The Sentimental Soldier

by April Kihlstrom

  “I should like to think,” he said gently, “that I could protect you, if need be. But what if I cannot? Take the knife. Tuck it under your habit. If you choose never to use it, so be it. But for my peace of mind, I wish you to have it. If we are stopped, I shall say you have taken a vow of silence. That way you cannot betray yourself with your French. But if it is not enough, well, then I wish you to be able to protect yourself.”

  She stared at him with wide, uncertain eyes. He sighed again and, with a gentleness that sat oddly on his shoulders, he added, “Please? I will not, I cannot travel a step farther with you unless I know you have this knife.”

  For a long moment, matters hung in the balance. Then, slowly she nodded and pulled her hand away from his. But she still held the knife. And, as he had suggested, she tucked it somewhere on her person, under the nun’s habit. Harry let out the breath he did not even realize he had been holding.

  “A vow of silence?” she demanded, seizing upon what he had said before.

  He shrugged. “What would you?” he asked. “The moment anyone heard you speak, they would know you were not French. And me, I prefer not to deal with the consequences if they did.”

  She stared at him, then shook her head. “You are the strangest priest I have ever met,” she said. “I am beginning to think you have at least as many secrets as I do.”

  And because that was far too close to the mark for comfort, Harry turned away and busied himself with gathering things up. He let her eat for a few more minutes, then he rose to his feet and said, “It is time we were on our way.”

  * * * *

  Prudence let her eyes rest on Père Alain far more often than was wise. He was an enigma to her. A priest who carried a knife. A priest who insisted that she carry one as well. She ought to have had the willpower to refuse. And yet there was a comfort in feeling the knife at her side. And because the thought disturbed her, she turned her attention back to Père Alain.

  Why was he helping an English woman? And why was he free to travel about this way? Why had he not been assigned to a parish church?

  She asked her questions aloud. The answers came almost too quickly. As though he spoke from something learned by rote, rather than from his heart.

  “I must help all of God’s creatures. So I help you. As for a parish church, the Holy Father has other work for me. He wishes me to travel about. To use my eyes and tell him where his flock has the most need.”

  There it was again. The sense Prudence had that Père Alain told the truth, but not quite all of the truth. That he shaded it to his own purposes. He did not act like her notion of a priest. But then she knew very little about the church of Rome. Perhaps he was actually very much the typical priest. But somehow Prudence didn’t think so.

  She shifted in her saddle. “It feels very strange,” she grumbled aloud, “to be wearing the robes of a nun. Wrong somehow.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, clearly puzzled.

  Prudence tried to explain. “I am not the person people think they see,” she said. “For that reason, I must admit I am grateful that you choose, Père Alain, to skirt the villages. That you buy or beg our bread and cheese from the farms we have passed instead. I dislike deceiving people in such a way.”

  “You dressed as a boy,” he countered.

  “Yes, but then no one thought I was holy or could pray for them.”

  He was silent for a long moment. Just as Prudence had concluded that he did not mean to answer, he said, “Strangely enough I do understand what you mean. But as I have said before, with your life at stake, I can see no other choice and I do believe that God will forgive you.”

  Prudence sighed, though she was careful not to let him see her do so. How was it that he knew with such uncanny skill just the right thing to calm her fears? She understood now why people found priests so comforting. Because Père Alain was comforting.

  He was also a very comfortable person to travel with. He showed consideration for her at every turn and unlike the gentlemen in England or the various places her uncle had taken her or even the sailors on the ship, Père Alain had no interest in her physical person. Still one thing bothered her.

  “Why have you never tried to talk of God to me?” she asked.

  He started and looked back at her, over his shoulder. “What?” he demanded.

  “I suppose,” she went on, as though he had not spoken, “that perhaps you consider me a hopeless proposition? My soul, I mean. Still, one might think you would at least have tried to save my soul.”

  He gaped at her a moment longer and then he looked away. Was that chagrin in his expression? Prudence allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. But then his shoulders began to shake with what she was certain was silent laughter.

  So he thought her absurd? She would not, Prudence vowed, let him ever know how much that notion hurt. When she was certain her voice would sound steady and perhaps even a trifle heedless, she asked, “Where will we stop for the night? And how soon?”

  He looked up at the sky before he answered. “Somewhere with shelter. It will rain again, I fear.”

  “So a barn,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Yes, perhaps a barn. But only if we are very, very lucky.”

  Chapter 4

  Philip and James Langford, brothers to Colonel Harry Langford, looked at one another, then at Sir Thomas Levenger. “Are you absolutely certain, sir?” Philip asked.

  Sir Thomas turned his hand one way, then the other. “How can one be entirely certain of anything? But the word I have is that this letter disappeared almost ten years ago.” He paused and looked at James. “And you are certain it was found hidden among your father’s possessions? Forgive me for suggesting such a thing, but are you certain your wife did not bring it with her?”

  James grimaced. “Both her maid and my valet saw the mirror come apart. My father’s mirror. It was most cunningly designed to do so, you know. And hidden inside was the letter. Both of them saw her find it and would swear it came as a complete surprise to her. But what does it mean? Surely by now you must have some notion?”

  Sir Thomas nodded gravely. “Yes, but I am not allowed to tell you anything about it.”

  “What?” Philip thundered his outrage. “But that is unconscionable! This touches on our father’s honor!”

  “It is necessary,” Sir Thomas countered in his calm, quiet voice. “I can only tell you that there was more to the letter than a mere greeting between friends, even if one of them was Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  “A code?” Philip asked.

  Sir Thomas, one of England’s most distinguished and respected judges, merely smiled and ignored the question. Instead he asked in what both Langford brothers knew to be a deceptively careless voice, “Have either of you had word from your brother Harry of late?”

  “Not for some time. We’ve no notion where he is or what he is doing or even if he is safe,” James replied, frustration patent in his voice.

  “And the signals? They are still going out as arranged?” Sir Thomas persisted.

  Philip and James looked at one another, thoroughly confused by now.

  “Emily is writing the messages she is given into her stories for the paper, just as she has been doing since we began this mad enterprise, at Harry’s request,” Philip answered slowly.

  “And I checked on the tower only last week,” James added. “I took Baines some new lenses to use to make the signals from Dover Castle. He said the man there is doing his job precisely as instructed.”

  Sir Thomas nodded. “Well, no doubt there is nothing to worry about. No doubt one of us will soon hear that everything is all right and none of us need worry.”

  The note of false heartiness and reassurance in the barrister’s voice alarmed the two Langford brothers almost more than anything else could have.

  * * * *

  “Now remember! You have taken a vow of silence. Do not speak a word,” Harry warned.

  She didn’t like the notion, he could see it in her
face, but there was no time to argue. A small group of soldiers led by an officer came into sight. An officer who knew Harry. They recognized each other at precisely the same moment. And the officer was faster for he did not have to fumble beneath a priest’s robe to retrieve his pistols.

  “Well, well, what is an English officer doing so far from England? Or even Spain?” the French officer asked, his own pistol pointed straight at Harry’s heart.

  Harry did not answer. Not even when he heard the squeak of angry surprise from the woman beside him. The French officer turned his attention to her.

  “And who is this?” he asked.

  It wasn’t going to work. Harry knew that, but still he tried. “She is a nun who has taken a vow of silence,” he said, with a pretend indifference in his voice.

  “As you are a priest?” the Frenchman countered.

  “I stopped at a convent. They asked me to escort her to another. I agreed because I thought it would help my disguise,” Harry said with a careless shrug.

  The officer looked at the young woman carefully, then back at Harry. “Which convent?” he demanded. “And to what convent were you to deliver her?”

  For a moment Harry could not think. But then he remembered Bertrand talking as they rode through the countryside. He remembered a convent, one in the direction from which they had come. He said the name aloud.

  The Frenchman frowned. “They do not take vows of silence there.”

  Harry made himself frown and then shrug carelessly, as though the woman’s life did not depend on how well he did so. “Perhaps not. This woman, however, does not speak. At least I have never heard her do so.”

  He held his breath, hoping she would not contradict him. Fortunately she held her tongue. The officer regarded both then bowed to the nun. “My apologies, ma soeur. You will understand we must be certain?”

  She inclined her head graciously. The officer turned to one of the men and rattled off his orders. “You must go to the convent. Ask if they had such a sister there. How long and where was she from. And ask if she was indeed sent off in the company of this priest.”

  In moments the soldier was gone, riding away as fast as though there were hounds at his heels. Bitterly Harry realized he had bought his companion a few days respite at most.

  * * * *

  Prudence watched the exchange with growing anger. The man had lied to her. And man he apparently was, not priest. Of all things, he was a soldier! She was furious. At him and at herself, for caring about a liar and a soldier. It went against everything she believed in.

  She was even more furious at the claim that she had taken a vow of silence, or at least never spoke. The story he told, she thought, would not have fooled a child. Now she had to listen, helpless as the officer gave his soldier the orders that would inevitably lead to her unmasking. And if she tried to help, she could only make matters worse by giving the lie to his tale right now.

  So Prudence had to listen in silence to the rude jests made by the men. Then he made matters even worse, this false priest. The French officer was talking to his men, giving orders for some to continue their scouting, for others to help him bring the prisoners back to a nearby village. At the sound of Harry’s voice, he turned to look at him.

  “I think she may be partly deaf,” Père Alain, or rather, the English officer, said in a conversational tone, leaning forward toward the Frenchman.

  “Deaf?” the Frenchman regarded the mock priest in patent disbelief. “But she nodded when I spoke to her.”

  “She always does that, no matter what anyone says.”

  Then it came to Prudence what Père Alain intended. If she were thought to be deaf, the men would lower their guard around her and she might learn something of use or have a better chance to escape. In his own way, he was trying to protect her and for that she was grateful. But she would have to be more careful than ever.

  Prudence did what she could to lend support to the story. She regarded the officer with limpid eyes and each time he spoke a series of increasingly absurd things to her, she graciously nodded. She did not understand all the words and that made her pretense even easier.

  Eventually he tired of the game and turned back to Père Alain. “It would seem, perhaps, that you are telling the truth. It is a sad thing that the poor creature was placed in your care.”

  Père Alain shrugged and quirked an eyebrow upward. “I took very good care of her, I assure you. And behaved as if I were indeed the priest I pretended to be.”

  The officer sighed. “Why did you have to cross my path again, Major Langford? I like you. It is going to make me most upset when my orders come to kill you. Or, worse yet, to have to turn you over to some of Napoleon’s men for questioning.”

  So he was Major Langford? Prudence would have to remember it. She could no longer go on thinking of him as Père Alain.

  “It is now Colonel Langford. But you will see the nun safe to her convent?”

  “Bien sûre. If she proves to be who you say she is,” the Frenchman replied with a bow.

  And that, Prudence thought, meant her doom was sealed, unless she thought of something fast. She must find a way to escape before the soldier returned from the convent.

  But that was clearly not going to be easy. They rode, this Colonel Langford and herself, surrounded by the soldiers, the officer riding behind them, his pistol at the ready. Langford joked with the man as they rode.

  “I hope your hand is steady and your horse doesn’t decide to bolt,” he told the officer.

  “I am tolerably certain I can manage to control both,” the Frenchman replied.

  From time to time, the officer would speak to Prudence. She pretended not to hear for he was behind her and she ought not, if she were truly deaf, to even know he had made a sound. Gradually it seemed to her that there was less taunting in the Frenchman’s voice, as though perhaps he was coming to believe Père Alain’s absurd tale of deafness. She hoped so, for on it might rest whatever slim chance either of them had for escape.

  Soon they reached the village. It was evident that a portion of it had been commandeered by soldiers. They were led to the grandest house, which wasn’t very grand, perhaps, but bustled with activity.

  One of the soldiers helped Prudence from her horse. She pretended to stumble against him. It was no trick to let her face seem pale from fatigue because she was. Indeed, she was very close to fainting and made no protest as the soldier helped her into the house. If she seemed weak enough, perhaps they would not think to search her.

  As if from a distance, Prudence heard the officer give his orders. “The nun, we believe she may be deaf. Help her, Madame Salvage.”

  “Ah, the pauvre petite! So young to take her vows. No doubt it is the deafness which made her parents place her with the good sisters. I will help her, Bien sûre. She will rest. Eat a little. Sleep. I will keep watch over la petite, I assure you.”

  Prudence was careful to give no sign that she heard or understood anything of what had been said. And indeed the French had been spoken so rapidly that she could not be entirely certain she had heard correctly anyway.

  Behind her, Prudence could hear the officer’s voice turn harsh as he gave very different orders for the colonel.

  * * * *

  Harry would have paced the small interior of his prison had he not been shackled to the bed. But Jean Louis Dumont was taking no chances. And he had good reason for such caution.

  The last time they met, he had also held Harry prisoner. But Harry had escaped and taken him prisoner. It was only when the lines overtook their position that Dumont managed to escape in his turn.

  So Harry could not blame Dumont for the precautions he took now, but it was a damnable nuisance anyway. As was the knowledge that the woman upstairs was no doubt equally well guarded, albeit in gentler and more comfortable circumstances than his own.

  Indeed, Harry more than half suspected that even if he did manage to escape, if he went looking for Prudence, he would find her to be the b
ait in a well-laid trap meant just for him. He had to hope that she was as quick-witted as she seemed and would find her own means to escape. She was a deuced nuisance but it was his failure to protect her that rankled almost more than his own capture.

  Almost. Because Harry could not forget that Wellington was waiting for the reports that only he could bring. It was that memory that led Harry to fruitlessly tug at the shackles that bound him to the bed.

  The prison door opened then and an old woman, the woman they had seen when they entered the house, appeared with a tray of food for him. She chattered as she set it down on the small table by the bed.

  “Ah, the pauvre petite, mon Père. She sleeps. So tired, that one. Two floors above. She asks for you, I think, in her sleep.”

  He might have believed her except that Harry could not bring himself to credit the notion that Prudence would ask for him under any circumstances. No, it was a trap. It had to be a trap. Jean Louis Dumont would never allow such information to be given to him so carelessly. There had to be a purpose to it.

  Harry made his voice cold and indifferent as he said, “You must be mistaken, Madame, in what you believe you overheard. I have nothing to do with the nun or the nun with me, save that we traveled together for a short space and I used her as my shield.”

  The old woman crossed herself at these harsh words. She clucked disapprovingly about priests who ought to be defrocked. And she bustled away with an angry sniff.

  Harry watched her go. He would not, he dared not, ask a word about Prudence. Her life might depend on his apparent indifference.

  * * * *

  Upstairs, Prudence woke to the sound of a gun firing in the street below. Her heart pounded. Had they shot Père Alain, or rather Colonel Langford as he had turned out to be, already? Surely not in the middle of the night? Unless he had tried to escape, a tiny voice whispered in reply. It might have been like him to do so.

  Her first instinct was to rise from her bed and go to the window to look. But she could not, she realized. If she were being watched she did not dare reveal that she had even heard the shot, much less that she might care.