he needs is a good glass of eggnog and something to make him sweat out that fever. He’ll be back in Bravais in a few days’ time, fully recovered and fatter too, so don’t worry!’
The woman sighed again, filled by a terrible debilitating weariness. And giving in to a long, doleful habit of submission and putting up no further resistance, she said:
‘Of course, if you say so, sir.’
Bento peered out into the courtyard and announced that the rain was clearing up. Gonçalo immediately urged her to go back to Bravais:
‘But don’t be afraid. I’ll send one of my men with a lantern to light your way and an umbrella to shelter the baby. No, listen, you can wear my waterproof cape! Bento, run and fetch that new cape I bought in Lisbon.’
And when Bento brought the raincoat, with its long cape, and placed it over the woman’s shoulders, she was at first intimidated by the expensive material, which rustled like silk, but then a burst of laughter filled the kitchen. Like the rain, the tears had passed, and the encounter had turned into a friendly visit, ending with a cheerful loan of clothes. Rosa clasped her hands together, as pleased as punch:
‘Now you look like a proper lady. If it was broad daylight out there, how the people would stare!’
The woman smiled openly at last, but said dully:
‘I don’t know what I must look like really . . . a real sight probably.’
Gonçalo accompanied the little party across the courtyard, where the rain was dripping gently from the acacia trees, and even as the lad’s lantern was merging with the damp depths of the now quiet night, he again called out, ‘Make sure the baby’s well wrapped up!’ Back in the kitchen, stamping his damp slippers on the flagstones, he felt little Manuel’s hand, but the boy had dropped asleep now, breathing hoarsely, curled up against the back of the chair.
‘The fever’s lessened, but he could still do with a mustard bath to sweat it out. And before you put him to bed, give him some hot milk, almost boiling hot, with a drop of brandy in it. He could also do with a good scrub down. They’re so dirty these people! But that can wait until he’s better. And now, Rosa, send me up something to eat, something substantial, because I’ve still had no dinner, and it’s been quite a night!’
Back in the library, once he had changed his slippers and had a rest, Gonçalo wrote a letter to Gouveia demanding with touching urgency that Casco be freed. And he added, ‘This is the first request I make as deputy for Vila Clara (yes, congratulations are due!) — I have just received a telegram from our friend André, announcing that it’s all settled and that the ministry has agreed, etc. So we need to talk! Would you do me the honour, sir, of coming to dine at the Tower in the vast shadow cast by Titó and accompanied by Videirinha? Those two worthy gentlemen are indispensable if we are to enjoy our food in harmony. And please, my friend, may I rely on you to invite them to our banquet, and save me having to send out any further eloquent messages . . .’
Once the letter was sealed, he again languidly took up the manuscript of his Novella. And, chewing the end of his pen, he continued to search for an appropriately medieval tone for the scene in which Ordonho and the guards first spot the Bastard’s horsemen approaching from the river, weapons gleaming beneath the harsh August sun.
However, since finishing that letter to Gouveia, which he had written as ‘the new deputy for Vila Clara’, his imagination kept sidling restlessly, stubbornly away from the ancient Solar de Santa Ireneia and flying off to Lisbon, the Lisbon of São Fulgêncio. And the terrace of the barbican tower, and burly Ordonho breathlessly bawling out orders, kept dissolving like a soft mist to be replaced by the more appetising and more fascinating image of a room in the Hotel Bragança with a balcony overlooking the Tejo. It was a great relief when Bento summoned him to supper; seated at the table, he could allow his imagination free rein to wander Lisbon and the corridors of the Teatro de São Carlos, to drift over the trees in the Avenida, through the ancient palaces owned by his relatives in São Vicente and in Graça, and through the more modern drawing rooms of bright, cultivated friends, pausing occasionally to linger over other delightful visions, a smile of silent delight on his face. He would definitely need to hire a carriage by the month. And for the sessions in Parliament, he would always wear pearl-grey gloves and a flower in his buttonhole, and for convenience’s sake, he would take Bento with him, in a smart new tailcoat.
Bento came in bearing a tray with a bottle of cognac. He had given the letter to Joaquim, with instructions to set off at six in the morning for the administrator’s house and to wait by the prison until Casco was released.
‘And we’ve put the little one to bed in the green room, near to mine, because I’m a light sleeper, and if he starts crying, I’ll be sure to hear him. For the moment, though, he’s sleeping peacefully.’
‘So he’s sleeping, is he?’ said Gonçalo, quickly drinking his glass of cognac. ‘Let’s have a look at the young gentleman.’
And taking a candlestick, he followed Bento up the narrow stairs to the green room, smiling as they tiptoed along. In the corridor outside the bedroom, Rosa had lovingly folded up the boy’s ragged clothes — the torn waistcoat and the baggy trousers with just one button — and placed them neatly on a faded damask green couch. In the room itself, lined with old green flock wallpaper, the whole of one wall was obscured by the vast mahogany bed, once reserved for important guests. At the head of the bed, on either side of the turned bedposts, hung portraits of two of his ancestors — a vastly overweight bishop pictured leafing through a manuscript, and next to him, leaning on his sword, a handsome Knight of Malta with a reddish beard and a large lace bow over his gleaming cuirass. On the high mattress, little Manuel lay snoring, not coughing now, but quiet and snug beneath the thick covers, his skin moist with a cooling, healthy perspiration.
Still on tiptoe, Gonçalo carefully tucked the sheet in more tightly. Then, concerned about the old, ill-fitting windows, he made sure that no treacherous draughts were coming in through the cracks. He ordered Bento to fetch an oil lamp, which he put on the washstand, placing a vase in front of it to dim the light. He took another slow look around the room, to ensure that all was quiet, dark and comfortable. Then he left, still on tiptoe and still smiling, leaving Casco’s son to be watched over by those two noble Ramires men — the bishop with his worthy treatise and the Knight of Malta with his pure sword.
When he returned from the old fountain at the bottom of the garden — where, after lunch, he had spent the hottest hours of the day, leafing through a copy of Panorama beneath the cool of the trees and accompanied by the sound of babbling water — Gonçalo found on the desk in the library, along with the post from Oliveira, a letter that greatly surprised him, an enormous letter, written on a sheet of lined foolscap paper and bearing a wax seal. Instead of a signature, there was a flaming heart drawn in blue ink.
He quickly read the pencilled words, written in a large, clear, round hand:
Esteemed Senhor Gonçalo Ramires,
Recently, the district’s gallant governor, our very own bold André Cavaleiro, has frequently been seen riding past the Casa dos Cunhais, looking tenderly up at the windows and at the honourable Barrolo coat of arms. Since it seems unlikely that he was studying the arquitecture (which is not in the least remarkable), the more serious-minded among us have concluded that the worthy governor was waiting for you to appear at one of the windows that overlook the square or Rua das Tecedeiras, or, more likely, on the belvedere in the garden, in order to resume your old and broken friendship. That is why you were so right to go to his office yourself and propose a reconciliation and open your generous arms to an old friend, so that he no longer wastes his precious time on those endless sorties, with his eyes fixed on the house of that noblest of families, the Barrolos. We therefore send you our heartfelt congratulations on taking so wise a step, which should quieten the impatience of the passionate Cavaleiro and redund to the benefit of the public as a whole!
Turning the sheet of paper over his hands, Gonçalo thought:
‘It’s from the Lousada sisters!’
He looked more closely at the writing and eyed various turns of phrase, noticing that the writer had written ‘architecture’ with a ‘qu’ and omitted the ‘o’ from ‘redound’. Then he furiously tore up the letter, muttering in the silence of the library:
‘The evil cows!’
Yes, there was no doubting that it had come from the odious Lousada sisters! And this terrified him all the more, because this gossip, issued by such ardent spreaders of gossip, would be sure to have reached every house in Oliveira, even the prison, even the hospital! And now the whole town would be laughing and lapping up the scandal and treacherously linking André’s prowlings around the Casa dos Cunhais with his own visit to the governor’s office, which had so astonished the denizens of the arcade. In the minds of Oliveira’s inhabitants, then, and inspired by the Lousada sisters, he, Gonçalo Mendes Ramires, had been the one to lure Cavaleiro from his office, humbly leading him to Largo d’El-Rei and flinging wide the doors of the Casa dos Cunhais — which Cavaleiro had, until then, stalked and ogled to no avail — and thus he had calmly and brazenly sold him his sister’s favours! The shameless hussies deserved to have their grubby skirts pulled down in the middle of the square one morning after mass and have their wrinkled buttocks furiously flayed until their blood ran over the flagstones!
Worse, appearances seemed to be treacherously conspiring against him! André’s persistent stalking of Gracinha, constantly trotting on his horse along the streets around the house, had only been noticed and commented on now, in August, on the eve of Gonçalo’s very public reconciliation with the governor, a mysterious event which had aroused the curiosity of the whole of Oliveira. Sanches Lucena could not have chosen a worse moment to die! Months before, not even the Lousada sisters’ malicious tongues could have linked his reconciliation with André to an amorous siege that had not yet begun or had, at least, not been much talked about. Three or four months later, André, realising that the house remained impenetrable to him, would surely have given up riding round the square with a rose in his buttonhole! Alas, the moment when André’s prowlings around the door to his desire had become most obvious had coincided with Gonçalo welcoming and embracing the prowler and opening that door to him! This gave the gossip spread by the Lousada sisters a firm foundation, to whose substance and solidity everyone could attest, and their slander, thus supported, now stood there like a great Eternal Truth! Ah, those wretched women!
What to do now? Should he keep his relationship with Cavaleiro strictly within the bounds of politics, avoiding any slippery intimacies that would make Cavaleiro a favoured guest at the Casa dos Cunhais, just as he used to be at the Tower? Since Gonçalo’s reconciliation with André, Barrolo — his brother-in-law and shadow — had also resumed his friendship, as quickly and naturally as the shadow follows the branch. But how could he insist that Barrolo’s renewed friendship with Cavaleiro should remain confined to politics, as if within a leper colony? ‘I am once again André’s good friend and so are you, Barrolo, but never invite him to your table or open your door to him!’ No, that would be a ridiculous imposition, an utterly impertinent demand, and one that, in a small town like Oliveira — given their inevitably frequent encounters and Barrolo’s easy hospitality — would snap as surely as a piece of frayed twine. And what a grotesque position he would be in then, standing erect outside the house, like the Archangel Michael, flaming sword in hand, to prevent Satan, the governor, from entering in! Then again, having the whole town whispering in corners, mingling Gracinha’s name with that of André, and with his own name mentioned as the friendly thread that had bound them together — that was too horrible!
Impatient with these difficult, thorny snares set to entrap and injure him, he ended up thumping the table in disgust:
‘What a confounded nuisance! But then that’s what life is like in these small, tittle-tattling towns.’
In Lisbon, who would care if the governor were frequently to be seen riding through a particular square or if a certain Nobleman of the Tower had become reconciled with the governor? No, enough was enough! He would go proudly forward, as if he were living in Lisbon, ignoring the idle talk and the malicious prying eyes. He was Gonçalo Mendes Ramires of the House of Ramires! A name and a house that had endured for a thousand years! He was far superior to Oliveira and to all its Lousadas, and not, praise God, just because of his name, but because of who he was. André was his friend and would be welcome in his sister’s house — and to hell with Oliveira!
He did not even allow the Lousada sisters’ grubby letter to spoil his quiet morning’s work, for which he had been preparing since breakfast, rereading passages from Uncle Duarte’s poem and perusing articles from Panorama about siege warfare in the twelfth century. Finally, forcing himself to concentrate, he sat down and dipped his pen in the brass inkwell that had served three generations of Ramires. And as he read through the pages he had written, the castle of Santa Ireneia had never seemed so heroic, so sovereign in its stature, raised up on such a high hill of History, dominating the Kingdom that spread out all around it, with towns and cultivated fields springing up thanks to the labours of its castellans.
And on that Afonsine morning of broiling August sun, when the Bastard’s standard and his troops’ glittering weapons had suddenly appeared beyond the woods by the river, the Solar de Santa Ireneia did, indeed, seem bold and fearless! The battlements were filled with crossbowmen, crossbows at the ready. From the towers and parapets rose the thick black smoke from the barrels of boiling pitch ready to be poured over any of Baião’s men who attempted to climb the walls. The commanding officer ran along the battlements, reminding his men of their tactics, checking the bundles of arrows and the boulders to be hurled at the enemy. Old servants, cooks and labourers huddled beneath the thatched porches in the vast courtyard, all anxiously making the sign of the cross or tugging at the tunic of some sentry hurrying past, eager for news of the advancing host. Meanwhile, the enemy’s horsemen had calmly crossed the river on the rough wooden bridge and reached the poplar trees and the granite cross erected long ago on the boundary of the estate by Lourenço Ramires the Butcher. And in the peace of that scorching morning, the slow, sad, Moorish tones of the Bastard’s horns sounded out more clearly still.
However, as Gonçalo was scouring the Dictionary of Synonyms for suitably resonant words to describe the long-drawn-out sound of those horns, he actually heard low, deep notes coming from the Tower among the lemon trees. He stopped writing and heard the words of the Ramires fado rising up from the garden — like an offering, like a serenade — to his balcony thick with honeysuckle:
Seeing you there so alone,
Tower of Santa Ireneia . . .
It was Videirinha! Gonçalo rushed to the window. A bowler hat bobbed among the trees, and a laudatory cry rang out:
‘Long live the deputy for Vila Clara! Long live the illustrious deputy Gonçalo Ramires!’
From the guitar came the triumphal chords of the national anthem. Standing on the tips of his patent leather boots, Videirinha was shouting, ‘Long live the illustrious House of Ramires!’ And beneath the bowler hat, trembling with excitement, João Gouveia, with not a thought for his sore throat, was bawling out, ‘Long live the illustrious deputy of Vila Clara. Hurrah!’
Overcome by laughter, Gonçalo held out one majestic, eloquent arm:
‘Thank you, my dear fellow citizens! Thank you. You do me immense honour in coming as you do, the three of you, the glorious administrator, the inspired pharmacist, and . . .’
Then he noticed. Where was Titó?
‘Did Titó not come? Didn’t you tell him, João?’
Pushing his hat back on his head, the administrator, who was sporting a cravat of scarlet satin, declared Titó to be an utter brute.
‘We had agreed that all three of us would come. He was even supposed to bring a few fireworks to let off when we sang the national anthem. We arranged to meet by the bridge, but the rotter never turned up. It was all arranged, down to the last detail, and if he isn’t here, that’s because he’s a traitor.’
‘Well, come up anyway!’ cried Gonçalo. ‘I’ll get dressed in a jiffy, and to sharpen our appetites, I propose a glass of vermouth and a stroll through the estate as far as the pine wood.’
Standing very erect, guitar aloft, Videirinha immediately set off along the broad garden path shaded by the vine trellis, with João Gouveia marching along behind him, holding his parasol as if it were a flag. When Gonçalo went back into his room, calling for Bento and for some hot water, the heroic notes of the Ramires fado were already filling the bean-patch down below, beneath the open window where a towel had been hung out to dry. Videirinha was singing the Nobleman’s favourite verses, the ones in which his ancestor Rui Ramires, ploughing the seas of the Gulf of Oman in a carrack and meeting three mighty English Ships of the Line, stands on the forecastle, all dressed in red, one hand on his gold-and-jewel-encrusted leather belt, and proudly orders them to surrender:
Nonchalant, one hand on his belt,
Standing next to the Royal Banner,
He calls to the ships: Strike your sails now
In honour of the King of Portugal!
Quickly doing up his braces, Gonçalo joined in that hymn of praise — Nonchalant, one hand on his belt, standing next to the Royal Banner . . . And as he tunelessly bellowed out these stirring words, he was thinking that, with such ancestors, he was quite right to scorn Oliveira and all its ghastly Lousadas. Then the slow thunder of Titó’s voice echoed down the corridor:
‘Where’s our new deputy for Vila Clara? Is he already donning his uniform?’
Gonçalo ran to his bedroom door, beaming:
‘Come in, Titó! Deputies don’t wear uniforms, man! But if they did, why, I would certainly put it on today, complete with sword and tricorn hat, in honour of such illustrious guests!’
Titó entered slowly, his hands in the pockets of his olive-green velvet jacket, his broad-brimmed hat pushed back on his head, revealing his honest, bearded face, ruddy with health and sun:
‘When I said “uniform” I meant “livery” — a lackey’s livery.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
In a still louder voice, Titó said:
‘Well, what else will you be, man, but subject to the orders of vile, bald, old São Fulgêncio? If he tells you to pour him his tea, you’ll do it, and when he tells you to vote, you’ll vote, and do it that very instant. Ramires, vote this way and Ramires will do precisely as he’s told. You’ll be nothing but a valet, a valet in fine livery.’
Gonçalo shrugged impatiently:
‘You’re like a monster from the deep, a prehistoric creature from the jungle! You understand nothing of social realities! In society there are no absolute principles!’
But Titó would not be put off:
‘And what about Cavaleiro? Is he now a talented young man? Is he now an excellent governor?’
Irritated and blushing scarlet, Gonçalo protested. When had he ever denied that André was talented or good at his job? Never! He had merely made fun of his dandyish ways and his glossy moustache. Besides, public service sometimes obliged one to make alliances with men who did not share the same tastes or even have the same aims!
‘It seems that you, Senhor António Vilalobos, have come here today in the guise of a fierce moralist, a veritable Cato with whom one cannot even dine! It has always been the custom among stern philosophers to flee the banqueting hall where licentiousness reigns and to protest by eating their supper in the kitchen!’
Titó calmly turned his majestic back.
‘Where are you off to, Titó?’
‘To the kitchen!’
And when Gonçalo laughed, Titó, at the door, turned like a great tower and faced his friend:
‘I’m serious, Gonçalo. Election, reconciliation, submission, and you in Lisbon doing the bidding of São Fulgêncio, and, in Oliveira, arm-in-arm with André, somehow it all seems so wrong. But if Rosa is on her usual splendid form, then let’s speak no more of sad things!’
And Gonçalo was still gesticulating and protesting when he heard the sound of the guitar in the corridor and Gouveia’s marching feet; and the words of the fado ringing out again, more softly this time, more adulatory in tone:
Ancient house of the Ramires,
Pride and flower of Portugal!