I was sure that Hobhouse had guessed that the woman would see little of the money, and anything he was pleased about was probably bad news for me. ‘Who on earth is Viriatus?’
‘Didn’t they teach you anything at Rugby?’ asked Byron with a grin. ‘Viriatus was a famous leader of the Portuguese, or Lusitanians as they were then. He beat several Roman armies before he was murdered by assassins.’ As he spoke I realised that a long dead chieftain was not the Viriatus in question. For Hobhouse had poked what I had taken to be an old fur rug in their luggage, and the thing had moved. It uncoiled itself from the bags and sat up beside Byron’s chair staring suspiciously at me. Even sitting, the beast’s head was taller than Byron’s, who now noticed its presence and reached from his seat to pat the animal. ‘Ah, here he is, Viriatus. He is an Irish wolfhound. They were given by Irish chiefs to honoured guests apparently, but this one was sold to me in Lisbon by a soldier from the Connaught Rangers. He is a good companion, but not particularly bright, he does not know any tricks.’
Having just accepted a purse full of gold I could hardly turn down the dog. Hobhouse gave a smile of triumph as I accepted the end of rope attached to its collar. ‘The bloody animal also has fleas and some disgusting eating habits,’ he grumbled. Hobhouse glanced round at Byron who had now got up and was talking to the carter about loading the luggage. ‘And if you try to lose him,’ he added quietly, ‘and deliberately leave him tied up at an inn, the bloody creature will chew through the rope and track you down over several miles.’
I could not help but grin, anything that annoyed Hobhouse was all right in my book. Byron had always been fond of dogs. I had heard him say that he wanted to be buried with a dog called Boatman that he had been forced to leave behind when he went to university. When Cambridge University had said that under their rules students were not allowed to bring dogs to the college, he bought himself a brown bear to spite them, as bears were not mentioned in the rules, and kept the creature in the stables.
With much hand shaking, back slapping and exclamations of undying friendship, Byron was soon ready to leave. ‘Good luck Thomas,’ he called. ‘When we are back from Byzantium we must meet again in London and exchange tales. You can bring Viriatus with you.’
He and Hobhouse rode out of the square with their baggage carriage following on behind. Most of the crowd stayed to watch the woman, which confirmed my suspicions that she had been the attraction in the first place. She was a fine looking piece, I reflected, and in a proper gown instead of the dour black smock she had on, I was sure she would certainly turn heads. As I sat down at the table again something I had in my pocket dug in my ribs. As I reached in to remove it I saw the priest coming forward to reclaim the woman. She scowled at him malevolently.
‘Apologies sir,’ said the priest in English to me, ‘but the lady must now come with me.’
I had finally dug the thing out of my pocket and I saw that it was the pasteboard invitation for the ball that evening. ‘I was wondering,’ I said in Spanish, looking at the woman, ‘if the lady would like to accompany me to the celebration ball this evening?’
Her face lit up with a smile for the first time and she nodded. But before she could say anything the priest gave an exaggerated gasp of astonishment. ‘That is impossible sir,’ he spoke again in English so that she could not understand. ‘She is a married lady and it would be most unseemly. She has been placed by her husband into the care of the mother church. She could not possibly attend the ball without her husband.’
‘Nonsense,’ I replied again in Spanish so that the woman could follow the conversation. ‘She has told me she left her husband over a year ago. She was allowed to defend the city of Zaragoza and beat back a French attack without him so I think she can be trusted to attend a ball without his company. In an event to celebrate victory over the French, I can think of no better companion.’
‘It is impossible,’ said the priest stubbornly now in Spanish, and he started to pull on the woman’s arm to get her to rise.
I rose to my feet as she wrenched her arm out of his grip. ‘You listen to me,’ I told him in my most officious manner. ‘I am General Wellesley’s personal representative, an officer and a gentleman. I have asked the lady to the ball and she has accepted. That is an end to the matter unless you want me to take this up with the president of your Central Junta, who I am meeting later. The Junta is looking for British support, so I do not think they would want General Wellesley’s representative insulted. I rather think that they may also want the heroine of Zaragoza at the ball too.’
The priest’s eyes glittered dangerously as he weighed likelihood of my words. But then he gave a grim smile of satisfaction as though the battle was not over yet, but he was grudgingly conceding the first engagement. ‘You can collect her from the convent opposite the cathedral.’ With that he pulled again on her arm, getting her to her feet.
‘Wait,’ I said. I turned to the lady, ‘Madam, I am Captain Thomas Flashman but I do not yet have the honour of your first name. I cannot call you the Maid of Zaragoza all night.’
She smiled hesitantly. ‘I am Agustina,’ she said, and then more confidently, ‘I am Agustina de Aragon.’ With that the priest led her away.
I should mention at this point that Byron was true to his word and did dedicate two verses of his epic poem Childe Harold to Agustina’s exploits. It is his usual turgid flowery nonsense of course, as you can see for yourself. I got my grandchildren’s governess, Miss Tuttle, to scour through it to find them. The poor woman is quite besotted with Byron even though he is now long dead, and was beside herself when she discovered that I had known him and the subject of these verses:
LV
Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,
Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower,
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power,
Her fairy form, with more than female grace,
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face,
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase.
LVI
Her lover sinks - she sheds no ill-timed tear;
Her chief is slain -- she fills his fatal post;
Her fellows flee -- she checks their base career;
The foe retires -- she heads the sallying host:
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost?
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall?
What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost?
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,
Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall?
Chapter 17
With Agustina gone I settled down to finish the bread, olives and some spicy sausage left on the table, washing it down with a jug of good red wine. The great hound sat beside me and fixed me with a brown eyed stare, probably in the hope that I would give it some sausage. But I was hungry too, so all it got were the two rough end pieces of the meat, which it gulped down with barely a chew. After varying degrees of refreshment, man and dog sat and surveyed each other. He was a tall, lean brute, but despite what Byron had said, I thought there was a calm intelligence to him.
‘Viriatus,’ I said thoughtfully. The dog’s head twisted to one side slightly at the name and I will swear that he cocked a single shaggy eyebrow at me. Not another word was said, but I sensed without a shadow of doubt that we were in unison in thinking that Viriatus was a ridiculous name for a dog. He had been an army dog before and I wondered what his previous name had been. Soldiers were not that imaginative with dogs’ names and I had known several just called ‘dog’. There was another name popular at the time, partly because it was an abbreviation for Bonaparte and partly because it related to a dog’s favourite food. Looking at this animal, whose haunches and even some ribs were visible through its skin, it seemed partic
ularly appropriate. ‘Boney,’ I tried, and was rewarded with a wag of his tail and the opening of his mouth to reveal a smiling crescent of sharp white teeth.
A short while later, Boney and I were exploring the narrow streets of Seville’s Jewish Quarter in search of lodgings. Despite the name, there were few Jews in residence as most had been expelled or forced to officially renounce their religion during the Middle Ages. Several doors had already been slammed in our faces when we found the gateway to a courtyard of a large guest house. The stout surly woman who managed the establishment was another to refuse my request. The city was already packed with soldiers and politicians, she told me. But this time, before she had a chance to slam the gate shut, Boney sprang forward, wrenching the rope attached to his collar out of my hand.
‘Hey, what is going on,’ shouted the woman, she fell back against her gate to avoid the charging animal, who gave a short bark of excitement. The swinging gate revealed a filthy stable yard with a pair of mules tied under an awning in one corner and a cart and some bales of hay in another. Two large rats could be seen between some barrels in the middle of the courtyard, and too late they noticed the grey shape leaping towards them. There was a squeak of alarm that was truncated by the audible snap of jaws. Boney, dropping the first rat, reached the second with a single bound. He snatched it up, shaking it to break its neck. Then with a sickening crunching noise he seemed to swallow it in two gulps before turning to find his first victim.
‘Bravo,’ shouted the woman in appreciation before turning back to me. ‘Señor, your dog, he can stay.’ She paused, looking me up and down and appraising what she could charge before adding, ‘And you too perhaps.’ She eventually found me a room on the top floor of the house. It was comfortable apart from the summer heat, but everywhere was hot in southern Spain in July; well almost everywhere. I did not have to share with Boney as I found him residing with the owner in a much cooler parlour on the ground floor. It was poorly lit with shutters keeping out the sun while allowing a breeze, but I could clearly see the dog stretched out across the cold stone flags that made up the floor. He had a pail of water set for him at one side and the woman cooing over him and feeding him bits of stale bread. The damned creature even noticed me looking in through the door and its mouth lolled open into one of its canine grins.
That evening, after persuading my landlady to leave my dog alone long enough to press some clothes, I finally presented myself at the door of the small convent opposite the cathedral. It was a small miserable place that looked more like a private house, but they still took over a minute to answer my knocking. When the door finally opened, there was the priest I had seen before, with a look smug satisfaction on his face.
‘The lady has been prepared for you,’ he intoned pompously. ‘And while I believe that a British gentlemen would only behave with the utmost honour and integrity,’ he managed to say this in a way that implied he actually believed the exact opposite, ‘duty requires me to protect the lady’s honour with all the resources at my disposal. Brothers Joseph and Antonio will therefore escort you throughout the evening.’ He gestured at a middle aged monk and a younger novice who had appeared at his shoulder. He paused at this point, looking at me as though he could guess my intentions. Well, he was bang on the money so far, I had little honour or integrity but if he thought he was entrusting an innocent lamb to a wolf, well he was wrong there. For I knew rather more about women than him and Agustina was no lamb. Quite what she was at that moment though was hard to tell, for when the priest and monks stood back a figure dressed entirely in black emerged. If you imagine a nun in mourning with a black veil over her head then you pretty much have the picture. Only the medal still hanging around her neck gave any flash of colour. I had been expecting this and had prepared for it, but I did not want the priest to know that, and so I reacted indignantly.
‘Good God man,’ I exclaimed. ‘That veil is so thick there could be another of your damned monks hiding in that costume and I am not taking one of them to a ball.’ Agustina reached down for the hem of the heavy lace veil, and ignoring a shout from the priest to leave it alone, she pulled the front up over her head.
‘I am sorry señor, they forced me to wear this and even held me down while they sewed the veil into my hair.’ Her eyes were red and she looked sad and forlorn. If I had harboured any doubts about the arrangements I had put in place they melted at that moment. ‘You do not have to take me to the ball dressed like this.’
The priest gave a smile of triumph, but it was short lived as I reached for Agustina’s arm to guide her through the convent door. ‘Nonsense, I would still be delighted to take you to the ball,’ then in a lower voice that only Agustina could hear I added, ‘don’t worry, everything is in hand.’ As we reached the square instead of turning left towards the palace we turned right, and then into a street lined with cafes and shops, near the place we had first met. We walked briskly and I glanced over my shoulder to see the two monks hurrying to catch us up. They were still several yards behind us when we turned again to enter a small discreet establishment. Most businesses were closed with many of Seville’s tradespeople attending the celebrations themselves, but the door to the dressmaker’s shop opened instantly to my knock.
‘Hello, dear,’ the portly shop mistress greeted Agustina, ‘It is an honour to have you in my humble establishment. Come along, we will soon have you sorted out.’ She was interrupted as the two monks burst in behind her. ‘Ooh monks,’ she said gleefully, before giving me a broad wink. ‘We don’t get your sort in very often. Lucia, could you attend to these gentlemen?’
From behind a screen stepped a well painted professional woman with a predatory smile. But it was not her face that you noticed first, for she was wearing nothing but a very low cut scarlet silk bodice and the shortest of petticoats. She had a body that could have brought a regiment to a halt in that outfit and to use her on two monks seemed almost cruel. They stood frozen in eye bulging, slack jawed astonishment as she slowly walked forwards giving them plenty of time to take in the view.
‘Hello boys, is there anything I can do for you?’ she asked, cocking a suggestive eyebrow. By Christ she was a comely piece and I realised that Agustina had disappeared with the owner out to the back of the shop without me even noticing. The younger monk seemed transfixed while the front of his robes showed that with one significant exception he was frozen with lust. The older one licked his lips as he surveyed the bounty before him. I was clearly not the only one to be considering the possibilities. The whore, for that was undoubtedly what she was, reached forward and grabbed the tent pole that had appeared underneath the young monk’s cassock. ‘Do you want me to help you with that?’ she asked, laughing. The touch seemed to break the spell and with a shriek the young monk leapt back as though her hand had burned him through the rough cloth. Muttering a garbled prayer in Latin he flung himself out of the door. With a last reluctant look, his colleague followed. The woman laughed and shut the door behind them. As she turned around she noticed the effect that her appearance had had on me and giggled. ‘Don’t worry señor,’ she whispered, nodding to the back where Agustina had gone. ‘From what I hear she is very good at firing off big guns.’ The scarlet temptress disappeared into the back with the other women while I was left to wander around the front of the shop alone.
I had found the dressmaker that afternoon on the way from the café where I had met Agustina to find some lodgings. It had been obvious from the priest’s reluctant agreement to allow Agustina to attend the ball that he would do what he could to ruin the evening. I had been sure he would find her the dowdiest dress. I had not anticipated the nun’s habit though and I had been expecting priest to come himself as escort. When I had looked in Byron’s purse I had found even more money than I had guessed at from the weight and I was curious about the girl. Even in the loose black gown there had been a lithe body evident and she had a pretty face when not scowling. She undoubtedly had courage and spirit and I wanted us both to enjoy the ball.
So when I saw the dressmaker sitting outside her shop making delicate stitches through a blue silk gown in the bright sunlight, I decided to make some preparations. Most of the seamstress’ clients were the better off courtesans of the city who had little love for the church. Everyone had heard the story of the Maid of Zaragoza and the woman had seen Agustina several times so was able to guess her size. She made clothes to order but had several overdue for payment that she could offer. It would do her business no harm for the Maid to be seen in one of her creations, although the amount she charged seemed eye-wateringly steep to someone who had never bought a gown before.
A very long hour later the amount paid was worth every penny. Agustina stepped out from behind the curtain at the back of the shop and looked stunning. The scarlet assistant, now properly dressed, was still fussing with Agustina’s hair, now artfully piled on top of her head, while the dressmaker was beaming with delight. I had paid for a red satin gown but Agustina was wearing the pale blue silk dress I had seen being made that morning. ‘This one looked better,’ the dressmaker explained. Agustina herself appeared as though she was still in a state of shock from seeing herself in the mirror. She walked hesitantly towards me, clearly unfamiliar with the size of gown that now surrounded her legs. When she reached me she grabbed my arm tightly and whispered her thanks as though at that moment she could say no more.
We walked back through the square to the palace. The monks were nowhere to be seen but the smartly dressed British officer and radiant beauty on his arm gathered envious glances from nearly all we met. Agustina was barely recognisable from the modestly dressed woman the priest had paraded in the town that morning, although she had kept her medal, which now dangled below a generous glimpse of cleavage. It was at the entrance to the palace that we found the cleric and two chastened monks awaiting our arrival. Even then we were almost up to them before the priest recognised us. His draw dropped briefly in astonishment at the transformation in Agustina, while the lustful look she was given by the two monks should have cost them a month of Hail Mary’s at their next confessions. I gave the priest no opportunity to intercept us and pressed on through the gate, waving the invitation card to one of the flunkeys.
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