The Price of Honour

by Mary Nichols

  ‘Why were you wearing it?’

  ‘It is warmer than nothing and nights on the mountains can be cold.’ She paused to sip her wine; it was a full-bodied red and made her feel sensuous and relaxed. She ought to beware of it. ‘Why are you still wearing yours?’

  He gave a cracked laugh. ‘As you say, it is warmer than nothing.’

  ‘We could exchange them. I’ll have yours and you have mine.’

  His head snapped up and he looked at her angrily. ‘Now why should you imagine that I would lower myself to wear a French uniform? I…’ He stopped suddenly as an idea came to him. ‘Tell me about yourself. Where did you meet your husband?’

  ‘Philippe, you mean? At Oporto, or more accurately a little to the north; I am not sure exactly where.’

  ‘Is Oporto your home?’

  ‘Of course not. I told you, I am English.’

  ‘There is no “of course” about it. There is quite a colony of English in Oporto, wine merchants most of them. Why do you think the government at home was so anxious to free it? Port is one of their favourite drinks.’

  ‘How cynical you are.’

  ‘Perhaps I have reason to be.’ He paused. ‘Tell me about Philippe.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘I am interested and it will while away the evening.’ He leaned forward. ‘Unless you can think of something more exciting to do?’

  The implication was clear and it infuriated her. ‘You do not have to spend the evening with me at all. You will find what you want in the village, I have no doubt.’

  ‘What I want? How can you know what I want? You do not know me.’

  ‘No. You have not even troubled to introduce yourself. Perhaps you are ashamed to do so.’

  ‘You want my name? Of what importance is that? It might just as well be Philippe Santerre.’

  ‘Philippe was an honourable man.’

  ‘You think I am not?’ He picked up his glass and drained it quickly, then refilled it. ‘You may well be right, Madame Santerre, for who decides such things — a man’s friends or his enemies…?’

  ‘You are talking in riddles.’

  ‘My apologies, ma’am.’ He inclined his head and then lapsed into silence.

  She watched him for a moment or two then stood up to clear the table. ‘What are you going to do now? Get drunk?’

  He laughed. ‘It would take more than a couple of bottles of red wine to do that. Besides, I need a clear head.’ He caught her hand as she passed him. ‘Sit down and tell me about yourself.’

  ‘It is a very long story.’

  ‘But a fascinating one, I am sure. You speak like a lady, look like a tramp and behave like a hoyden, so how can I be other than intrigued?’

  She laughed and sat down again. ‘My aunt always said Papa had brought me up like a boy.’

  ‘Impossible!’ he said, laughing. ‘You do not look in the least like a boy. In fact…’ he smiled ‘…I could envy Philippe his good fortune.’

  ‘I shouldn’t do that,’ she said quietly. ‘He was hanged by the guerrilleros.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday. We were out shooting hares and they captured us.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘I told them I was the wife of an English soldier and Philippe had taken me against my will…’

  ‘Was that true?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Tell me exactly.’

  ‘I was married to an English soldier, but he was killed in the chase after the battle for Oporto.’ She did not know why she answered, but it was a relief to have someone to talk to in English, and if he could be made to appreciate her plight he might be prepared to help her.

  ‘Another husband! How many have you had?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘And still only…how old?’

  ‘It is no business of yours.’

  ‘Twenty-two, twenty-three?’ he queried. ‘And already widowed twice?’

  ‘You are a cynic, aren’t you? Haven’t you ever been in love?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, his face twisting in a wry smile. ‘And little good it did me. But go on with your story, we can come to mine later. Presumably you were at the tail of the British advance with the baggage?’

  ‘I was, until a courier who had come back with dispatches told me Tom had been wounded. Then I left it and went forward to look for him.’

  ‘As any good wife would do.’

  ‘As any good wife would do,’ she repeated.

  ‘You crossed the river?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘If you are English, you know the whole army crossed in small boats.’ She paused and looked up at him. ‘Or are you testing me?’

  He laughed, poured more wine and settled back in his chair. ‘Tell me, did you find him?’

  ‘Yes, but he died very quickly. I tried to get back but I lost my way and ran into a company of French infantrymen.’

  ‘And in the blink of an eye you had changed sides and become a French soldier’s wife…’

  ‘It wasn’t like that at all,’ she protested. ‘You don’t understand. And if that is all you have to say, then I shall leave you and go to bed.’

  ‘Bed. Now, there’s a thought!’ There was amusement in his voice. ‘Have you a mind to change sides again? I might be able to accommodate you.’

  She picked up her glass and threw it at him. It caught his chin and shattered, scattering shards all over his coat, the table and the floor. He calmly stood up and brushed himself down, ignoring the tiny trickle of blood on his chin. ‘I shall take that as a negative answer, which means you are still French, still the enemy…’

  ‘And who are you to talk?’ she demanded. ‘You are not so lily-white yourself, are you? Unless I miss my guess, you are in disgrace, so what right have you to censure me? I am going to bed. And I mean to barricade the door. And I shall be obliged if you have taken yourself off before I come down in the morning.’

  He reached out to catch her wrist. She tried to pull herself out of his grasp, but the more she struggled, the tighter he gripped her. She circled round, pulling him round with her, so that she could reach the rifle he had left leaning against the wall. With all the strength she could muster, she twisted herself free and grabbed the weapon. ‘Now!’ she said, pointing it at him. ‘Do not think I don’t know how to use this because I promise you I do.’

  He laughed and put up both hands in surrender. ‘Lord preserve me from a gun in the hands of a woman! You may rest easy, madame, I was only going to suggest a truce. We could help each other.’

  ‘How?’ she asked warily, still aiming the gun.

  ‘You want to go back to the British lines, do you not?’

  ‘Yes. Will you take me?’

  ‘Perhaps. If you do something for me first.’

  ‘It depends.’

  ‘You take me to Ciudad Rodrigo and get me through the French lines and later I will take you home — all the way to England, if you like.’

  She lowered the gun to look at him, dumbfounded. ‘You are mad,’ she said at last. ‘They’ll kill you.’

  ‘Not if you vouch for me.’

  ‘Vouch for you!’ Her voice was almost a squeak. ‘I can hardly vouch for myself. They do not know me. Philippe and I had only just arrived when the town was taken. We had spent the winter in France while Philippe’s wounds healed and were joining a new regiment…’

  ‘You mean that no one in the town knew Philippe either?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Better and better,’ he said. ‘I shall be Lieutenant Philippe Santerre.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, why? Are you tired of living?’

  He laughed, but the sound was not a cheerful one. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘What happened to make you so bitter?’

  ‘That is my business. Now, will you take me back to Ciudad Rodrigo or not?’

  ‘Can you speak French like a native?’

  ‘No, but I can unders
tand it well enough, and, remember, I have just been hanged and my throat is sore. Why did they hang him, by the way? Why not just shoot him, so much quicker and cleaner?’

  She shrugged. ‘A rope is cheaper than a bullet and, besides, a shot echoes a long way in these mountains; I suspect they did not want their hide-out found.’

  ‘One man’s bad fortune is another’s luck. I think my voice has been permanently affected by the ordeal.’

  ‘You will never get away with it.’

  ‘I will if you stay with me to be my guide and do the talking.’

  ‘You must be crazy if you think I would agree to that.’ She looked hard at him, trying to make up her mind if he was making some macabre joke at her expense, but his expression was perfectly serious and the light in his hazel eyes was not one of levity. He looked deadly serious, almost as if he was pleading with her. ‘Why do you want to do this? Do you want to change sides? If so, there are easier ways of doing it; you could simply say you had deserted — some do, you know.’

  ‘I could do that, of course, but this way seems the more interesting prospect, certainly more exciting than being a prisoner of war.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘I’ll do it anyway.’

  ‘Then you will die in the attempt.’

  He shrugged. ‘Then so be it.’

  He sat down at the table again with an empty glass in front of him and stared out of the window into the darkness beyond it, as if he could see something, or someone, who haunted his thoughts and dictated his actions. For a brief moment she felt sorry for him, and reached out to lay a hand on his arm. ‘Sleep on it,’ he said, without turning towards her. ‘Sleep on it. I shall not disturb you.’

  She left him reaching for the bottle to refill his glass and made her way up to the huge four-poster. It was all part of a macabre dream; he did not exist, the guerrilleros did not exist, Philippe had not been hanged. She was in bed at home and soon Jane would wake her with her breakfast on a tray. Home! How badly did she want to go home? How much was she prepared to pay for it?

  CHAPTER TWO

  OLIVIA was awoken before dawn by the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the gravel of the drive, and she sprang up to look out of the window. He was riding away in the blustering wind which had followed the rain, walking his horse in the same slow, deliberate way she had seen him riding the day before. Had he had second thoughts about his preposterous idea or had he decided to go alone after all? If that were so, he would never succeed in passing the guard at the gates of Ciudad Rodrigo, let alone impersonating Philippe. It was true he was about the same height and build, and in a poor light his hair might look as dark as Philippe’s, but in the glare of day, in the face of questioning… She shuddered at the risk he would be taking. Even with her it would be bad, but at least she could give him Philippe’s uniform coat and take him to their lodgings where she could hand over her dead husband’s papers and belongings. As long as he did not speak and met no one who had known Philippe, he stood a chance, if only a slim one.

  She pulled herself up short. Why should she concern herself with a disgraced English officer? Why should she care what happened to him? And why, in heaven’s name, should she delay her own return to the British lines to help him? She did not even know why he wanted to do it. She laughed suddenly. She did not even know his name. And there were other puzzling things about him — his demeanour, his speech and the way he sat his horse indicated that he had been an officer, but officers did not usually carry rifles. And the Baker rifle he had with him was only issued to the élite Rifle Brigade and their uniform coat was green, not red. Tom had often said that if he had known about the Rifles before he signed on he would have enlisted in the Ninety-fifth. Poor Tom.

  She pulled on the robe and went downstairs determined to put the man from her mind; there were more important things to think of. First, she would clean the clothes she had stolen; she would have liked to say ‘borrowed’, but as she could not see how she could return them, nor pay for them, ‘stolen’ was the only appropriate word. Then she would leave the kitchen and the bedroom tidy; that at least she owed the owner of the house for her unwitting hospitality. After that, she would set off again. The coast of Portugal was to the west, so if she walked with the rising sun at her back she ought, sooner or later, to come across the British lines, or the sea. Obstacles in the form of rivers or mountains, or hostile people, she would deal with as she met them. It was simple.

  True, she would rather have had an escort, someone to keep her company and help her overcome the difficulties whatever they might be, but she had learned in the past two years to be resilient and self-sufficient, and when there was nothing else for it, what was the good of wishing otherwise? The guerrilleros would not help her and perhaps that was just as well; friend or foe, they were terrifying.

  And as for the Englishman, he was too wrapped up in his own problems to concern himself with hers. But she could not stop herself thinking about him, wondering about him. Why was he in the mountains alone? Why had he been cashiered, if, indeed, he had? She shrugged her thoughts from her as she put on a cotton dress she had found in a cupboard; it had a brown background and was decorated with poppy heads in large red splashes of colour, a servant’s dress, she decided. The old boots and the straw hat completed her ensemble. Her preparations complete, she picked up the bundle she had gathered together and left by the door she had entered, carefully shutting it behind her. It was none of her business what he was up to.

  She stopped when she saw him riding back up the drive, leading a mule. He was smiling.

  ‘If you think that bringing that will make me change my mind,’ she said, without bothering to give him good morning, ‘you are mistaken. I will have nothing to do with your hare-brained schemes. You are mad.’

  ‘But it is the mad ideas which have the best chance of success, don’t you agree?’ he queried amiably. ‘And I thrive on a challenge.’

  ‘You will not thrive on this one.’

  ‘With you at my side, I could succeed.’

  ‘Succeed in doing what?’ she demanded.

  He laughed. ‘Do you know, I am not at all sure? I will put my mind to it as we ride.’

  ‘I will not ride with you.’

  ‘No? Would you rather the guerrilleros finished off what they started?’

  She looked up at him defiantly but the tone of his voice suggested that she had not left the partisans as far behind as she thought. ‘They are not interested in me.’

  ‘On the contrary, Madame Santerre, they are very interested in you.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘I saw them riding down the mountainside, about twenty of them, armed to the teeth.’

  ‘They are coming here?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I do not believe you.’ But even as she spoke she realised he was telling the truth. ‘Why would they send twenty armed men after one woman?’ She paused. ‘Unless they are after you too.’

  ‘Whichever it is, madame, you and I are destined to spend some time together, so why not accept the inevitable? I will make a bargain with you. When we reach the main road from Ciudad Rodrigo into Portugal, you can go your way and I will go mine.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  ‘If that is what you want. Come now, we are wasting time. Mount up and let us be on our way; the sooner we start, the sooner you will be rid of me.’

  She would have liked to defy him, to refuse to do anything he asked, but the thought of riding instead of walking, and having some protection against the bloodthirsty Spanish partisans, was a powerful persuader. Olivia tied her bundle behind the saddle of the mule and, using the doorstep as a mounting block, hitched up her skirt and threw her leg over the animal’s back, aware as she did so that he was smiling. ‘Do you think I have not ridden astride before?’ she demanded.

  ‘No, it is evident that you are quite accustomed to it.’ He turned his horse
and led the way, not back up the drive to the gates, but along a rough path that led from the side of the house, round an empty stable block and through an olive grove which went steeply downhill towards the distant river. ‘Better than taking the road,’ he said over his shoulder.

  She did not answer but concentrated on watching where the mule was going, thankful for its sure-footedness as it picked its way over loose stones and the roots of ancient olives which clung to any tiny crevice where there was soil. When the path broadened out, he reined in for her to come abreast of him.

  ‘Tell me about Ciudad Rodrigo,’ he commanded. ‘All you know.’

  ‘I know very little. We had only been there one day, just long enough to find lodgings.’

  ‘Describe the place, the streets, the buildings, the defences, anything you can think of. How are the inhabitants behaving towards the occupying forces? Do the French have trouble with them? Is there any resistance?’

  ‘I would not think so. The town surrendered, after all. The resistance is in the hills.’

  ‘To be sure.’

  ‘And if I knew anything, would I be so foolish as to tell you, sir? I do not know you or why you are here, do I? You may be a spy. In fact, I think that is just what you are.’

  ‘Touché, madame.’ He smiled as if at some secret joke. ‘Did you learn anything of the intentions of the guerrilleros while you were with them?’

  ‘I do not trust them either; they are a bloodthirsty lot.’

  ‘So they are, but not without reason. If someone had invaded England and pillaged your home town, raped the women and killed the men for nothing except keeping back food to feed their children, you would be bloodthirsty.’ He turned to look at her. He seemed far less formidable than he had in the poor light of the evening before and yet, behind the hazel eyes, there was an alertness which was not immediately evident from his languid pose. ‘The Spanish are hopeless when it comes to fighting in the disciplined way of the British army, but in small bands, in the hills where they can remain hidden until the time comes to strike, there are none better. The Peer knows that and he encourages them.’

  ‘I think they are barbaric. They did not have to kill Philippe; he could not have harmed them.’