by Mary Nichols
‘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.’
