Since his visit to Santa Maria de Craquede, Gonçalo had been feeling uncomfortably guilty about his own idleness and his long neglect of the Novella; then, at the end of that week, when he had just finished his morning bath, he received a letter from Castanheiro. It was a short missive, informing him that, if the three chapters of the Novella had not arrived in Lisbon by the middle of October, then, instead of The Tower of Dom Ramires, the first issue of the Annals would contain a one-act play by Nuno Carreira, entitled In the House of the Temeraire. ‘It may be a drama and a work of fiction,’ he went on, ‘but it suits the erudite flavour of the Annals, because the Temeraire in question is Charles the Bold, and the whole powerfully imagined story takes place in the chateau of Péronne, where there are gathered not only Louis XI of France, but also our own poor Afonso V and his squire Pêro da Covilhã, as well as other notable historical figures. Imagine that! Obviously, the truly chic thing would be to have Tructesindo Mendes Ramires’ story told by our own Gonçalo Mendes Ramires, but it would seem that this truly chic thing will not appear now because of its author’s utter indolence. Sunt Lacrymae Revistarum!’
Gonçalo threw down the letter and called for Bento:
‘Have some strong green tea and a few slices of toast brought up to me in the library. I’ll lunch late today, at two o’clock, or possibly not at all!’
And pulling on the usual faded dressing gown he wore when he was writing, he decided to chain himself to his desk like a galley-slave until he had finished that difficult third chapter, which described Tructesindo’s most barbarous and most sublime characteristics. Damn it, he must not miss this chance to publish his Novella — and at such an advantageous moment too, on the eve of his arrival in Lisbon, precisely when his political influence and social prestige needed a little extra gloss; after all, did Vigny not say that ‘a steel-nibbed pen always adds lustre to a nobleman’s coat of arms?’ Fortunately, on that bright morning, when the fountains in the garden outside were singing loudly, he, too, could feel his literary gifts bubbling up inside him, happy to be given free rein once more. His visit to the cloister in Craquede had give his imagination a clearer vision of his Afonsine ancestors, as if, having seen the great tombs in which their great bones lay crumbling, he could finally grasp their way of living and thinking.
In the library, he dusted off the pages of his Novella and resumed writing with great gusto at precisely the point where he had got stuck: the terrifying moment when, among the glitter of many raised lances, old Ordonho saw the Bastard’s banner approaching along the stream’s edge, before crossing over the old wooden bridge, disappearing for a moment among the green leaves of the poplars, then proudly advancing again as far as the rough stone cross erected by Lourenço Ramires. With a cry of ‘To arms, to arms, the Bastard’s men are coming!’ plump old Ordonho almost tumbled down the steps in his haste.
Meanwhile, Tructesindo Ramires, intent on preparing his troops to set off for Montemor, had already given his commanding officer his instructions, ordering him to sound the horns the moment the sun’s rays struck the wall of the great well. And now, in the high-ceilinged hall of the castle, he was talking to his cousin and brother-in-arms from Riba-Cávado, Dom Garcia Viegas — both seated on the stone window seat where a jug of refreshing water and a mug stood between two pots of basil. Dom Garcia Viegas, a thin, agile old man, with a broad, dark, clean-shaven face and small, bright eyes, had earned the nickname ‘Dom Garcia the Wise’ for his sage wit and for the substance of his remarks, his infinite knowledge of war, and his ability to speak Latin more fluently than any priest. Summoned by Tructesindo, along with other relatives in the area, to join the Ramires’ troops and set off to bring succour to the Princesses, he had immediately, loyally, ridden to Santa Ireneia with his small band of ten lancers, and, en route, had begun by sacking the estate of Palha-Cã, which belonged to the Severosa family, who had joined forces with the Royal hosts against the threatened Princesses. So urgently had he ridden there, that all he had eaten since dawn in Palha-Cã were two slices of plundered sausage, and he had eaten those while still in the saddle. Thirsty after this furious ride and still cast down by the bitter news of his godson Lourenço Ramires’ defeat, he was once again filling his mug with water when Ordonho burst breathlessly into the salle d’armes — the entrance to which was adorned with three boars’ heads.
‘Senhor Tructesindo, Senhor Tructesindo Ramires! The Bastard of Baião has crossed the stream and is advancing on us now with a great company of lancers!’
Jumping down from the window seat and shaking one hairy, furiously clenched fist, as if he already had the Bastard by the throat, Tructesindo cried:
‘God’s blood, he has at least saved us a journey! What do you say, Garcia Viegas, time to mount up and after them?’
Hard on Ordonho’s stumbling heels came the captain of the crossbowmen, who, brandishing his leather cap, shouted from the doorway:
‘Sir, sir! Baião’s men have stopped at the cross, and a young gentleman, carrying a leafy branch, is standing before the barbican, as if he brought a message.’
Tructesindo stamped his armoured foot on the flagstones, indignant at such an embassy sent by such a villain. However, Garcia Viegas, who had just downed another mug of water, reminded him calmly and sagely of the rules of war:
‘Wait, my cousin and friend! It is the custom both far and near always to hear any messenger bearing an olive branch.’
‘So be it!’ roared Tructesindo. ‘Go forth, Ordonho, and hear what he has to say, and take with you two lancers!’
Ordonho bustled plumply down the blackened spiral staircase to the courtyard. Two liegemen newly returned from a patrol, spears on their shoulders, were chatting to the armourer, who was busily painting in yellow and red the shafts of some new spears and lining them up against the wall to dry.
‘On the orders of Lord Tructesindo,’ cried Ordonho, ‘take up your spears and follow me to the barbican to hear a messenger!’
The two men immediately fell in and, flanked by them, Ordonho crossed the bailey, went out through the barbican gate — which was guarded by a group of crossbowmen — and into the large area of bare earth beyond the walls, with no grass and no trees, on which still stood the worm-eaten beams of an old gallows, as well as piles of wooden laths and stone blocks for repairs to the castle. Then, standing on the threshold, between his two liegemen, he thrust out his large belly and shouted to the young man waiting beneath the scalding sun, brushing away the flies with a green branch:
‘Tell us who you are and why you have come and what credentials you bring!’
And when Ordonho nervously cupped one hand to his ear, the horseman casually tucked the branch in-between his cuisse and the bow of his saddle, likewise cupped the mouthpiece of his helmet with his two gleaming, chain-mailed hands, and bellowed:
‘I am a knight from the Baião estate! I have no credentials because I bring no embassy. But Senhor Lopo, who is waiting by the cross, asks the noble lord of Santa Ireneia, Senhor Tructesindo Ramires, to come out onto the barbican walls and hear what he has to say.’
Ordonho merely waved in response and went back in through the vaulted door of the barbican tower, murmuring to the two men with him:
‘The Bastard has doubtless come to demand a ransom for Senhor Lourenço Ramires.’
Both men snorted:
‘How dare he!’
However, when Ordonho hurried, panting, back into the castle, he found Tructesindo already waiting, for, in his anger and impatience at the Bastard’s delays, he had come down into the courtyard, fully armed. Over the long, dark green, woollen tunic, which he wore on top of his coat of mail, his long beard — tied in a thick knot, like the tail of a horse — gleamed whiter than ever. From one side of his silver-inlaid belt hung a curved dagger and an ivory horn, while from the other hung his long-bladed Visigothic sword, with its high, gilded hilt, on which glittered a rare gem brought long ago from Palestine by Gutierres Ramires the Traveller. On a leather cushion, his sergeant bore Tructesindo’s gloves and his round helmet with its barred visor, like the one worn by King Sancho; another carried a vast, heart-shaped buckler, covered in scarlet leather and adorned with a crudely painted black goshawk unsheathing its furious talons. The standard-bearer, Afonso Gomes, followed behind with the standard rolled up inside a canvas cover.
With him had come Dom Garcia Viegas and other relatives: ancient and decrepit Ramiro Ramires, a veteran from the taking of Santarém, his limbs as gnarled with rheumatism as the roots of an oak tree, supporting his tremulous steps with a stick not a spear; handsome Leonel, the youngest of the Samora brothers from Cendufe, a celebrated singer of ballads, who had singlehandedly killed two bears in the heathlands of Cachamuz; red-bearded Mendo de Briteiros, a great burner of witches and blithe master of revels and dances; and the gigantic figure of the Lord of Avelim, entirely covered, like some mythical fish, in gleaming scales. The sun’s rays were now almost touching the edge of the great well, marking the moment for the troops to set off to Montemor, and from beneath the great canopies covering the jousting fields, the stableboys were leading out the warhorses, their high saddles studded with silver, their haunches and chests protected by long, fringed leather blankets that reached to the ground. The castle rang with the news that, following the fateful battle at Canta-Pedra, the Bastard had immediately ridden to Santa Ireneia. Crouched in the narrow passageways linking the castle wall to the buttresses or among the piles of slings heaped up in the corridors, the kitchen boys, serfs and villeins sheltering in the barbican were peering anxiously at the Lord of Santa Ireneia with his powerful companions, and trembling at the thought of Baião’s imminent attack and the terrible cast-iron firepots that the Christian troops had been using to such effect against the Saracen hordes. Meanwhile, his cap pressed to his chest, Ordonho breathlessly presented Tructesindo with the Bastard’s message.
‘The messenger is just a young man and carries no credentials with him, but the Lord of Baião is waiting by the cross and asks that you go up to the barbican wall and hear what he has to say.’
‘Let him approach then,’ declared Tructesindo, ‘and as many of his knaves as care to follow him!’
With his usual acuity, Garcia Viegas the Wise said gently:
‘Wait, my cousin and my friend. Do not do so until I have assured myself that Baião is not up to some trick or other.’
And handing his heavy beechwood spear to a squire, he went up the dark stairs leading to the barbican tower. Once on the battlements, he urged silence on the line of crossbowmen waiting, bows at the ready, and slipped into the lookout point, where he peered through the arrow slit. Baião’s messenger had since galloped back to the cross, which was surrounded by a shifting forest of glittering spears. His message was clearly a brief one, for Lopo de Baião, on his sorrel horse covered with a gold-flecked coat of mail, emerged from among the dense throng of horsemen, his visor up and carrying neither lance nor spear, his hands gripping the scarlet leather reins but otherwise idle on the bow of his Moorish saddle. Then came a long note on the horn, and he advanced slowly towards the castle, as if he were leading a funeral procession. His yellow-and-black standard did not stir. Only six squires escorted him, also unarmed and wearing purple tunics over their coats of mail. Behind came four sturdy crossbowmen bearing on their shoulders a stretcher made from branches, on which a man was lying, apparently dead, his body protected from the heat and the horseflies by light acacia twigs. And behind them rode a monk on a white mule, clutching both the reins of his mount and — partially obscured by the hem of his hood and the tip of his black beard — a metal crucifix.
Through the arrow slit, and despite the layer of twigs covering the man on the stretcher, Garcia Viegas immediately recognised Lourenço Ramires, his beloved godson, whom he had taught jousting and falconry. Clenching his fists and speaking in a dull voice, he said, ‘Stand ready, crossbowmen, stand ready!’ He then went back down the dark stairs, so distracted by rage and grief that his helmet clanged against the archway of the door, where Tructesindo was waiting with his fellow knights.
‘Cousin!’ he roared. ‘Your son Lourenço is there outside the walls, laid on a stretcher!’
With a cry of horror and a clatter of metal feet across the echoing flagstones, everyone followed Tructesindo through the barbican tower’s postern to the stout wooden ladder leaning against the outer wall. And when the vast figure of Tructesindo reached the top of the ladder, a heavy silence fell, so complete that one could hear the slow, sad creaking of the waterwheel in the orchard and the growling of the mastiffs.
In the empty space beyond the postern, the Bastard was waiting, sitting utterly still on his horse, his handsome face — that Bright Sun — uplifted, and his long curly beard glinting like gold against his cuirass. He greeted Tructesindo gravely and humbly, bowing his helmeted head. Then he raised one ungloved hand and spoke thoughtfully and calmly:
‘Senhor Tructesindo Ramires, on this litter lies your son Lourenço, whom I took prisoner in honest combat in the valley of Canta-Pedra and who, according to the laws laid down by our nobility, now belongs to me. I have brought him all the way from Canta-Pedra to ask you to put an end to these murders and these ugly disputes, which waste the blood of good Christians. Like you, Senhor Tructesindo Ramires, I am of royal birth, and I was knighted by Afonso of Portugal. The whole noble race of the Baião family takes pride in me. Give me the hand of your daughter Dona Violante, whom I love and who loves me, and issue orders for the drawbridge to be raised so that the wounded Lourenço may enter in and so that I may kiss my father’s hand.’
The litter trembled on the shoulders of the crossbowmen, and a desperate cry rang out:
‘Say No, father!’
Stiff and erect on the battlements, arms folded, old Tructesindo took up the cry; then, his voice echoing proudly and cavernously around the whole castle, he shouted:
‘My son has answered for me, knave!’
As if his breast had been pierced by a lance, the Bastard shuddered, and his sorrel horse, startled by the sudden tug on the reins, stepped back, shaking its golden head. Then, however, the Bastard moved closer to the castle gate, and standing up in his stirrups, he uttered a yearning, furious cry:
‘Do not tempt me, Senhor Tructesindo Ramires!’
‘Begone, vile knave, son of a knavish mother, begone!’ cried the old man proudly, his arms folded, his whole body as hard and still and stubborn as if it were made of iron.
Hurling one glove at the barbican wall, the Bastard then roared out this fiery, hoarse response:
‘Then I swear by Christ’s blood and by the soul of my whole family that, if you will not, this instant, give me the woman I love and who loves me, you will lose your son, from whom, with my own hands and before your eyes, and even if the whole of Heaven were to come to his aid, I will wrest what little remains of his life!’
A dagger already glinted in his hand, but in a superhuman impulse of sublime pride, Tructesindo rose up like another dark tower on the castle battlements and unsheathed his sword:
‘No, coward, use this sword, use this one! The blade that pierces my son’s heart should be pure, not sullied like yours!’
With his great strong hands, he furiously flung the sword into the air, where it whirled down, whistling and glittering, until it stuck fast in the hard ground, trembling and still glittering, as if itself filled with a heroic rage. At that same moment, the Bastard gave a roar that made his horse start, and, leaning down from his saddle, he plunged the dagger into Lourenço’s throat, so hard and deep that blood spattered his pale face and his golden beard.
Then all took flight. The four crossbowmen dropped the litter bearing the now dead body and, like hares caught in a clearing, dashed back to the cross, hard on the heels of the monk racing along, crouched over his mule and clinging to its mane. The Bastard, the six horsemen, all giving the alarm, rejoined the troops gathered around the cross, where, for a moment, helmets gleaming, they wheeled about in tumult, before racing off down to the stream, over the old bridge, and into the woods, leaving behind them only a cloud of dust.
Meanwhile, a clamorous cry thundered round the walls of Santa Ireneia — bolts and arrows and slingshot whistled after the fleeing troops, but only one of the crossbowmen who had been carrying the litter fell and lay writhing on the ground, an arrow in his side. Knights and pages desperately pushed their way through the postern gate to retrieve Lourenço Ramires’ body. And Garcia Viegas and the others raced up to the barbican wall, where Tructesindo was still standing, silent and erect, staring down at his dead son sprawled on the ground. Hearing their voices, he slowly turned, and all were struck dumb by his impassive face — whiter than his white beard, the dead white of a tombstone — with not a tear in his coal-dark eyes, which blazed and flickered like the fire in a furnace. With that same sinister serenity, he touched the shoulder of old Ramiro Ramires, who was trembling as he leaned on his spear, and in a slow, booming voice, he said:
‘My friend, please tend to my son’s body, for today, God willing, I will bring succour to his soul!’
He pushed aside these gentlemen, who were still dumb with shock and emotion, and went down the worn wooden rungs of the ladder, which creaked beneath the weight of that great nobleman, heavy-laden with anger and grief.
At that point, jostled by crowds of crossbowmen and serfs, the body of Lourenço Ramires was being carried through the barbican gates, borne along by handsome Leonel and by Mendo de Briteiros, both of whom were drenched in tears and muttering furious threats against the whole Baião race.
Stumbling and groaning, old Ordonho had picked up Tructesindo’s sword, which he embraced and kissed as if to console it. At the edge of the moat, a hazel tree spread its light shade over a rough wooden platform supported on logs, where, on Sundays, along with the commander of the crossbowmen, Lourenço used to organise archery contests, with contestants later generously rewarded with honey cakes and jugs of wine. They laid the body on this platform, quickly withdrawing and earnestly making the sign of the cross. Fearing for that helpless, unconfessed soul, a knight from Briteiros ran to the castle chapel in search of Father Múncio. Others, running round the walls to the old bastion, desperately shouted and waved up at the ruined tower in which the physician lived, perched like an owl. However, with one sure thrust, the Bastard’s dagger had slain brave Lourenço, the very flower and model of all the knights in Riba-Cávado. And what a sorry, broken sight he was: his face smeared with mud, his throat thick with black blood, his chain-mail tunic wrenched open at the shoulders and embedded in his butchered flesh, and the leg that was wounded at Canta-Pedra, bare and exposed, all swollen and purple and sticky with more mud and blood.
Tructesindo approached, slow and stiff. And the blazing coals of his eyes burned still more fiercely when he walked through the grieving silence towards his son’s body. He knelt down beside the platform, clasped one limp, cold hand in his, and pressing his face to that other blood-and-mud-caked face, he whispered, as one soul to another, a few secret words, not words of farewell, but some supreme promise, which concluded with a lingering kiss planted on his son’s forehead, where a sliver of sunlight danced, glimmering down through the leaves of the hazel tree. Then, starting to his feet and reaching out one arm as if to summon up all the strength of his race, he cried:
‘And now, gentlemen, to horse, and let us exact a cruel revenge!’
From the courtyards around the keep came the clatter of weapons being hastily snatched up. In response to the commands barked out by the infantry captains, the lines of crossbowmen and archers and slingsmen raced from the battlements to the courtyard to form into ranks. Stableboys were hurriedly loading the mules with wineskins and boxes of provisions, and in the low kitchen doorways, foot soldiers and servants were downing one last beaker of wine. In the outer bailey, the knights in their armour, with the help of their pages, were heaving themselves up onto the high saddles of their horses, and were then immediately flanked by their squires and men-at-arms, who handed them their spears and whistled for the hounds.
Finally, the standard-bearer, Afonso Gomes, removed the standard from its cover and shook it free, so that the goshawk’s wings flapped dark and wide, as if taking furious flight. The shrill command of the officer in charge rang around the whole courtyard — Ala! Ala! Standing on a stone pillar next to the postern, Brother Múncio was holding out his thin, tremulous hands and blessing the host. Then Tructesindo, mounted on his black horse, received his sword from old Ordonho, the sword he had so boldly, so cruelly thrown down. And raising the gleaming blade up to the towers of his castle as if to an altar, he boomed:
‘Walls of Santa Ireneia, may I never see you again if, in three days’ time, from sunrise to sunset, there is still blood flowing in the accursèd veins of that traitor Baião!’
Then the gates were flung open and, gathered round the standard, the knights rode out, while, in the belltower, beneath the calm splendour of that August afternoon, the big bell began to toll the death knell.
That evening, sitting in his armchair on the balcony, Gonçalo reread that chapter of blood and fury, over which he’d been toiling all week, and decided that it was ‘an impressive piece of writing’.
Then he felt a desire to garner the praise it merited straight away and to show the three finished chapters to Gracinha and Father Soeiro before submitting them to the Annals. It could prove useful too, because Father Soeiro’s archaeological knowledge could perhaps provide some new, suitably Afonsine touches that would further resurrect Santa Ireneia and its formidable owners. He decided to set off in the morning for Oliveira, and once Father Soeiro had studied the Novella minutely, he would entrust it to Dona Arminda Viegas’ steward for him to copy out in his exquisite hand, famous throughout the district and equalled only (when it came to capital letters) by the Ecclesiastical Council’s scribe.
He was already brushing the dust off an old morocco leather briefcase in which to transport his Great Work, when the door opened and Bento came in, weighed down by a wicker basket covered with a lace cloth.
‘A present, sir.’
‘A present? Who from?’
‘From Feitosa, sir, from the ladies.’
‘How delightful!’
‘And there’s a letter pinned to the lace.’
Filled with curiosity, Gonçalo tore open the envelope! However, despite the imposing wax seal, all the envelope contained were a few pencilled lines written on his cousin Maria Mendonça’s visiting card, ‘Yesterday, over supper, I mentioned to Ana your love of peaches, especially when poached in wine, and she is therefore taking the liberty of sending you this little basket of Feitosa peaches, which, as you know, are famous throughout Portugal. Fondest wishes.’ Gonçalo immediately assumed that, tenderly hidden away beneath the peaches, he would find a note from Dona Ana!
‘Oh, peaches! Leave them over there on a chair, will you.’
‘Hadn’t I better take them straight to the pantry, sir?’
‘No, leave them on that chair!’
As soon as Bento had closed the door, Gonçalo spread the lace cloth out on the floor and emptied onto it the beautiful peaches, whose perfume filled the whole library. At the bottom of the basket, however, he found only a few vine-leaves. Then he decided that the peaches, arranged by her on vine-leaves that she herself had picked from the vine trellis and covered with a cloth that she herself had chosen from the cupboard, constituted, in their perfumed silence, a little love note. Still crouching down, he ate one of the peaches as he put the others back in the basket to take to Gracinha.
The next day, at two o’clock, when Torto’s pair of horses were harnessed to the carriage, and Gonçalo had just pulled on his gloves in readiness for the journey to Oliveira, he received an unexpected visit — from the Viscount de Rio-Manso. Removing his gloves, the Nobleman thought, ‘What can that grumpy old man want?’ In the living room, perched on the edge of the green velvet sofa and rubbing his knees, the Viscount explained that he had been passing the Tower on his way back from Vila Clara and, overcoming his usual shyness, had decided to present his respects to Senhor Gonçalo Ramires, not just to carry out that most pleasurable of duties, but also (since learning that His Excellency was standing as deputy for the constituency) to offer his support and the votes that he commanded in the parish of Canta-Pedra.
Somewhat embarrassed, Gonçalo kept twiddling his moustache, smiling and astonished. The Viscount of Rio-Manso was not in the least surprised at his astonishment, because Senhor Gonçalo Ramires had doubtless always known him to be a resolute Regenerationist. He, however, belonged to the generation, now growing rather few in number, who placed the duty of gratitude above politics; and quite apart from the sympathy naturally due to Senhor Gonçalo Ramires (given his reputation in the area as a talented, affable and charitable young man) he also owed him a personal debt of gratitude, which had as yet gone unpaid, not out of indifference, but out of shyness.
‘Can’t you guess what that debt might be, Senhor Gonçalo Mendes Ramires? Don’t you remember?’
‘No, really, sir, I don’t . . .’
Well, one afternoon, when Senhor Gonçalo Mendes Ramires was riding past his estate, his granddaughter had been playing on the terrace (at the spot where a magnolia tree overhangs the railings) and the ball she’d been playing with had rolled away into the road. Senhor Gonçalo Mendes Ramires had immediately dismounted, laughingly picked up the ball, and then, in order to return it to her, had remounted and brought his horse up alongside the railings — and he had done all this with such simplicity and charm!
‘You don’t remember?’
‘Yes, yes, I do now . . .’
On the terrace, right next to the railings, stood a large flowerpot full of carnations. After joking with the girl (who, he was pleased to say, had not appeared in the least intimidated), Senhor Gonçalo Mendes had asked her for a carnation, and she had duly picked one and handed it to him very gravely, like a proper lady. He had been watching from his bedroom window, thinking, ‘Well, well! Fancy a great aristocrat like the Nobleman of the Tower being so very kind!’ There was no reason now for him to laugh or blush. It really had been a great act of kindness, and in his eyes, as the girl’s grandfather, it had seemed extraordinary. And it hadn’t only been the ball either.
‘Do you really not remember, sir?’
‘Yes, it’s coming back to me . . .’
The very next day, Senhor Gonçalo Mendes Ramires had sent from the Tower a beautiful basket of roses, along with a playful little note, ‘In gratitude for a carnation, these roses for Senhora Dona Rosa.’
Gonçalo almost leapt out of his chair in his amusement:
‘Ah, yes, I remember now!’
Ever since that afternoon, he had always longed for an opportunity to show Senhor Gonçalo Mendes Ramires his gratitude and friendship. Alas, he was extremely shy and lived a very retiring life. That morning, however, in Vila Clara, he had learned from Gouveia that His Excellency was standing as deputy for the constitutuency. And despite his Election being more or less guaranteed — given Senhor Ramires’ influence and that of the Government — he had immediately thought, ‘Now’s your chance!’ So here he was, offering Senhor Ramires his help and his votes in the parish of Canta-Pedra.
Genuinely touched, Gonçalo murmured:
‘I find such a spontaneous offer deeply moving.’
‘It moves me still more to know that you’ll accept my offer. But let’s talk no more of my poor offer of help and my poor votes. This is a most venerable house you have here.’
And when the Viscount mentioned that he had long wanted to take a closer look at the famous Tower, older even than Portugal itself, they both went down into the orchard. Resting his parasol on his shoulder, the Viscount gazed up in silent awe at the Tower; and despite his own liberal views, he could not but acknowledge what great prestige attached to such a long lineage; he was equally warm in his praise of the orange trees. Then, since he knew that Pereira had rented the land around the Tower, he said how he envied his having such a careful, honest tenant. The Viscount’s carriage was waiting at the main gate, drawn by two groomed and glossy mules, on which Gonçalo, in turn, complimented the Viscount. Opening the carriage door, he asked the Viscount to kiss Senhora Dona Rosa’s little hand for him. Touched, the Viscount expressed his hope, nay, his ambition, that on a day of his choosing, the Nobleman would visit Canta-Pedra and dine with them, in order to become better acquainted with the little girl with the ball and the carnation.
‘I would consider that a huge honour! And I volunteer to teach Senhora Dona Rosa, assuming she does not already know, how to play the old Portuguese game of péla.’
The Viscount pressed one hand to his heart, all smiles and laughter.
Going back up the steps, Gonçalo was murmuring to himself, ‘What a delightful man! And how generous too, repaying roses with votes. It’s often the case that one small act of kindness can win you a friend! I will definitely go and dine at Canta-Pedra next week. Such a sweet man!’
And in this happy state of mind, he placed in the carriage the morocco leather briefcase containing the manuscript, along with Dona Ana’s sentimental basket of peaches. Then he lit a cigar, jumped onto the driving seat, took up the reins, and urging the two white horses into a lively trot, set off for Oliveira.
In Largo d’El-Rei, before getting down from the carriage, he immediately asked the porter, Joaquim, for news of his master and mistress and was told that both were, praise be, extremely well. That morning, Senhor José Barrolo had ridden over to visit the Baron das Marges, and would only be back that night.
‘And how’s Father Soeiro?’
‘I believe Father Soeiro is at Senhora Dona Arminda’s house.’
‘And Senhora Dona Graça?’
‘She set off a little while ago now for the gazebo, wearing a hat. I think she was going to the church.’
‘Fine. Take this basket of peaches and tell the other Joaquim to put it on the table just as it is. And have someone send some hot water up to my room.’
The wall clock in the parlour lazily groaned out five o’clock. The house was bathed in a bright, restful silence. And after all the dust and jolting of the road, the coolness of his room seemed even sweeter, with its four windows open to the recently watered garden and the courtyard of the neighbouring church. The first thing he did was to stow his precious morocco leather briefcase in a drawer. A maid with big round eyes came in carrying a large jug of hot water, and, as he usually did, the Nobleman joked with her about the handsome cavalry sergeants, whose tempting barracks overlooked the laundry room in the garden, where the female servants spent all day passionately soaping and scrubbing away. He then took some time changing out of his dusty clothes and whistling tunelessly as he leaned on the balcony that gave onto the silent Rua das Tecedeiras. The church bell rang out prettily. And bored with his solitude, Gonçalo decided to go down into the garden and surprise Gracinha at her prayers in the church.
Downstairs, in the corridor, he met Joaquim, the pantry boy:
‘So Senhor Barrolo won’t be dining here this evening?’
‘No, sir, he’s gone to dine at the house of the Baron das Marges. It’s their little girl’s birthday today, and he’ll only be back late tonight.’
In the garden, Gonçalo dawdled a while longer over the flower pots, putting together a boutinière of dainty flowers. Then he walked round the greenhouse, smiling at the fine door Barrolo had had installed, a glass and ironwork confection emblazoned with a monogram in brilliant colours, and strolled on along the avenue that led to the fountain, all silence and shade beneath the intertwining branches of the tall laurels. Further on, surrounded by stone benches and scented, flowering trees, the slender fountain sang drowsily in the middle of the round pond, ringed, on its broad edge, with several large white ceramic pots all bearing the family’s intricate coat of arms. The pond had obviously been cleaned out either the day before or that very morning, because in the clearer than clear water, the fish seemed to swim more vigorously than usual — sudden orangey-pink flashes against the white stone bottom — whenever Gonçalo startled them by plunging his cane into the water and stirring it about. And from the edge of the pond, he could already see, at the far end of another dahlia-lined avenue, the faded pink gazebo, an eighteenth-century imitation of a Greek temple, with a chubby Cupid poised on top of the domed roof, and small rococo windows set between the bas-relief ribbed columns thick with flowering jasmine.
As usual, Gonçalo plucked a few leaves from a lemon verbena plant and crushed them between his fingers to enjoy the scent; then he continued slowly on to the gazebo, past the dahlia beds. His fine patent leather shoes made not a sound on the newly sanded path. And thus, silent as an indolent shadow, he approached the gazebo, where one of the windows stood ajar, with the green-slatted blind inside closed. Right next to that window were the stone steps that led down from the long, elevated terrace on which the garden was built to the hidden Rua das Tecedeiras and the church almost opposite. Still in no hurry, Gonçalo was just about to make his way down those steps when, through the blind, he heard a whisper coming from inside the gazebo, an anxious whisper. Smiling, he thought that one of the maids had perhaps taken refuge in that miniature temple of love with one of those terribly handsome cavalry sergeants, but, no, that was impossible. Only minutes before, Gracinha had walked past that window and gone down those steps on her way to church! Then another idea pierced him like a sword — and it was so painful that he drew back in terror from the spot where that perverse thought had assailed him. And yet he was gripped, too, by a desperate curiosity that propelled him forwards, and he pressed his ear to the shutter as cautiously as a spy. Silence had descended on the gazebo, and Gonçalo was afraid the pounding of his heart might give him away. Then the murmuring began again, sounding more urgent this time, more alarmed. Someone was pleading, stammering, ‘No, no, this is madness!’ And someone else was insisting impatiently, ardently, ‘Yes, yes, my love, yes!’ And he recognised both those voices — as clearly as if the slats on the blind had been opened and the gazebo flooded with all the vast brilliance of the garden — Gracinha and Cavaleiro!
Seized by terrible embarrassment, horrified both by the thought that they might find him there right next to the gazebo and by the shameless secret that lay hidden therein, he retraced his steps, making as little noise as possible on the soft sand, creeping back down the dahlia-lined path, then around the shaded fountain, before plunging once more into the darkness of the laurel hedges, walking stealthily round behind the greenhouse and back into the quiet of the house. The murmuring voices from the gazebo were still repeating over and over in his head, fainter now and more submissive, ‘No, no, this is madness!’ ‘Yes, yes, my love, yes!’
He raced through the deserted rooms like a ghost pursued; he slipped silently down the stone steps and out through the street door, looking all around him, afraid that Joaquim the porter might be there. In the square, he stopped in front of the railings around the sundial, but the whisper from the gazebo was everywhere, like a wild wind, scouring the flagstones, whirling about the moss-covered roof of the rope-maker’s shop. ‘No, no, this is madness!’ ‘Yes, yes, my love, yes!’ Then Gonçalo felt a desperate need to escape as far away as possible from that square, that house, that town, from the shame enveloping everything. But he had no carriage? It occurred to him that he could hire one from Maciel, whose stables were furthest from the centre, beyond the last houses on the road to the seminary. And so, keeping close to the low walls of those poor streets, he ran all the way there and, when he arrived, demanded that a closed carriage be prepared for him as quickly as possible.
While he was waiting on a bench at the stable door, a cart trundled by, piled high with furniture, cooking pots and a large mattress bearing a vast stain. Gonçalo suddenly remembered the divan in the gazebo — a huge mahogany affair, upholstered in a striped fabric — and how its soft springs creaked. Then the murmuring began again, growing louder and louder, rolling like a rumble of thunder over the hovels nearby, over the seminary, over the whole of an astonished Oliveira. ‘No, no, this is madness!’ ‘Yes, yes, my love, yes!’
Gonçalo sprang to his feet and shouted into the dark stables:
‘Damn it, how long does it take to prepare a carriage?’
‘Just coming, sir.’
The clock on the poorhouse was striking seven when he flung himself into the carriage, wound down the stiff blinds and sat there invisible and crushed, feeling that the world had been shaken, that even noble souls had been laid low and that his Tower, as old as the Kingdom itself, had cracked open to reveal within a hitherto unseen pile of detritus and soiled skirts.