by Mary Nichols
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.
CHAPTER EIGHT
OLIVIA slid off the horse’s back and knelt beside Robert. There was blood in his hair and on his forehead. She carefully lifted aside the curl that fell over his face and examined the wound. A bullet had grazed his temple, cutting a gash from the corner of his eye to the top of his ear. It was enough to produce a great deal of blood but it had not penetrated more than skin deep. She breathed a huge sigh of relief and pulled a handkerchief from her skirt pocket to staunch the flow, before tearing a strip from the bottom of her petticoat to bind it. She was amused to see that he was wearing his old red coat beneath the blue one and understood why; if he was going to face a firing squad, then he would be in his proper uniform.
‘This is no time to faint,’ she said to his unconscious form, her asperity hiding her concern. ‘Wake up, Robert, wake up. We are not safe yet.’
He stirred and blinked. He had a blinding headache and his vision was blurred. He could see nothing but dark shapes and then a lighter one which resolved itself into a face, though it was not clear enough to recognise. The voice he did recognise. ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘I can’t see you properly.’
‘It’s only temporary.’ She prayed that was true. ‘Can you stand?’
‘Of course I can stand.’ He sat up. ‘God, I’m dizzy.’ He touched his bandaged forehead gingerly. ‘How bad is it?’
‘Not bad at all,’ she said cheerfully. ‘It is only a graze. Come, let me help you up. We must go on before they come after us.’
‘They?’
‘We have the whole French army on our tail. Don’t you remember?’
‘I remember being marched across a square and thinking, This is it, this is the end, and worrying about you.’
‘Me?’ She was sure he was confusing her with a past love, because it was for Juana he had been concerned when Captain Whitely denounced him. Did he remember any of that? Who was Juana? It was not the time to torment her brain with such questions; that could come later. She stood up and bent to haul him to his feet. ‘Come, we must move on.’
‘Where are we?’
‘In the woods outside Viseu. Any time now the whole place will be alive with voltigeurs searching for us. We must find somewhere to hide; we haven’t a hope of outrunning them on one horse.’
She left him to fetch Pegasus, who was contentedly cropping the undergrowth a little way off. By the time she led him back, Robert had staggered to his feet. A little colour had returned to his face and his eyes were clearer. He might be a little concussed, but she could not wait to find out; she moved forward to help him mount. He brushed aside her assistance and climbed into the saddle, then reached down to pull her up behind him. She hesitated, but their pursuers were already in the wood; she could hear them crashing through the trees. She grasped his hand and hauled herself up behind him and, almost before she could settle herself with her arms around him, he had dug his heels into Pegasus to make him gallop.
There were shouts behind them and a few bullets whizzed through the pines, very wide of the mark. ‘They can’t hit a barn door at twenty paces with those weapons,’ she laughed, leaning her head against the roughness of his coat. ‘And there isn’t a horse in their stables can beat Pegasus.’
He did not answer, still feeling somewhat fuddled by his injury and bemused by his rescue. It was just the sort of foolhardy ploy she would attempt. It had been mad enough to succeed too, if only they could keep ahead of their pursuers long enough to lose them in the depths of the forest. But the ground was uneven and, with the onset of night, black as pitch; they would risk laming the horse if they continued. ‘For our mount’s sake, we had better walk a while,’ he said, pulling the animal up and throwing his leg over the front of the saddle to dismount.
She jumped down beside him. ‘If we left the trees, we might be able to see where we are going. For all we know we may have been going round in circles.’
‘I think not; we have been going steadily uphill.’
‘You think we can climb the mountain?’
‘There might be a pass.’
‘Then let us press on.’
He picked up the reins with one hand and took her hand with the other and they walked on, still going uphill. There was silence behind them, except for the sounds of the night, a scuffling in the undergrowth, an owl, the distant howling of a wolf which made her shudder; their pursuers seemed to have given up. He gripped her hand tighter to reassure her, but said nothing.
She looked towards him, but there was nothing so dark as a forest at night and all she could see was his dark outline. What was he thinking about? Had he remembered the accusations Whitely had made? Was he as puzzled as she was by them? Why should a man who purported to be a British agent denounce a fellow Englishman? Who was the patriot and who the traitor? Could they both be loyal? Could they both be traitors? If only she knew the truth! But what difference would it make? Would it make her love Robert any less or respect Captain Whitely any more?
‘How do you feel?’ she asked. ‘Does your head still ache?’
‘A little.’
‘Do you remember what happened now?’
He chuckled. ‘You threw me a rifle. I remember catching it and riding hell for leather.’
‘Do you remember why?’
‘Rufus Whitely,’ he said suddenly.
‘Yes, he had quite a lot to say.’ Then, unable to remain silent on something which had been occupying her
thoughts the whole time they had been riding, she added, ‘Who is Juana?’
‘Juana?’ he repeated sharply. ‘What do you know of her?’
‘Whitely said that you had wronged her.’
‘That is a lie!’ He almost flung her hand from him, making her stumble. ‘Do you make a habit of believing everyone but me?’
She recovered her footing and plodded on. ‘You have never even mentioned her before; there was nothing for me to believe or disbelieve. Still, if you wish to have your little secrets, why should I care? It is no concern of mine.’
‘You are right,’ he said. ‘It is no concern of yours.’
‘I don’t know why I took the trouble to save you,’ she said, angry now. ‘I should have let them shoot you.’
‘It would have been simpler,’ he said flatly. ‘Except that you would have died along with me. It was a sorry tale you told; I have heard you tell much better.’
‘And for what?’ She was really into her stride now and uncaring what she said; dispensing vitriol dulled the hurt. ‘I did what I did because I thought it might help us to go home. We are as far from that goal as ever.’
‘Home!’ he said bitterly. ‘You heard what the man said. My father has disowned me. There is no going back. I knew that when I rode out of Lisbon.’
‘Then why did you promise to take me back? Why make a pledge you had no intention of keeping?’
‘I meant it when I made it. I thought…’ He stopped, remembering how he had felt at the time — fury at the injustice, a determination to make everyone eat their words, desire for revenge, most, but not all of which had been dissipated by Olivia, who had shown him how to live again and how to laugh at adversity — especially how to laugh. ‘Never mind what I thought.’
