EVERYWHERE the French were preparing to continue their advance. Guns and limbers and caissons of ammunition were being drawn up along the roads on the western outskirts of the town, wagons of food and carts full of forage were being trundled in from the countryside. Soldiers from the commissary’s staff were going from house to house, from farm to farm, from vineyard to vineyard and orchard to orchard, taking what little food and wine was still to be found in a country almost stripped bare by earlier foraging. The people grumbled, but they dared not refuse. They put their faith in the guerrilleros in the mountains to set them free. ‘The English have abandoned us,’ they said. ‘And soon they will abandon the Portuguese too. So much for their promises. Bonaparte was right — the wretched Leopard has no stomach for a fight; he knows nothing but retreat and still more retreat. We must rely on Don Santandos and our own men in the hills to set us free.’
‘And you have betrayed them,’ Olivia said to Robert when she heard this. ‘No wonder the Spaniards do not trust the English.’
‘They do not understand conventional warfare,’ he said. He had been promoted to captain and given a post on the colonel’s staff, which was as good a place as any to gather the intelligence he needed, but it also meant he had to watch the colonel flirting openly with Olivia. She was adept at holding the fellow off without antagonising him, but he was glad the army was on the move at last; he would not have been able to hold himself in check much longer. He wanted nothing so much as the satisfaction of punching the flabby regimental commander on his soft and bulbous nose, and before long he would have done it. Now, in the middle week of July, they had been given orders to prepare to march and Robert had returned to their quarters to collect his gear.
It was small wonder he looked so tired, she thought; he had been sleeping curled up in a chair every night since they arrived, in order to leave the bed for her. He had not even hinted that they should share it, which was just as well because if he kissed her again she knew she would be every bit as weak as she had been before. He had curtly refused her offer to change places when she’d suggested he needed a good night’s sleep. That and the strain of being in the company of the colonel’s staff all day without being able to utter a word was beginning to tell on him. He could not keep it up much longer and she dreaded to think what would happen to them both when they were found out. Death would be the least of it.
‘You cannot fight a battle without planning it first,’ he said, waving the razor he was using to shave himself. ‘That is the trouble with the Spaniards — they either rush in without a thought about how they will extricate themselves if things go wrong, or they turn tail and run at the slightest resistance. Look what happened at Talavera.’
‘They are not cowards.’ She put a bowl of thin soup on the table, with a loaf of hard bread which had cost her dear, then fetched a spoon from a cupboard drawer. ‘They are just disorganised. It would be better if you helped to organise and lead them instead of making things worse by telling the French where to find them.’
‘There was a reason for that,’ he said mildly. He cleaned the soap from the razor and threw the contents of the bowl out of the window. There was a shout of annoyance from someone in the alley. Robert looked out and waved cheerfully to a Spaniard who had taken off his soaked hat and was shaking it up at him, then turned back to pick up his new coat. She had paid the tailor with Philippe’s money, realising that the old one was really too short for him and Philippe, aristocrat that he was, would never have worn anything so ill-fitting. It was important to keep up appearances. ‘The advance guard marches out today,’ he went on.
‘And you with it?’
‘Yes.’ He picked up a haversack from the corner and began stuffing his buttonless red jacket into it.
‘Why don’t you get rid of that coat? If someone should see it…’
‘I took it off a dead British soldier, a certain Captain Robert Lynmount…’
‘He is not dead.’
‘To all intents and purposes he is.’
‘You are a fool. It isn’t as if it were a new one. It is a rag which won’t even do up properly.’
He put the rest of his kit on top of the red jacket and closed the mouth of the bag. ‘You never know, one day Robert Lynmount might need it again.’
‘I can’t make up my mind about you,’ she said, turning her head on one side to look at him as if doing so made her able to judge him the better. ‘I cannot decide if you are driven by pride or a determination for revenge, and, if it is revenge, who is going to be on the receiving end — the English, the French, or Don Santandos and his men?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Was it a woman?’ she asked suddenly.
‘A woman?’
‘The reason you are here and not fighting beside your own countrymen.’
‘It is not a matter that need concern you.’ He paused to look closely at her, wondering if he would ever be able to talk about that day, months ago now, when he had stood rigidly to attention while the buttons and braid were torn from his coat. It was forever in his mind — the humiliation and the shame, the injustice and the helpless rage he had felt. And she dared to question him about it!
‘I have bought an old landau for you to travel in at the rear with the other women,’ he went on, carefully controlling his voice. ‘The driver will be waiting outside when you leave.’
Finding a coach, and horses to pull it, was a miracle in itself but she chose to ignore that. ‘Oh, so you don’t need me any more? How will you go on if you want to speak?’
‘There will be little opportunity for conversation when we come up with the British advance guard. I shall just have to make do with signs. I am not having you riding up at the front; it’s no place for a lady.’
She laughed suddenly. ‘I didn’t realise you thought of me as a lady at all. I am simply your voice.’
‘And a damned sharp one at that.’ He sat down at the table and picked up his spoon. ‘Where’s yours?’
‘I’ll have mine later.’ He would not eat it if he knew there would be none left for her and he needed it more than she did. ‘If I am not to leave when you do, there is plenty of time.’
‘Do you know the route?’ she asked, sitting opposite him and putting her elbows on the table in order to rest her chin on her hands. ‘Which way do you go?’
‘To Villa de Fuentes first and then…’
‘Do they know the bridge has been blown?’
He smiled as he wiped a piece of bread round his plate to mop up every last drop of soup. ‘If they don’t, they will when they arrive.’
‘Then what? Will they go south to the plains or take the road to the monastery?’
‘Whichever it is, I do not want you anywhere near, do you hear? You stay with the baggage train until we reach Villa de Fuentes and then go to Father Peredo until I can arrange for you to be transferred to the allied lines. General Craufurd will pass you back and see you get home.’
So that was it. She felt suddenly deflated, as if she had been drinking champagne and the light-headedness had worn off, leaving her heavy as lead and miserable as a wet Sunday in England. She shook herself. What had she expected? That he would fall on his knees and ask her to stay with him forever, to marry him? The mental picture of him doing anything so uncharacteristic brought a smile to her lips. It would not occur to him to think of her reputation back in England and she certainly did not want him to sacrifice himself for that. Being married to a martyr was not her idea of a good life. And besides, had she not sworn never to marry again? Had she not said she was done with all men? Was theirs not a perfectly practical arrangement, which had to come to an end some day? Had she not hoped and prayed it would end soon?
‘Very well,’ she said meekly.
Her unexpected obedience took him by surprise. ‘You have understood me?’ he queried, looking up into her face, which betrayed nothing of what she was thinking. ‘I want no hot-headed, ill-considered actions, nothing done to put either of us in danger, do you hear me?’
‘I hear you, but what are you going to do? Are you not going back to the British lines yourself?’
‘No. I gave my parole to Don Santandos.’
‘And then betrayed him!’
He stood up, towering over her, his face white and drawn with fatigue. It took more than a few sleepless nights to bring him to his knees, though she seemed to have the knack of wearing him down with accusations he could not refute. He stared down at her oval face with its halo of red-gold curls for a long time without speaking, and then, tempted beyond endurance, he grabbed her shoulders in both hands and brought his mouth down to hers, crushing her lips in a kiss which was at once savage and demanding. Taken by surprise, she did nothing until he released her and then she put all her frustration and insecurity into a sharp slap across his cheek. ‘That was never part of our bargain.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said bitterly, rubbing the pink mark she had made on his face. ‘Above all, we must keep to our bargain.’ Then he turned from her to put a pistol in his belt, strapped on his sword, picked up his shako and haversack and left the room, clattering down the stone steps to the street.
Trembling uncontrollably, Olivia sank on to the bed and put her head in her hands. If she was so sure he was a traitor, why had she helped him? Did that make her a traitor too? Had she been one before she ever met him? Marrying a Frenchman was hardly the act of a patriot, so why did she condemn him for something she had done herself?
She had had her reasons and so, presumably, had he. He was such a confusing mixture of bitterness and cheerfulness, hate and anger, brute strength and gentleness. He could, against all reason and without apparently intending it, stir her latent passions to full flood, and it took all her self-control to keep her from throwing herself into his arms whenever she watched him moving about the tiny room in his shirt-sleeves and figure-hugging breeches. If he inadvertently brushed against her, shock-waves ran with tingling intensity through her body. He could be cruel too, but no more than she was. With her it was a defence, a way of keeping him at a distance where she could deal with him; his reasons she could not even guess at.
She rubbed her hand across her mouth as if to erase the memory of that brutal kiss and then jumped to her feet to go to the window. He had mounted the miserable excuse for a horse he had bought from the commissary and was riding down the street, followed by half a dozen urchins, who called after him for alms. He threw them a few coins and then trotted to the square where the advance guard was mustering for the march. He did not look back.
She sighed heavily, ate the last of the bread, then picked up her own bundle and went out to the street.
A young Spanish boy came out of the shadows and touched his forelock. He was about thirteen, she guessed, though he was so undernourished he might have been older. He wore nothing but a ragged shirt and trousers held up with what looked like part of a soldier’s crossbelt. ‘I am Pedro,’ he said. ‘The capitán said I must look after the señora. Come.’
The huge column had just been given the command to move. Ahead rode the senior officers, surrounded by cavalry, their colourful plumes bobbing and harness jingling, then cuirassiers, with their breastplates reflecting the glare of the sun, then infantry in ranks, headed by their regimental colours and guarded on their flanks by sharp-shooting voltigeurs, and behind them the limbers, pulled by heavy horses, the ammunition caissons and finally the baggage wagons.
The vehicle the boy conducted her to was so dilapidated, it was almost falling apart; the springs had gone and the stuffing had come out of the torn upholstery, but Olivia was the envy of all the other women who were obliged to walk in the rear of the column or ride atop the baggage in the wagons. She was strong and healthy and there were many who were not; to the consternation of Pedro, who expected to be punished by Robert for dereliction of duty, she surrendered it to the sick and expectant mothers and took her place with the walkers.
Thus it was she was far behind the front of the column when it arrived in the narrow village street of Villa de Fuentes, and Robert, going back to look for her, found the coach overflowing with squabbling women and very young children, but no sign of her. Pedro, shaking in anticipation of a beating, told him that the señora would not ride in the coach and that if many more crowded on to it, it would collapse. The women would not listen to him and he would be glad if the capitán would turn them off. Robert smiled and drew the boy out of earshot. ‘Let them have it, Pedro,’ he whispered in Spanish. ‘You go back for Señora Santerre and take her to father Pedro. Tell her to stay there until I come.’
‘Sí, señor.’
‘And not a word to anyone, you understand?’
The boy grinned. ‘Sí, señor. I tell no one you have a fine voice, that you are a friend to Spain.’
Robert smiled as he watched the boy dodge back through the laden wagons, tired horses and half-starved mules to where the last of the column struggled along on foot, then he returned to Colonel Clavier, who was surveying the remains of the bridge.
‘Damned guerrillas,’ he muttered. ‘They must be taught a lesson they will not forget in a hurry.’ Then, seeing Robert, he demanded, ‘Did you know the bridge had gone?’
Robert shook his head.
‘We’ll deal with this pestilence before we go any further. You’ll lead us to them, Santerre, you’ll lead us to them, even if we have to climb over that damned mountain to find them.’ He pointed to a peak which, even in summer, was capped with snow. ‘If they can survive up there, so can we.’ He opened the bag on the pommel of his saddle and pulled out the map Robert had drawn. ‘We’ll take two companies and the six-pounder; anything heavier will be too cumbersome.’
He looked up at Robert who mouthed the word ‘Quand?’ When?
‘Tonight. We’ll go under cover of darkness. If they don’t see us coming, they won’t know what has hit them until it is too late.’
Robert, nodding in agreement, wondered how a man as stupid as Clavier had ever managed to become a colonel. If he thought two companies of soldiers and a gun, which meant horses too, could move against the guerrillas, either in darkness or daylight, without being seen and heard long before the guerrillas were seen and heard, he was a fool.
‘How long will it take to reach them?’ the colonel broke in on his thoughts.
Robert held up four fingers.
‘Four hours. As long as that?’
Robert made signs to indicate the steepness and roughness of the terrain.
‘Then go and eat, Captain,’ the colonel went on. ‘Make love to that lovely wife of yours and report back in two hours, ready to lead the way.’
Robert came to attention and bowed his head to acknowledge the order, though there was no question of obeying it. He smiled wryly. Even a kiss had provoked a resounding slap and put an end to any thoughts he might have had that she would welcome his advances.
‘It were as well you said nothing to Madame Santerre of your destination,’ the colonel added as he turned away. ‘I still think she has a sneaking regard for that bandit.’ He gave a barking laugh. ‘I do not altogether understand why women idolise the most uncouth of men. They seem to delight in savouring the uncivilised.’
Robert hid his smile as he moved away; the colonel himself, for all his gold braid and plumes, was far more uncouth than Don Santandos with his ragged goatskin coat and matted beard, but that was something the Frenchman would never understand. He would be glad when he could get Olivia away from it all.
He found her at the home of Father Peredo, along with a dozen small children of camp followers whom she had taken there to be given food and somewhere to sleep. The good priest’s servants were busy trying to look after them, muttering under their breath about having to look after French urchins when the Spanish children in the village were just as hungry and whose fathers were also required to fight. ‘Children are children the world over,’ Father Peredo said. ‘Fetch the village youngsters to share the food; let the little ones learn to love their enemies, even if their parents cannot.’
Olivia, seeing Robert, put down the two-year-old she was nursing and went to him. ‘You look tired. Come and sit down.’
‘Why did you give the coach away?’ He sank into a chair and looked up at her. Her simple skirt and blouse were dusty from travel, her hair had been blown by the wind into a tangle and her face had caught the sun, but her eyes were still full of life and a smile played about her lips; he marvelled that she was as cheerful as ever.
‘I did not need it, others did. What is happening?’ She nodded towards the outside, where the sounds of an army could easily be heard — the shouts of command, the jingle of harness, the creaking of wheels on the sun-hardened road, horses, singing, women calling out as they caught up with their menfolk. ‘Has the colonel seen that the bridge is gone? What did he say?’
‘He is going into the hills to look for Don Santandos.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight at dusk.’
‘And you are going to show him the way.’ He did not answer and she pressed her point. ‘You are, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
He did not want to argue with her; he would rather have snatched a few minutes’ sleep. ‘I have been ordered to.’
‘By a fat, ignorant French pig of a colonel! I am not going to stand by and let you do it.’
He smiled wearily. ‘And how do you propose to stop me?’
She stood looking down at him, green eyes flashing anger, and then turned abruptly and called to Father Peredo, who was marshalling the children into the dining-room. ‘Robert is going to lead the French army into the hills to find Don Santandos,’ she told the priest when he joined them. ‘He has betrayed his friends…’
If she had thought her disclosure would shock Father Peredo or shame Robert she was mistaken. The priest looked from one to the other and smiled. ‘Captain Lynmount must do as his conscience dictates…’
‘Conscience!’ she squealed. ‘He has no conscience. I do not know what his game is, but he must not be allowed to sacrifice the guerrillas for it.’
‘They know the odds,’ Father Peredo said calmly. ‘And so does Captain Lynmount. You, my child, must not interfere.’ He turned to Robert. ‘You know what you are doing?’
‘Yes, and so does Miguel Santandos.’
‘You will need a decent horse,’ the priest said. ‘Yours is in an old hut in the hills behind the church, safe and well-fed, but ready for some exercise.’
Olivia stared at them both, unable to believe her ears. Had she been mistaken in Father Peredo too? She opened her mouth to protest and then shut it again, but that did not mean she accepted either Robert’s decision or Father Peredo’s judgement on it, nor had she any particular feeling for the men who had killed Philippe, but they were supposed to be allies in this monumental struggle against Napoleon and it was not fair that they should be sacrificed. She listened carefully to Father Peredo’s instructions on how to find Thor and watched Robert leave. As soon as the children had been returned to their mothers and the priest had gone to say mass in the neighbouring church, she changed into a pair of Philippe’s old overalls, crammed a beret over her curls and crept out of the house to find Pegasus.
The hut was hidden in a fold of the hills which rose up behind the village and had probably been used as a shelter by the goatherds who looked after the village flocks. It was only a one-roomed building, half-stone, half-wood, but big enough to conceal two horses. If the French had known the animals were there, they would have been confiscated and the villagers severely punished.
She approached carefully but there was no one about and Pegasus gave her a snicker of greeting as she opened the door and slipped inside. She found his bridle and saddle lying in a corner and five minutes later was riding him out and down the hill, keeping in the twilight shadows.
She had been going only a few minutes when she remembered seeing the guard at the monastery looking over the bridge at a path which led up from the gorge bottom. Was that an alternative way up from the village? If so, where did it begin? She could only think of one place and that was at the foot of the other bridge, the one in the village. She turned her horse towards it, wondering how she could pass the French troops camped around it; they would be thickest at that point and on their guard. Boldness, she decided, was the answer; in the darkness she could pass for a French soldier. She turned back and rode down the middle of the village, whistling to herself, apparently off-duty and at ease, though inside she was tense as a coiled spring and praying no one would stop her.
Camp fires glowed among the trees of the orchard which bordered the road as the women went about their tasks of cooking the evening meal and the men eased off their boots and sat in stockinged feet to clean their weapons ready for the morrow. Many of them carried wine in their canteens, a flogging offence in the British army but common practice among the soldiers of Napoleon, and there was already a great deal of drunkenness, ribaldry and lovemaking. Not that Olivia blamed them for that; they needed something to lighten a miserable existence. She had thought Tom was badly off, but his life had been luxury to what the common French conscript had to endure.
She slumped in the saddle and dropped her head on her chest, as if tipsy herself, apparently letting the horse have its head, and arrived at the bridge without being challenged. Now she had to find the beginning of the path and must be careful not to arouse suspicion.
‘If you keep going you will ride straight into the river,’ someone called after her. ‘Don’t you know there is no bridge?’
She roused herself and raised a hand to acknowledge she had heard, but did not turn towards the man; the twilight had given way to a bright moonlit night and she dared not show her face. She dismounted awkwardly, as a drunken man would, and led her horse into the trees beside the road, muttering something about the damned Spanish wine giving her a bellyache. The soldier laughed and turned away.
She tethered the horse to a tree and began exploring along the top of the gorge through which the river had cut its path, making her way from the bridge northwards. At first it seemed so sheer that there was no way down, but half a kilometre on she found a track and went back for Pegasus. The path was so steep, she had to lead the horse and before long she was beginning to doubt the wisdom of bringing the animal, but, having begun the descent, she was determined to keep going, glad that the roar of the water covered the sound of the horse’s hoofs and the clatter of loose stones, which she kept dislodging and which cascaded down to the river, glinting far below her in the moonlight.
She dared not look down but kept close to the horse’s head, murmuring encouragement, more to help herself than Pegasus, desperately hoping that she had been right, and that when they reached the bottom there would be a level path, and she would not be faced with having to climb back the way she had come. If that happened she had lost all hope of overtaking the column marching to the monastery.
At last the path levelled out and she found herself on a well-worn track which followed the line of the river very close to the bank. In spring, when the river was swollen by melting snow, it would be underwater, but now, in July, it was almost dry and was an easy ride. She mounted again and set off at a walk, not daring to go faster, for down in the valley bottom there was no moon. Her main task now was to locate the path leading up to the monastery and she was gambling that it was no worse than the one by which she had descended.
An hour later, she poked her head over the top of the cliff close by the bridge, and looked about her. The monastery building was in darkness and she could see no guard patrolling the road. For the first time she began to have doubts. Had the guerrillas left the monastery to the advancing French, or, worse, had the French already arrived and taken it? Was the way to northern Portugal open to the invader? She led Pegasus forward into an olive grove on the lower slope, where she tethered him to a tree, stroking his nose and bidding him stay quiet, before creeping forward to find the answer to her questions. The moon had gone behind a cloud and she was glad of the darkness as she darted silently from tree to tree, peering up at the grey stone walls, looking for a light in a window, the reflection of a weapon, anything to tell her that Miguel Santandos and his men were still there, still watchful.
The next moment she was flung off her feet and all but throttled by an arm coming out of the darkness and encircling her throat. She landed heavily on her back as her assailant flung her to the ground and sat astride her. The moon came out from behind a cloud and for a brief second she could see his head outlined against the night sky and the knife gleaming in his upraised hand.
‘Robert!’
‘My God, Olivia!’ The knife clattered to the ground and he rolled off her and sat back on his heels to stare into her pale face. Her eyes were brilliant with fear and he found himself shaking at the thought of what he had been about to do. ‘What in hell’s name did you think you were doing?’ he demanded, taking refuge in anger. ‘I was going to kill you.’ He looked down at the French overalls she wore and then back up at her face. ‘How did you get here?’
‘On Pegasus.’ She sat up and shook the dry dust from her hair. ‘I came to warn Don Santandos you had betrayed him and were leading the French to attack him.’
‘You fool!’ He scrambled to his feet and held out his hand to help her up. ‘Why can’t you behave like a woman and leave the fighting to men who know what they are about? You could have ruined everything.’
‘That was my intention.’ She ignored his hand and stood up beside him. ‘Forewarned is forearmed. At least I would have given Don Santandos a fighting chance.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘And I, all unknowing, was to lead the French into an ambush?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And was I to be given a fighting chance?’ He was both exasperated and admiring, and he wished he dared release her, but she was so unpredictable, he could not trust her to stay at his side. ‘Where did you leave the horse?’
‘Tethered to a tree near the bridge.’
‘Then let us fetch him.’ He took her arm and began propelling her towards the bridge. She struggled but he hung on to her. ‘I am a fool,’ he said, between gritted teeth. ‘Fool to think that you thought well enough of me to trust me and do as I asked. Now you must take the consequences.’
He did not slow his pace as she stumbled along beside him. ‘What are you going to do?’
He did not answer but tightened his grip on her arm until she had to bite her lip to stop herself crying out. ‘Robert, please, you are hurting me.’
‘If you insist on denying your womanhood to dress and behave like a man, you cannot afterwards complain if you are treated like one. From now on, you will take orders like a soldier or the consequences will be what every soldier can expect if he neglects his duty.’
Behind them she could hear the French patrol — boots scuffling on the hard road, the rumble of the gun’s limber, the sound of harness and hoofs. They would be alert and watchful, she knew, but until they were within a few hundred yards of the building they would not know how narrow the road was, nor how little cover there was around the bridge. She looked up at Robert, wondering whether to attempt to make him change his mind and join the guerrillas, but he did not look like a man open to persuasion; his jaw was set and he was looking straight ahead.
‘Come,’ he said as they reached the horse and he untethered it. ‘Mount up.’
She obeyed silently. He took the reins and led her out on to the road and towards the approaching patrol, turning his back on the monastery. If Don Santandos was there and looked out now and saw them, she would hardly blame him if he put a bullet into their backs. ‘Robert,’ she said, in desperation, ‘let’s go to the monastery, please.’
He turned to look up at her. She was not sure but she thought he was smiling. It was just like him to laugh when there was nothing to laugh at. ‘Are you suggesting that Captain Philippe Santerre should desert?’
‘No, he never would. I am asking Robert Lynmount to come to his senses and make up his mind whose side he is on.’
‘He knows which side he is on.’ He stopped walking and the horse nuzzled into his shoulder. Absent-mindedly, he stroked its nose as he looked up at her. ‘You may join Don Santandos if you wish. I will not stop you.’
‘But you will not come with me?’
‘No.’
She was silent. If she went, what then? Where did she want to go? Home? Was that still her goal? Whatever he had done, could she turn her back on him and ride away? Oh, what was happening to her? It was the second chance she had been given and the second time she had hesitated. All she had to do was turn Pegasus towards the convent. Why couldn’t she do it?
‘Come, Olivia, you are not usually so indecisive and I have no time to waste.’
Her answer was to click her tongue at Pegasus and set him off to where Colonel Clavier, determined to lead the assault himself, was deploying his troops. He had sent one group up the hillside to try and approach the monastery from the bare mountain above it, while others were dispatched into the trees on the lower slope and ordered to approach as near the front of the building as possible. The signal to begin the assault would be the firing of the six-pounder, which had been drawn up on the road itself.
He was puffing and blowing, riding from one section to the other. ‘There you are, Santerre,’ he said irritably. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Then, remembering the captain could not speak, added, ‘Get back to your post by the gun.’ He turned away, ignoring Olivia. Thankfully she realised he had not recognised her in the overalls, though the disguise would not stand up in daylight.
‘Go to the rear and stay there,’ Robert said, as soon as the commander was out of earshot. ‘That is an order, and heaven help you if you disobey.’
‘Yes, sir!’ She gave a mock-salute and pulled on the reins to turn Pegasus. Robert turned from her with a chuckle. She was irrepressible, but he would not have her any other way and now he could not imagine life without her. Later, when all this was over… But he would not let himself think of the future; he had no future.
Olivia had hardly gone a hundred yards when she heard a fusillade of shots coming from the monastery. So Miguel Santandos was there and he had seen the danger and fired first. She turned in the saddle to see two men fall, but the French were trained soldiers and were soon returning the fire. She heard the six-pounder boom once and then an ear-splitting explosion. Pegasus reared in terror. She calmed him and turned back along the road, her only thought that Robert might be hit and she had to go to him. The little cannon was nothing more than a heap of twisted metal and its crew lay sprawled in death around it.
She spurred the horse forward. ‘Robert! Oh, let him not be dead! Let him be alive.’ She was torn apart by guilt as she jumped from the horse and ran to the bodies. Why had he been so stubborn? Why hadn’t he gone to the monastery? Why, oh, why?
‘Here!’ Robert’s voice came from behind her. She turned in relief. He was standing a little way off, his eyes gleaming in a blackened face, but apparently uninjured. She ran to him. ‘I ordered you to the rear.’ It was the sharp voice of command and held no forgiveness. She paused, unsure of herself. ‘You want to be a soldier,’ he said, holding out a rifle and a bandolier he had taken from one of the casualties. ‘Then be one. Take this to the rear and watch our backs. Fire a warning if you see anything.’
She took the weapon and turned from him. He was hard and unyielding and she wondered why she had ever thought him anything else but a ruthless soldier, and a mercenary at that. And she had almost fallen in love with him! How thankful she was she had discovered the truth before she made a fool of herself.
The battle continued with concentrated small arms fire until she began to wonder who would run out of ammunition first, but after two hours the shooting became more desultory, and then Colonel Clavier ordered the drummer to beat the retreat. He had lost too many men and the monastery seemed impregnable.
In the confusion, as the men gathered to return to the village, Olivia went in search of Robert. She found Thor, tethered near by, but no sign of him. He was not among the tired, defeated group who lined up in the road, nor among the wounded being transported back in the ammunition wagon, nor, she discovered as she searched the hillside, among the dead. Leaving Pegasus with Robert’s horse, she made her way slowly back up the road, looking from right to left, stopping to listen every now and again, alert for the sound of footsteps or the groans of someone wounded. She found him at last, standing alone by the parapet of the bridge, apparently deep in thought. He looked up as she approached. Was he still angry with her? His expression gave nothing away.
‘Are you satisfied with your night’s work, Captain?’ she asked, taking the offensive, which was her usual way of dealing with his anger. ‘I wonder how many loyal Spaniards have gone needlessly to their deaths tonight?’
‘None at my hands.’
‘How can you be sure? And now that the colonel has been sent back to Villa de Fuentes with his tail between his legs, what next? I cannot imagine that is the end of the matter. He is hardly likely to give up fighting and go back to France to keep chickens, is he?’
A fleeting smile crossed his face. ‘Don Santandos has only to hold the monastery until General Craufurd arrives in a day or two, then he will be able to recapture his village.’
‘How do you know the general will come?’
‘I do not, but Miguel Santandos seems confident of it.’
‘You have spoken to him?’ She was astonished.
‘Before the attack. I was coming from a meeting with him when I found you, skulking in the trees.’
‘Then you led the French into a trap? It was planned all along?’
He smiled. ‘Of course.’
‘You might have told me. I should not have…’ She paused. ‘Oh, I see, you did not trust me.’
He sighed, and put his finger under her chin to lift her face to the moon, which had come out from behind a scudding cloud. Her beret had fallen from her head and her soft curls framed her face. In spite of the soldier’s overalls, she looked very feminine and very vulnerable. ‘What you do not know, my lovely Olivia, you cannot tell. It is safer that way.’ He lowered his face and kissed her gently on the lips; it was a kiss of forgiveness and this time it provoked no retaliation.
‘Are you going to join Don Santandos now?’ There was a slight tremor in her voice.
‘No, I go back to the village. There will be reprisals and I must do what I can.’
Olivia was horrified. ‘You can’t do that! If the colonel finds out you led him into a trap…’
Robert smiled. ‘Why should he?’
The whole idea of returning was so senseless that she could not believe he meant it, but, looking into his eyes, she saw nothing to make her think he was jesting. ‘But they were already mustering when I left; they will be halfway down the hill by now. How will you explain your absence?’
‘I will think of something. I could have been wounded. Or taken prisoner and escaped.’
‘Just as you were hanged and escaped! The same trick will never work again. And how will you speak? Has your voice been miraculously restored to you?’ She laughed, a high-pitched, unnatural sound that seemed loud in her ears and made her realise how near to hysteria she was. ‘And with an English accent too!’
‘I will manage.’
‘Robert, you have done what you were asked. Don Santandos expects no more. We can go back to our own lines from here.’
‘No!’ Robert shouted. ‘Damn you, woman, you still don’t understand, do you? I cannot go back.’
‘Then we had better set off at once; the longer we delay, the worse it will be to convince the colonel.’
‘Oh, no. You, my lady, you will stay with the guerrillas. I hesitate to burden Don Santandos with you, but he owes me that and he will hand you safely over to General Craufurd when he comes.’
‘You will have trouble enough explaining your absence,’ she said amiably. ‘But explaining the loss of a wife as well…’ She took his arm as if they were out for a moonlit stroll. ‘Do not make it more difficult for yourself.’
Robert knew she was right and, in spite of her wilfulness or perhaps because of it, did not want to be parted from her; he allowed himself to be persuaded but not without a great deal of grumbling, which had no effect on her at all.
They went back to the horses and set off in the wake of the returning patrol, down the mountain path, back to the village, riding in silence. They had said all there was to be said and talking only seemed to make matters worse between them. On the way they passed the broken six-pounder and the bodies of several French soldiers, and although the colonel had been sensible enough, or coward enough, to realise how high the odds were against him and had withdrawn before too many casualties had been inflicted, he would not let it rest there, they both knew that. There would be other trials to come.
The sun was just coming up behind the distant mountains as they neared the village. Down by the river a working party was already busy trying to build a temporary bridge strong enough to take the troops, with their horses, wagons and heavy guns, across the river. Colonel Clavier had decided not to risk the monastery road again, nor did he want to detour south where the British rearguard was most active. The rest of the regiment, dispersed among the orchards and olive groves, were stirring for another day and the clatter of pots and the sudden flaring of a fire announced that breakfast was on the way.
In the village street a few inhabitants were making their way towards the church, whose bell tolled for early mass. Olivia found it difficult to believe that a few hours before she had been in a battle, that men had died, and before long the whole process would be repeated. Wherever Napoleon’s army went, there went death and destruction. How could anyone condone that? It made her blood boil. And Robert? What game was he playing? But it was no game; he was deadly serious.
‘We had better establish what happened,’ she said as they rode down into the village. ‘If I am to speak for you, then I must know what to say.’
‘I was there beside the six-pounder when it blew up. The explosion knocked me out. I was out for a long time. When I came to, the men had withdrawn, leaving me for dead. As usual you had disobeyed orders and come looking for me. That will have to do, but you must make it sound convincing.’
‘How did the six-pounder come to blow up? The guerrillas only had small arms; they could not have disabled it.’
‘It jammed; they do sometimes, you know. The charge went off inside it.’ His chuckle told her that he had caused the explosion; he had been telling the truth when he said no Spaniard had died at his hands. She felt immeasurably relieved.
The story seemed to satisfy Colonel Clavier and Olivia came to the conclusion that he was a very stupid man. He was also very angry. He was convinced that someone in the village had warned the guerrillas to expect the patrol so that instead of encountering them on the open mountain he had found them in an unassailable position in the monastery. He questioned Robert long and hard but Robert, through Olivia, denied knowledge of the existence of the monastery. His map had shown the way to the camp where Philippe had died. The colonel might have been more sceptical if anyone but Olivia had been trying to convince him, but he was without his usual mistress, who had declared the heat and the flies and the constant sniping of the guerrillas insupportable and had fled back over the Pyrenees, leaving him looking for a replacement; Olivia had intrigued and fascinated him ever since she had been brought to him in Ciudad Rodrigo; he believed her because he wanted her and instead turned his attention to the villagers, threatening to massacre the whole village if the culprit was not delivered up to him in twenty-four hours.
‘What are we going to do?’ Olivia asked Robert later that morning, when she heard about this. ‘Do you think he really will carry out his threat?’
‘I expect so.’ He had come back from supervising the building work to have a meal and was sitting near the open door of their lodgings looking out on the square, where all the equipment, guns and wagons had been drawn up, waiting to proceed. Small children swarmed around them, poking and prying and being driven off by the few men left to guard them.
‘But there are only old men, women and children in the village; all the fighting men are in the hills.’
‘Then he will take women and children.’
‘Robert, we cannot allow that to happen.’
‘No!, I must tell him the truth, give myself up.’
‘No!’ Her cry was one of anguish. ‘You can’t! You must not!’
He turned to smile at her. She was wearing the brown dress she had taken from the empty villa and had a multicoloured shawl draped across her shoulders. It had been given to her by one of the women whose children she had helped the day the French had arrived. Her feet were encased in slim black dancing slippers with silver buckles which he guessed had come from Philippe’s pack; the Frenchman had obviously been something of a dandy as well as a soldier. ‘Olivia, I have no choice.’
‘Yes, you have,’ she said. ‘We will evacuate the women and children, take them to their men in the hills. They will be safe there.’
‘All of them?’
‘Why not? We could go after dark, in small groups. The colonel cannot punish them if he cannot find them.’ She paused, her eyes alight with mischief. ‘Father Peredo will help organise it. I am going to see him now.’ She tied a knot in the shawl and turned to leave. ‘Go back to your duty, soldier, this is woman’s work and the less you know about it the better.’
He threw back his head and laughed. It was the first time she had heard him laugh since the attack on the monastery and somehow it made all the difference. She would enjoy taking the children to safety under the noses of the garrison.
It took all day to arrange with Father Peredo and the enthusiastic Pedro to help her. They went stealthily from house to house, giving careful instructions, emphasising the need for silence, swearing everyone to secrecy, and by the time dusk fell again everyone was ready. The soldiers who were busy trying to rebuild the bridge and those few who were off-duty and gathered at the inn or on the streets failed to notice that there were fewer villagers than usual seeing to their wants. The women and children left their homes in family groups at set intervals and made their way into the olive groves, where their appointed leaders took them down the steep cliff to the path by the river and to safety.
It was dawn again when Olivia returned to her lodgings, thoroughly satisfied with her night’s work. When reveille sounded in less than an hour’s time, the colonel would find a village without inhabitants and no one on whom he could take out his ire but his own men. Robert was not at home and she supposed he had found somewhere more comfortable to sleep. She smiled as she flung herself on the bed; poor Robert, she really did cause him a few problems but he would be proud of her tonight. She wondered why it was important that he should be proud of her. He was nursing a grievance that filled his mind; to him she was nothing but a necessary encumbrance and one he wished himself rid of. That being so, why had she refused to take the opportunities she had been offered to leave? Why stay with him?
The answer, she admitted, as she drifted off to sleep, was that she needed him as much as he needed her. Just how much or why, she would not allow herself to speculate; it was far too disturbing.