Bridle the Wind by Joan Aiken

you. I did not tell him that you had been beaten,’ the infirmarian warned me. ‘Such tidings would only distress him, in his low state.’
    I could see the wisdom of this, but it was annoying to be greeted by Juan with fretful reproaches. ‘Where have you been for so long? I would sooner have had you than that ugly old father.’
    â€˜Father Pierre is very kind, and knows far more than I do about caring for sick people,’ I said, beginning to rub his swollen throat with goose grease.
    â€˜I don’t care! He is ugly and red-faced and smells of garlic.’
    Juan himself, I noticed, had either consented to Father Pierre’s washing him, or had found strength to manage his own ablutions. A basin of soapy water stood on the floor by the bed, with a towel. His skin shone, and he smelled clean, like a young kitten. All the tarry tangles had been removed from his hair, by the simple expedient of cutting it very short, so that it hung over his forehead and round his head in a thick fringe, barely touching his ears and dipping to the back of his neck. Still damp from washing, it appeared now as a very dark brown colour with, here and there, the same coppery tint that showed in his eyes. He had a pale pointed face, still bruised looking from fatigue and starvation; but a touch of more natural colour was creeping back into his cheeks.
    I carried away the basin of washing water and, when I returned, congratulated him on the manner in which he had evaded Father Vespasian’s questioning by pretending to be simple and saying that he was a
benedictus.
    â€˜What in the world put such a notion into your head?’
    â€˜Oh,’ he said, ‘there are such people in Beam; every village has one. Only,’ he added, ‘they are mostly old women, so they are called
benedicta.
They ring the church bell to keep away devils and warn of storms. Sometimes they are thought to be witches. Good ones, of course.
    â€˜But now pay attention, Felix,’ he went on, inquite a brisk, peremptory manner, although he was still obliged to talk in a whisper. Father Pierre had told me that this condition might continue for a week or two, since the throat muscles had been so badly stretched and abused. ‘I have considered carefully your offer to accompany me into Spain,’ he told me, ‘and I accept it. Father Pierre has given me your history, and I believe that you have no connection with the ones who abducted me, and that you would have no wish to harm me. Father Pierre says that you travelled to England and back.’ He gave me a dubious look, as if wishing, nonetheless, that I showed a few more signs of worthiness to be his travel companion. I could not help smiling a little, inside myself, at his condescension, but replied staidly that I would do my best to justify his confidence.
    â€˜I know this country better than you,’ he asserted.
    â€˜That is certainly so. I do not know it at all.’
    â€˜So
I
had best choose our way over the mountains. Since we have no passports, and the Gente will be on my trail, we must go secretly.’
    â€˜We must, indeed.’
    First, I thought, we have to get ourselves out of the Abbey; but for that, my friend, we had better wait until you are in somewhat better case.
    â€˜I have been giving some thought to our route,’ he continued, ‘and I have decided that our best course will be to consult an old gardener who used, when he was younger, to work for my father. Pierre has had many dealings with the smugglers whobring sheep and wine in from Spain. He told me once there was a cave they used for their trips, with entrances in both France and Spain. It is on the mountain called La Rhune, where the witches used to congregate. When I am better we will go to see old Pierre, and he can guide us to this cave.’
    â€˜Are you quite sure you can trust him?’ I asked, with a grain of doubt. ‘After all, your own nurse, you say, betrayed