The Price of Honour

by Mary Nichols

‘Has the lieutenant seen a doctor?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Nor reported to the colonel, I’ll wager.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It had better be one or the other. Either the doctor gives him a note or he reports for duty; he should know that.’

  ‘He does. He’ll go when he has rested.’

  ‘Then I think you should see the colonel in his stead. A man left to hang and a woman with wit enough to wait until the hangmen have left and then cut him down and bandage him up is a story which will interest him. He will want to know where and when this happened.’

  ‘We will see him tomorrow.’

  He jumped down from the wall and took her arm. ‘I think you should see him today. Now.’

  ‘I do not want to go now. I must go back. Ro… Philippe will be anxious about me.’ If he is still there, she thought, remembering their quarrel. ‘I came out to buy food…’

  ‘Food! I doubt he’s ready for food; you are wasting your time and pesetas. No, madame, you come with us.’ By this time the other soldier had stationed himself on her other side and there was no escape.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But let us make haste; I have much to do.’

  They escorted her to a house close to the castle where Colonel Clavier had made himself comfortable in one of the wealthier citizens’ homes. As they entered, they passed a man coming out whose round, rather flabby face was vaguely familiar to Olivia, and she spent the next few moments wondering where and when she had seen him before. He was in civilian clothes and, because she had become so accustomed to the dark blue jackets of the soldiers, his brown wool coat and yellow silk cravat confused her memory. Was he a private citizen or a soldier out of uniform, a comrade of Philippe’s? Could he denounce Robert? Were the Englishman’s plans to be thwarted before he had even begun?

  She stood to one side to allow the man to pass — a courtesy he took for granted, except that he smiled in a patronising way. He did not show any sign of having recognised her and she supposed she had been mistaken. She forgot him as a dig in her ribs reminded her that her escort was becoming impatient.

  ‘Come, madame, I thought you were in a hurry,’ the sergeant said, then to the guard who stepped forward to bar their way, ‘I’ve brought the colonel a tasty morsel for his dinner and she has a story to tell will set your hair a-curl.’

  ‘Is that what I am to tell Colonel Clavier?’ the guard demanded. ‘Jacques Mortand, you should come with a better tale than that if you want to disturb the colonel.’

  ‘This woman, wife of Lieutenant Santerre, has been up in the hills with the guerrillas; surely that’s a tale worth listening to.’

  The guard conceded this and disappeared down a long hallway, then knocked on a door at the far end. A voice bade him enter and he disappeared, to reappear a minute later and beckon Olivia. ‘Madame Santerre, the colonel will see you.’

  She moved forward slowly and entered the room, followed by the sergeant, who had no intention of missing the story if he could help it.

  Colonel Clavier was a corpulent man whose uniform coat was stretched almost to bursting-point across his middle, held there, it seemed, by a quantity of gold braid. He was standing by the empty fireplace with a brandy glass in one hand and his other resting on the mantelpiece, where his plump fingers drummed a tattoo in the dust. He watched her for a moment, then left the hearth to sit at a desk which stood in the middle of the room. Olivia, facing him, hoped she was hiding the nervousness she felt.

  ‘Your name?’ he demanded.

  ‘Olivia Santerre, wife of Lieutenant Philippe Santerre.’

  ‘You are not French,’ he said, catching the traces of an accent.

  ‘No, Colonel. I came from England.’

  ‘English!’ His surprise was obvious. ‘What are you doing in Spain?’

  ‘When men go to war, their wives have little choice, and it matters not whose side they are on.’ She hoped her evasive answer would satisfy him. ‘I was English and now I am French.’

  ‘Is that so?’ He appeared to be amused.

  ‘So my husband told me when we were married.’

  ‘And you are loyal to France?’

  She faced him defiantly. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You have been in the guerrillas’ camp?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know, of course, that the guerrillas are a source of some annoyance, like fleas, jumping and biting? They must be squashed, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel, most decidedly. They tried to kill my husband…’

  He waved her to a chair, while the sergeant stood by the door, apparently forgotten. ‘I think you had better begin at the beginning.’

  She sat down on the edge of the chair, poised for flight, though she could not have escaped with the sergeant blocking the doorway. She told him about going hunting and being captured and Philippe being hanged, all of which had the ring of truth, and she did not have to pretend to be upset; the memory was still painful. ‘They left him for dead,’ she said.

  ‘Why did they not hang you too?’

  ‘I told them I was English.’

  ‘And they believed you?’

  ‘Yes, enough to have doubts about killing me. They just rode away, laughing. I suppose they thought I could not find my way down the mountain. After they had gone, I cut Philippe down.’

  ‘How? Did they leave you with a knife?’

  She paused, wondering why she had not thought of that. She could hardly change her mind now and say she had shot him down. They would not believe that anyway; even those who had actually seen the frayed noose which had been about Robert’s neck had hardly credited it. ‘I found a discarded bayonet.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘My husband was still alive, so I nursed him a day and a night until he was strong enough to move and then we found our way back.’

  ‘Where is this guerilla camp?’

  ‘In the mountains to the north-east, I think,’ she said evasively. ‘I do not know exactly. They blindfolded us.’

  ‘But you found your way home, it seems.’

  ‘We were lucky,’ she said. ‘I could not locate the path again and I think my husband was in too much pain to take note of where we were going.’

  ‘That is a great pity,’ he said, and she thought she detected a threat in his tone. ‘Because I want you to show us the way to this mountain hide-out.’

  ‘I cannot. All mountain tracks look the same to me.’

  ‘Then your husband will take us…’

  ‘He is weak, Colonel, and he cannot talk. His neck is lacerated and his voice has gone…’

  ‘He can write, can he not? And ride? He is an officer, not an ignorant peasant.’ He turned to the sergeant. ‘Fetch him.’

  The sergeant obeyed with alacrity and Olivia dared not protest. Her only hope was that Robert would maintain his silence and do nothing to arouse suspicion. She realised with a growing awareness that now her tale had been told and she had claimed Robert as her husband she was in the subterfuge so deeply there could be no extricating herself. She had to play the role to its end. She had thought herself in a scrape when Philippe died, when she was fleeing from the guerrillas and trying to find her way back to the British lines; now she was in a worse one, and still it was her own fault.

  Why did she let such things happen to her? No sensible, well brought-up young lady, English, French or Spanish, would allow it; they would be branded as unacceptable to society if they did. She would never be able to hold up her head in a London drawing-room again. Not that she set much store by that; here, in Spain, was the real world, here was life in the round, the living and the dying. But she did not fancy the idea of dying just yet.

  ‘Tell me all about yourself.’ The colonel pulled up a chair close to where she sat and smiled at her in a way which left her in no doubt what he was thinking. ‘You have courage and beauty too, worthy of something more than a mere lieutenant. How did you meet him?’

  ‘In Oporto,’ sh
e said, remembering what Robert had said about the English colony there. ‘My father was a wine merchant. Philippe used to come to our house when he was quartered in the town. My father liked him.’

  ‘Even though he was French?’ He reached out to touch her arm. She pretended not to notice, wishing she felt a little cleaner and tidier; it was difficult to behave with any hauteur in the circumstances.

  ‘Why not? Philippe was…is…a good man, and my father was anxious I should marry. He wanted to see me settled; he was dying, you see.’ She buried her hands in the folds of her skirt and crossed her fingers to ward off the retribution for all the lies. She was amazed at how easily they tripped off her tongue. She prayed Robert would say and do nothing to contradict her.

  ‘Did you not want to return to England?’

  ‘No. I had left it as a child; what was there to go back to?’

  ‘But a mere lieutenant! Surely you could have had your pick of half the officers in the French army.’

  She smiled at his flattery. ‘Colonel, Philippe Santerre comes from a very distinguished and noble family. The fact that he is a lieutenant is only a matter of short duration. He would have been promoted before now if he had not been wounded at Talavera and his regiment all but wiped out.’

  He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Well said, madame, well and loyally said. We shall have to see what we can do about this lieutenant of yours. A post at headquarters, I think, eh?’

  ‘Colonel…’

  ‘No need to thank me now,’ he said, smiling and putting up a chubby hand to touch her cheek; it felt cold and moist on her skin. ‘Once he is on my staff, you will be able to show your gratitude in the proper manner. We can ensure that he is kept busy and you are, shall we say, entertained.’

  Olivia took a deep breath. ‘Colonel, you flatter me. I am sure I would be a great disappointment to you; my English upbringing…’

  ‘Englishwomen are cold, you mean?’ He laughed again and reached out to grasp her thigh. ‘What is it they say? “Still waters run deep…”’

  She shot from her seat and backed away from him. ‘I am not still waters, Colonel, I have a vicious temper. I throw things…’

  ‘Better and better.’ He laughed and sat back in his chair to look up at her, appraising her bright cheeks and angry eyes, letting his glance rove down to her trim waist and over her dusty skirt to her boot-clad feet. ‘You are hardly in a position to act the innocent, are you? Don’t you want a decent pair of shoes and a gown that does more for you than that rag you are wearing?’

  ‘They are practical.’

  ‘They are enough to put a man off his dinner…’

  ‘Good!’ she retorted.

  He rose and took a step towards her. She backed away, looking round for a way of escape, but there was none. ‘No,’ he said, laughing again. ‘You are certainly not still waters; you are a turbulent ocean with heaven knows how many hidden currents. Navigating them will be a source of great enjoyment.’

  Mercifully they were interrupted by the arrival of the sergeant with Robert, who wandered in behind him as if he were being made to attend a rather boring tea party, except that his eyes were alert and took in the scene at a glance — the colonel with his hands on Olivia’s shoulders and, judging by her high colour, they had not been exchanging the time of day. He was surprised how angry it made him feel.

  The colonel turned and looked him up and down. ‘Is it true?’ he demanded. ‘Is it fact that your wife has a fiery temper?’

  Robert looked from Olivia, who was trying to convey a message with her eyes for him to agree without actually nodding her head, then to the colonel. Robert smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but all that came from his throat was a hoarse whisper. The colonel turned to Olivia. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said, “Truly remarkable,”’ she translated for him. ‘I told you he could not speak. I must do the talking for us both.’

  Colonel Clavier drew paper, pen and ink from his desk drawer and signalled to Robert to sit at a small table by the window. ‘You will draw a map of where the guerrillas are hiding,’ he said.

  ‘We did not know where we were being taken,’ Olivia put in, as Robert took up the pen and dipped it in the ink. ‘I told you they blindfolded us.’ She watched in horror as Robert began sketching.

  ‘It seems your husband remembers more than you do,’ the colonel said.

  ‘He is making it up, to stop you interrogating him,’ she said. ‘He had enough of that from the guerrillas. He was much too ill after I had cut him down to mark the route we took coming back down the mountain.’

  The colonel straightened up from looking over Robert’s shoulder and scrutinised her face. She felt herself going very red. ‘Why are you being so difficult, madame? One would almost think you wanted to prevent us from finding these bandits. I hope that is not so?’

  ‘Of course not. I want them found,’ she said quickly. ‘I was only thinking of my husband’s weakened condition…’

  ‘He does not look weak to me, madame. In truth, I think he is quite capable of reporting for duty.’ He turned to Robert. ‘That is so, is it not, Lieutenant?’

  Robert, who had laid aside the pen and was waving the paper like a fan to dry the ink, nodded agreement.

  ‘Then I will arrange for you to be attached to my staff,’ the colonel went on, taking the rough map from Robert. ‘I can use you as a guide.’

  Robert stood up, clicked his heels and bowed his head in obedience, then turned to take Olivia’s arm and escort her from the room.

  ‘Au revoir, madame,’ the colonel called after them. ‘You had better be on hand when your husband reports for duty — until he can talk again, that is.’

  Olivia and Robert walked in silence along the tiled hallway, past the guard and out of the front door. The heat of the July sunshine reflected off the cobbles and rose to meet them, but both had become used to it and hardly noticed it. They were more concerned with hurrying away from any watching eyes in the house they had just left. As soon as they were well away and in one of the many narrow alleys which criss-crossed the town, Olivia let out her breath in a huge sigh of relief. ‘Now what are we going to do?’ she demanded. ‘We will be under the eye of that lecherous monster all day, every day.’

  ‘He is evidently very taken with you. What did you do to him?’

  ‘What did I do?’ she squeaked. ‘You think I like being mauled by that fat pig?’

  ‘You didn’t seem to be trying very hard to stop him.’

  ‘How could I? If he had any idea who you really are…’

  ‘You mean you endured it for my sake? I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘Believe what you like,’ she snapped. ‘It will not make a jot of difference in the long run; we’ll be found out, and I’d rather leave before that happens.’

  ‘What? With our mission unaccomplished?’

  ‘Our mission! Not two hours ago, you were telling me I did not need to stay.’

  ‘That was two hours ago.’

  ‘What is different now?’

  ‘My appointment to the colonel’s staff and his evident attraction to you.’

  ‘All the more reason to go. We’ll never keep up the deception.’

  ‘We will. We have to. And you can deal with him, I’ll lay odds.’

  ‘Even if I can, you will never carry it off. I do not know what madness made me agree to help you. Let’s leave now and go back to our own lines…’

  ‘Our own lines, my dear Olivia? Where might they be?’

  ‘Wherever General Craufurd is.’

  ‘And where is that?’

  ‘How on earth should I know? Perhaps Don Santandos will tell us.’

  ‘Not he. He does not trust you any more than I do.’

  She stopped walking to turn angrily on him. ‘Just what are you implying, Captain Lynmount? If I am not to be trusted, why did you encourage me to bring you here, right into the lion’s den? I could hand you over right now. The sergeant of the guard is over
there. The one we met at the gate.’ She nodded her head towards a group of soldiers standing round a lone guitarist who sat on the edge of a broken limber singing a sad lament about a soldier leaving his love to go to war. ‘I could call him over.’

  ‘Do so, if you wish,’ he said laconically. ‘It will be interesting to hear how you explain away your previous story and why you did not denounce me when we were in the colonel’s office. Good as you are at telling a tale, I doubt you would be very convincing.’ He smiled but there was no humour in his hazel eyes. ‘And, of course, I could explain that you have never really thrown off your English loyalties, in spite of my generosity and kindness to you. I am Lieutenant Santerre, a loyal subject of Napoleon, remember?’

  ‘And how do you think you will manage to say all that when you are supposed to be unable to speak? I am your voice, or had you forgotten that little detail?’

  ‘Touché, madame.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘It seems we are inextricably bound together. It is worse than being married.’

  ‘And what do you know of marriage?’

  ‘Nothing, thank heaven.’

  ‘Then do not speak of things you know nothing about.’

  ‘And I suppose two husbands, both dead, makes you an expert on the subject?’

  ‘That was a cruel thing to say.’

  He suddenly became contrite. ‘I am sorry, Olivia,’ he said softly, taking her arm. ‘That was unforgivable of me. I humbly ask pardon.’

  ‘Why is it,’ she mused, more to herself than him, ‘that whenever I decide to break free of you something happens to bind us even more surely? It is certainly not your charming manner.’

  He roared with laughter and Olivia became aware that the group of soldiers had turned to look at them. ‘It’s not funny,’ she hissed. ‘You are making us conspicuous.’

  His laughter turned to a lop-sided grin as they resumed walking. ‘Our being bound together, as you put it, is not of my choosing, Madame Santerre.’

  ‘Nor mine.’

  He smiled down at her. ‘Then let us say it was an unkind fate, then we need not blame ourselves or each other. Let us accept the inevitable and make the best of it. The sooner I have done what I came to do, the sooner you can be released from an association you find so abhorrent.’