02 - Keane's Challenge

by Iain Gale

  It seemed clear too that what amused him more than anything was the fact that Dominguez’s brother had worked for the English and the revelation that the Duke of Wellington himself had drunk the same wine. Suddenly a light came into the marshal’s eyes.

  ‘You say you hate the British. That you admire French ways and the way of the emperor?’

  ‘Oh yes, your honour. I am a Frenchman through and through.’

  ‘Then I have a proposition for you. Will you work for me?’

  ‘With pleasure. But how? What should I do? I know nothing of the court or of wars.’

  ‘No, not here. I need someone who can be my eyes and ears. I have need of a spy.’

  Keane stifled a smile. ‘A spy? But I am no spy, sir.’

  Massena looked hard at him. ‘You are a man. A businessman, you say. Well, I have a proposition. I will pay you to spy for me. You can get into Wellington’s camp with your wine, can you not?’

  ‘Perhaps, sir, but it was really my brother who—’

  Massena cut him short. ‘No buts. You can do it, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir… although, my business needs me.’

  Massena laughed. ‘Your business? If you provide us with good information, my friend, we shall pay you handsomely. You will not lack funds. So. What do you know of the British?’

  Keane was warming to his role. ‘Of course, I travel around. The guerrillas do not stop me. They know me. But they don’t know the real Alfonso Dominguez. I know where the British are going and what they are doing.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘They are retreating all the way back.’

  ‘Which way? Which way are they going?’

  ‘They are going by the south, but the guerrillas say they are building great blocks to stop an army. They are planning for the guerrillas to ambush you on that road. The way to the south. They do not think you will come from the north. That road is too rocky. It’s not good.’

  Massena smiled. It was as he had thought. The signals from the spy had been right. ‘Dominguez, have some more wine. You are most interesting company.’

  He raised his glass. ‘To a bright future and to the Empire.’

  Keane raised his glass. ‘The Empire.’

  Massena spoke again. ‘Wellington is breaking the mills and burning crops. Is the town of Viseu big enough to supply an army?’

  ‘Quite big enough, sir, and the British have not cleared that way yet. My cousin who lives there says it is the only place not emptied by the British.’

  Massena nodded. It was decided.

  ‘This has been most useful. I have enjoyed our chat. Why don’t you stay here for the night. Go to the kitchens and you will be given some food and can then enjoy the town. Cavalet here will give you something for your trouble. For carrying the wine and for the information you have given me. I will see you again in the morning, Dominguez. And we will talk more. I need information from the British and I believe that you are the man to provide me with it. You will be my spy.’

  Keane rose and bowed low. Massena got up and walked with him to the door, which was opened by the hussar. ‘Until tomorrow, Dominguez. You have been most helpful.’

  Keane nodded. ‘Thank you, your honour.’

  He was about to leave, following the hussar, when Massena grabbed him by the shoulder and he felt the strength of the grip. The marshal spoke in a half-whisper, almost spitting the words. ‘Do what I ask of you, Dominguez, and I will make you a rich man. Betray me and I will cut out your heart before your own eyes.’

  It was said with such icy coldness that Keane knew it was in deadly earnest.

  Outside, in the corridor, the hussar officer opened his sabretache and taking out some coins gave them to Keane with a smile before going back into Massena’s rooms.

  Keane opened his palm and counted. Sixteen silver livres. He whistled, as Dominguez might have done and walked away from the marshal’s quarters, elated and terrified. He was amazed at what he had achieved. He had spoken to Massena, the great hero of Essling. He had even made a deal with him. But he had one more thing yet to do.

  He found Gilpin in the kitchens and the two of them passed several hours in the town, avoiding the French patrols and sticking to the smaller side streets and darkest corners of the cantinas. When it was safe to do so, Keane briefed Gilpin on his interview with Massena and before long, had devised a plan.

  The kitchen was much as they had left it that morning, save for a huge pot of rice and chicken cooking slowly on the range. Gilpin introduced Keane to the cook, Maria, a homely matron who, if she did recognize their fraudulent accents, was content or intrigued enough not to give them away.

  They sat at the long kitchen table and were each presented with a huge plate of rice and chicken. A carafe of wine was placed on the table and the cook sat down beside them.

  ‘With the compliments of the marshal himself. He must think a lot of you.’

  She went off to attend to her other pans and Gilpin smiled. ‘She’s all right when you get to know her. Not bad actually. Makes a good stew.’

  ‘I’m not after her for her stew, Manuel. Remember.’ He called across to the cook, ‘Hey, Maria. This is delicious. Give me the recipe.’

  She came over, eyelids a-flutter, flattered by Keane’s attention. ‘Señor. It is very simple. Anyone can make it.’

  ‘Not like you, though. My man here tells me you have a special ingredient.’

  ‘Oh no, sir. Nothing special.’ She sat down with them. ‘You’re making fun of me. Both of you. And here I am rushed off my feet cooking for the marshal and his lady.’

  ‘Yes, you must be very busy. But what an honour. Still I’m sure you manage to get some time off.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, sometimes.’

  ‘Manuel here was wondering when you might be free, weren’t you, Manuel?’

  Gilpin tried to look bashful. Keane went on. ‘When does the marshal let you rest? Is he at you all the time?’

  She blushed. ‘Oh no, sir. Not all the time. He takes his dinner at three o’clock and then he has a rest. If you can call it that, as his lady’s always with him. Or didn’t you know that? Then he’s on parade and then he comes back and has his supper.’

  ‘How long do you have off while he’s at his parade?’

  ‘Oh, he’s very punctual. As you might expect. He’s out on parade every night at six. It lasts for an hour exactly and then he drinks with his officers before retiring for supper at eight.’

  ‘Well, Manuel, there you are, your question is answered. Maria would love you to call on her between six and seven.’

  Gilpin nodded and looked across at the reddening cook.

  A bell tolled five times and Keane sprang up.

  ‘But look, what’s the time now? It’s almost five o’clock. We’re holding you back. We’ll see you later. After eight. Once the marshal’s finished. How would that be? We could have a nice evening. Four of us, perhaps. Have you any friends?’

  She smiled at him. ‘I can find you a friend.’

  ‘That would be nice, Maria. Till then.’

  They left the kitchen and doubled back into the marshal’s private quarters, where Keane had noted a small dark recess below the stairs. It was in that space that they now hid.

  The two men waited in the shadows for almost an hour until, as a clock chimed six, Keane urged Gilpin to his feet and the two of them raced up the back service stairs to the marshal’s apartments. Keane edged his face around the corner of the wall to the corridor and, just as the cook had said, the marshal’s door opened and he left, attended by the hussar officer, who turned to close the door behind him.

  Keane whispered to Gilpin. ‘Right. I’ll go in on my own and try to find some sort of written evidence that he’s taking the north route. Give me an hour and keep watch. We have two hours at the most, but if I’m not out within the hour come and get me.

  Keane moved silently along the passage and once outside Massena’s doors put his hand on the handle of that on the ri
ght. He pushed down and the door began to open. He pushed hard and was inside, closing the door behind him. He was alone in the room and listened for any signs of life but heard none.

  Feeling confident, he walked across to the large desk that dominated the window recess and which presumably had belonged to the British governor, General Cox. He began by opening the drawers and had just reached the second when he became aware that the handle on the door on the wall opposite that through which he had entered had begun to move. Instinctively he felt for his sword but of course found nothing there. The door handle moved again and Keane, deciding it would be best to stand his ground, reached down into his boot and found the dagger, holding it so that the blade was hidden within his palm.

  At last the door opened and he found himself face to face with one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. He congratulated the marshal on his exquisite taste.

  She was small, of perfect height in a woman as far as he was concerned, with a shock of auburn hair that fell in ringlets about her shoulders. Her light blue eyes flashed across the room and met his while he took in her beauty. Her narrow shoulders framed an ample bosom which gave way to a neatly tapered waist and legs which seemed impossible, given her height. But the most surprising thing about her was that she was clad in the uniform of a French hussar.

  She looked at Keane with alarm, but he could tell that it was not total surprise and he wondered how long she might have been regarding him through some unseen spyhole in the panelling.

  She spoke in a voice that was at once afraid and self-assured. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘I’m no one, madame. No one really. An acquaintance of the marshal’s. I delivered this wine earlier.’

  ‘You’re lying and I’m going to call the guard.’

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  ‘I think you’re an insurgent. A guerrilla. Be warned. I am armed.’

  ‘Of course you are. And so am I.’

  She stared at him, trying to puzzle out his presence there. Wondering if he was a guerrilla, an assassin or merely a thief. If so, then he had surely come to the wrong place. For Massena was one of the most avaricious and possessive men she had ever met.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked. And there was not a trace of panic in her voice.

  ‘The truth?’

  ‘The truth will do, if you’ve nothing better.’

  ‘I’m a British officer.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘You are?’

  He removed the hat and the handkerchief and smiled at her and this time he spoke in French. ‘James Keane, ma’am. Captain.’

  ‘You really are, aren’t you? I should call the guard.’

  ‘You’d be lucky. They’re all on parade with your man and then they’ll go and get pissed and then he’ll come back to you stinking of hooch and tup you till you’re red raw. That’s the sort of man he is, isn’t it? The good marshal.’

  She stared at him wide-eyed. No one had ever been so blunt, so unforgiving. ‘Yes. Yes, that is just what he’s like.’

  ‘And you hate him for it.’

  She looked at him again. How could a man she had just met know so much about her? She nodded.

  She looked so strange, standing there dressed as a cavalryman in a uniform which fitted her form so well that it accentuated every perfect contour. The effect was more erotic by far than if she had been naked. Although at that moment that was precisely what Keane was wishing for.

  He moved closer to her and gently inhaled. He had forgotten the smell of a woman, musky and heady. He felt intoxicated by her and was suddenly conscious of where they were. What his purpose was and what he had to do. She was very young, twenty-one at the most, and he wondered what she was doing with Massena, a man in his fifties. There must be a tale behind their relationship and he was willing to bet it was a tragedy.

  He had a hunch, and on a whim suddenly tore at her tunic and exposed her back.

  She gasped and gathered the cloth as it fell around her bosom. But Keane turned her hard so that he could see her shoulders. And sure enough there it was. On her left shoulder blade a small but distinctive mark. A mark in the shape of a dagger, made with a branding iron many years before and that might easily be mistaken for a birthmark or other blemish.

  He smiled. ‘I thought so. You’re a cathouse whore.’

  She covered herself and stared at him.

  ‘How dare you? I am a respectable woman. My husband is an officer of dragoons. A major.’

  ‘That sign says otherwise.’

  ‘What do you know about it? I was a dancer.’

  ‘A dancer? I know enough. Enough to have visited one of those establishments in Paris myself a few years ago. All you tarts, you’re all owned by your madames and that’s when you get branded. How old were you? Fifteen? Sixteen?’

  She looked away. ‘I was fourteen. My father needed the money. We were very poor.’

  ‘And so he sold you. The bastard. Sold his own daughter to a meat house. Christ.’

  ‘Stop!’ The tears were welling in her eyes now. Keane thought he was doing rather well. She went on. ‘He couldn’t help it. He was my father. My family had to live.’

  Keane stopped. ‘You’ve done well, haven’t you? Done all right. Mistress of the Prince of Essling. Not bad. Mind you, he was only a guttersnipe, wasn’t he? Perhaps you’re well suited. Did Massena buy you too?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You disgust me. Get out. I’ll call the guard.’

  ‘I told you, they’re all away playing soldiers.’

  He walked over to the sideboard and, picking up the flask of wine, poured himself a glass before going on. ‘I think he did. He bought you. You’re his slave, Henriette. Am I right? You might look the part, but you’re more his whore than his mistress. I’ll wager he’s a bit rough with you. Though maybe you like them that way. No, I think you’ve had enough of the marshal, or the prince or whatever he calls himself when you’re alone. I bet you’re just dying to get away.’

  ‘What if I am?’

  ‘Perhaps I can help.’

  ‘How? What do you know?’

  ‘I know about you.’

  She stopped. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I told you. I am a British officer.’

  ‘Not like any I have ever seen.’

  ‘That’s because I’m not like any other British officer. For one thing, I’m Irish. For another, I play by my own rules, not the army’s.’

  ‘What? Who are you really?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask yourself that question?’

  She began to sob. He held her to him and she let herself go, losing herself in his arms.

  He whispered gently. ‘Tell me your name.’

  ‘Henriette. Henriette Lebreton.’

  He repeated the name. As if he needed to remind himself who it was he was holding in his arms. It felt unreal and he wondered how he had managed to find himself here. Then she looked up and instinctively he kissed her. Her eyes were open now and she kept them open, wanting to see what he would do. He felt her return the kiss and he knew that his instinct had not been wrong. Danger made a man do such things.

  She could feel him against her now, and pulling her face away from his, but without letting go of his arm, she led him through the doors from where she had appeared and laid him down on a huge canopied bed that smelt exactly like she did.

  Then, as her ripped uniform fell away, she lay down beside him, unbuttoning his tunic, whispered in his ear, ‘Can you kill him?’

  And Keane knew that this was not a dream. It was real and he wanted her.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘But not now. Not here. Yes, I can kill him. I will kill him, when I have the chance, for you. But I want something in return.’

  She pulled him towards her. And outside in the courtyard the servants came and went, and down the hill on the parade ground Massena inspected his troops and the drums played their evening tattoo.

  And Keane wondered what he had done.

&nbs
p; 14

  They rode at breakneck speed back towards the old convent, leaving the soaring, looming ramparts of Almeida behind them. Gilpin had saddled the carthorse and Keane had found a likely-looking mare tethered in the marshal’s stable yard. It was only after they had left the town and were about to quit the city walls that Gilpin, who was riding to the rear of Keane, had commented on the horse.

  ‘Sir, have you seen what’s on your nag’s rump?’

  Keane looked down to his left and past the navy-blue and gold saddlecloth noticed a brand. It was a monogram in the shape of an ornate letter ‘E’, surmounted by a crown.

  ‘What’s that for, d’you think, sir? Espagne?’

  ‘No,’ said Keane. ‘That ‘E’ stands for Essling, and the crown is that of a prince. This is one of Massena’s own horses.’ He patted the beast’s neck and smiled to himself. Two of the marshal’s prized possessions, each of them branded, and he had had them both.

  They had moved fast and had been out of the archway before the groom and the kitchen staff had known they were gone.

  Now his mind was full of Henriette and her smell lingered in his nostrils and on his fingers and his clothes. Events had not gone quite as he had planned, but the result had been all that he had hoped, and more.

  In his pocket he carried a note copied with care by himself from an identical one in Massena’s hand. It was, he thought, perhaps the most precious piece of paper with which he had ever been entrusted. It contained an order written to Marshal Ney to take the army up to pursue the allies by the northern route, through Viseu and then down to Coimbra by way of Bussaco.

  Henriette had found the original for him when he had asked, left where she had seen Massena write it earlier that day, and had pressed it into his hand. It had not taken long to copy and he had even forged the signature, such was his skill as a draughtsman.

  And he for his part had promised to return. Or at least to find her, wherever she might be, and to rescue her from Massena, if not to kill the man. He would do his utmost to find her. As Keane knew well, promises made in the heat of passion are seldom kept.