The Spanish Marriage by Madeleine Robins Page A

floor near the door. “You need not worry...”
he began.
    Thea cut him off with a cool, “I know.”
    “Roybal has promised to take us to town in the
morning. He knows of a man there with a barge, and if we sell the mules we can
buy passage to Oporto and cut two days from our travelling time. Get some
sleep.”
    He turned his back to her to allow her some privacy. Thea shed
her jacket and skirt and crawled into the delicious, if lumpy bed. After a
while she heard Matlin’s deepening breath across the room and began to
drift toward sleep herself. On the edge of consciousness a face appeared in her
mind; she recognized it and sat bolt upright.
    “Matlin,” she hissed. There was no reply. “Oh,
for God’s sake.” Careless of her appearance she crawled out of bed
and padded across the room to where her husband lay.
    “Matlin!” She shook him and succeeded in getting
from him a grumbled acknowledgement. “Wake up; please, you must. ”
    He rolled sleepily over onto his back and peered up at her, one
of his hands moving gently to her chin. “What is it, sweetheart?”
he murmured. Stung by the momentary sweetness in his voice, Thea was almost
unable to continue, but after a moment Matlin’s eyes cleared, and his
hand dropped. “Forgive me,” he said. “What?”
    “That man followed us here.” Aware that she was
making little sense, Thea forced herself to start again, reminding him of the
drunken farmer who had hovered so near them in the inn yard the night after
they crossed the border. “He didn’t come in after us, so I supposed
I was just being stupid, but, Matlin, I swear he was one of the men by the
cookshed tonight.”
    Matlin swore. “If you’re right, I must tell
Roybal. He is to be trusted, but I couldn’t vouch for any of his men.
Whatever happens, child, you stay here. Keep with the women; you should be safe
enough.”
    “You’re going out now?” She heard her
voice go high with panic.
    “Hadn’t I best find out what’s afoot now,
rather than wait to see if we’re murdered in our beds? Get some sleep,
Thea. Think of riding in style to Oporto tomorrow: I hope you’re a good
sailor.” It was again the tone of an adult to a child. He turned his back
as she went to bed, and left the room without another word.
    Thea could not sleep. She lay on the mattress unmindful of
the comfort, listening for sounds of trouble, wondering what had happened.
Once, not far from her window, she heard men talking in rapid Portuguese. Each
birdcall, the chirping of each cricket assumed sinister proportions. More than
once, silently so as not to disturb the night, Thea prayed that Matlin would be
safe.
    Near dawn the doorlatch rattled and Thea sat up, biting her
lip, afraid to scream and wanting very badly to do so. Matlin edged into the
room without looking in her direction and tiptoed toward the heap of blankets
he had left on the floor.
    “Well?” she hissed.
    “You should be asleep.”
    “How could I be? What happened?”
    “You were right.” In the darkness his smile was
a white shadow. “We have you to thank, child. Evidently he thought I was
some sort of representative of British intelligence.”
    “But what happened? Are you all right?”
    “I’m fine. Go to sleep. Roybal took care of him.”
Thea shivered at the tone of his voice on those last words, and her curiosity
flagged.
    “I’m glad you’re safe,” she said
very softly.
    “Ehh? What?”
    “Nothing. Go to sleep.” She turned over.
    o0o
    The next morning Roybal quietly greeted Thea as a heroine,
the savior of his family and his home. He moved from fluid Portuguese to highly
inventive, broken English and back again. Thea smiled at him and nodded, but
her head hurt, and she felt tired and dizzy from so little sleep. She smiled
again and again by way of thanks to Senhora Roybal as Matlin brought their
bundles out of their room. Finally, after a breakfast of smiles and
enthusiastic nods, Roybal took his guests to find his friend with the