The Price of Honour

by Mary Nichols

  ‘Robert!’ She had walked ahead of him and was standing at the edge of the orchard, pointing. ‘Look!’

  He hurried to join her. ‘Don’t you know better than to stand so openly? Has the army taught you nothing?’

  ‘Look,’ she said, ignoring his criticism. ‘There are English soldiers down there. What are they doing so far from their lines?’

  ‘Reconnaissance,’ he said. ‘Making maps, by the look of it.’

  ‘Shall we go down and meet them?’

  ‘No!’ He spoke sharply. ‘I am Captain Philippe Santerre, don’t forget. You may go if you wish.’

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘You mean you would not try to stop me?’

  ‘I am not a man to hold a woman against her will.’

  ‘Very well. If I am no longer needed, I will go.’

  He did not answer and she set off slowly, half expecting him to call her back, but when he did not she began to run. The soldiers were moving cautiously between the trees, watching the road which led into the town, but they did not seem to be concerned with watching their backs and had not yet seen her. I’d have them flogged for carelessness if they were my men, he thought, and then smiled wryly, thinking of the court-martial which had ended his right to command anyone and put him in a situation where he was so dependent on a woman.

  In less than a minute, if they did not turn and see her, she would be able to hail them and then all his carefully laid plans would be thrown to the winds. But he did not care; he had no right to force her into going with him. If she died as a result of his foolhardiness, he would never forgive himself. Let her go back to her gun-making papa. Let her try to recapture her childhood. Let her be happy. He wanted her to be happy.

  Suddenly she stopped her mad dash and stepped behind a tree. Puzzled, he watched as the column carried on, moving from the trees to the cover of rocks and then on until they were out of sight over the hill behind them; Olivia had not moved. The air seemed very still and Robert realised he had been holding his breath. He let it out slowly and walked to join her. They stood for a long moment facing each other, hazel eyes looking down into defiant green ones. The silence seemed to extend itself to the air around them as they sized each other up, each trying to guess the other’s thoughts and decide how to deal with this new turn in their relationship.

  ‘Isn’t that just like a woman?’ he said at last, trying to keep his voice light. ‘Can’t keep to the same mind for more than two minutes together. Now what are you proposing to do?’

  She laughed. ‘I think I shall just go on tormenting you.’ She was a fool, she told herself. She had thrown away a golden opportunity, but she could not leave him to do what he had set out to do without her help. England would have to wait until his business was finished and he was free to keep his word to take her home. ‘I think we ought to speak French from now on,’ she said. ‘And you had better begin looking as though you were in pain and lean on me a little.’

  He didn’t like the idea of having to lean on anyone, much less a woman, but he recognised the wisdom of what she said. He put an arm on her shoulder, trying not to lean too heavily, and together they hobbled towards the town whose walls were now clearly visible. For the first time in months, he began to feel that all was not lost; in fact, he was feeling decidedly optimistic.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THEY were stopped at the town gate by a blue-coated sergeant, whose white shoulder-straps gleamed with newly applied pipe-clay. He levelled a musket at them as they hobbled towards him, feigning exhaustion. ‘Identify yourself,’ he commanded Robert.

  ‘Lieutenant Philippe Santerre and Madame Santerre,’ Olivia said. ‘I speak for him.’

  ‘Oh, and what has taken his tongue?’ He stepped up to Robert, pushing the muzzle of the musket into the buttons of Philippe’s old coat and peering into his face. ‘My orders are to let no one in without the password.’

  Olivia noticed Robert’s fists clenching and his jaw tighten and was afraid he would try and speak. ‘He cannot talk; he has been hanged and left for dead,’ she said quickly. ‘By the guerrilleros.’

  Robert grinned lop-sidedly and ran his finger along the inside of the bandage round his throat, giving the soldier a glimpse of the rope marks.

  ‘The guerrillas?’ he queried. ‘And where did this happen?’

  ‘In the hills. I do not know exactly.’ Although he had spoken to Robert, it was Olivia who answered.

  The sergeant turned to eye her, from her French army boots, up over her skirt and dust-covered white blouse to defiant green eyes. ‘And what were you doing in the hills?’

  ‘Hunting.’

  ‘And did you have permission to leave the town?’

  Robert nodded and then stopped and put his hand to his throat, pretending pain. Olivia touched his arm. ‘Don’t try and talk, my dear, the sergeant understands.’ She turned to the soldier. ‘You do, don’t you? We were hungry and went looking for food. You know what these pigs of Spanish are like; they give nothing. The lieutenant is lucky to be alive at all. He needs rest. Let us go to our quarters, for pity’s sake. He can report to his regiment later.’

  He looked from her to Robert, who opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again, then back to Olivia. ‘How did he survive?’

  ‘I cut him down. Please let us through. We will go to Colonel Clavier in the morning.’

  ‘Very well, but mind you do, for I shall report seeing you, so do not think you have got away with flouting the regulations and wandering about a hostile countryside on your own. This is no picnic, you know.’

  ‘We know,’ she said, as he waved them on.

  They made themselves stumble agonisingly slowly past him until they were in a jumble of streets and lost among the townspeople and the thousands of soldiers who were quartered there and seemed bent on having a good time, for many of them were drunk.

  ‘Who does he think he is?’ Robert grumbled in a whisper as they quickened their pace. ‘In our army a mere sergeant would not be allowed to speak to an officer like that.’

  ‘He was only doing his duty.’

  ‘And not very well either,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ she said. ‘But you would certainly not have been allowed through without me.’

  ‘Modesty is not one of your virtues, is it?’ He turned to grin down at her as they turned up a narrow thoroughfare where houses with iron-railinged balconies trailing geraniums crowded together, where women gossiped at the doors and children played on the cobbles. ‘I never met such a forward woman.’

  ‘You had better be quiet,’ she said sharply. ‘You can’t speak, remember?’

  They walked side by side without exchanging another word until they came to a bakery, though there was little evidence of any baking being done, and here she led the way up a stone staircase which went up to an outside balcony with two doors along it. She pushed open the first and went inside. He followed.

  The room was dim and cool. It contained a large bed, a chest of drawers, a cupboard and a few chairs. There was a rug on the floor and a thin curtain at the window; a poor enough lodging for an aristocrat like Philippe but better than many of his compatriots enjoyed. It was just as they had left it; a pair of boots stood by the hearth from which ashes spilled, a shirt hung over a chair and Philippe’s sword was propped against the wall. Robert strode over and picked the weapon up, balancing it in his hand appreciatively. The action seemed a kind of sacrilege to Olivia, a violation of Philippe’s privacy; it made her feel as if she had betrayed him. She hated the Englishman for making her feel so guilty, not only about the sword but about that kiss in the monk’s cell. It meant nothing, of course; it had simply been an expedient thing to do at the time, but she could not forget her own shameful reaction to it.

  ‘Put that down!’ she snapped.

  He looked up from contemplating its beautifully fashioned hilt and stared at her in surprise, then slowly replaced the weapon against the wall. ‘His papers and belongings, isn’t that what you s
aid? So that I can impersonate him.’

  ‘Yes, but not that, not his sword.’

  ‘Why not? I am an officer, I need a sword and he has no use for it now.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Unless you claim to be as good a swordsman as you are a rifleman and want it for yourself. Is that it?’

  ‘No, I have never learned the art.’

  ‘Oh, blessed relief! I thought there was nothing I could do that you could not do better.’ He went to the window, which looked out on to a narrow alley between the rough-plastered houses. ‘Is it because you cannot bear to see your husband’s belongings in the hands of someone else?’ he asked, with his back to her. She did not answer and he turned to look into her face. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You loved him — you loved the Frenchman, your country’s enemy.’

  ‘But not my enemy. You don’t understand. I can’t explain and you have no right to accuse me; you have too much to hide yourself. And just because I agreed to help you, it does not mean you can march in here and make free with Philippe’s belongings. You should not take for granted that you will have everything of his.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed, smiling at her vehemence; she appeared not to have understood him at all. ‘Now, if you would be so good as to hand over Lieutenant Santerre’s papers and his spare uniform and overalls, that would suffice.’ His tone was clipped. ‘I can always acquire another sword.’

  She bent to pull a chest out from under the bed. ‘Then what?’ she asked. She had given no thought to what would happen after this moment. Had he supposed that taking her husband’s name entitled him to other rights? The idea of sharing the room with this too handsome, too confident, oh, too everything man made her tremble. She could not look at him in case her eyes betrayed her thoughts. ‘Now we are here, what are we going to do?’

  ‘We, my dear Olivia? You do not need to do a thing. I asked you to get me past the guard and into the town; your job is done, you need stay no longer.’

  She was so taken aback, she could not speak. How wrong she had been! He had not even considered her feelings at all and was quite prepared to turn her out. ‘You ungrateful wretch!’ she exploded.

  ‘I did not say I wasn’t grateful, did I? I simply give you a choice, to stay or to go.’

  ‘Which is no choice at all. Do you expect me to turn right round and go out of the town again? What do you suppose our friend at the gate would say if he saw me leaving again so soon? And alone.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt you could find a ready tale; you seem to be able to do that at the drop of a hat.’

  ‘Then that is what I shall do. Goodbye, Captain Lynmount.’ She picked up a small bag of coins from the chest and put them in her pocket. Philippe’s clothes she flung at him, so that he was smothered and by the time he had extricated himself she had gone.

  He cursed roundly and sank on to the bed with shirts, overalls, underdrawers and hose in his lap. Of all the inept fools! He had bungled what he had wanted to say and it was no wonder she had stormed out. The truth was that he did need her; only she could substantiate his story and make it convincing. She knew the ways of the French army and could prevent him from doing things he should not do, or failing to do things that he should do, which might give him away as an impostor. And he had to find out the number and disposition of the French forces. How many guns, how many wagons, how much ammunition, when they were going to march and where. Her help would have been invaluable for that; it had nothing to do with his personal feelings at all. He would not admit to having any.

  But he had meant what he said about choice, even if he had not said it very well. It was unfair of him to expect the same degree of patriotism from her as he felt and he did not want her to think she had to stay with him if she did not want to. It would be dangerous and he had no right to insist that she share it with him. He smiled, remembering her courage. Danger would not put her off; she seemed not to acknowledge its existence. But that was dangerous in itself; overconfidence brought its own perils. Perhaps he was better off without her; at any rate he was not going to chase after her. He had run after a woman before and regretted it. If she came back on her own, then he might consider offering an explanation, but if she did not…

  Of course she would return; where else would she go? She had pointed out herself how suspicious it would be if she left the town again so soon. She would do nothing to jeopardise his mission, would she? He stood up, threw the clothes behind him on the bed and paced the room. Could she, would she, inform on him? Just because she had been born English, that did not make her a patriot. And she had married a Frenchman. A woman did not marry unless she believed in the same things her husband did. Was she a danger to him? Should he go looking for her or should he forget about her help, leave now and find a safer hiding place? Or should he go to sleep, confident that when he woke she would have returned and he could trust her?

  He fell back on the bed again and stared up at the cracked ceiling. She was an extraordinary woman, not exactly beautiful but with fine bones and expressive eyes and the figure of a goddess. She was down-to-earth, apparently fearless and always cheerful in spite of the blows that fate had dealt her. If she did not return, it was going to be hellishly difficult without her…

  Olivia’s temper had cooled almost as soon as she reached the street. Perhaps she had been unreasonable, for how was Robert to know how she felt about Philippe? Not love exactly, but a kind of fondness which came of his kindness and her gratitude. You could not easily throw that aside. Seeing that room again and his belongings, so familiar to her, had made her realise what none of the past three days had done — that he had truly died, and not in battle, which was something she knew she could accept, but in a particularly cruel and unnecessary way. Whether she had been in love with Philippe or not was none of Robert’s business. His business was to spy, and the sooner he accomplished that, the sooner she could hold him to his end of the bargain — to take her safely home. And home was where she most wanted to go.

  She walked past the castle with its crenellated keep and ivy-clad walls, patrolled by uniformed guards of Napoleon’s northern army, to a market-place where those few traders who still had goods to sell had set out their stalls. Quarrel or no quarrel, they needed to eat; she began bargaining with a stallholder over the king’s ransom he demanded for a cabbage. Three nights before she had taken one from a garden for nothing and feasted well on cabbage soup and stewed hare. Was that only three nights before? It seemed like a lifetime.

  ‘Twenty pesetas,’ the man demanded. ‘And cheap, considering it had to be brought in from the country and the hills are swarming with guerrilleros.’

  ‘They are your own countrymen.’

  ‘To be sure, but they do not hold with co-operating with the French — Afrancesado, they call me, but I have a wife and five little children…’

  ‘I understand. But twenty pesetas! That is altogether too much.’

  If Philippe had been with her, he would have paid for the cabbage without a murmur, because wealth meant nothing to him, except its power to obtain the unobtainable. It was there for the spending and when his allowance ran out he simply wrote home for more. He could not have been more different from Tom, whose life had revolved around money, or, rather, the lack of it. Tom had begrudged a shilling for food when it meant he had less to gamble. He had always been convinced of being able to recoup his last losses on his next card game and make a fortune as well; it had always been the same. It was funny how she had reacted to Tom’s penny-pinching by being extravagant herself, and to Philippe’s generosity by being careful of his money. It was his money she was spending now and she felt badly about that, especially when one of the beneficiaries would be an Englishman, the enemy of all good Frenchmen.

  ‘Come, señora; if you don’t have it, others will, so make up your mind,’ the rough voice broke in on her thoughts. ‘I’ve cherries too, and honey, but they are for special customers.’

  Special customers, Olivia realised, were those prepared to pay the exorbitant prices, bu
t what choice did she have? She paid for cabbage and cherries and moved on, pushing her way through the crowds.

  ‘Next week, I heard the colonel tell the major.’ The man’s voice caught her attention. She turned to see a corporal and the sergeant who had stopped them at the gate, sitting on a shell-shattered wall, smoking filthy clay pipes and sharing a flask of wine, drinking it straight from the bottle. ‘The advance guard is to go and clear the way.’

  Olivia walked past them and then turned in at a break in the wall and made her way along the other side of it, so that she could eavesdrop without being noticed. If she could return to Robert with some of the information he needed, then perhaps he would not dismiss her so lightly.

  She was so busy planning Robert’s come-uppance that she failed to notice how close she had come to where they sat and that they had stopped speaking. One of them, alerted by her shadow falling across them, turned and startled her.

  ‘An eavesdropper, by heaven. Or were you thinking of something a little more diverting, my pretty?’

  ‘No, no.’ She backed away. ‘I was dreaming… wasn’t looking where I was going.’

  ‘Dreaming, eh?’ the sergeant said. ‘You are the one who came with the man with no voice, the man who was hanged.’ He turned back to his companion. ‘Hanged by the guerrillas, so she said. He had the rope marks on his neck so I suppose it is true; you couldn’t fake those.’

  ‘I must go back to him,’ she said.

  He caught her arm. ‘No so fast. Where is this heroic fellow of yours?’

  ‘At home, resting.’

  ‘And where is home?’

  ‘Over Señor Antondan’s bakery.’