The Price of Honour

by Mary Nichols

  She rubbed her hand across her mouth as if to erase the memory of that brutal kiss and then jumped to her feet to go to the window. He had mounted the miserable excuse for a horse he had bought from the commissary and was riding down the street, followed by half a dozen urchins, who called after him for alms. He threw them a few coins and then trotted to the square where the advance guard was mustering for the march. He did not look back.

  She sighed heavily, ate the last of the bread, then picked up her own bundle and went out to the street.

  A young Spanish boy came out of the shadows and touched his forelock. He was about thirteen, she guessed, though he was so undernourished he might have been older. He wore nothing but a ragged shirt and trousers held up with what looked like part of a soldier’s crossbelt. ‘I am Pedro,’ he said. ‘The capitán said I must look after the señora. Come.’

  The huge column had just been given the command to move. Ahead rode the senior officers, surrounded by cavalry, their colourful plumes bobbing and harness jingling, then cuirassiers, with their breastplates reflecting the glare of the sun, then infantry in ranks, headed by their regimental colours and guarded on their flanks by sharp-shooting voltigeurs, and behind them the limbers, pulled by heavy horses, the ammunition caissons and finally the baggage wagons.

  The vehicle the boy conducted her to was so dilapidated, it was almost falling apart; the springs had gone and the stuffing had come out of the torn upholstery, but Olivia was the envy of all the other women who were obliged to walk in the rear of the column or ride atop the baggage in the wagons. She was strong and healthy and there were many who were not; to the consternation of Pedro, who expected to be punished by Robert for dereliction of duty, she surrendered it to the sick and expectant mothers and took her place with the walkers.

  Thus it was she was far behind the front of the column when it arrived in the narrow village street of Villa de Fuentes, and Robert, going back to look for her, found the coach overflowing with squabbling women and very young children, but no sign of her. Pedro, shaking in anticipation of a beating, told him that the señora would not ride in the coach and that if many more crowded on to it, it would collapse. The women would not listen to him and he would be glad if the capitán would turn them off. Robert smiled and drew the boy out of earshot. ‘Let them have it, Pedro,’ he whispered in Spanish. ‘You go back for Señora Santerre and take her to father Pedro. Tell her to stay there until I come.’

  ‘Sí, señor.’

  ‘And not a word to anyone, you understand?’

  The boy grinned. ‘Sí, señor. I tell no one you have a fine voice, that you are a friend to Spain.’

  Robert smiled as he watched the boy dodge back through the laden wagons, tired horses and half-starved mules to where the last of the column struggled along on foot, then he returned to Colonel Clavier, who was surveying the remains of the bridge.

  ‘Damned guerrillas,’ he muttered. ‘They must be taught a lesson they will not forget in a hurry.’ Then, seeing Robert, he demanded, ‘Did you know the bridge had gone?’

  Robert shook his head.

  ‘We’ll deal with this pestilence before we go any further. You’ll lead us to them, Santerre, you’ll lead us to them, even if we have to climb over that damned mountain to find them.’ He pointed to a peak which, even in summer, was capped with snow. ‘If they can survive up there, so can we.’ He opened the bag on the pommel of his saddle and pulled out the map Robert had drawn. ‘We’ll take two companies and the six-pounder; anything heavier will be too cumbersome.’

  He looked up at Robert who mouthed the word ‘Quand?’ When?

  ‘Tonight. We’ll go under cover of darkness. If they don’t see us coming, they won’t know what has hit them until it is too late.’

  Robert, nodding in agreement, wondered how a man as stupid as Clavier had ever managed to become a colonel. If he thought two companies of soldiers and a gun, which meant horses too, could move against the guerrillas, either in darkness or daylight, without being seen and heard long before the guerrillas were seen and heard, he was a fool.

  ‘How long will it take to reach them?’ the colonel broke in on his thoughts.

  Robert held up four fingers.

  ‘Four hours. As long as that?’

  Robert made signs to indicate the steepness and roughness of the terrain.

  ‘Then go and eat, Captain,’ the colonel went on. ‘Make love to that lovely wife of yours and report back in two hours, ready to lead the way.’

  Robert came to attention and bowed his head to acknowledge the order, though there was no question of obeying it. He smiled wryly. Even a kiss had provoked a resounding slap and put an end to any thoughts he might have had that she would welcome his advances.

  ‘It were as well you said nothing to Madame Santerre of your destination,’ the colonel added as he turned away. ‘I still think she has a sneaking regard for that bandit.’ He gave a barking laugh. ‘I do not altogether understand why women idolise the most uncouth of men. They seem to delight in savouring the uncivilised.’

  Robert hid his smile as he moved away; the colonel himself, for all his gold braid and plumes, was far more uncouth than Don Santandos with his ragged goatskin coat and matted beard, but that was something the Frenchman would never understand. He would be glad when he could get Olivia away from it all.

  He found her at the home of Father Peredo, along with a dozen small children of camp followers whom she had taken there to be given food and somewhere to sleep. The good priest’s servants were busy trying to look after them, muttering under their breath about having to look after French urchins when the Spanish children in the village were just as hungry and whose fathers were also required to fight. ‘Children are children the world over,’ Father Peredo said. ‘Fetch the village youngsters to share the food; let the little ones learn to love their enemies, even if their parents cannot.’

  Olivia, seeing Robert, put down the two-year-old she was nursing and went to him. ‘You look tired. Come and sit down.’

  ‘Why did you give the coach away?’ He sank into a chair and looked up at her. Her simple skirt and blouse were dusty from travel, her hair had been blown by the wind into a tangle and her face had caught the sun, but her eyes were still full of life and a smile played about her lips; he marvelled that she was as cheerful as ever.

  ‘I did not need it, others did. What is happening?’ She nodded towards the outside, where the sounds of an army could easily be heard — the shouts of command, the jingle of harness, the creaking of wheels on the sun-hardened road, horses, singing, women calling out as they caught up with their menfolk. ‘Has the colonel seen that the bridge is gone? What did he say?’

  ‘He is going into the hills to look for Don Santandos.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight at dusk.’

  ‘And you are going to show him the way.’ He did not answer and she pressed her point. ‘You are, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  He did not want to argue with her; he would rather have snatched a few minutes’ sleep. ‘I have been ordered to.’

  ‘By a fat, ignorant French pig of a colonel! I am not going to stand by and let you do it.’

  He smiled wearily. ‘And how do you propose to stop me?’

  She stood looking down at him, green eyes flashing anger, and then turned abruptly and called to Father Peredo, who was marshalling the children into the dining-room. ‘Robert is going to lead the French army into the hills to find Don Santandos,’ she told the priest when he joined them. ‘He has betrayed his friends…’

  If she had thought her disclosure would shock Father Peredo or shame Robert she was mistaken. The priest looked from one to the other and smiled. ‘Captain Lynmount must do as his conscience dictates…’

  ‘Conscience!’ she squealed. ‘He has no conscience. I do not know what his game is, but he must not be allowed to sacrifice the guerrillas for it.’

  ‘They know the
odds,’ Father Peredo said calmly. ‘And so does Captain Lynmount. You, my child, must not interfere.’ He turned to Robert. ‘You know what you are doing?’

  ‘Yes, and so does Miguel Santandos.’

  ‘You will need a decent horse,’ the priest said. ‘Yours is in an old hut in the hills behind the church, safe and well-fed, but ready for some exercise.’

  Olivia stared at them both, unable to believe her ears. Had she been mistaken in Father Peredo too? She opened her mouth to protest and then shut it again, but that did not mean she accepted either Robert’s decision or Father Peredo’s judgement on it, nor had she any particular feeling for the men who had killed Philippe, but they were supposed to be allies in this monumental struggle against Napoleon and it was not fair that they should be sacrificed. She listened carefully to Father Peredo’s instructions on how to find Thor and watched Robert leave. As soon as the children had been returned to their mothers and the priest had gone to say mass in the neighbouring church, she changed into a pair of Philippe’s old overalls, crammed a beret over her curls and crept out of the house to find Pegasus.

  The hut was hidden in a fold of the hills which rose up behind the village and had probably been used as a shelter by the goatherds who looked after the village flocks. It was only a one-roomed building, half-stone, half-wood, but big enough to conceal two horses. If the French had known the animals were there, they would have been confiscated and the villagers severely punished.

  She approached carefully but there was no one about and Pegasus gave her a snicker of greeting as she opened the door and slipped inside. She found his bridle and saddle lying in a corner and five minutes later was riding him out and down the hill, keeping in the twilight shadows.

  She had been going only a few minutes when she remembered seeing the guard at the monastery looking over the bridge at a path which led up from the gorge bottom. Was that an alternative way up from the village? If so, where did it begin? She could only think of one place and that was at the foot of the other bridge, the one in the village. She turned her horse towards it, wondering how she could pass the French troops camped around it; they would be thickest at that point and on their guard. Boldness, she decided, was the answer; in the darkness she could pass for a French soldier. She turned back and rode down the middle of the village, whistling to herself, apparently off-duty and at ease, though inside she was tense as a coiled spring and praying no one would stop her.

  Camp fires glowed among the trees of the orchard which bordered the road as the women went about their tasks of cooking the evening meal and the men eased off their boots and sat in stockinged feet to clean their weapons ready for the morrow. Many of them carried wine in their canteens, a flogging offence in the British army but common practice among the soldiers of Napoleon, and there was already a great deal of drunkenness, ribaldry and lovemaking. Not that Olivia blamed them for that; they needed something to lighten a miserable existence. She had thought Tom was badly off, but his life had been luxury to what the common French conscript had to endure.

  She slumped in the saddle and dropped her head on her chest, as if tipsy herself, apparently letting the horse have its head, and arrived at the bridge without being challenged. Now she had to find the beginning of the path and must be careful not to arouse suspicion.

  ‘If you keep going you will ride straight into the river,’ someone called after her. ‘Don’t you know there is no bridge?’

  She roused herself and raised a hand to acknowledge she had heard, but did not turn towards the man; the twilight had given way to a bright moonlit night and she dared not show her face. She dismounted awkwardly, as a drunken man would, and led her horse into the trees beside the road, muttering something about the damned Spanish wine giving her a bellyache. The soldier laughed and turned away.

  She tethered the horse to a tree and began exploring along the top of the gorge through which the river had cut its path, making her way from the bridge northwards. At first it seemed so sheer that there was no way down, but half a kilometre on she found a track and went back for Pegasus. The path was so steep, she had to lead the horse and before long she was beginning to doubt the wisdom of bringing the animal, but, having begun the descent, she was determined to keep going, glad that the roar of the water covered the sound of the horse’s hoofs and the clatter of loose stones, which she kept dislodging and which cascaded down to the river, glinting far below her in the moonlight.

  She dared not look down but kept close to the horse’s head, murmuring encouragement, more to help herself than Pegasus, desperately hoping that she had been right, and that when they reached the bottom there would be a level path, and she would not be faced with having to climb back the way she had come. If that happened she had lost all hope of overtaking the column marching to the monastery.

  At last the path levelled out and she found herself on a well-worn track which followed the line of the river very close to the bank. In spring, when the river was swollen by melting snow, it would be underwater, but now, in July, it was almost dry and was an easy ride. She mounted again and set off at a walk, not daring to go faster, for down in the valley bottom there was no moon. Her main task now was to locate the path leading up to the monastery and she was gambling that it was no worse than the one by which she had descended.

  An hour later, she poked her head over the top of the cliff close by the bridge, and looked about her. The monastery building was in darkness and she could see no guard patrolling the road. For the first time she began to have doubts. Had the guerrillas left the monastery to the advancing French, or, worse, had the French already arrived and taken it? Was the way to northern Portugal open to the invader? She led Pegasus forward into an olive grove on the lower slope, where she tethered him to a tree, stroking his nose and bidding him stay quiet, before creeping forward to find the answer to her questions. The moon had gone behind a cloud and she was glad of the darkness as she darted silently from tree to tree, peering up at the grey stone walls, looking for a light in a window, the reflection of a weapon, anything to tell her that Miguel Santandos and his men were still there, still watchful.

  The next moment she was flung off her feet and all but throttled by an arm coming out of the darkness and encircling her throat. She landed heavily on her back as her assailant flung her to the ground and sat astride her. The moon came out from behind a cloud and for a brief second she could see his head outlined against the night sky and the knife gleaming in his upraised hand.

  ‘Robert!’

  ‘My God, Olivia!’ The knife clattered to the ground and he rolled off her and sat back on his heels to stare into her pale face. Her eyes were brilliant with fear and he found himself shaking at the thought of what he had been about to do. ‘What in hell’s name did you think you were doing?’ he demanded, taking refuge in anger. ‘I was going to kill you.’ He looked down at the French overalls she wore and then back up at her face. ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘On Pegasus.’ She sat up and shook the dry dust from her hair. ‘I came to warn Don Santandos you had betrayed him and were leading the French to attack him.’

  ‘You fool!’ He scrambled to his feet and held out his hand to help her up. ‘Why can’t you behave like a woman and leave the fighting to men who know what they are about? You could have ruined everything.’

  ‘That was my intention.’ She ignored his hand and stood up beside him. ‘Forewarned is forearmed. At least I would have given Don Santandos a fighting chance.’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘And I, all unknowing, was to lead the French into an ambush?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And was I to be given a fighting chance?’ He was both exasperated and admiring, and he wished he dared release her, but she was so unpredictable, he could not trust her to stay at his side. ‘Where did you leave the horse?’

  ‘Tethered to a tree near the bridge.’

  ‘Then let us fetch him.’ He took her arm and began propelling her towards the bridge. She
struggled but he hung on to her. ‘I am a fool,’ he said, between gritted teeth. ‘Fool to think that you thought well enough of me to trust me and do as I asked. Now you must take the consequences.’

  He did not slow his pace as she stumbled along beside him. ‘What are you going to do?’

  He did not answer but tightened his grip on her arm until she had to bite her lip to stop herself crying out. ‘Robert, please, you are hurting me.’

  ‘If you insist on denying your womanhood to dress and behave like a man, you cannot afterwards complain if you are treated like one. From now on, you will take orders like a soldier or the consequences will be what every soldier can expect if he neglects his duty.’

  Behind them she could hear the French patrol — boots scuffling on the hard road, the rumble of the gun’s limber, the sound of harness and hoofs. They would be alert and watchful, she knew, but until they were within a few hundred yards of the building they would not know how narrow the road was, nor how little cover there was around the bridge. She looked up at Robert, wondering whether to attempt to make him change his mind and join the guerrillas, but he did not look like a man open to persuasion; his jaw was set and he was looking straight ahead.

  ‘Come,’ he said as they reached the horse and he untethered it. ‘Mount up.’

  She obeyed silently. He took the reins and led her out on to the road and towards the approaching patrol, turning his back on the monastery. If Don Santandos was there and looked out now and saw them, she would hardly blame him if he put a bullet into their backs. ‘Robert,’ she said, in desperation, ‘let’s go to the monastery, please.’

  He turned to look up at her. She was not sure but she thought he was smiling. It was just like him to laugh when there was nothing to laugh at. ‘Are you suggesting that Captain Philippe Santerre should desert?’