Bridle the Wind by Joan Aiken Page B

is their boy?’
    I felt certain that Father Vespasian was not open to advice or persuasion. It would be no use at all asking him not to reveal Juan’s presence in the Abbey.
    â€˜If they are really the ones who hanged that poor boy,’ Father Antoine said in a troubled tone, ‘we ought to send for the gendarmes and have them apprehended. But since they are petitioners at the Abbey, I feel sure that Father Vespasian would not permit that.’
    â€˜There they are now,’ I said.
    The three had stationed themselves just inside the great gate of the Abbey. They huddled, with heads bowed, in positions of humble respect, but I noticed their eyes darted in every direction, watching the monks who came and went, studying the different doors and windows, to see who passed through or looked out, observing the walls themselves, as if measuring which would be the easiest to climb. That is to say, the midget and the thin white-headed fellow looked shrewdly about; the third man, as before, had his head bound up in bandages, and the sores upon his arms, and on his stumps of legs, were even more horrible in appearance than they had been on the previous day.
    â€˜Juan does not wish to tell the gendarmes about them,’ I muttered to Father Antoine. ‘He says therest of the troop would be certain to take revenge on him if he did so.’
    â€˜Well, I will have to think about what can be done.’ Father Antoine sighed anxiously. ‘Father Vespasian is looking this way. Do you go and stand by Father Pierre.’
    The healing ceremony proceeded as it had on former occasions: the humpbacked cripple with the hideous sores was brought up in front of Father Vespasian, who solemnly blessed and prayed over him and sprinkled him with holy water. During which process the sick man appeared to go through a fearful paroxysm – even though Juan had told me it was all a pretence, I found myself almost taken in, so naturally did he foam at the mouth and bleed at the nostrils, while his eyes rolled horribly, right up inside his head, until only the whites showed.
    There were no other patients that day, so we all sang a hymn while the healing was supposed to be taking effect.
    Under the towel that Father Vespasian had flung over him, I noticed that the cripple was skilfully and surreptitiously undoing some buckle behind his back, and contriving to rub his skin with the napkin. And so, when the hymn was done, he was able to arise with loud shouts of pretended astonishment and joy; his legs and feet, which had in some cunning fashion been buckled up behind his back, dropped down to support him, the hump disappeared from between his shoulders, and aswift scrub with the napkin had removed most of the foam, blood, and mustard from his face and arms. He stood up straight: a tall and strikingly strong-featured man with long thick black curls, broad forehead, and black shaggy brows. He was dressed all in black sheepskin.
    â€˜A miracle! A miracle! By your holy power I am brought back to health and strength!’ he bawled, falling on his knees and clasping the Abbot’s ankles while he slobbered kisses on his feet. ‘Oh, my lord Abbot, is not this the most wonderful cure you have ever achieved?’
    The other two beggars followed their friend’s example and clustered round Father Vespasian, who looked highly gratified, and smiled on them graciously.
    Oh, heavens above! I thought. Now they are certain to ask the Abbot about Juan, they will pretend that he is their lost nephew or something of the kind, and he will tell them all they want to know –
    But at that moment the Abbey bell, up in the tower, began to peal a wild tocsin, or alarm call. This had not happened during my stay there – or not while I was in my right mind, at least – but I knew that such a peal was the signal for all the monks to leave what they were doing, and run down to the beach, to aid a ship in trouble.
    So, on this occasion,