OLIVIA flung herself from her lathered horse outside Father Peredo’s house and hammered on the door. ‘Come on! Come on!’ she murmured impatiently, then pushed past the startled Pedro almost before the door was properly opened.
‘My dear child!’ Father Peredo met her in the hall. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand, as if she had interrupted his work on them. ‘What has happened?’
‘The guerrilleros, the village men, are going to kill Robert. They say he betrayed them. You must stop them.’
‘Where are they?’
‘In the hills. Oh, please come. It may already be too late; they are only waiting for Don Santandos to return and then…’
‘Where is Miguel Santandos?’ He went back into his living-room and put the sheaf of papers in a desk drawer. She hovered in the doorway.
‘I do not know.’ His deliberate slowness was irritating her. ‘Come, please. Only you can save him.’
He smiled. ‘You think I should?’
‘Of course. You know he would not betray his friends.’
‘Do I?’ He looked up from locking the drawer to smile at her. ‘Do you?’
‘Of course I do, and so do you.’ She surprised herself with the swiftness of her response; she had not hesitated at all.
‘Good. We will go now and you can tell me what happened as we ride.’ He called to Pedro and sent him scurrying for a horse, then he left her, telling her he would join her outside.
She returned to Pegasus, who really ought to have been rubbed down and allowed to rest, but she needed to ask yet more of him before that could happen. He nuzzled up to her as she patted his nose; it was almost as if he understood. ‘Good, brave fellow,’ she said, as she mounted again. ‘Don’t let me down now.’
Pedro led a horse up the village street from wherever he had been hidden, just as Father Peredo came from the house. The priest had changed from his frock to breeches and shirt and she was surprised how much younger and stronger he looked without the enveloping skirts. ‘Come,’ he said, throwing himself lightly into the saddle. ‘Lead the way.’
She wanted to gallop but he would have none of it. ‘Do you want to kill that horse?’ he queried.
‘Better than having Robert killed.’
‘That young man is special to you, is he?’
‘You know he is. He is my husband.’
‘Is he?’ he enquired mildly as they rode side by side over the new wooden bridge.
She looked across at him and felt the colour flood to her cheeks. He knew the truth! ‘It makes no odds,’ she said defiantly. ‘We had to say that.’
‘Of course, I understand, but it is something you should remedy before too long. It is not good to live with a man as you are doing.’
‘We are not… We do not…’
He smiled. ‘That is good, but it cannot be easy; better to marry and have your union blessed in the sight of God.’ He paused, having obviously said all he was going to say on the subject. ‘Now, tell me what happened.’
‘Robert rode out from the camp in the middle of the night. I followed.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ she repeated. ‘Does it matter why? I wanted to talk to him, and heaven knows that is difficult enough in the French camp, where he is supposed to be dumb.’
‘He is still keeping that up, is he?’
‘He has to.’
‘Yes, of course. So you followed him and then what?’
‘It took some time to pick up his trail, but I came within sight of him at last and he was heading into the hills. I could have hailed him…’
‘But you did not.’
‘No.’
‘You wanted to see where he was going. You were suspicious of him…’
‘No,’ she said quickly, then laughed. ‘Well, perhaps a little curious. I saw him being stopped by two men at the entrance to a pass. They did not seem too friendly, so I kept well back and followed.’
‘You were not seen?’
‘I do not think so. I left Pegasus behind and crept forward on foot. The men took Robert into a cave. I heard them say they were going to execute him.’ She smiled wryly. ‘And me too, if they could catch me. I left in a hurry.’
It sounded so easy, the way she told it, but it had meant crawling in the heather and broom for what seemed hours and freezing at every sound. She had toyed with the idea of rushing into the hide-out and demanding Robert’s release at the point of her pistol, but she knew that would never work and instead had returned to her horse and ridden for Villa de Fuentes as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.
‘Do you think we could go a little faster? Don Santandos may have returned,’ she said.
‘Do you have no faith in that man of yours being able to talk his way out of trouble?’
‘I am not at all sure he wants to. In some strange way I think he imagines he would welcome death as an end to his problems. He seems not to mind risking his life.’
‘Not the way he is doing it. Something has happened in the past, something which has left him embittered, and he will not talk of it.’
‘One day, when he has learned to trust again, he will.’
‘If he lives that long,’ she said, digging her heels into her horse’s flanks and leaving him to follow.
His horse, though an inferior one, was fresh while hers was not; he was easily able to keep up with her and it was he who was in front when they were hailed by the new look-outs at the approach to the hide-out. The midday sun was high in a clear sky, but up here in the mountains where the wind soughed through the passes the air was chill. She shivered as she dismounted and waited, with growing impatience, while the priest spoke to the men. Then they were waved on and led their horses through the narrow pass. At the far end, the mountain broadened out into a plateau where goats grazed on the sparse grass and broom, and here they were met by José Gonzales who conducted them into the cave.
It was so dark in there after the bright sunlight outside, Olivia saw nothing but dark shapes and the whites of a dozen pairs of eyes. She heard her name being called and turned towards the sound. Robert was sitting with his back against the wall, his hands tied behind him and his legs tucked up almost to his chin and bound there. She ran to kneel beside him, reaching out to touch him. ‘Thank God you are safe.’
He grinned, his teeth showing white in the darkness. ‘Can you never stick to your own affairs, my dear? Must you be forever trying to embroil yourself in mine?’
‘They are one and the same,’ she said. ‘Has Don Santandos returned?’
‘He is expected any time. I see the good priest has come to give me the last rites; I am sorry I am not a Catholic, but perhaps he will overlook that little point.’
‘Last rites be damned!’ she said.
‘Tut, tut, my dear,’ he said, smiling. ‘That is hardly the language of a lady; it would cause no end of raised eyebrows in an English drawing-room.’
‘We are not in an English drawing-room, nor will we ever be again if we cannot extricate ourselves from this scrape.’ She included herself in that prediction without even thinking about it. ‘And Father Peredo has not come to administer last rites, he has come to try and free you, but if you will do nothing to help yourself…’
‘How can I help myself, trussed up like a chicken and surrounded by fools who do not know the truth when they hear it?’
She was glad they were speaking in English; the guerrillas would take exception to being called fools. ‘Let us hope Don Santandos is more ready to listen.’
‘I gather he has been driven crazy by the death of his wife; he is not behaving like a rational man. I am told he is even now stalking the French columns, determined on single-handed revenge.’
‘On you?’
‘One must suppose so; it is what these people believe.’
She wondered if she dared begin trying to undo his bonds. She looked around her. The priest and José were talking earnestly together, both facing towards the prisoner. ‘Did you tell the colonel where to find them?’
‘How could I? Until yesterday I thought they were safely in the monastery.’ He was not even angry, as he might once have been at such a question. ‘You saw them more recently than I did when you took the women and children to them. Did they speak of moving out then?’
‘Not that I can recall.’ His wrists were raw where the rope had bitten into them. She began picking at the knots, trying not to hurt him and uncaring that she was being watched. ‘If you did not do it and I did not do it, then someone else betrayed them.’ She turned from him towards the partisans. ‘Will someone lend me a knife?’
They laughed at her temerity, but no one gave her one. Father Peredo came over and knelt on the other side of Robert. ‘Why did you come here?’ he asked him. ‘They told me you rode into the pass as if you had nothing to fear.’
‘I did not know I had. I had given my parole to Don Santandos and, as far as I knew, I was trusted. I had dispatches to send to the British and I came to ask for someone to act as a courier. And to escort the señora to safety.’
‘It does not matter about me,’ she said, though no one appeared to hear her.
‘Why not go yourself?’ the priest asked.
‘No, I am more useful where I am.’ He tried to lift his bound hands. ‘Or at least where I was before this happened. The longer I am away, the more difficult it will be for me to explain my absence.’
‘If, as you say, you knew nothing of Miguel’s plans, how did you know where to find our men last night?’
‘One of the guerrilleros told me before…before he was executed. Garcia, I think his name was.’
‘We tried to save them, truly we did,’ Olivia put in. ‘They were not tortured.’
Father Peredo turned and looked up at José Gonzales. ‘You are in control now. What do you say? Would Garcia have told our friend of this hide-out if he thought he was the traitor?’
The big man looked perplexed. He was unused to command because Don Santandos had always been their leader and Miguel had never delegated a decision in his life. ‘Where are these dispatches?’ he asked.
‘They were in my saddle-bag,’ Robert said. ‘But I am sure you have emptied that already, so I have no idea where they are.’
The guerrillas had found the papers but they had been written in English and, apart from the absent Miguel, there was no one who could read them. José raised his hand and clicked his fingers. ‘Give the papers to the Father,’ he said. ‘He will tell us if we should believe the Englishman.’
Olivia held her breath as Father Peredo read the documents, but if she had hoped he might read aloud she was disappointed. He folded them carefully and smiled at Robert. ‘You need a courier?’
‘Yes. Whether I live or die at the hands of your compatriots, that intelligence must be sent. Do you understand?’
‘I understand. And if you are allowed to live?’
‘Then I go back and, with luck, there will be more dispatches to follow those.’ He nodded towards the papers in the priest’s hand.
‘And the señora?’
‘My wife?’ He looked towards Olivia. ‘Take her to safety.’
‘Father Peredo knows I am not your wife,’ she said, while the priest turned to translate to his compatriots. ‘He knows you cannot make me do anything on the grounds that I have vowed to obey you.’
‘What has that to do with anything?’
‘If you go back to the French army, I go with you and it’s no use you arguing.’
‘I have long ago learned the futility of that,’ he said. ‘If I want you to stay anywhere, the only way it can be achieved is to tie you up.’
She laughed. ‘You are the one who is tied up, not me.’
He held up his bound hands to José. ‘Cut me loose, there’s a good fellow,’ he said in Spanish. ‘I need to give the señora a beating.’
The big Spaniard laughed and produced a wicked-looking knife from his belt with which he cut through the bonds in seconds. ‘Sometimes it is necessary to beat our wives or they lead us by the nose. The English have never learned this truth.’
Robert began massaging his hands and legs to return the circulation to them. ‘Thank you, my friend.’ He stood up and stamped his feet a few times and then pronounced himself ready to leave.
‘Do one thing for me,’ José said, as he escorted them from the cave and out into blinding sunlight. ‘Find the devil who betrayed our people. Find him and kill him for me.’
‘That I will do,’ Robert said. ‘You have my word.’
The partisans all came out to see them off. They shook hands with each in turn, then took their horses from the young guerrilla who had brought them forward. ‘Send your families back to your village,’ Robert said, as they prepared to ride away. ‘Father Peredo will see they come to no harm. And leave here yourselves. Go back to the monastery — today — do not linger. There must be no more fighting on the plains. Leave that to Wellington’s leopards.’ He turned to Olivia. ‘Come, little leopardess, we have hunting to do.’
Olivia followed obediently. Her horse had been rubbed down and given water and oats, and although he was tired he was by no means finished. They walked in order to rest him.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, as they made their way down towards the distant valley.
‘Back to the forward lines, back to Colonel Clavier. Where else?’
‘He was looking for me last night.’
‘I hope he did not find you.’ It was said laconically, but somehow his words cheered her.
‘No, but when we get back he will want to know the reason why.’
Robert was thoughtful for a moment. ‘We quarreled. I am a jealous and violent man. You were afraid to go to him for what I would do if I found out.’
She laughed, not knowing how true his description of himself was. ‘And what have I been doing all day? And, more to the point, what have you been doing all day?’
‘You have been sulking…’
‘I do not sulk!’ she retorted quickly.
He turned to look at her, smiling. ‘No, I give you that. But nevertheless today you did.’
‘And you?’
‘I had been told where the survivors of the guerrillas were hidden, I went to reconnoitre.’
‘And?’
‘I found their camp, but it was deserted. They have obviously given up after their defeat at the colonel’s hands and gone home.’
‘And if he wants to know where the camp is, will you tell him?’
‘Certainly. He will find no one there; Father Peredo will see to that.’
‘I take it I am to be the one to tell the colonel all this?’
‘Yes, you recovered from the sulks as soon as you saw me coming back.’
‘If I had decided not to return with you, what would you have done?’
He laughed. ‘Ah, but I knew you would.’
‘You are impossibly conceited!’
‘No more than you.’
She pretended to raise her whip to him, making him duck, but instead she touched Pegasus with it, and the horse, rested now, set off at a canter. Robert did not trouble himself to go after her and after half a mile she stopped to allow him to catch up. In silence they rode down on to the metalled highway and turned westward, taking the road they had covered in darkness the night before, back to the French advance on Almeida.
But this time it was different. Their relationship had changed subtly; although not exactly harmonious, the razor-sharp edge had gone from it and they found they could talk together without acrimony.
The town could hold out indefinitely, he told her as they rode, certainly until Wellington advanced, which he would do as soon as he was in a position to win a decisive battle. He did not envisage having to fire in anger against the allies.
At first it seemed he was right. The French lay siege to the town on August the fifteenth and ten days later they were still there, still surrounding it and growing hungrier while they fired cannon balls at its walls and were sniped at by the defenders whenever they showed their heads.
‘Why they don’t invest it and carry on their advance I do not know,’ Robert said on the evening of the twenty-fifth, when he returned to the derelict peasant hovel a couple of miles from the city where Olivia had set up house. ‘They will lose the initiative. Wellington will be here any day now.’
‘So much the better, surely?’ she said, taking the pot from the fire and dishing food on to a tin plate.
She was adept at making a home in the most unpromising places and it was better than living outdoors with the men or crammed into the farmhouse with the colonel. She had cleaned its two rooms and built a fireplace in order to cook whatever food could be scavenged — she was good at that too — and she had found straw for bedding.
Robert was very often the officer of the guard or leading a patrol, or out on some secret errand of his own, and was rarely there at night, but when he was they retired to separate rooms to sleep. It was not something they had arranged formally; it just happened that way. Even so, it was a lifestyle that in England would brand her as a harlot, ruined beyond redemption, but this was not England and nothing was normal and the irony of it was, she was as chaste as any respectable widow could possibly be.
She tried to convince herself that that was how it suited her, that she was immune to Robert’s physical attractions, that she had not noticed his muscular torso when he bathed in the nearby river, that the touch of his hand did not make her yearn for something more. They did not quarrel so often now but neither did they share their thoughts. She knew no more about him than she had at the outset; he remained an enigma.
‘Yes, of course,’ he went on, unaware of her turbulent thoughts. ‘But if they hang about here until the winter rains they will never drive the leopards into the sea. It is the key to the whole war. Without the British presence in the Peninsula, there would be no stopping the Emperor; the world would be his.’
‘Then the longer Almeida holds out, the better. Could we not smuggle ourselves in there? I would rather be with our own people than out here. We are likely to go hungrier than they are.’ She was referring to the old problem of food supplies. Everything the country had to offer had been taken or destroyed by the inhabitants to keep it from the enemy and anything sent over the hundreds of miles of supply lines stretching from France had precious little chance of arriving. The troops were being driven to eat dogs and cats, and more ammunition was being expended on shooting wild birds than on the enemy, who were safe behind their walls with full larders.
He appeared to be considering the idea and she watched him carefully. Just lately he had seemed to be softening towards the idea of returning to his own people; once or twice she had caught him saying, ‘When we return…’ as if it were a possibility. He seemed to have aged several years in as many weeks, as if the strain of living a lie, and a silent one at that, was too much for him.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said now. ‘Tomorrow I will find a way into Almeida.’
He was afraid that if she did not soon return to a civilised life and revert to being the real lady who lurked beneath the old blue uniform jacket and peasant skirt which was more often than not hitched up to her knees she would never make the transition at all. Sometimes when he looked at her, with her face flushed from the cooking fire and her hair lying in curly tendrils about her cheeks, he would imagine her in a London drawing-room, dressed in silks and lace, with satin slippers on her feet instead of those old boots, and diamonds in her hair.
Not that she would be any more desirable then than now. He no longer tried to delude himself; he wanted her in his bed, wanted to demonstrate a love he could not find the words for. But he would not take her until she wanted it too. And if she never did, well, then, he would have to bottle up his feelings and look after her until she needed him no more.
He had to keep reminding himself that she was not with him by choice; her aim was, and always had been, to return to England. But why had she not gone when she had been given the chance? Why did she insist on his accompanying her? Was it sheer perversity? He wished he knew.
She was too thin and she worked too hard, not only looking after him, roaming the countryside persuading the people to part with a little food, but also for the other women and children who camped around the city only just out of range of its heavy guns. Sometimes her scavenging took her within sight of the snipers who lined the city walls and a musket ball would send her scuttling back to safety. She seemed to lead a charmed life, as if she had her own private guardian angel sitting on her shoulder. He was glad of that, because she ignored all his warnings and did exactly as she pleased. Her obvious wilfulness — he hesitated to call it shrewishness as others did — had had one good effect: Colonel Clavier had given up trying to seduce her.
She had told the colonel such an exaggerated tale of her husband’s jealousy and what he would do to anyone who so much as looked at her that the stupid man had been frightened out of his wits and had turned his attention to the widow of one of his officers, killed during the encounter with Craufurd. Madame Falaise had no husband to exact revenge and she was in such dire straits financially, she was grateful for the colonel’s protection. But how long that would last, Robert did not know; it would be better to take Olivia out of the man’s reach.
‘Be prepared when I come for you,’ he said. ‘When I come off watch.’
She was ready, but the way was made for them in quite a different manner from the one he had envisaged and it was not until afterwards that they found out how it had happened. The French were still bombarding the town in the vain hope that it might weaken the defences and demoralise the garrison, and it was sheer bad luck that one of the shells should land on a trail of gunpowder, left by a leaking barrel, which led straight to the open door of the cathedral where the ammunition was stored. Robert and Olivia were moving stealthily through a cornfield between the French lines and the city walls when they were nearly thrown off their feet by the explosion. She flung herself into his arms and stared open-mouthed as the cathedral, the castle and half Almeida were sent into the air in a huge billowing cloud of smoke and flame.
‘We could have been there,’ she said. She was shaking and he held her close against him, stroking her hair in an unconscious gesture of reassurance. She had washed it that morning in something that made it smell of lavender and it transported him back to his childhood and the scent of the garden after rain and the bees buzzing in the lavender bush. It made a stark contrast to the stench of gunpowder and burning wood, the crash of masonry and windows exploding. ‘If we had gone yesterday or that had happened tomorrow…’ She shuddered. ‘Oh, those poor people!’
‘Your guardian angel has come up trumps again,’ he said, trying to make light of it, but there was a catch in his voice which made her turn her head to look up at him.
‘My guardian angel?’
He smiled and his hazel eyes softened at the sight of her, this brave and lovely girl whose endurance and cheerfulness knew no bounds. ‘Yes, I always imagine a little cherub sitting on your shoulder, taking care of you.’
She laughed. ‘But you take care of me.’
‘Not very well, I am afraid.’ He nodded his head in the direction of the burning town. ‘And now we had better wait and see what the consequence of that is before we venture in.’ Reluctantly he released her and they turned to go back to their old quarters.
They could hear wave after wave of cheering coming from the French besiegers who, after the initial surprise, had realised what had happened; they were jubilant. Two days later the garrison commander learned that someone had let the French know there was no ammunition left, and after that there seemed to be little point in trying to brazen it out; he surrendered.
Napoleon’s men stormed over the bridges which spanned the deep moat and ran into the city, cheering, looting, raping and stealing anything and everything worth carrying. By the time Robert and Olivia arrived, they were drunk and uncontrollable. Olivia had never seen them quite so bad in all the time she had been with them.
Robert was furious — extraordinarily so, she thought, as he fought with one soldier who came out of a villa carrying a large gilt mirror and a sack full of loot. His anger was so violent, she thought he would kill the man. Quite apart from the fact that it was accepted that French soldiers would plunder every town they captured, it was certainly not the proper thing for an officer to brawl with a private. Robert was also shouting in English, and that worried her more than anything. She tried to drag him off before they attracted a crowd.
‘Philippe!’ she screamed, hauling on his shoulder and hoping the use of his French name would bring him to his senses. She was in danger of being struck by flying fists, but she did not think of that.
‘Philippe! Let him be!’
He became aware of her only when a blow intended for his victim glanced off her cheek and she cried out. He turned his back on the soldier, who scuttled away, glad to escape from the clutches of the lunatic, and took her in his arms.
‘Olivia, what have I done?’ He took her face in his hands and surveyed it critically. There was a bright pink spot on her cheek. He bent to kiss it. ‘Oh, my love, I would not hurt you for the world. I didn’t see you.’
‘Nor heard me either,’ she said, pretending not to notice the endearment, telling herself that it was just his way of saying sorry and meant nothing. ‘I kept shouting at you. You seemed like a madman. Have you never seen a looter before?’
‘Of course I have, but in Wellington’s army it is a crime which merits a flogging. The worst offenders are hanged and left where everyone can see them.’
‘But this is not Wellington’s army, it is Napoleon’s, and you were screaming at him in English. We can only pray he knew no language but French and thought you were shouting in German…’
He took her arm, still looking grim, and together they walked into the town centre where a great heap of rubble was all that remained of the fine cathedral. The castle had been damaged and the surrounding houses had lost their roofs and windows. Olivia had never seen such devastation. ‘Don’t you think we should leave, while the situation here is so confused?’ she asked, convinced that the Portuguese would never recover their fighting spirit after such a defeat. ‘We would not be missed immediately. If Wellington decides to evacuate all his troops from the Peninsula, you and I will be left high and dry. We should join him before he embarks.’
‘What makes you think he will want us?’ It was a strange question and she looked at him sharply but, as usual, his rugged features gave nothing away. If only he would talk to her about himself, tell her what was eating his soul away, she might be able to help. More than anything she wanted to understand what drove him on.
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ she demanded. ‘We are English and presumably he was glad of the dispatches you sent him.’ She turned to look him squarely in the eye. ‘You did tell him the truth?’
‘That is not a question that deserves an answer and if you doubt me that much, why do you stay? Go, if you wish, go and tell him the truth yourself.’ He did not know why she continued to press him — he had made himself perfectly clear; he would not go until he had something worthwhile to take back, something not even Rufus Whitely could take from him.
‘How can I?’ she demanded, meeting anger with anger; it was part of her strategy, part of her fight against falling in love with him, her defence, her armour. But it was useless; she needed him and it was not all to do with how she was going to get home. Somehow that seemed to be losing its importance. ‘Would you have me travel alone?’
‘It was what you were doing when we met.’
‘But, if you remember, we made a bargain.’
‘That I would see you safely home if you took me into Ciudad Rodrigo.’ He could not suppress a smile at the memory of that encounter. ‘But you have been given the opportunity many times and have always refused to go.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘What attraction do I have, that you cannot leave my side? I am not wealthy and my prospects are non-existent. And it cannot be my charm, for you have told me I do not have any.’
‘That, at any rate, is true,’ she said. ‘But a bargain is a bargain.’
‘Events have overtaken us, and why is it so necessary that I should go with you? Ask Captain Whitely if you want company.’ He did not know why he mentioned the man’s name; he would never allow Olivia to go anywhere with that snake. ‘Where is the gallant captain? I have not seen him since…’ He racked his brain. ‘Where is he, Olivia?’
‘I do not know.’ She was equally puzzled by his reference. ‘The last time I saw him, and that was only briefly, was when the guerrilleros were captured and shot. I saw him standing beside the officer in charge of the firing squad.’ She paused, remembering what Rufus Whitely had told her. Had he completed his special assignment for Wellington and returned to his chief with his intelligence? Why did that not fill her with optimism? ‘He may have escaped.’
‘Broken his parole, you mean? Yes, I would not put that past him.’
‘He would confirm the intelligence you sent, would he not?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Then you have nothing to fear by going back. You have surely vindicated yourself.’
He turned angrily from her, striding over to the edge of the ramparts to gaze out over the plain towards the west. There, between him and the sea, stood the British forces, his own regiment, his one-time comrades. What she asked was no more than he longed for himself, but he could not do it.
Olivia, watching him wrestling with himself, knew now that she had lost the battle with herself; she could no longer deny her love for him and would endure anything to stay with him; home was wherever he was. If he never knew it, no matter; it was enough to be near him, to listen to his voice when they were alone and he was free to talk, to share a joke and hear his laughter, to watch him eat the food she had cooked, to be there when he needed her, to know that he would always look after her. Even to quarrel with him now and again. She could envisage nothing coming between them except the ghosts who haunted his dreams, who reminded him of a past he seemed unable to put behind him. She was powerless against that. But she would no more admit defeat than the plucky Portuguese; their faith could move mountains and so could hers.
They found a billet of two rooms in a house near one of the bridges which was only slightly damaged, and continued their masquerade, he as a loyal aide to Colonel Clavier and she as his mouthpiece.
The usual problems presented themselves to the occupying French forces: an even more resentful populace — Portuguese now — and supply lines longer than ever. The British forces had no such problems — they had the sea at their backs and a navy that ruled the world; they were as well supplied as the miserliness of the British government would allow. Nor did they have any trouble with the Portuguese, who looked to them for salvation and willingly took their orders from the British commander-in-chief. They had obeyed his command to pack up everything they could carry, destroy everything which could not be moved and retreat with him, leaving nothing behind for their conquerors. It was weeks before Masséna was ready to march again and by then he was undecided which route to take.
‘The colonel told Madame Falaise that Wellington has moved his headquarters back from Celerico to Gouveia,’ Olivia told Robert one day after meeting the colonel’s mistress in the market. ‘Is it true?’
He shrugged. ‘If you can rely on French intelligence, yes, it is true.’ He did not seem anything like as disappointed as she was at the news. Every time they moved a little nearer their own lines, the lines themselves receded.
‘Will he never stand and fight?’
‘In his own good time.’ He was sitting on a battered old sofa which served as his bed at night and a seat during the day. On his lap he had a board on which he had spread a large sheet of paper and was drawing on it with a piece of charcoal. She put down the shopping she had just brought in and went to look over his shoulder. ‘What are you drawing?’
‘A map.’
‘I can see that. What is it of and why are you doing it?’
‘It is a map of the mountains north of the Mondego River.’ He pointed to a line he had drawn. ‘This is the road the French are going to take to advance into Portugal.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I shall put it into Colonel Clavier’s head to advise the marshal that it is the one they should take.’
‘Why should they take any notice of you?’
‘Philippe Santerre fought in northern Portugal before, remember? He is supposed to know the terrain.’ He turned his head to smile up at her, almost boyishly. ‘They don’t want to meet Nosey head-on, they want to come upon his flank. I have been asked to suggest a route and as my croaking attempts to talk annoy the colonel no end he has forbidden me to speak and demanded a map.’
‘And is it accurate?’ She was horrified to think that he had been attempting to talk.
‘Of course it is accurate.’
She was angry with him. ‘If you have to oblige them, why can’t you deceive them? It is tantamount to…’ She stopped speaking, unwilling to accuse him of treachery again, but that was what it was. Having only just decided she loved him and that his reasons for what he did were patriotic, it was more than disappointing to find all her old doubts returning. He was impossible!
Unable to face another argument, she left him and went for a walk in the town, trying to come to terms with her own emotions, one minute full of certainty that all would be well if she could only make him put the past behind him and face up to the future, the next tortured with doubts that he was still carrying on a vendetta that only he knew about. If only there was someone she could talk to about it, but there was no one — no Father Peredo, no Don Santandos, no English at all, except Governor Cox, and he was a prisoner of war. Even Captain Whitely seemed to have disappeared, though whether she would have unburdened herself to him she was not sure. There was something about him she did not like. Perhaps it was because he had spoken so ill of Robert. And perhaps that had been justified; she did not want to think so.
She walked for hours, threading her way between the ruined houses, past the rubble that marked the site of the explosion, and along the ramparts. The weather was hot, but a cooling breeze blew across the plain, stirring the flattened cornfields, where a company of soldiers were doing musket drill. She could hear the distant shouts of command and then a volley of shots which sent a flock of birds flapping skywards. The approach roads were jammed with vehicles, guns and limbers, supply wagons, loaded as far as the commissary had been able to load them, ready to move on.
Everywhere there were soldiers, some off duty, others drilling, still more lining up for their meagre rations. She was glad that Robert’s position with the colonel’s staff meant that they had reasonable quarters and the best of whatever food was available. There was a high price to pay in the risks they took and she ought not to make matters worse by quarrelling with him. If only he would not do things which made it difficult for her to keep silent; if only he would confide in her.
She heard a bugle call echoing round the city and, knowing it signalled the call to resume the march, she hurried back to their quarters. Robert had already left. She put together their belongings, found Pegasus and took her place at the end of the march.
The road, she soon realised, was tortuous to say the least. Once over the plains, it wound through hills and pine forests, over swiftly flowing streams and through narrow passes. The long column, hampered by heavy guns, caissons and wagons full of food and clothing, moved painfully slowly. Stragglers were picked off by the Ordenanza, an army of Portuguese militia called up to defend their homeland. Every bit as determined as the Spanish guerrilleros, they swooped down from the hills, wearing loose breeches topped by short brown cloaks and woollen caps and armed with the tools of their trade — pruning knives and quince poles, supplemented by old blunderbusses and captured muskets. Masséna refused to recognise them as real soldiers and had them executed if they were caught.
It was mid-September by the time the column reached Viseu, a town surrounded by lofty pines where a network of roads met like the spokes of a wheel, and by that time the rear of the column, where Olivia rode Pegasus alongside the wagons and the walking women and children, was a whole day behind its head.
As soon as the column was halted, everyone scattered to find firewood and began cooking, and Olivia rode on to find Robert, expecting him, as usual, to have found them a billet. She had rarely come to a night stop without having somewhere to sleep, even if he himself slept outside with the men. His first action, when freed of his duties, was always to look after her, even when she was at her most provocative.
Viseu was a very ancient city, full of winding alleys and little squares with narrow little houses interspersed with the splendid mansions of its wealthy citizens. Olivia rode through the mêlée of soldiers which filled the place to overflowing, to where she could see a knot of senior officers in conversation on the edge of the main square.
Old Masséna was there, together with his mistress dressed as a light dragoon, the red-headed Marshal Ney, Reynier and Foy, the deranged General Junot, Colonel Clavier and sundry aides. The colonel was red-faced and sweating and waving his arms about, looking as though he was about to burst out of his coat; his seniors were obviously giving him a hard time over something. Robert was nowhere to be seen and, not daring to approach such illustrious company and enquire after him, she dismounted to look about her and it was then she saw Rufus Whitely, standing in the background watching and listening.
Still in civilian dress, though he had changed his brown tweed coat for a blue serge one, he looked completely relaxed, as he smiled and put a finger to his lips to warn her not to betray him. Where had he been in the last few weeks? Why had he come back? Olivia began to feel uneasy and wished Robert would put in an appearance. Holding Pegasus by the bridle, she scanned the mass of blue-uniformed men moving about the square looking for the tall figure of Robert.
‘The colonel has ordered his arrest.’ Rufus had moved on silent feet to stand beside her.
She spun round to face him, anxiety etched on every line of her face. ‘He has found out?’
‘Not yet.’ His smile annoyed her. ‘But he will. Soon now. Here they come.’
A path was being made between the ranks of the men, and through it came Robert, flanked by two sergeants armed with rifles. He was without his sword — its scabbard hung empty on his thigh — and he was wearing his best uniform; the trousers were white enough to dazzle and the well-tailored blue coat with its white cross belts, red tail facings and fringed epaulettes emphasised his narrow waist and broad shoulders. He looked straight ahead, head erect, back stiff, and came to attention in front of the colonel.
Carefully, very carefully, she eased the rifle out of its sling on the saddle of her horse and inched her way forward, feeling in the folds of her skirt for the pistol she always carried in her pocket. Two weapons were all they had, two weapons, but they could do some damage with them before they died. Masséna would make the first target and one of the marshals would be next. If God gave them a chance to reload, then others would follow and they would go down fighting.
‘Well?’ the colonel said, stepping forward and standing only two paces from Robert, blocking him off from her view; all she could see was the plume on his shako, which hardly moved as he stood rigidly to attention. ‘What have you to say for yourself, Captain Santerre? Of all the Satan-made roads there are in Portugal you had to show us the worst.’
Do not speak, Olivia begged silently. Please, Robert, do not speak now.
‘Acting dumb will not serve,’ the colonel went on. ‘I know you can talk. People have heard you. Monsieur Whitely, here, has heard you.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to where Rufus stood, smiling easily. ‘Is that not so, monsieur?’
Rufus moved forward to stand beside the colonel. ‘Indeed and the language he speaks is English. He is an English deserter.’
Olivia held her breath as Robert uttered an oath and took a pace forward, his fists raised. Whitely backed away as the sergeants seized Robert’s arms and held him. Olivia told herself to keep cool as she moved round to come into his line of vision. All eyes were on Rufus and no one noticed her.
‘His name is Robert Lynmount,’ Rufus went on loudly enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear, most of whom had been stood down and had just finished stacking their arms and were on their way to their billets or camp fires. ‘He is the son of Viscount Lynmount, a British politician — not that his father wants to know him now.’ He had the attention of everyone including the knot of senior commanders who had drawn closer. ‘He has been disowned for the disgrace he has brought to the family name, cut off without a penny. He was drummed out of his regiment and because he dared not go home he has taken on the identity of a valiant French officer, an officer who died in the service of his country. This man is not interested in fighting for his own country or France either. His only concern is plunder; he does not care who wins the war as long as he comes out of it the richer.’
The colonel’s bulbous eyes were almost popping out of his head at this. It was obvious he was reluctant to believe he had been so easily duped. He tried to move away from his senior officers and put them out of earshot. Whitely stood, with his legs apart, pointing at Robert. ‘Viscount Wellington has denounced him; he has said you will be doing him a service if you execute him.’
A low murmuring began among the watchers, like the incoming tide, eddying back and forth, growing louder with each surge. Their anger terrified Olivia, the more so because she felt that, in some respects, it was justified. What Whitely had said was true; Robert had never denied being cashiered though she had never been told the reason.
‘All for a woman,’ Whitely said, then smiled as he added, ‘a woman he wronged.’
‘Where is she?’ Robert asked, through gritted teeth. ‘What have you done with her? If you have harmed her…’
‘Juana?’ Whitely laughed. ‘She is in Salamanca. As soon as I have seen you dispatched to hell, I shall join her there.’
Olivia tugged on Pegasus’s reins to pull him forward. Robert glanced across and saw her for the first time and almost winced. If anything was needed to confirm that Whitely spoke the truth, it was that look; it was almost as if he recognised her as one of his accusers. But what could she accuse him of? Treason? She had no right to level that at him. Loving someone too much? That was no crime. Pride? Vengeance? Greed? But this was no time for guessing games. She walked forward, knowing her own head was in the noose along with his, if she failed.
‘Cochon!’ she spat at him. ‘To think I trusted you, let you wear my husband’s uniform, cooked for you and cleaned for you. I am a loyal Frenchwoman, you knew that. You said you would help us to beat the British. Liar!’
His startled look was almost comical, but she dared not smile. She continued her tirade, moving closer, still hauling Pegasus after her. ‘I hate you for what you have done to me.’ She turned to survey the audience, assessing where everyone stood, how far it was to the nearest cover, who still had weapons and who was unarmed. ‘He tricked me.’
She heard a single handclap and allowed herself a quick glance to where Rufus Whitely stood applauding. ‘A fine performance,’ he said in English. ‘But I doubt it will save you.’
Her answer was to throw Robert the rifle and fling herself on her horse’s back, pointing her pistol at Marshal Masséna. ‘Try to stop us and he dies,’ she shouted, as Robert leapt up behind her, kicking his heels into the animal’s sides and driving him through the mass of French soldiers.
Taken by surprise, no one moved for several seconds and by that time they were in the crowd and it was impossible for anyone to fire without hitting their own people. Pegasus forced a way through by sheer momentum and they were halfway to the corner of the square where a large building jutted out when the first bullets spattered around them. If they could reach that corner, then it was up to Pegasus to save them. She could not fire for fear of hitting Robert.
He discharged the rifle and then grabbed her weapon and fired that too. The shadow of the building loomed up. ‘Come on, old fellow!’ she murmured, lying low over the animal’s neck. ‘You can do it!’
She heard running feet behind her and more shots and then a cry from Robert. A swift glance behind her told her that he had been hit, but she could not stop. He grabbed her waist and hung on as the flying horse carried them onwards, through the town gate and on into the pine forests. Only then dared she pull up. The horse shuddered to a standstill, and Robert, losing his grip, slid to the ground.