Tapestry of Fear by Margaret Pemberton

have beautiful women, but we shall show them, Alison. By all the saints we shall show them! We shall stroll down the Rue Marengo and drink pernod and they will admire you and envy me! And then we shall.…”
    Jose tapped him on the shoulder. “Leave your arrangements for Bayonne until we reach Bayonne. What do you think of this?”
    Javier shrugged, eloquently regretful, and turned to the map spread out on the scrolled carved table. My eyes sought Jose’s, but he, too, had turned. I crushed my disappointment. I was being unreasonable. The flight into France was uppermost in Jose’s mind. Surely that was natural enough.
    The three dark heads pored over the rolled out map, fingers pointing, Romero tracing a faint pencil line, his brow furrowed in thought.
    â€œThat has to be it,” Jose said at last. “And it has to be now.”
    â€œNow?” I asked, surprised into speech. “ But I thought we were leaving it till nightfall?”
    â€œThe police are already on their way here. Javier was in Metebbe when he heard Lindaraja was to be searched again. With even more thoroughness. If he hadn’t been so near to us we would have been caught like rats in a trap. As it is we only have minutes left.”
    As he was speaking he was rolling the map up, thrusting it down his broad leather belt, walking rapidly out into the hall and across the courtyard and into the stables, while the rest of us hurried after him. There was no time to feel alarm. Within seconds Roque had me in Solitaire’s saddle and was mounting a nut-brown stallion with pale flowing mane and flaring nostrils. There was hardly time to say goodbye to Romero. With a firm handclasp the brothers parted, Jose swung easily up onto the back of a chestnut roan and with a whoop of joy Javier mounted a horse that was already pawing the ground with impatient hooves. The gates were flung open, and leaving Romero alone, surrounded by the rest of the horses whinnying with frustration in their stalls, we walked the horses carefully out and onto the smooth turf. Roque rode beside me, Javier was behind, and in front was Jose.
    He turned, his eyes holding mine, saying with them what could not be said in words. I smiled back, my body filled with warmth and confidence. It was going to be all right. Everything was going to be all right.
    I could see the tangle of curls growing thick in the nape of his neck, the firm, hard muscles, tense and ripple as he turned the horse’s head to the left, picking a careful path between rocks and stones as the green of the lower slopes were left behind and we approached the rampart of pines and presumably safe cover from Lindaraja’s unwelcome visitors.
    I longed to touch him. To be touched. But now was not the time. Soon, when we were in Bayonne, when we could talk.… On reaching the cool green shelter of the trees, Jose paused, swinging round in the saddle, his face stern, his eyes preoccupied. Far below us Lindaraja stood like an exotic toy of brilliant white. The hillside falling down green and lush, surrounding the glittering walls, plunging far below to where the snake of a road could be seen winding along the floor of the valley. The cars were easy to see. Tiny, gleaming dots of jet-black, they were sweeping at great speed along the length of the road, four, five of them. We backed the horses even deeper into the leafy dimness of the woods, leaning forward, hands resting on saddles, watching intently.
    Beetle-like the cars curved through the valley, the road sweeping round in giant loops, bringing them steadily higher and higher. For a short while they were masked by trees, and then we saw them quite clearly, the steep leek-green meadows falling sharply on either side of the road. They wound upwards, towards the splendour of Lindaraja, and with bated breath I watched as the first car swerved to a stop in a cloud of pale dry dust at Lindaraja’s massive gates. No-one spoke. In horrified