(2/3) The Teeth of the Gale Read Online Free Page A
Author: Joan Aiken
talking in the street, he would sidle past with his ears cocked like a terrier, and some of my mates believed that he was a police informer; if people were arrested, it was thought that he had a hand in it; though nothing certain was ever proved. But they gave him the name of Sancho the Spy."
Pedro frowned.
"Are you sure it was the same fellow?"
"I'd place a wager that it was. I wonder what in the world he was doing, so far from Salamanca?"
"Why wonder? For sure, he was following us."
"But he has gone on ahead."
"And he will certainly be waiting at some point farther on to pick up our trail again. It is a pity we must go to Zamora to cross the river. But perhaps after that we can give him the slip."
"If he is really following us, I would rather knock his head off."
"No, Señor Felix, that is not sensible," said Pedro, shaking his own head. "To kill a spy is like killing a spider. It brings bad luck." Where he had this odd superstition from, I do not know. I never heard it before. "No—what we must do," he went on, "is to try and lose him after Zamora. We can leave the main highway, strike westward to Pueblo de Sanabria, and cross the mountains, the Sierra Cabrera; he'd be clever if he could follow us there."
"Whatever you say, Pedro. How do you come to know the roads so well?"
"Oh, I've ridden errands for your grandpa in these parts; buying wine and selling wool. It's a fine wine country."
Indeed, the region around Zamora, very different from the desert plains north of Salamanca, is known as the Tierra del Vino and famous for its fertility, its vines and orchards. By and by we came within sight of the Duero, a wide swift blue river, here brawling over stones, there winding among white sandbanks. It was deep from melting winter snow, and its banks were well grown with trees, all in new spring leaf; among them, dozens of nightingales were singing at the tops of their voices.
"What a row!" said Pedro, blocking his ears.
"But their song is beautiful, Pedro!"
"
Beautiful?
All that chuck-chuck, tizz-wizz-wizz? Give me the old parrot any day! She, at least, talks good Spanish."
When I ran away from home at the age of twelve, I spent a night in the jail at Oviedo; there an old man, who helped me to escape, gave me his parrot, Assistenta. As I was at that time on my way to England, I left Assistenta with some kind nuns in a convent at Santander, but later went back to reclaim her. She became my grandfather's favorite companion; he was tickled by the Latin words I had taught her, and taught her a great many more himself. When I went to college, I was glad to think they would keep each other company; she spent all her days clambering about his bookshelves.
We crossed the Duero by the great stone bridge (the only one for miles) and so up into the fortified town of Zamora, tightly crammed inside its high walls. Despite which walls, the French had captured it in Napoleon's wars, and remained there until fourteen years previously.
By now it was not far from dusk. Pedro said in a troubled tone, "Our wisest course would be to ride straight through the town and continue on our way. But I am not certain that I could pick out the road to Pueblo de Sanabria in the dark."
"No, it had better not be thought of. We'd get lost and waste time. Besides, the beasts need rest and fodder. What we should do is find some small
venta
near the northern edge of the town where we may pass the night inconspicuously and be off by dawn."
Pedro agreed, so we rode on, along streets that, at this time of the evening, were crowded with townspeople taking their
paseo,
or twilight promenade. I looked carefully about me for the weaselly man on his gray horse, but saw them not. Near the north wall we found a small, humble inn, with a tumbledown stable where we left our animals. Now our plans received a check, for when we unsaddled we found that the bellyband of Pedro's mule was nearly worn through; another hour's riding would have broken it.
He
Pedro frowned.
"Are you sure it was the same fellow?"
"I'd place a wager that it was. I wonder what in the world he was doing, so far from Salamanca?"
"Why wonder? For sure, he was following us."
"But he has gone on ahead."
"And he will certainly be waiting at some point farther on to pick up our trail again. It is a pity we must go to Zamora to cross the river. But perhaps after that we can give him the slip."
"If he is really following us, I would rather knock his head off."
"No, Señor Felix, that is not sensible," said Pedro, shaking his own head. "To kill a spy is like killing a spider. It brings bad luck." Where he had this odd superstition from, I do not know. I never heard it before. "No—what we must do," he went on, "is to try and lose him after Zamora. We can leave the main highway, strike westward to Pueblo de Sanabria, and cross the mountains, the Sierra Cabrera; he'd be clever if he could follow us there."
"Whatever you say, Pedro. How do you come to know the roads so well?"
"Oh, I've ridden errands for your grandpa in these parts; buying wine and selling wool. It's a fine wine country."
Indeed, the region around Zamora, very different from the desert plains north of Salamanca, is known as the Tierra del Vino and famous for its fertility, its vines and orchards. By and by we came within sight of the Duero, a wide swift blue river, here brawling over stones, there winding among white sandbanks. It was deep from melting winter snow, and its banks were well grown with trees, all in new spring leaf; among them, dozens of nightingales were singing at the tops of their voices.
"What a row!" said Pedro, blocking his ears.
"But their song is beautiful, Pedro!"
"
Beautiful?
All that chuck-chuck, tizz-wizz-wizz? Give me the old parrot any day! She, at least, talks good Spanish."
When I ran away from home at the age of twelve, I spent a night in the jail at Oviedo; there an old man, who helped me to escape, gave me his parrot, Assistenta. As I was at that time on my way to England, I left Assistenta with some kind nuns in a convent at Santander, but later went back to reclaim her. She became my grandfather's favorite companion; he was tickled by the Latin words I had taught her, and taught her a great many more himself. When I went to college, I was glad to think they would keep each other company; she spent all her days clambering about his bookshelves.
We crossed the Duero by the great stone bridge (the only one for miles) and so up into the fortified town of Zamora, tightly crammed inside its high walls. Despite which walls, the French had captured it in Napoleon's wars, and remained there until fourteen years previously.
By now it was not far from dusk. Pedro said in a troubled tone, "Our wisest course would be to ride straight through the town and continue on our way. But I am not certain that I could pick out the road to Pueblo de Sanabria in the dark."
"No, it had better not be thought of. We'd get lost and waste time. Besides, the beasts need rest and fodder. What we should do is find some small
venta
near the northern edge of the town where we may pass the night inconspicuously and be off by dawn."
Pedro agreed, so we rode on, along streets that, at this time of the evening, were crowded with townspeople taking their
paseo,
or twilight promenade. I looked carefully about me for the weaselly man on his gray horse, but saw them not. Near the north wall we found a small, humble inn, with a tumbledown stable where we left our animals. Now our plans received a check, for when we unsaddled we found that the bellyband of Pedro's mule was nearly worn through; another hour's riding would have broken it.
He
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