The Price of Honour

by Mary Nichols

  He took it and smiled. ‘They must have lost a few on the way.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord, the guerrilleros and the Ordenanza have been very active and pick them off at every opportunity. The French are also very hungry.’

  He smiled. ‘I thought they might be.’ He paused. ‘Where is Captain Lynmount now? Why did he not return himself?’

  ‘He has gone after Captain Whitely.’

  ‘Gone after him? But Whitely was sent to find Robert. What happened?. Or are you too tired to tell me now?’

  She was puzzled. ‘But my lord, have you not more important things to do? Do you not need to give fresh orders?’

  He gave a great whoop of a laugh which startled her. ‘Everything is in hand, have no fear.’

  ‘You knew all along?’ she said. ‘I have wasted my time and yours?’

  ‘Not at all, my dear, it is always useful to have confirmation of intelligence and I do want to know what has happened to Captain Lynmount.’

  She sat beside him and told him everything. He did not interrupt until she had finished, then he said, ‘You are a very resourceful and courageous young lady, and I salute you.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ Now it was all over she was almost dropping asleep where she sat.

  ‘Go and rest now,’ he said, rising and holding his hand out to her. ‘Major Hamilton will escort you to the palace. They will look after you there. We will talk again tomorrow.’ He raised her to her feet, then clapped his hands and the aide came back in and was instructed to take her to the palace and see she had everything she needed.

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ She turned to go. ‘Captain Lynmount’s horse, I left him outside…’

  ‘Thor?’ he said in surprise. ‘You rode that brute?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He will be taken care of. Now go before you fall asleep on your feet.’

  She was glad to obey. At the palace, once the home of King Manuel, but now appropriated for the use of the high command, she was shown into a room which was the height of luxury. A bath was brought in and filled with hot water and from somewhere, as if by magic, nightclothes were found for her. Major Hamilton was also very resourceful, she decided, as she fell into bed. Her last thought before she fell asleep was of Robert. Where was he? Had he found Rufus? And if he had, what had he done with him? And Juana? Would he find her too?

  Forget! she commanded herself. Forget and think of England, because that is where you will be going next. Home!

  But home was where the heart was, and hers was not in England; it was wherever that enigmatic man decided to settle.

  The next day was bright and sunny though a cold wind blew down from the mountains and made the air chill. She rose and breakfasted and went back to the convent. Today arrangements would be made for her to go home; today she would turn her back on war and death, hunger and thirst; today she would borrow some money from one of his lordship’s aides and buy herself some clothes in Coimbra, feminine clothes, and a hat and shoes. Concentrate on that, she told herself, not the love you are leaving behind. It was better that way.

  The convent stood on a fork in the road where the chaussée from Viseu climbed to its highest before dropping down to the plains of Coimbra. From just outside its walls, Olivia had a clear view for miles around, to the hills of the west which dipped down to the Atlantic where the evacuation fleet stood by, and to the east where Masséna’s glittering columns could be seen making their way towards them, mile upon mile of foot soldiers, cavalry with coloured plumes bobbing in the sun, horses, guns, wagons, mules and camp followers. They could be seen winding their way along every road, through the pine trees of the forests, across the heather-covered hills.

  ‘Impressive, aren’t they?’ She heard Wellington’s barking laugh behind her.

  She turned towards him. ‘Yes, my lord. Frightening too.’

  ‘Oh, there is no need for that, my dear; we shall lick them, never fear.’

  ‘But I can see so few allied troops.’

  ‘They are there just the same, behind that ridge, silent and waiting.’ He pointed to a long hogback of a hill running north to south. ‘Let Johnny Bluecoat come on, let him think we are withdrawing once again; he will learn differently tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow, my lord?’

  ‘Yes. They will try to climb that ridge and they will be repulsed.’ He laughed again, this imperturbable man who commanded the devotion of officers and men alike. ‘Soult has brought up his army from the south to join Masséna and they think they have outmanoeuvred me, but they will see that I can move troops faster than they can. My southern army is in place on my flank.’ He smiled at her. ‘Now to our business, eh?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  He took her arm and strolled with her along the paths through the wood, past streams and fountains, shrines and statues. She was aware that two of his officers followed discreetly behind them. ‘I must thank you once again for bringing me news, but what I need most is Captain Robert Lynmount himself.’

  ‘But he was cashiered, my lord, he is no longer a soldier.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense! Major Hamilton tells me those two men, his so-called accomplices, have been persuaded to tell the truth. The verdict of the court-martial has been reversed. But that is of little consequence.’ He paused to look closely at her. She had still not recovered from her exhaustion, but no matter, she was strong. ‘Now I am going to ask a great favour of you.’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Will you go back for me?’

  ‘Back, my lord?’

  ‘Yes, back. Take a message to that foolish man. I have work for him, urgent work, and he will listen to you.’

  She doubted that and said so, which made him laugh. ‘You do not know your own powers, my dear.’

  ‘But I do not know where to find him, not exactly. He might be at São Jorge, or Villa de Fuentes, Salamanca even, anywhere at all.’

  ‘I would wish him in Santander.’

  ‘My lord?’ She did not understand. ‘I thought you wished him back here?’

  ‘No time for that. He is to go at once to Santander and meet a courier from Rothschild in Paris. He will be given a consignment of gold. I have to pay this army of mine and without gold I cannot do it. ’Tis no good relying on London.’

  She knew her mouth was hanging open, but every time she shut it he made another pronouncement which made it drop again. ‘My lord, I do not understand. How can you have communication with Paris? And Santander is…’

  ‘Deep in French-held Spain. I know it. Now, will you do it? I will give you sealed orders which he will not dare to disobey, but if you are caught with them on you…’

  He did not finish; there was no need to elaborate. ‘Will you go? I will send someone to go with you, someone entirely trustworthy.’ He turned and beckoned to one of the men behind him. Olivia gasped aloud when she saw that it was Father Peredo. Wellington’s loud laugh rang in her ears; he certainly enjoyed a joke. ‘I believe you know the good father?’

  ‘Indeed, yes.’ She held out her hand to the priest as he came hurrying towards them.

  ‘Well done, my child,’ he said, grasping her hand in both his own.

  ‘How did you get here?’ she asked.

  ‘I rode, just as you did.’

  While they made their way back to the convent, he told her that he had been an agent for the British since the Battle of Vimeiro in 1808. When they had left after that, he had bided his time, gathering intelligence, convinced that they would return.

  ‘And well it was that he did,’ murmured his lordship. ‘He has been invaluable.’

  ‘I usually send messages through scouts like Robert, but this time I was afraid Robert would not get through and decided to come myself,’ Father Peredo went on. ‘I arrived a week ago but tomorrow I set off again for Villa de Fuentes.’ He paused and looked into her face. ‘If you have any love in your heart for that man of yours, you will come with me.’

  ‘You speak of love for a man; why not lov
e of country?’

  He smiled. ‘That too.’

  ‘You will go with the father?’ Wellington asked.

  She nodded agreement; there was no need even to think about it, but she was not at all sure they would be able to find Robert and, if they did, whether he would be pleased to see her.

  That night the British and Portuguese forces were forbidden to light fires. They ate a cold meal and lay down behind the crest of the hill in total darkness and uncanny silence, knowing that next day there would be a great battle.

  Olivia, waking at dawn, rose from the massive four-poster and went to the window. The town and the surrounding hills were blanketed by fog. She washed and dressed quickly, gathered together her few belongings and went out in the chill air to the spot where the day before they had watched the approaching French columns. Now they could see nothing of either side. Father Peredo was waiting for her, already mounted and once more dressed in clerical robes. There was someone with him, riding a small pony and holding Thor by the reins. It was Pedro.

  She greeted him joyfully and sprang into the saddle. There would be no shopping in Coimbra, no voyage to London, no gossips to face, no long and lonely widowhood; she was going to find Robert. The slate had been wiped clean and he could, with honour, return to his regiment. Most of all, he must be made to see that Juana was not the woman for him, that there was someone nearer at hand, someone he had overlooked, someone whose life was not worth a farthing without him. She, who had always said he needed her, needed him with every tingling nerve, every fibre of her body, every thought in her head. Theirs had been no chance encounter; it had been ordained.

  They turned their horses south to make a wide detour round the battlefield, feeling their way through the fog. Behind them the sound of gunfire told them that the skirmishers had made contact and there would be no more withdrawing. The long-awaited battle was about to begin.

  ‘He was riding Pegasus,’ Martin Davaco explained. ‘He told the look-outs that he had come from you and had news for us. We thought something had happened to you and the senhora…’ He paused. ‘We asked him, “What has happened?”, but he did not answer; instead he raised his gun and shot one of my men.’ The partisan leader was still seething. ‘We should have put an end to his miserable life when we first captured him…’

  ‘I am sorry, that was my fault,’ Robert said. After he had left Olivia he had made for a company of French cavalry he had seen earlier when reconnoitring but, after carefully skirting all round them, he had concluded Rufus had not joined them. His efforts had not been entirely wasted because he had been able to steal a horse from their lines, laughing as he rode away with it. The next day he had picked up Whitely’s trail because of Pegasus — the grey was easily remembered — and after that it had been easy to follow him back to São Jorge.

  ‘Now he will die in torment…’ Martin was saying.

  ‘Why did you not kill him at the time?’

  ‘He had friends…’

  ‘French soldiers?’

  ‘No, English deserters, about six or seven of them. While he was talking to us, they had rounded up all the women and children and took them to the church. They threatened…’ He stopped. ‘The price of releasing them was the loot we had taken off him and two days’ start. It was a small price to pay.’ He sounded almost apologetic.

  ‘Which way did he go?’

  The man shrugged. ‘We searched for days but could find no trace of him or his men. We think they crossed the border into the mountains of Spain.’

  Robert thanked him and rode on. Rufus Whitely was on his way to Salamanca to join Juana, he was sure of it. He wanted revenge. He savoured the idea as he took the mountain roads over the border and into Spain. Revenge would be sweet. It was because of Rufus Whitely that he had lost his right to call himself an officer and a gentleman. It was because of Rufus Whitely that he had been forced to send Olivia away. The thought of Olivia riding alone into heaven knew what danger nearly drove him mad. But he could not have brought her with him. He smiled wryly; she would have spent the entire time arguing with him that what he was doing was wrong.

  Her apparent hardness was no more than a shell but a difficult one to crack open; once or twice he had caught a glimpse of the inner Olivia, the vulnerable, insecure woman, and it always made him want to take her in his arms and promise her anything, anything in the world, if only she would allow him to take care of her. But inevitably something happened to close her off from him again and most of it his fault. Her sharp manner concealed the tenderness of someone who could feel for others; she had proved that with her concern for the women and children of Villa de Fuentes and the way she had stayed to help him when all she had ever wanted was to go home.

  She would be on her way home now. One day, someone somewhere would succeed in piercing that shell and reaching the soft heart of her and he envied the unknown man.

  He wished they had met in different circumstances, in London perhaps, before the war, with his father beaming in pleasure and Olivia looking all woman, softly swathed in silk, her figure with a few more curves than it had now, her hair caught up at the back of her head and falling softly to her shoulders… No, her hair should be just as it was now — a golden halo, nothing more. He would have left her behind when he came to war, secure in the knowledge that when he returned she would be there waiting for him and she would never have known the horror of violent death, of hunger, of searing heat or freezing winds.

  He stopped himself suddenly. The woman he had been describing to himself had not been Olivia, not the real Olivia; the real Olivia’s character had been shaped by what she had been through and it was the real Olivia he loved, her independence, her resourcefulness, her cheerfulness, her sheer perversity. That was Olivia.

  She was worth her weight in gold, worth more than a hundred Juanas, worth more than the satisfaction of a hollow revenge, more than the bringing to justice of a traitor who, when all was said and done, had failed. What was the good of winning back his claws if he could not sheath them? Claws only hurt the people you touched; better to be without them. The sound of his laughter echoed round the mountains, bouncing from peak to peak, as he turned his horse back the way he had come.

  Days and days they had been travelling, Olivia, Father Peredo and Pedro, with no sign of Robert. He had stopped at São Jorge, they had established that, and he had been mounted, but then nothing. Now they were approaching Villa de Fuentes and all Olivia’s hopes were pinned on finding him there. She told herself that her impatience was due to her errand, that Wellington depended on her and the courier would not stay in Santander indefinitely, all of which was true, but, more than that, she wanted to find Robert before he reached Salamanca.

  They rode over the new bridge and along the village street, with all the inhabitants crowding out of their houses to welcome their priest. They did not like it when he was away; he was crucial to their lives; he stood between them and their oppressors. It was not until after everyone had eaten and drunk and given thanks for the father’s safe return that they were able to ask about Robert and then they were told that nothing had been seen of him.

  ‘The other one, we have seen,’ one of the women said. ‘The other Englishman. He was here two days ago with others…’

  ‘Others?’ queried Olivia, knowing she was referring to Rufus. ‘How many?’

  ‘Englishmen, about seven of them. He told us they were on a secret mission.’

  ‘Which way did they go?’

  She pointed into the mountains. ‘That way.’

  ‘We must get after them,’ Olivia said.

  ‘Where is Miguel Santandos?’ Father Peredo asked. ‘We need his help.’

  ‘He has been away a long time,’ an old man said. ‘He left his command to José Gonzales, but yesterday he came back. He went after them, swearing to avenge his wife’s murder.’

  ‘Alone?’ Father Peredo asked.

  ‘He forbade anyone to follow him.’

  ‘Get the men,’ the
priest ordered Pedro. ‘Tell them to gather on the bridge by the monastery. I will meet them there.’ He turned to Olivia. ‘You wait in the village until we come back. We will resume the search for Captain Lynmount when this is done.’

  Olivia did not argue, neither did she obey; she simply mounted Thor and followed him. Knowing it would be useless, he did not send her back.

  They were approaching the monastery when they heard gunfire. Father Peredo dismounted and went forward on foot, dodging from tree to rock and rock to bush, with Olivia following, her rifle at the ready. A few moments later they came within sight of the building and found themselves behind Whitely and his band of desperadoes who were trying to cross the bridge to reach the safety of the high peaks and now found themselves pinned down by fire from the building. Olivia crept closer to Father Peredo.

  ‘Is it Don Santandos?’ she whispered, looking up at the stout walls. ‘Could it be Robert? Or both of them?’

  ‘No. There is only one gun and I saw a glimpse of Miguel at a window.’

  ‘Where are our men?’

  He looked towards the bridge. It was empty, almost inviting the deserters to cross. ‘Pedro must have had trouble finding them. They will come.’

  ‘We cannot wait for them,’ she said, raising her rifle. ‘If Rufus Whitely realises Don Santandos is alone, he will storm the monastery, and one man cannot keep so many at bay.’

  He turned and grinned at her and loaded his own weapon, an ancient musket which was normally hung on the wall of his living-room as a reminder that war was an evil thing. ‘Come on, then, let us join the fun.’ Coming as they did, from the rear, they forced the attackers to turn and defend themselves. They dashed from cover to cover, reloading alternately and using pistols as well as her rifle and his musket; it made it seem as if there were more than two of them. The ruse would not serve for long and Olivia found herself praying that Pedro had found the guerrillas and they were even now approaching the bridge from the other side.

  A shriek told her that one of the men had been hit, though whose shot it had been she was not at all sure. In a way she hoped it had not been hers; in spite of her prowess with a gun, the idea of killing anyone was abhorrent. All she wanted to do was render them harmless. If she and Father Peredo could keep pushing forward, they could herd them all back to the building where Don Santandos was still firing.