by Mary Nichols
He smiled ruefully. ‘Fine chance of that.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was a fool.’
‘How did he escape? Did you…?’
‘No, I did not.’ Her denial sounded more like her old, resilient, unquenchable self. ‘There was a goatherd, though I do not think he was a real goatherd, after all. He seemed old at first but then he stood up straight. I saw him in the water…’
‘He was in the river?’
‘No, silly, I saw his reflection behind mine. He had a stick.’
‘Why didn’t you shoot him? You had a pistol.’ He did not sound angry. He ought to have been furious that she had been so easily duped into relaxing her guard.
She grinned. ‘You said I would be useless as a soldier, didn’t you? That first day…’
‘I did not know what I was talking about,’ he said, smiling down at her in a way that made her feel even more light-headed. It was not only the blow which had shaken her wits but his obvious concern for her and the knowledge that she now knew the truth about him, knew why he had been hurt, why he behaved the way he did, why he had found it so difficult to trust her and why his claws were important to him. What she could not understand was his continuing love of Juana.
She sat up gingerly. She was still on the riverbank, the sun still shone and the water still rippled over the stones and she wondered idly if there really had been a trout. The rope which had bound Rufus lay on the grass where it had been carelessly thrown and Robert’s horse cropped the grass near by. There was no sign of the piebald or her own mount. ‘Pegasus?’ she said.
‘Gone, I’m afraid.’
She grinned suddenly. ‘I hope he throws the traitorous devil.’
He laughed. ‘You seem to have changed your mind about the man.’
‘He told me what happened in Lisbon. I am sorry, Robert.’
‘Sorry?’
‘About everything. About Juana.’
‘It is of no consequence.’ He did not want to talk about it; no man liked to admit that he had been a fool. When he had ridden up and seen Olivia lying sprawled on the grass with her head covered in blood, he had thought she was dead and, for one awful moment, his heart had stopped. Everything else faded into insignificance as he realised what she meant to him — more than Juana, more than honour even, more than life itself. He had hurled himself from his horse and gathered her into his arms, calling her name with a voice broken by emotion. His relief on finding she was not dead had overwhelmed him, and now that she seemed to be fully restored to her senses, except for that bump on the head, he was angry. His anger was not with her, but with himself and with that coward, Rufus Whitely. She had done nothing to harm the fellow, had even defended him; it was because of her he was still alive.
But he would not live much longer. Rufus would pay with his life, but not at his hands. It was not up to him to dispense justice; Olivia had convinced him of that, though he had hardly needed convincing. He would fetch him back for trial. ‘Are you well enough to go on?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
He stood up to help her to her feet. She seemed to have recovered, but he knew from experience what a blow to the head could do. ‘Perhaps you should rest awhile. Tomorrow…’
‘No, Robert,’ she said firmly. ‘We cannot spare the time and I am quite recovered. Thor can carry us both.’
‘I must get after the traitor,’ he said, picking up the pistol and handing it back to her. The rope he wound round his waist. ‘I must catch him before he gets back to Colonel Clavier with what he knows about the allied positions.’
‘I am quite ready.’
‘Not you.’ He stood up beside her. ‘I go alone.’
‘Oh, not that old chestnut,’ she said, sighing. ‘Don’t you know me better than that? I belong with you.’
‘True,’ he said smiling. ‘But I need you alive and safe. We are near the British lines now and I want you to go on alone.’
‘I will not.’
He smiled. ‘Are you giving me an argument, Olivia?’
‘Yes.’
‘But if I tell you that it is vital that the Peer knows from which direction the French are coming? Judging by what I have seen, he is not expecting them from Viseu, or we would have come across the rearguard by now. My guess is he is deploying his forces to meet them much further south and east. Who is there to tell him this but you?’ He could see her struggling with herself. The old Olivia who wanted to rush in and do battle with him was fighting the Olivia who knew a soldier’s duty was to obey, and she saw herself as a soldier. At least, he thought she did. He smiled. ‘Duty calls us in different directions, my dear.’
She smiled impishly. ‘Still looking for those claws, Robert?’
‘If you like. Will you go?’
She sighed. ‘If I must, but I go under protest. I am not at all sure you can manage without me.’
He laughed. ‘Nor I, but I shall have to try. Now, you take Thor. Keep to the byways, avoid any trouble.’ He paused to grin at her, remembering her prowess with a gun. ‘No sniping at anything, however easy the target, do you hear?’
‘I hear.’
He handed her a rough map. ‘This shows the French route and where you might expect to find Viscount Wellington. Make sure you go direct to him. No one else will do.’
She stood to attention and saluted him. ‘Yes, sir!’
He laughed to cover the fact that he wanted to take her in his arms and tell her the whole idea was mad and he would not let her go, but he could see no alternative. Later, when it was all over, he would come back to her, when he had been vindicated and his father had accepted him back into the family, when he had something to offer her; then was the time to speak. He led her to his horse, where he stopped and held out his clasped hands for her foot. ‘Up you go, then.’
She mounted and turned the horse, looking down into his face as if to etch it in her memory. ‘Don’t you do anything foolish, either,’ she said, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Claws are not important.’
He took her hand and turned it over to kiss the palm. ‘Mine are.’ He did not wait for her to answer, but slapped the horse’s rump and set it cantering off. ‘I’ll see you in England,’ he called after her. He watched her until she was out of sight, then he picked up his haversack and rifle, slung them over his shoulders and set off in the opposite direction.
CHAPTER TEN
OLIVIA had plenty of time to think as she rode. Walking Thor through the depopulated Portuguese countryside looking for an army was hardly a suitable occupation for a lady. But had she forfeited her right to be called a gentlewoman even before she met Robert? She tried telling herself she had not wanted to go back to Ciudad Rodrigo, that if Robert had not made that bargain with her she would have found her way home and resumed her place at her father’s side, to all intents and purposes a grieving widow. But it was not fair to blame Robert; she had chosen the path she had taken and she had no one to blame but herself if he looked on her as just another of the men under his command.
She smiled wryly. That was what came of being able to ride and shoot like a trooper. Her father had been proud of her prowess with a gun and on a horse, but it was a simple delight in her accomplishments, meant to impress his friends; it did not mean he wanted her to deny her womanhood. That was what Robert had accused her of, and if it was true she could hardly blame him for treating her like a man. He did not think of Juana as anything but a woman.
She dug her heels into Thor’s broad sides and put him into a gallop in an attempt to stop herself thinking of Juana. The big horse was as much as she could manage but it was some small consolation to know that Robert thought her capable of riding him. She remembered the day they had met, the day he had said Thor was more than she could handle. He had not known her then. Did he know her even now? She had to put the memories, good and bad, behind her. She had to find Wellington and make sure he knew the situation and in return he would arrange for her repatriation. That was all there w
as to it. She doubted she would ever see Robert again, because his pursuit of Rufus Whitely would be followed by a search for Juana, and whether he succeeded or failed made no difference because he would not come back to her.
Once home, she could pretend it never happened, could expunge it from her mind and lose herself in the social whirl of London society. What a prospect! Talked about, smiled over, everyone concluding that she was in want of a husband, curious about her, appalled by her tanned face and cropped hair. Could she start a new fashion? Why not go the whole hog and dress in breeches with stock and cravat? What a stir that would cause! She leaned back in the saddle and laughed up at the sky. It was all very well to laugh, but it was not funny; especially it was not funny because inside she was as soft and feminine as any woman and she was in love. An impossible love.
She pulled the horse up to a walk. Robert had told her to take care; galloping about like a crazed woman was not taking care. It was not so much her safety as the information she carried which was important. She had better be more alert and ready for danger.
The day wore on; the horse seemed untiring, but she had a headache and she was hungry and thirsty. She stopped at a wayside inn. A bent old man came to the door and bade her enter. ‘We’ve little enough,’ he said, looking at her suspiciously. ‘Some rye bread and a few olives.’
‘That will do admirably.’
‘You do not sound French.’
‘I am not. I am English.’ She looked down at the faded blue coat, which had caught his eye. ‘Oh, this. I found it. I was cold and it is better than nothing.’
He conducted her to the parlour and drew out a chair from the table. ‘You are the first traveller I have seen today.’
‘Is that so?’ She was surprised. ‘Have there been no troops passing through?’
‘Haven’t seen any, not for days.’
‘But I thought Wellington was hereabouts.’
‘Did you, now?’ He was still doubtful about her and unwilling to offer information.
‘I have to find the British lines.’ She paused, wondering if she dared trust him. ‘My husband was killed and I have lost all my belongings…’
‘You have no money?’
‘Oh, I have money, but what can money buy? You say you have no food.’ As she spoke, she delved into her pocket and pulled out her purse which contained the remainder of Philippe’s money in a mixture of currencies. ‘I would give all of this for a good meal and directions to where I can find the British commander-in-chief.’
‘A meal I can give you,’ he said. ‘And wine, but as for the other…’ He turned from her and went into a back room, returning with a plate of gabrito, goat meat braised in oil with tomatoes and garlic. It was not her favourite dish but she was almost hungry enough to eat anything. He brought her a bottle of red wine and a glass and stood watching her eat and drink.
‘How far have you come?’
‘Many leagues,’ she said. ‘From the mountains.’
‘Ahh.’ He gave her a toothless smile. ‘There are mountains on all sides, senhora.’
‘North.’ She paused, wondering how much to tell him. ‘I have been with a compatriot of yours. Martin Davaco. Do you know him?’
‘I have heard of him. He is a fighter.’
‘Are you not all fighters, in your own way? Even you, here in this place all alone, would you too not like to contribute?’ She paused to look up at him. ‘You are a loyal patriot, are you not?’
He attempted to stand up straight but his crooked back prevented it. ‘I am, but I am an old man. What can I do?’
‘You will understand how important it is for Viscount Wellington to know exactly where the main French forces are so that they can be defeated?’
‘And you have that information?’
‘I do, but I need to know where his lordship is.’ She tipped the contents of the purse on to the table and watched his eyes widen in surprise. ‘You can have all of it for good directions.’
‘The English lord was in Gouveia,’ he said, avarice overcoming his doubts. ‘But he rode out from there and along this road to the west a week ago. I saw him myself. He called for wine.’
‘Do you know where he was going?’
He shrugged. ‘To the sea, perhaps. I heard tell there were ships ready to take him and his men off. If you want to go with him, you had best make haste.’
She hoped he had not read the situation correctly. She had come to like the Portuguese people, their courage and resilience, their faith and stoicism; she did not want to see them left to Napoleon’s mercy, because that tyrant would have none. They had been a thorn in his side too long. She finished her meal and rose to go. ‘Portugal will be free,’ she said. ‘Do not doubt it.’
She retraced her route to the last crossroads and then turned westwards, alternately cantering and walking, trying not to overtire her mount, but none the less anxious to reach her destination. It seemed that time was running out, that before long the two sides who had been dodging each other for months would come together in a great clash of men and arms, and the information she carried was vital to the outcome.
She stopped only when it became too dark to go on and found an abandoned animal shelter where she lay down and tried to rest. Long before dawn she was on the road again and this time it was a proper highway. She knew it was risky to take to the open road, even more so now because she was almost sure she would have to cross the French lines, but the extra speed she could make was worth the gamble.
She could see lights in the distance and recognised them almost at once as camp fires. She reined in. Could it be the British or even the Portuguese Cacadores, or was it the French advance guard? She approached slowly.
It was a small company of French voltigeurs sent out to reconnoitre the ground. They were camped in an olive grove, lying round their fires or leaning against the trees, still asleep. There were two sentries who should have been patrolling the perimeter, but they were standing together talking in low voices. Thankful it was not the main column, she dismounted and led her horse round them on foot, her pistol in her other hand, alert for every sound. One of the sentries laughed and Thor’s head went up. She grabbed his nose and pulled it down, whispering to him to be silent. By the time it was safe to mount again, she had lost two valuable hours.
Coimbra, an old university town on the Mondego River and once the capital of Portugal, was quiet; a few students in their torn black capes pinned with the coloured ribbons of their faculty strolled about deep in conversation, as if there were no conflict, no battle about to be fought somewhere near at hand. There were citizens going about their business and soldiers from the commissariat gathering together supplies and equipment and loading them into a string of wagons, but not the great army she had hoped to find. Her heart sank. The British commander-in-chief was more elusive than a firefly and it was some time before she could establish that he had ridden north. Did he know that was where the enemy were concentrated? She was desperate for sleep and the horse was exhausted, but she could not stop now. She rode out again and two hours later she caught up with the rear of the British forces.
It took some time to convince them she was English and even longer to persuade them to take her to headquarters. ‘I must speak to Lord Wellington,’ she said. ‘Please tell him I have news of Captain Whitely and Captain Lynmount.’
‘Who are they?’
‘He will know.’
The sentry who had stopped her handed her over to his sergeant who took her to his captain. She repeated her request to speak to Wellington and he echoed the sentry’s question. ‘Whitely and Lynmount. Who are they?’
‘Scouts.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Behind the French lines.’
He looked at her pensively, weighing her up. She looked decidedly disreputable; her hair was a mess and, apart from splashing her face in water from a stream which was freezing cold, she had not washed. She was white-faced with fatigue, she knew, and could hardly sit uprig
ht in the saddle. ‘How long have you been riding?’ he asked.
‘Days.’ She laughed. ‘Does it matter?’
‘I’ll take you to the women; they will look after you…’
‘I don’t want to go to the women,’ she snapped. ‘And I don’t need looking after. Are you deaf, Captain? I asked to be taken to Viscount Wellington.’
He shrugged. ‘Come with me. I’ll speak to the colonel.’
The colonel was two miles ahead. On the way they passed column after column of troops, cavalry, heavy guns and wagons loaded with supplies and ammunition. The men were cheerful. After so long without confronting the enemy, they were looking forward to a scrap; they had hated the constant withdrawal. Unlike the French, they were neither half-starved nor ill-clad, though she doubted if there were as many of them as there were of the enemy.
From the colonel she was passed to an aide and then another, each time further up the road, until at last she found herself outside the wall surrounding the convent at Bussaco, which was decorated with bones and skulls designed in black and white stones. She shivered as they were challenged by a sentry and then passed through the only gate and up through a beautiful wood of maple, oak, laurel and cypress. At the door of the convent, she dismounted and waited while her latest escort went inside. He returned very quickly.
‘Come with me.’
She left Thor tethered to one of the many trees which surrounded the convent and followed the aide into a narrow cork-lined cell with a brick floor and whitewashed walls. She had seen the great man in the distance before, when he had been reviewing the troops, but never close at hand, and she was surprised at how ordinary he seemed. He was not particularly handsome, but his eyes were keen and his smile set her at her ease. He rose from behind a desk and walked forward to take her hand. ‘Come and sit down, ma’am.’ He waved the aide away, then led her to a bench and sat down beside her. ‘You have news of Captain Lynmount, I understand?’
‘Yes, my lord. He sent me to tell you that the main French column is coming down through Viseu. It is about sixty-five thousand strong.’ She took Robert’s report from her skirt pocket and handed it to him.
