OLIVIA slept until the midday sun made the room like an oven and woke her. For a moment she could not decide what was different about the day; it was as hot as ever, the room looked just as it had been when she fell asleep, but there was something not quite right. She rose and opened the door; the sun beat down on the dusty square, a dog lay panting in the shade of a solitary eucalyptus, a cat stalked a wall, but there were no wagons, no guns, no soldiers that she could see. She went back into the room. Robert’s kit, his uniform, his boots and shako, his sword and pistol, his ammunition pouch, everything had gone; there was nothing to show that he had ever been there. She washed and dressed hurriedly and went to see Father Peredo. In spite of being up all night, just as she had been, he had been working at his desk for some hours, and was expecting her.
‘Colonel Clavier has received orders to abandon the mountain route and go south to join the remainder of the army advancing on Almeida,’ he told her. ‘They marched out while we were taking the women and children to Don Santandos.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘A detachment has been left behind to hold the village and keep the French supply lines open, but the rest have gone. With God’s help Miguel will soon re-take the village and the people will be able to return.’
‘And Robert?’ she queried.
‘He went too.’ He watched the expressions chase each other across her face — perplexity, then hurt and finally anger. ‘He left instructions that I was to see that you go to Don Santandos and from there to General Craufurd.’ He opened a drawer of his desk and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. ‘He left you a letter.’
She took it from him, broke the seal and scanned it hurriedly. But it told her no more than the priest had done. Robert had decided to stay with the French troops.
You have done all that was asked of you and more. You deserve your reward. Go home to England and enjoy your life. Know that there is one here who wishes you the greatest happiness. Think of me sometimes, in the comfort of your own home, as a man you might have come to know a little better if circumstances had been different. Adieu, little leopardess.
She was surprised, as she stood with the letter in her hand, to find her vision blurred by tears. She brushed them away, angry with herself for her foolishness. What else could she have expected? Their meeting had been a chance encounter in the middle of a war and, for a time, they had been useful to each other, but that was all.
All! By heaven, it was not all! He had been hurt and dishonoured and he bore the internal scars of that; it did not mean he was beyond redemption, that she could stand by and let him ruin himself still further with his foolhardiness. She screwed the letter up into a tight ball and threw it into the empty hearth, smiling rebelliously at the priest. ‘If he thinks he can throw me off like an old glove, then he is in for a surprise,’ she said and, turning on her heel, left the house with Father Peredo’s laughter ringing in her ears.
She did not hesitate, but packed all her belongings into a tight roll and took it out to the hut where Pegasus was hidden. She saddled him up, fitted her bundle to the pommel and set off in a south-westerly direction. With the craggy mountains at her back, she passed through pine and eucalyptus woods, then rolling hills covered with vineyards, small farms and orchards, heavy with the scent of flowers and buzzing with honey bees. Alone on the road, far behind the marching army, she felt at peace; the war seemed a million miles away.
But that was an illusion; it was round every corner, behind every craggy rock. Hidden eyes watched the roads, ready to strike wherever a smaller than usual force, a baggage cart left too far behind, stragglers from the main march, made an easy target. Nothing was safe from the guerrilleros who stretched taut French nerves to breaking-point and caused their already elongated supply lines to snap under the strain. It had taken weeks to re-supply the army after the taking of Ciudad Rodrigo, but now they were on the move again, still under orders to drive the leopards back into the sea.
But taking the Portuguese border stronghold of Almeida would be a very different proposition from taking Ciudad Rodrigo. The only way to enter the town was by crossing bridges and going through tunnels, and its huge star-shaped fortifications were in much better repair than those of the Spanish town had been. Robert had spoken of it as almost impregnable, which was why Colonel Clavier had been so anxious to make a name for himself and find a way into Portugal which avoided it. His hopes for promotion and an easy life among the generals and marshals of the Napoleonic campaign who seemed not to share the hardships of their men, but to travel with all the accoutrements of luxury, including their mistresses, had been balked by Don Santandos and his handful of partisans and he was a very angry man. He did not fancy Almeida, whose Portuguese garrison was headed by a British brigadier who would not easily surrender. The colonel took his time marching his men across the plains to rejoin the rest of Masséna’s army. It was then, in the half-light just before dawn on the twenty-fourth of July, he found himself face to face with General Craufurd’s skirmishers.
Olivia, who had been riding Pegasus for twenty-four hours with only occasional snatched minutes of rest, heard the sounds of battle some way off and dug her heels into the horse’s side to make him gallop. Her place was with the women of the regiment, waiting as always, with the supply wagons in the rear, waiting, hoping and praying for the safety of their men and for the moment when the firing ceased and they could go forward to find them, alive and well, wounded or dead. It had been the same when she had been with Tom, the same with Philippe, and she could do no less for Robert, in spite of his rejection of her. What she could not understand was his willingness to take part in an action against his own compatriots; he must be made to see that he would never regain his claws that way.
She came upon the baggage train grouped in a field, several miles short of the scene of the battle, and stopped to ask what was happening.
‘They’ve joined up with Marshal Ney’s corps,’ she was told by a burly pipe-smoking woman driving a wagon from which she sold drink and other personal items to the troops. ‘Seems they’ve caught Craufurd with his pants down.’ She laughed. ‘His backside is exposed and our cavalry are cutting him to pieces.’
Olivia hid her dismay at this news. ‘And the infantry?’
The woman shrugged her shoulders in the direction of the noise of guns. ‘Who knows? We can only wait and hope.’
That was the worst of it, the waiting, but it had to be endured. Olivia dismounted and sat with the women in the shade of a copse of pine trees, all of them tense and listening, trying to judge from the changing sounds how the battle was going. At times it seemed uncomfortably close and they began to wonder if it would overwhelm them, then the noise receded, as the English struggled to return across the bridge to the far bank of the Coa and safety. It was much cooler now and heavy clouds were sweeping down from the distant mountains; fighting in the rain when it was difficult to keep guns and ammunition dry was even worse than fighting in the searing heat when the midsummer sun took its own toll of casualties.
The baggage train eased its way forward in the wake of the battle, ready to provide fresh ammunition when needed and, later, treatment for the wounded and comfort to the weary. Olivia, riding Pegasus in a deluge of rain, a little ahead of the other women, found herself shivering, but it was not so much the downpour, coming after so much heat, which caused it, as the uncertainty of what she would find round the next bend.
She remembered discovering Tom in the aftermath of the battle of Oporto, the horror of a battlefield when the fighting was done, the cries of the wounded, the shrieks of dying horses, the tattered shreds of colourful uniforms, the smoke and the stench of death. And Tom, dying in the middle of it all.
She had to find Robert. She knew, as she searched the soaking ground around the approaches to the bridge where body was heaped upon body, that finding him alive and unharmed was the most important thing in her life at that moment. She would come to terms with what that meant to her later, when she had time to spare for such self-indulgence.
Craufurd’s snipers, safe now behind the rocks on the west bank, took pot-shots at anyone moving on the approaches to the bridge, but the battle was over and, as far as the British were concerned, disaster had been averted. Olivia joined other women who moved about the battlefield in a kind of trance, searching for their men, crying with relief when they found them injured but alive, or moaning in despair when they found them dead or, not finding them at all, looking further afield in case they had been carried off or had deserted.
Olivia, leading Pegasus, found no sign of Robert and was hopeful that he had somehow escaped having to do battle with his own countrymen. He had been attached to Colonel Clavier’s staff, so if she could find the colonel she might find the man who filled her thoughts and had filled them ever since the last time it had rained — the day they met. She made her way to a tiny hamlet she had passed on the road and here she found the regimental command post set up in the inn. The colonel, she was told, had been ordered to Marshal Ney’s headquarters to account for his actions.
‘And Captain Santerre?’ she asked the soldier who guarded the door.
‘Not here. Haven’t seen him since…’ The soldier racked his brain. ‘Since we joined up with the rest of the corps.’ He pointed across the street. ‘Try the cellar of that house; there are injured being looked after there.’
She thanked him and hurried to cross the street, her thoughts so far in advance of her feet that she did not look where she was going and ran straight into the arms of a tall, heavily built man wearing a brown frock-coat and a top hat. He held her to steady her.
‘Sorry,’ she said and did not realise until she heard his gasp of surprise that, in her agitation, she had spoken English. She looked up and found herself meeting the blue-eyed gaze of the man she had seen coming out of Colonel Clavier’s house in Ciudad Rodrigo, the one she had half recognised.
It came to her, like a clap of thunder, where she had seen him before, and she could hardly believe her memory. She had known him as Mr Rufus Whitely when he had visited her father in the early days of the war. Her father had treated him cordially and shown him round the manufactory and talked to him about the armaments being made there. Their visitor had shown particular interest in the new rockets being developed and tested on a secret site on their estate. The tests had not been successful — the rockets had been decidedly erratic in their trajectory and unstable to say the least; they were as likely to wipe out one’s own people as the enemy. Her father had been undaunted and was still working on the missiles when she left home. What was Rufus Whitely doing in Spain, and among the French at that?
‘Mr Whitely,’ she said, ready to brazen out her own indiscretion. ‘What are you doing here?’
If he was surprised at her use of his name, he hid it well. ‘Madame?’ he queried in French.
‘Don’t you remember me?’ she persisted. ‘Olivia Pledger, I was then. You visited us in England. As I remember it, you were particularly interested in Papa’s rockets.’
She watched as he concealed his surprise behind narrowed eyes; he was cool, she would give him that. ‘You are mistaken, madame.’
‘I think not. What are you doing here, with the French?’
His glance flicked over her dress and back to her face. ‘I could ask you the same thing,’ he said, apparently deciding not to continue with his denial. ‘Is your father here?’
‘Certainly not! He would never…’ She stopped. ‘I am here because I am married to a French soldier.’
He looked round at the busy street, where troops and stretcher-bearers hurried back and forth and horses clattered up and down, harness jingling, then back at her. ‘I think we should talk,’ he said in English. ‘In private.’ He took her arm and led her to the inn where the guard stood aside to let them in without even questioning them. He led her through the house on to a cool, vine-covered terrace where tables and chairs were set out for the inn’s customers, now driven away by the arrival of the French soldiers. ‘Sit down.’
‘Why should I? Who do you think you are, dragging me away like that? I have other things to do. My husband…’
‘Your husband?’ He took her arm and pushed her into a chair and sat beside her. ‘You had better tell me about this husband of yours.’
‘Not until you tell me what you are doing here. You are English, or that is what you were pretending to be when you visited my father. From the Secretary for War, you said. Was that true?’
‘Of course it was true.’ He paused. ‘Madam, I must ask you not to divulge a word of what I am about to tell you to a living soul. I may assume you are a loyal subject of King George, in spite of appearances?’
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ she said.
‘Quite so. My appearance is not what it would seem either.’ He smiled and reached out to touch her arm with a hand that was warm and sweaty. ‘I am an agent of the British, here at the express command of Viscount Wellington himself. I have an important task to do, do you understand?’ She nodded and he went on, ‘I must insist on your oath of secrecy.’
‘Of course.’
‘You must speak of this meeting to no one. If I find you have breathed so much as a hint that I am not the friend of Colonel Clavier I seem to be, then…’ he sat forward and drew a finger slowly across her throat, roused to a perverted desire by the fear in her expressive green eyes ‘…I shall denounce you to the French as an English spy and you will die horribly. You understand?’
‘Yes.’ She looked him straight in the eye, so that he found himself drawing back from her. ‘You have nothing to fear from me. As it happens, the man who is passing himself off as my husband is also English, masquerading as a French soldier.’
He looked startled, his eyes widened and she noticed his hands tighten on the arms of his chair, but he quickly regained his composure. ‘A deserter.’
‘No,’ she said, without thinking. ‘Not a deserter. Someone like you, working behind the lines.’
‘Tell me about him. What is his name?’
‘Captain Philippe Santerre is the name he is known by, but it is really Robert Lynmount.’
‘Lynmount!’ He sat bolt upright, then laughed. It was a harsh sound which frightened her. ‘So this is where he has got to. I suggest, ma’am, that you stick to Philippe Santerre; Lynmount is not a name to be proud of.’
‘What wrong has he done?’
‘You do not know? He is scum, my dear, scum.’ He stood up so that he overshadowed her. ‘Forget you ever knew him.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘More than ever, I must insist on your promise not to betray me. The successful outcome of the war could depend on you keeping your word. Say nothing; particularly say nothing to that miserable cur of a man who calls himself your husband. Husband!’ He laughed suddenly. ‘You would be very unwise to put your faith in him.’
She rose beside him, her fists clenched at her sides. ‘You have no right to say that, none at all. What do you know of him?’
He smiled, as if at some secret jest, as he took her arm to escort her back through the inn to the street. ‘A great deal, but do not distress yourself, my dear, your loyalty does you credit. Only remember, your allegiance to your country comes above all else and in the absence of any higher authority that means me. Put yourself in my hands, be patient and you shall be amply repaid.’
‘I want no payment for being a good patriot,’ she snapped. ‘All I want is to go home.’
‘Then you shall, but let me advise you against attempting to leave on your own; it could be dangerous, fatal even.’ Was he threatening her? His voice was silky smooth, but it held a menace that terrified her more than the idea of physical violence. ‘I will make the arrangements myself. Wait for my instructions.’ He smiled. ‘You may be able to do me a small service at the same time.’
At the door of the inn he doffed his top hat to her and left her with a smile and a final warning to remember what was at stake if she failed him.
Olivia stood staring after him for a long time after he had gone, her thoughts in a turmoil. Had he been telling the truth about himself? He had been very plausible and his story had sounded almost too fantastic to be a lie. What was, in some ways, more important to her — had he also been correct about Robert? His words echoed in her brain — ‘not a name to be proud of’. ‘Scum’. ‘Cur’. Were they the measured words of cool judgement or was there more to it than that? She could not ask Robert, even if she could find him, because she had given her word.
Robert. Where was he? She crossed the street towards the house with the cellar full of wounded men, trying desperately to compose herself.
She had gained the opposite side when a hand touched her arm and, keyed up as she was, she turned like a startled hare, ready to bolt. But it was Robert. He had a bandage round his head and his uniform was filthy with mud and dried blood.
‘You are wounded.’ Her relief at seeing him alive mixed with the doubts that Rufus Whitely had planted in her mind made her confused and ill at ease; she could hardly look him in the eye.
‘A mere scratch. What in Hades’ name are you doing here? I thought you would be on the other side of the river by now, on your way to Lisbon. Did you not read my letter? Father Peredo…’
‘Father Peredo is not my keeper,’ she snapped. ‘And neither are you.’
‘No, by heaven, or I would muzzle you like a dog.’ He moved to take her arm and she involuntarily flinched away from him. Puzzled by her reaction, he let his hand fall to his side. ‘Oh, I see, he has been filling your head with scandal. I am surprised at you, Olivia, believing his lies.’
‘Whose lies?’ she queried. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘No, and it is more than careless of you to be talking at all in public, let alone in English. Or don’t you care? Have you already made your deal with the colonel? Is that why you tried to leave me behind?’
He grabbed her hand and dragged her across the road to the stables beside the inn and pulled her inside. It was dark and cool and quiet but for the snort of a horse and the loud purring of the inn’s cat, which lay curled up on a bale of straw. ‘Having you with me is worse than being shot at,’ he said savagely. ‘At least in battle I can shoot back.’ He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against him and crushing her mouth with his, filling her traitorous body with an unbearable yearning. She felt herself melting into him, wanting more.
She tore herself away at last, and stood facing him, nostrils flaring and hands shaking. ‘I suppose that is your idea of shooting back,’ she said, close to tears. ‘I can tell you now, I will not endure it.’
‘No?’ His smile was crooked. ‘Then why are you still here? Why do you continue to haunt me?’
‘I…’ She stopped. She could not tell him that ever since the battle she had been filled with a terrible fear of losing him, that wherever he went, whatever he did, she wanted to be at his side. She had never felt like that about Tom or Philippe; this was new and both terrifying and exhilarating. If it had not been for meeting Rufus Whitely, she could have been happy, but now her mind and emotions were at loggerheads and she was thoroughly confused.
‘What are you up to, Olivia?’
‘Up to?’
‘Yes. What were you talking about?’
‘When?’
‘Just now. You and that…’ he paused to moderate his voice ‘…that dandy in the frock-coat and top hat.’ He took her shoulders in his hands as if he would like to shake her, but instead he held her away from him to look into her eyes, confusing her more than ever. ‘What did he say about me?’
‘Why should he say anything about you? Do you know him?’
‘I know him.’ He laughed grimly. ‘Whatever he said his name was, I can tell you it is Rufus Whitely, Captain Rufus Whitely, a British officer. I suppose he has been captured, caught out enjoying himself and not on the field of battle, by the looks of it.’ She realised he was referring to Mr Whitely’s civilian dress. ‘Of all the ill-luck.’
‘Yes,’ she said, seizing on the explanation he had inadvertently given her. ‘It is unfortunate to be captured, but better than being killed and,’ she added with heavy emphasis, ‘especially being wounded by your own people.’
‘I was thrown when Thor was startled.’ He laughed. ‘My wound, such as it is, was caused by falling against a tree. And I was referring to my own bad luck in running into that blackguard, not his.’
‘Why should his being captured be bad for you?’ she asked warily, surprised that he should admit to being thrown. ‘He won’t betray you.’
‘No?’ His cynical smiled spoiled his normally handsome features. ‘I fully expect him to do just that.’
‘Don’t be silly. What has he to gain?’
‘The temptation to offer a juicy bit of intelligence to the other side in exchange for freedom must be more than tempting to a normally patriotic soldier; to Whitely it would be irresistible.’
‘I think you are being unjust.’
‘What has he been telling you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing, Olivia?’ He scanned her face. ‘I watched you go into the inn; you were alone together for at least half an hour, long enough to tell each other your life histories. Does he know you are English?’
‘Yes. We had met before, in England.’ She paused. ‘We spoke of that.’
‘Oh.’ This piece of information quietened him for a moment, though she could not tell what he was thinking.
‘You do not like him, do you?’ she persisted.
‘I do not.’
‘Why not?’
‘I have my reasons.’ He paused, wanting to allay his own doubts but reluctant to question her more closely for fear of stirring up her curiosity and finding himself on the receiving end of a grilling. He would not lie to her and he did not want to tell her the truth, not yet. ‘Has he given his parole?’
‘He did not say.’
‘He must have done to be allowed to move about so freely. Keep away from him, do you hear? I forbid you to speak to him again. He is trouble.’
He was so vehement that she was left more bothered than ever. If Rufus Whitely was truly a British intelligence agent, then why was Robert so afraid of him, unless he had something to hide? Were her doubts about Robert well founded after all? Was he the traitor? Was that why he had refused to return to the British lines — because he dared not? She did not want to believe it; her whole being cried out against the idea.
Her dilemma was made worse when they heard the following day that Don Santandos and his guerrillas had been taken by surprise on open ground, where they were most vulnerable, and suffered a mauling by a company of skirmishers from Philippe’s regiment. The prisoners were brought into the French camp in heavy chains to be questioned. Olivia, anxious to know what had happened, decided to risk paying the colonel a visit during his interrogation of the men. He had returned from headquarters with orders to continue the march, but his personal feud with Don Santandos and the humiliation he had received at the guerrilla leader’s hands still rankled. He was adept at finding excuses for not obeying orders, and a broken axle on a supply wagon and a shortage of horses had furnished the latest one.
The prisoners were stubborn and insisted on being treated as prisoners of war, but the colonel ridiculed that idea. ‘You are not troops,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and surveying the ill-assorted men who stood facing him, manacled together. ‘You are rabble; you have no idea how to fight. The mighty armies of the Emperor have occupied your country; it is at peace with France. You are spies, in the pay of the hideous Leopard, nothing more, and for that you will die.’
Olivia tried to argue on the prisoners’ behalf. ‘They are too ignorant to be spies,’ she said, smiling sweetly at the colonel and reaching out to touch his arm. It was a provocative thing to do and she hoped she could fend him off when the time came. ‘They are only trying to defend their homeland.’
‘Barren mountains and sour vines,’ he said. ‘For that they are willing to die. Then I give them their wish.’ He turned to the guards. ‘Take them away and shoot them.’ He returned his attention to Olivia. ‘For your sake, I give them a quick death. Now, my dear, what shall we do to while away the time? A carriage ride, a little picnic?’ He was stroking the back of her hand with his thumb as he spoke, making her scalp tingle. She needed all her wits about her now.
‘But won’t that be dangerous?’ she queried. ‘The guerrillas might be looking to avenge their comrades.’
‘Then they will die too. We will take an escort.’
‘But it would surely spoil our picnic. All that noise and commotion.’
‘True,’ he said meditatively. ‘Then let us have supper here. Afterwards…’ He did not finish what he was about to say because he was interrupted by Robert, who marched in and saluted.
‘What is it, man?’ the colonel asked irritably.
Robert, giving Olivia a look that was almost an accusation, pointed outside to where the sounds of mustering troops could be heard — a drum roll, shouts of command, marching feet.
Olivia went to the window from which she could see the village square, with its few stunted cork oaks and slim poplars. It widened out at the end where the church stood and it was here that the troops had been assembled to watch the execution. The prisoners, their hands bound, stood with their backs to the church, facing a dozen voltigeurs who kneeled in the dust, their muskets primed. An officer and the regimental doctor stood to one side and, to her surprise, Rufus Whitely was with them. Angry because of her helplessness, she turned away.
‘The firing squad is ready for your inspection,’ Olivia said, blessing Robert’s intervention but more concerned about the guerrillas than her own peril. ‘Will you not spare them?’
The colonel smiled. ‘No, my dear, not even for you. If I did that, there would be anarchy and every tinpot peasant would rise up, thinking we had gone soft. They know the risks they are running when they defy me.’
‘Then will you excuse me?’ She dared not continue the argument; he would not hesitate to mete the same punishment out to her if she crossed him, but neither could she stand by and appear to condone it.
‘Naturally I will,’ the colonel said, pushing his bulk out of his chair. ‘There is no need for you to witness such things. They are the inevitable consequence of war, but not for you to worry your pretty head over. I will see you later.’ He put his arm round her and pulled her close against his side, drawing a hissing breath of annoyance from Robert. ‘About eight, shall we say?’ He picked up his white-plumed cocked hat and settled it on his head, before straightening his uniform jacket. ‘Lead on, Santerre.’
It was a reprieve for her, but only a short one. Olivia watched them march out side by side, the tall upright Robert whose uniform fitted his slim figure to perfection and the fat, waddling Clavier; she could not suppress a smile at the enormous conceit of the colonel even to think she would prefer him. Somehow or other she had to avoid that assignation. Her reverie was interrupted by a shouted command and a volley of shots which made her wince. Her thoughts went to the families of the men who had died; had they been with their men on the battlefield or were they safely at the monastery? What could be done to help them?
‘Why were they out in the open at all?’ she asked Robert when he joined her that evening at her bivouac fire among the pine trees by the roadside. ‘They should have stayed at the monastery.’
He sat on the ground and held his hands out to the warmth, for the rain had made the air cooler. ‘They went to meet General Craufurd, but you know what happened. The general found himself in action and had to beat a hasty retreat.’
‘And left the guerrillas to their fate.’
‘He may not have known they were so close, and in any case there was nothing he could do. If I know the Peer, Craufurd is already in hot water for venturing over the river at all and risking his men and guns.’
‘And Don Santandos?’
‘He has taken the survivors back to the hills.’
‘Where are their families?’
‘I do not know. I hope they had sense enough to stay where they were and not follow their men.’
‘It’s my fault,’ she said miserably. ‘I took them from their homes and there was no need for that.’
‘You did not know that at the time, so do not blame yourself.’ He spoke softly. ‘We must think about you.’
‘Me?’ she queried in surprise. ‘What about me?’
‘General Craufurd has put himself out of reach; I cannot see how I can hand you over to him now.’
‘What makes you think you can hand me over to anyone?’ she demanded. ‘I am not a piece of baggage. When we go, we go together. It is more important to return to Villa de Fuentes and do what we can to help the villagers. Without their men, they will be in sorry straits.’
‘No. There is work to do here.’
‘French work! Enemy work! I begin to wonder about you, Robert Lynmount.’
‘Only begin?’
He was smiling at her through the blue smoke of the fire; it gave an ethereal quality to his features, a kind of misty glow which made him seem not quite real, a ghost conjured up from her imagination. But for what purpose? To help her escape? But she had refused all the opportunities she had been offered to do that. To give her love? No, he did not love her and, she told herself firmly, she did not want a third marriage; she had had enough trouble with the other two. To prove she was as good a soldier, as effective a spy as any man? That was more like it! The difficulty was deciding who was the spy and who the traitor, who to trust and who not.
Miguel Santandos was a patriot — there was no doubt about that; perhaps he could advise her. But Don Santandos was many miles away and her problem was here on the border between Spain and Portugal, with a lustful French colonel, a British agent and a disgraced Captain of Hussars.
Which of them posed the greater danger, not only to her, but to the whole British campaign? She refused to believe there was anything more to her dilemma than that. Love did not come into it; she would fight that idea to the very end, even though it made her miserable.
‘Tell me the truth,’ she said slowly, stirring the fire with a stick, making the flames leap around the kettle of mutton stew she was cooking for his evening meal. ‘Just what are you about? What is this work that has to be done?’
‘Why is it so important that you should know?’
‘So that I can help and not hinder.’
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘You would do better to find a way out of the scrape you are in. You should have known that making sheep’s eyes at the colonel was a chancey thing to do and would achieve nothing. I advise you to make yourself scarce from now on, unless, of course, you really are enamoured of the man.’
‘Enamoured?’ she squeaked. ‘Of that…that… Robert, how could you think such a thing? I only went to see him so that I could learn more about what had happened and try to persuade him not to kill the guerrilleros. You know that.’
‘I know nothing. I can only guess what goes on in that beautiful head of yours.’
He was infuriating, she decided, to pay her a compliment in that offhand way, as if he were not even aware of what he said, just as he had once said he loved her when she was angry. ‘I could say the same,’ she said. ‘I can only guess what is going on inside your head, and it seems to me that it is decidedly muddled. Why won’t you tell me?’
‘Curiosity killed the cat.’
‘And satisfaction resurrected it,’ she snapped.
‘I am not joking,’ he said, pulling a stick from the fire and holding it up to watch it burn in his hand. ‘You are playing with fire. If the colonel realises you are no longer the wife of one of his officers, then nothing can save you.’
‘I know that.’
‘Of course, he may already know.’
‘How?’
‘Whitely may have told him.’ He pushed the flaming brand back under the pot.
‘If he had, I would have been arrested by now and you too. Besides, whatever you think of him, Captain Whitely is an Englishman, just as you are. Why don’t you work together?’
‘That would be trying to mix oil and water, my dear. It cannot be done.’
‘Why do you hate him so?’
‘I do not hate him, I despise him. An officer who gives his parole and then is too afraid to wear his uniform…’
‘There may be a good reason for that,’ she said slowly. ‘You are not wearing yours.’
‘That is different. As soon as I have done what I have to do, I will wear it again.’
‘Even without its buttons?’ She knew, as soon as she spoke, that she had touched a raw spot, and if he had been going to tell her anything he would not do so now.
He stood up suddenly, towering over her. ‘I have to inspect the piquet lines. I suggest you find a way of avoiding the colonel tonight and tomorrow we will devise a plan to send you home. Goodnight, Madame Santerre.’
She watched him striding through the trees towards the road, cursing her foolish tongue. They had nearly, very nearly, come to an understanding. He had been on the point of taking her into his confidence, and she had had to taunt him about that uniform. ‘What about your supper?’ she called after him, taking the blackened kettle from the fire, but he did not turn back.
She could not sleep that night. She was used to sleeping out of doors and often, in good weather, preferred it, but tonight the ground seemed extra-hard and the wet trees dripped water on to the thin blanket she had used to cover herself. Robert did not return and she tossed and turned, wondering where he was. Had he, in his anger, betrayed himself? Had he met Rufus Whitely? What would they have to say to each other, or would they dispense with words and come to blows?
Something hit her shoulder. She sprang up, seizing the pistol she always had under her hand, but there was no one near but a voltigeur and his wife, curled together under the canvas from a cart, both snoring loudly. She turned to look about her and stood on a pine cone with her bare foot. She collapsed on to her blanket giggling; to be startled almost to death by a falling cone was certainly not the behaviour of a soldier and a spy.
All hope of sleep gone, she put on her old boots, rolled up her bedding and, tucking it under her arm, went to take Pegasus from the horse lines. She was glad she still had him and knew that it was only because she was a favourite of the colonel’s that she had been allowed to keep him. The colonel. Was it too much to hope that he had forgotten their assignation?
She decided it was and she would have some fast talking to do in the morning if she stayed in camp. She could leave, of course, but that would mean leaving Robert, and that was something she was not prepared to do. When she was with him they were constantly at loggerheads, as if the breath of their co-existence lay in argument, that without it both would expire. When they were apart she remembered the good things about him — his chivalry, his concern for her comfort, how he had stolen for her and found a carriage for her even though she had rejected it, how gentle his big hands were even when he was angry — and there were times when she tried him sorely.
She would find him and apologise, persuade him to return to the camp fire for his supper, try to ease his hurt. Love, she told herself for the hundredth time with less and less conviction, had nothing to do with it.
The horse lines were patrolled by guards, but she knew she would have no trouble persuading them to let her have Pegasus; they were quite accustomed to her comings and goings. ‘The colonel was looking for you, I hear,’ one of them said, as she untied her horse. ‘He sent the drummer to find you.’
‘Did he? I had better go and find out what he wants.’
They laughed. ‘Don’t you know?’
She joined in their laughter as she found her saddle among the heap on the ground. ‘Have you seen Captain Santerre?’
‘Oh, you are safe there, sweetheart. The captain rode out half an hour ago on that great black horse of his.’
‘Rode out?’ She was instantly alerted. ‘Where? Who with?’
‘He was alone,’ the second man said. ‘He went that way.’ He pointed. ‘Gone to do a bit of reconnoitring, I should think. You will be safe until dawn.’
She ignored his innuendo as she mounted and set off in the direction he had pointed out, her good intentions forgotten as she galloped to catch up with Robert. Whatever he was up to, she would be a part of it.
It was full day before Robert came near enough to the guerrilla hide-out to be challenged from a rocky promontory by two guards armed with carbines.
‘Is Miguel Santandos with you?’ he shouted up to them. ‘I must speak to him.’
They scrambled down the rocks to the path. ‘Come with us,’ one of them said, pulling him from his horse while the other put a bag over his head. Then they took his arms and propelled him forwards on foot.
Unable to see where he was going, he stumbled several times, but the hands gripping his arms kept him upright. No one spoke, not even Robert, who knew protests at his treatment would be in vain. They trusted no one and he could not blame them for that.
His blindfold was removed when they entered a huge cave. Here were the remnants of the guerrilla force, sitting round a camp fire. They looked tired, defeated men, their clothes were ragged and many of them were wounded, but their eyes still had the fire of battle in them and they watched Robert warily as he moved forward, peering in the gloom from one to the other.
‘Where is Don Santandos?’
‘Not here.’
‘He survived?’
‘Oh, he survived,’ said the huge black-bearded man with a chest like a barrel and hands which looked capable of strangling a bear. Robert knew him as José Gonzales, Don Santandos’s second-in-command. ‘Which is more than his wife did.’
‘His wife?’ queried Robert.
‘Yes. They caught us on the plains, a whole battalion of them, wiped us out but for the handful you see here. She ran after him, flung herself into the worst of the fighting, screaming his name. A shell landed… nothing left to bury.’
‘I am sorry, señor.’ The sympathy seemed inadequate. ‘But what were you doing out in the open? You must have known it would be suicidal. You fight best in the hills; no one better.’
‘We were going to meet Craufurd, to ask him to look after our families, but you know that already…’
‘No. I understood you had sent a message to him, no more than that. He could not break off an engagement to come to you and he had his orders.’
‘We would have met the general without trouble if someone had not pointed that misbegotten French colonel in our direction and caused a battle which need never have happened.’
‘That is nonsense. The colonel…’
‘The colonel!’ The man snorted with derision. ‘What do you feed him to keep his hungry hands off your wife, Captain?’ He ducked as Robert’s clenched fist shot out, then laughed. ‘English! Bah! And English women are worse than the men. You told the fat French pig where to find us; you betrayed us and for that you will undoubtedly die.’
‘I did nothing of the kind.’ He was calmer now, realising anger would do no good. ‘Nor did Olivia, I swear to it. I want to help you. I can help you. I know the disposition of the French forces, and the route and timing of their march. It is something the English commander-in-chief would very much like to know.’
‘How will that help us?’
‘One day Spain will be free, but you will not do it by yourselves. You need the help of Wellington’s army.’
‘Bah!’ The big man spat. ‘That is always retreating. There are no leopards left in Spain and soon there will be none in Portugal, but you know that. It is why you and your gun-crazy wife have thrown in your lot with the French. We let you go and you betrayed us.’
‘No. Find Don Santandos; he will speak for me. He knows the truth.’
‘Naturally we will send for him; he will want to witness your death-throes. What a pity you did not bring the señora with you. We could have had a double execution. But we will get her later, never fear.’
Robert thanked providence that Olivia was many miles away in the comparative safety of the French camp. He had returned to their bivouac very soon after leaving it, to find her curled up under a blanket and his supper cooling on the embers. There were others near by; she would be safe until dawn when he planned to return. He had given some thought to bringing her and trying, once again, to persuade her to stay with the guerrillas in the expectation of Wellington making a push and returning to Spain, but had decided against it until he could talk to Miguel.
His only regret was that she would never know how he had met his end and would go through life thinking he had deserted her. He wondered idly, as the partisans trussed him up like a Christmas goose, how she would fight off the colonel. That she could do so he did not for a moment doubt. Now, when it was too late to do anything about it, he knew that his disgrace had been for a whim, a passing fancy, a spoiled child. That was all Juana was or ever could be. Olivia was different. Olivia was everything that Juana was not. Olivia was… He smiled wryly as his bonds cut into his wrists; Olivia was simply Olivia and there was no one else quite like her.