by Mary Nichols
At first it seemed he was right. The French lay siege to the town on August the fifteenth and ten days later they were still there, still surrounding it and growing hungrier while they fired cannon balls at its walls and were sniped at by the defenders whenever they showed their heads.
‘Why they don’t invest it and carry on their advance I do not know,’ Robert said on the evening of the twenty-fifth, when he returned to the derelict peasant hovel a couple of miles from the city where Olivia had set up house. ‘They will lose the initiative. Wellington will be here any day now.’
‘So much the better, surely?’ she said, taking the pot from the fire and dishing food on to a tin plate.
She was adept at making a home in the most unpromising places and it was better than living outdoors with the men or crammed into the farmhouse with the colonel. She had cleaned its two rooms and built a fireplace in order to cook whatever food could be scavenged — she was good at that too — and she had found straw for bedding.
Robert was very often the officer of the guard or leading a patrol, or out on some secret errand of his own, and was rarely there at night, but when he was they retired to separate rooms to sleep. It was not something they had arranged formally; it just happened that way. Even so, it was a lifestyle that in England would brand her as a harlot, ruined beyond redemption, but this was not England and nothing was normal and the irony of it was, she was as chaste as any respectable widow could possibly be.
She tried to convince herself that that was how it suited her, that she was immune to Robert’s physical attractions, that she had not noticed his muscular torso when he bathed in the nearby river, that the touch of his hand did not make her yearn for something more. They did not quarrel so often now but neither did they share their thoughts. She knew no more about him than she had at the outset; he remained an enigma.
‘Yes, of course,’ he went on, unaware of her turbulent thoughts. ‘But if they hang about here until the winter rains they will never drive the leopards into the sea. It is the key to the whole war. Without the British presence in the Peninsula, there would be no stopping the Emperor; the world would be his.’
‘Then the longer Almeida holds out, the better. Could we not smuggle ourselves in there? I would rather be with our own people than out here. We are likely to go hungrier than they are.’ She was referring to the old problem of food supplies. Everything the country had to offer had been taken or destroyed by the inhabitants to keep it from the enemy and anything sent over the hundreds of miles of supply lines stretching from France had precious little chance of arriving. The troops were being driven to eat dogs and cats, and more ammunition was being expended on shooting wild birds than on the enemy, who were safe behind their walls with full larders.
He appeared to be considering the idea and she watched him carefully. Just lately he had seemed to be softening towards the idea of returning to his own people; once or twice she had caught him saying, ‘When we return…’ as if it were a possibility. He seemed to have aged several years in as many weeks, as if the strain of living a lie, and a silent one at that, was too much for him.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said now. ‘Tomorrow I will find a way into Almeida.’
He was afraid that if she did not soon return to a civilised life and revert to being the real lady who lurked beneath the old blue uniform jacket and peasant skirt which was more often than not hitched up to her knees she would never make the transition at all. Sometimes when he looked at her, with her face flushed from the cooking fire and her hair lying in curly tendrils about her cheeks, he would imagine her in a London drawing-room, dressed in silks and lace, with satin slippers on her feet instead of those old boots, and diamonds in her hair.
Not that she would be any more desirable then than now. He no longer tried to delude himself; he wanted her in his bed, wanted to demonstrate a love he could not find the words for. But he would not take her until she wanted it too. And if she never did, well, then, he would have to bottle up his feelings and look after her until she needed him no more.
He had to keep reminding himself that she was not with him by choice; her aim was, and always had been, to return to England. But why had she not gone when she had been given the chance? Why did she insist on his accompanying her? Was it sheer perversity? He wished he knew.
She was too thin and she worked too hard, not only looking after him, roaming the countryside persuading the people to part with a little food, but also for the other women and children who camped around the city only just out of range of its heavy guns. Sometimes her scavenging took her within sight of the snipers who lined the city walls and a musket ball would send her scuttling back to safety. She seemed to lead a charmed life, as if she had her own private guardian angel sitting on her shoulder. He was glad of that, because she ignored all his warnings and did exactly as she pleased. Her obvious wilfulness — he hesitated to call it shrewishness as others did — had had one good effect: Colonel Clavier had given up trying to seduce her.
She had told the colonel such an exaggerated tale of her husband’s jealousy and what he would do to anyone who so much as looked at her that the stupid man had been frightened out of his wits and had turned his attention to the widow of one of his officers, killed during the encounter with Craufurd. Madame Falaise had no husband to exact revenge and she was in such dire straits financially, she was grateful for the colonel’s protection. But how long that would last, Robert did not know; it would be better to take Olivia out of the man’s reach.
‘Be prepared when I come for you,’ he said. ‘When I come off watch.’
She was ready, but the way was made for them in quite a different manner from the one he had envisaged and it was not until afterwards that they found out how it had happened. The French were still bombarding the town in the vain hope that it might weaken the defences and demoralise the garrison, and it was sheer bad luck that one of the shells should land on a trail of gunpowder, left by a leaking barrel, which led straight to the open door of the cathedral where the ammunition was stored. Robert and Olivia were moving stealthily through a cornfield between the French lines and the city walls when they were nearly thrown off their feet by the explosion. She flung herself into his arms and stared open-mouthed as the cathedral, the castle and half Almeida were sent into the air in a huge billowing cloud of smoke and flame.
‘We could have been there,’ she said. She was shaking and he held her close against him, stroking her hair in an unconscious gesture of reassurance. She had washed it that morning in something that made it smell of lavender and it transported him back to his childhood and the scent of the garden after rain and the bees buzzing in the lavender bush. It made a stark contrast to the stench of gunpowder and burning wood, the crash of masonry and windows exploding. ‘If we had gone yesterday or that had happened tomorrow…’ She shuddered. ‘Oh, those poor people!’
‘Your guardian angel has come up trumps again,’ he said, trying to make light of it, but there was a catch in his voice which made her turn her head to look up at him.
‘My guardian angel?’
He smiled and his hazel eyes softened at the sight of her, this brave and lovely girl whose endurance and cheerfulness knew no bounds. ‘Yes, I always imagine a little cherub sitting on your shoulder, taking care of you.’
She laughed. ‘But you take care of me.’
‘Not very well, I am afraid.’ He nodded his head in the direction of the burning town. ‘And now we had better wait and see what the consequence of that is before we venture in.’ Reluctantly he released her and they turned to go back to their old quarters.
They could hear wave after wave of cheering coming from the French besiegers who, after the initial surprise, had realised what had happened; they were jubilant. Two days later the garrison commander learned that someone had let the French know there was no ammunition left, and after that there seemed to be little point in trying to brazen it out; he surrendered.
Napoleon’s men stormed ov
er the bridges which spanned the deep moat and ran into the city, cheering, looting, raping and stealing anything and everything worth carrying. By the time Robert and Olivia arrived, they were drunk and uncontrollable. Olivia had never seen them quite so bad in all the time she had been with them.
Robert was furious — extraordinarily so, she thought, as he fought with one soldier who came out of a villa carrying a large gilt mirror and a sack full of loot. His anger was so violent, she thought he would kill the man. Quite apart from the fact that it was accepted that French soldiers would plunder every town they captured, it was certainly not the proper thing for an officer to brawl with a private. Robert was also shouting in English, and that worried her more than anything. She tried to drag him off before they attracted a crowd.
‘Philippe!’ she screamed, hauling on his shoulder and hoping the use of his French name would bring him to his senses. She was in danger of being struck by flying fists, but she did not think of that.
‘Philippe! Let him be!’
He became aware of her only when a blow intended for his victim glanced off her cheek and she cried out. He turned his back on the soldier, who scuttled away, glad to escape from the clutches of the lunatic, and took her in his arms.
‘Olivia, what have I done?’ He took her face in his hands and surveyed it critically. There was a bright pink spot on her cheek. He bent to kiss it. ‘Oh, my love, I would not hurt you for the world. I didn’t see you.’
‘Nor heard me either,’ she said, pretending not to notice the endearment, telling herself that it was just his way of saying sorry and meant nothing. ‘I kept shouting at you. You seemed like a madman. Have you never seen a looter before?’
‘Of course I have, but in Wellington’s army it is a crime which merits a flogging. The worst offenders are hanged and left where everyone can see them.’
‘But this is not Wellington’s army, it is Napoleon’s, and you were screaming at him in English. We can only pray he knew no language but French and thought you were shouting in German…’
He took her arm, still looking grim, and together they walked into the town centre where a great heap of rubble was all that remained of the fine cathedral. The castle had been damaged and the surrounding houses had lost their roofs and windows. Olivia had never seen such devastation. ‘Don’t you think we should leave, while the situation here is so confused?’ she asked, convinced that the Portuguese would never recover their fighting spirit after such a defeat. ‘We would not be missed immediately. If Wellington decides to evacuate all his troops from the Peninsula, you and I will be left high and dry. We should join him before he embarks.’
‘What makes you think he will want us?’ It was a strange question and she looked at him sharply but, as usual, his rugged features gave nothing away. If only he would talk to her about himself, tell her what was eating his soul away, she might be able to help. More than anything she wanted to understand what drove him on.
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ she demanded. ‘We are English and presumably he was glad of the dispatches you sent him.’ She turned to look him squarely in the eye. ‘You did tell him the truth?’
‘That is not a question that deserves an answer and if you doubt me that much, why do you stay? Go, if you wish, go and tell him the truth yourself.’ He did not know why she continued to press him — he had made himself perfectly clear; he would not go until he had something worthwhile to take back, something not even Rufus Whitely could take from him.
‘How can I?’ she demanded, meeting anger with anger; it was part of her strategy, part of her fight against falling in love with him, her defence, her armour. But it was useless; she needed him and it was not all to do with how she was going to get home. Somehow that seemed to be losing its importance. ‘Would you have me travel alone?’
‘It was what you were doing when we met.’
‘But, if you remember, we made a bargain.’
‘That I would see you safely home if you took me into Ciudad Rodrigo.’ He could not suppress a smile at the memory of that encounter. ‘But you have been given the opportunity many times and have always refused to go.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘What attraction do I have, that you cannot leave my side? I am not wealthy and my prospects are non-existent. And it cannot be my charm, for you have told me I do not have any.’
‘That, at any rate, is true,’ she said. ‘But a bargain is a bargain.’
‘Events have overtaken us, and why is it so necessary that I should go with you? Ask Captain Whitely if you want company.’ He did not know why he mentioned the man’s name; he would never allow Olivia to go anywhere with that snake. ‘Where is the gallant captain? I have not seen him since…’ He racked his brain. ‘Where is he, Olivia?’
‘I do not know.’ She was equally puzzled by his reference. ‘The last time I saw him, and that was only briefly, was when the guerrilleros were captured and shot. I saw him standing beside the officer in charge of the firing squad.’ She paused, remembering what Rufus Whitely had told her. Had he completed his special assignment for Wellington and returned to his chief with his intelligence? Why did that not fill her with optimism? ‘He may have escaped.’
‘Broken his parole, you mean? Yes, I would not put that past him.’
‘He would confirm the intelligence you sent, would he not?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Then you have nothing to fear by going back. You have surely vindicated yourself.’
He turned angrily from her, striding over to the edge of the ramparts to gaze out over the plain towards the west. There, between him and the sea, stood the British forces, his own regiment, his one-time comrades. What she asked was no more than he longed for himself, but he could not do it.
Olivia, watching him wrestling with himself, knew now that she had lost the battle with herself; she could no longer deny her love for him and would endure anything to stay with him; home was wherever he was. If he never knew it, no matter; it was enough to be near him, to listen to his voice when they were alone and he was free to talk, to share a joke and hear his laughter, to watch him eat the food she had cooked, to be there when he needed her, to know that he would always look after her. Even to quarrel with him now and again. She could envisage nothing coming between them except the ghosts who haunted his dreams, who reminded him of a past he seemed unable to put behind him. She was powerless against that. But she would no more admit defeat than the plucky Portuguese; their faith could move mountains and so could hers.
They found a billet of two rooms in a house near one of the bridges which was only slightly damaged, and continued their masquerade, he as a loyal aide to Colonel Clavier and she as his mouthpiece.
The usual problems presented themselves to the occupying French forces: an even more resentful populace — Portuguese now — and supply lines longer than ever. The British forces had no such problems — they had the sea at their backs and a navy that ruled the world; they were as well supplied as the miserliness of the British government would allow. Nor did they have any trouble with the Portuguese, who looked to them for salvation and willingly took their orders from the British commander-in-chief. They had obeyed his command to pack up everything they could carry, destroy everything which could not be moved and retreat with him, leaving nothing behind for their conquerors. It was weeks before Masséna was ready to march again and by then he was undecided which route to take.
‘The colonel told Madame Falaise that Wellington has moved his headquarters back from Celerico to Gouveia,’ Olivia told Robert one day after meeting the colonel’s mistress in the market. ‘Is it true?’
He shrugged. ‘If you can rely on French intelligence, yes, it is true.’ He did not seem anything like as disappointed as she was at the news. Every time they moved a little nearer their own lines, the lines themselves receded.
‘Will he never stand and fight?’
‘In his own good time.’ He was sitting on a battered old sofa which served as his bed at night and a seat during the da
y. On his lap he had a board on which he had spread a large sheet of paper and was drawing on it with a piece of charcoal. She put down the shopping she had just brought in and went to look over his shoulder. ‘What are you drawing?’
‘A map.’
‘I can see that. What is it of and why are you doing it?’
‘It is a map of the mountains north of the Mondego River.’ He pointed to a line he had drawn. ‘This is the road the French are going to take to advance into Portugal.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I shall put it into Colonel Clavier’s head to advise the marshal that it is the one they should take.’
‘Why should they take any notice of you?’
‘Philippe Santerre fought in northern Portugal before, remember? He is supposed to know the terrain.’ He turned his head to smile up at her, almost boyishly. ‘They don’t want to meet Nosey head-on, they want to come upon his flank. I have been asked to suggest a route and as my croaking attempts to talk annoy the colonel no end he has forbidden me to speak and demanded a map.’
‘And is it accurate?’ She was horrified to think that he had been attempting to talk.
‘Of course it is accurate.’
She was angry with him. ‘If you have to oblige them, why can’t you deceive them? It is tantamount to…’ She stopped speaking, unwilling to accuse him of treachery again, but that was what it was. Having only just decided she loved him and that his reasons for what he did were patriotic, it was more than disappointing to find all her old doubts returning. He was impossible!
Unable to face another argument, she left him and went for a walk in the town, trying to come to terms with her own emotions, one minute full of certainty that all would be well if she could only make him put the past behind him and face up to the future, the next tortured with doubts that he was still carrying on a vendetta that only he knew about. If only there was someone she could talk to about it, but there was no one — no Father Peredo, no Don Santandos, no English at all, except Governor Cox, and he was a prisoner of war. Even Captain Whitely seemed to have disappeared, though whether she would have unburdened herself to him she was not sure. There was something about him she did not like. Perhaps it was because he had spoken so ill of Robert. And perhaps that had been justified; she did not want to think so.