by Gale, Iain
Keane shook his head. ‘No. I can’t say that I do. It just feels like home to me. The army. I couldn’t stomach commerce.’
‘But ten thousand a year, James. Just think of it. And here we are living in the Middle Ages.’
‘I’d sooner take my chances on the ramparts with the forlorn hope, Tom, than be in trade. You know that.’ He got to his feet. ‘Right. I think we had better be on our way.’
The ten minutes had run its course and Keane gave the order to mount up. They all moved fast, amid a chorus of groans that were shouted down by Ross, and on Keane’s command the little party trotted on.
*
Wellesley had ordered them not only to return with intelligence of the guerrillas, but also if Keane thought it prudent and in their interest to do so, to leave a man behind, an officer who might instil some sort of organization, should it be lacking.
This was the greater part of his task, he knew, and he had not yet had the heart to mention it to Tom Morris, to whose lot it would undoubtedly fall to be that officer.
In Keane’s opinion such a move was doomed to failure. The guerrillas, he reckoned, would be insulted and the officer placed in a dreadful predicament. Of course, it was not in fact Wellesley’s idea but that of a Spaniard, the Duque del Infantado. Well named, thought Keane; only an child would have imagined that British discipline would have any effect among the guerrilla fighters. He imagined that they must be something like the American riflemen who had done so much damage and inflicted such casualties in the Revolutionary War. A fat lot of use an English officer would have been to them. They did not even obey the doctrines that Baron Steuben had instilled into the regular continental troops. But Keane knew from the regimental veterans’ stories of that affair that the American irregulars had been just as much to blame for the British defeat as their drilled and polished ‘properly trained’ brothers. And he imagined that the same role would fall to the guerrillas if they were ever to rid Spain of the French.
*
The road became steeper now as it rose into the high sierra, and looking down into the valley Keane noticed how the fields gave way to acres of trees. On the hillsides huge granite boulders seemed to have grown into strange shapes, some resembling human forms. Gabriella was whispering something to Silver.
Keane asked, ‘What was that?’
‘She doesn’t like it, she says, sir. It’s the Serra da Estrela. The mountains for the stars. Her mother told her about it. It’s a wild place. Beautiful but a place of spirits. Full of strange folk, she says. Gives her the shivers.’
‘Tell her that there are no spirits here. Only the ones waiting for us in a bottle wherever we stop to rest.’
But Gabriella seemed to be having none of it and clung to the neck of her horse as they climbed ever higher into the hills.
The huge granite rocks were everywhere about them now, carved by the whipping sierra wind into strange, outlandish forms. Again Keane heard Gabriella talking to Silver. She spoke in almost a whimper now, betraying what sounded to him like genuine fear.
*
For her sake alone, if not for the rest of them, Keane was relieved when they came in sight of the town of Linhares, just as the light was beginning to fade. They reined in and looked up from the road at the town, bathed in the evening sunshine.
The ancient medieval town rose up before them, its simple houses clustered around a hill surmounted by a castle. It was a superb strategic position. Keane could see instantly what had driven the original settlers to build here, and the soldier in him worked out instantly how the place might be defended in its present state.
The buildings seemed to Keane to have been carved from the very rock of the mountains, the orange pantiles added merely as an afterthought. The place was dominated by the twin towers of a pre-medieval castle and the remnants of the defensive walls still guarded the entrances.
Garland spoke. ‘Christ, sir. Is that where we’re going? That place?’
‘That’s where I intend for us to rest for the night, yes, Garland. Why?’
‘Don’t like the look of it, sir. Bit funny, if you know what I mean.’
‘No, what do you mean?’
‘Well, sir, sort of sets you off all a shiver, doesn’t it? You’d expect some old knight in armour to come rising up out of it. Like a spirit, sir. Or a hobgoblin, wouldn’t you, sir?’
Keane laughed. ‘No, as a matter of fact I wouldn’t. And nor should you. You’ve been reading too many of Mrs Radcliffe’s stories, Garland.’
‘Mrs who, sir?’
‘Radcliffe. Never mind. Well, that’s where we’re going. There’s no alternative apart from the rocks. So don’t trouble yourself. Now, let’s see if someone can find us a bed.’
They wound their way down the little road and entered the town under a medieval arch cut into the defensive wall and topped with battlements. Once inside Keane felt enclosed and as if they might indeed have stepped back in time three hundred years. Nothing here had changed, it seemed, for centuries, and for an instant he heard Garland’s words. But only for an instant. Emerging into a narrow street, they walked their horses on over the worn cobblestones until they found themselves in a square with a bell tower and an inn, outside which hung a sign painted with a wine bottle. The place was deserted. Two doors creaked open on their hinges and in response to the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves, swallows flew from under the eaves of a house, making them all start. They were jumpy and with good reason. This place, for all he had said, had a strange air about it. Keane gave the command to dismount and, with his hand resting on his sword hilt and Silver, Heredia and Morris close behind him, pushed open the door of the inn.
The place was deserted, save for an elderly man sitting at a table in the far corner of the room and a girl, mopping away at the floor. As they entered, the man looked at them with a frown.
Keane spoke in Spanish. ‘We’re English. English soldiers, señor. We are looking for a bed.’
The man looked at them again and then waved at the girl to leave.
‘English? You are not French?’ he asked.
‘No, sir. Not French. Look at our red coats. English.’
The man pointed to Heredia. ‘He is Spanish.’ Then at Morris’s blue coat. ‘French. He is French.’
Before they could stop him the man had moved his hand from beneath the table and stood up, producing as he did so an ancient blunderbuss which he aimed at Morris.
Keane spoke: ‘No!’ and his hand went to his sword.
At the same moment Morris walked towards the man, and as he did so removed his helmet.
‘No, I am English.’
The man looked uncertain for a moment and kept the gun levelled at Morris, his finger hovering over the trigger. He spoke, haltingly: ‘English?’
Morris nodded and stood there. Heredia spoke, in Spanish, and the man stared at him quizzically. Silver joined in, in his own self-taught, half-remembered dialect and to Keane’s surprise the man began to smile. He lowered the gun and shouted to the girl, who walked quickly across to the counter.
‘Carlotta, wine for the gentlemen.’ He turned to Morris. ‘English. Yes, we can give you a bed. How many are you?’
Morris replied, ‘Eight and one woman.’
The man looked surprised. ‘A woman?’
Keane spoke: ‘The wife of one of my men.’
The innkeeper, who had now laid down the ancient weapon, looked at Keane. ‘You are a long way from your army, no?’
‘Yes. We come ahead of them. You know where our army is?’
‘Of course. Does anyone not know?’
As Keane sent Ross to summon the others, the girl returned with a tray and two bottles of wine, along with nine glasses.
The innkeeper spoke to Keane. ‘Your army is coming here?’
‘No, not the whole army. Not here, exactly.’ He tried a different tack. ‘We are here looking for the French.’
‘The landlord smiled and then looked grim. ‘Why come to look for the F
rench? We do not want them to find us. We have heard too much about what they have done. Pray God, señor, that they never find this place.’
Keane nodded and turned to find Silver behind him. ‘What the deuce did you say to him?’
‘I just told him that we were all English, apart from Heredia who was our guide. I also told him that I was married to a Portuguese girl, that her family had been killed by the French and that I personally wanted to cut the bollocks off the next French officer I met. Was that right, sir?’
‘Quite right, Silver. Well done.’ Heredia was standing close by. ‘And you, Heredia. Well done you too.’ Heredia managed a smile, but something told Keane that he resented Silver’s clever quip, and he detected just a whiff of rivalry.
Keane took a sip of wine and Morris did the same, turning to the landlord who had poured himself a large glass and offered some to the others. Keane nodded and the girl poured. Morris spoke: ‘It’s a beautiful village.’
The landlord smiled. ‘Yes, it is. Very old. The Romans came here. The castle is very old. My family have lived here for many hundreds of years. Pray God, they will do so hundreds more. We do not want war here, señor. We want peace. Why do you bring war?’
Keane shook his head. ‘Not us, señor, but the French. We are here to save your people from war.’
The man shook his head. ‘Then, señor, you are too late. The war is here now and I know that it will not leave my country until many thousands of people have died.’
Keane grasped the moment. ‘What do you know of the guerrillas? There’s a man called Morillo.’
The landlord looked at him.
‘You are looking for Coronel Morillo? You must be a fool.’
‘Why? You know him?’
The man was quick to respond. ‘No. No, I have never met him. But I have heard about him. Many things. I don’t think you want to know him, señor.’
‘He’s a patriot, isn’t he? He fights for Spain. For all of you, against the French.’
‘From what I have heard, señor, Pablo Morillo fights for no one but himself. But yes, he hates the French.’
‘I’ve heard that he gives no quarter.’
The man waved his hand and rose to his feet. ‘Please, please. Don’t talk of him, señor. Lest he should come here. We do not need him here. Or the French.’
Or us, thought Keane. You don’t need us, do you? You just want to be left alone. But you’re right. It is too late. War has come to this place and now you have only one hope of salvation. And that is us. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you. If you know anyone who can direct us to Morillo, I should be in your debt. I can pay for information.’
The man sat down again. ‘Carlotta, more wine. I do remember something now. There is a story about where he is meant to have his camp. Although he changes it all the time. My niece here overheard a conversation between two officers, Spanish officers, just three nights ago, didn’t you, Carlotta?’
The girl nodded.
‘There were Spanish cavalry here?’ Keane asked.
‘Yes, sir. Do not think you are the only ones to come here. She might tell you what you want to know. For a price.’
Yes, thought Keane, I’m sure she will. And he wondered just how she had ‘overheard’ the Spanish officers speak; in what circumstances, and what she had charged them for the pleasure of her company. She came over now to their table.
‘Carlotta, this English officer would like you to tell him what you heard from the two gentlemen. About Coronel Morillo’s camp. He’ll pay you.’
She looked at Keane. ‘How much? It’s dangerous to talk.’
The man spoke. ‘Shall we say five guineas?’
Keane shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, señor. Five guineas, and I don’t even know if it will be true.’
‘It’s worth five guineas, isn’t it?’
The girl looked at him with brown saucer eyes and opened her mouth just a fraction so he could see the white of her teeth.
Keane smiled. ‘Five guineas, and for that you can send her up to my room later.’
The man pretended to look shocked. ‘My niece? Señor.’
‘She might be your daughter for all I know. Do we have a bargain?’
The girl nodded and flashed a smile at Keane, who brought out his purse and laid the money on the table. The girl picked up one of the coins and bit it to test it, then laid it back down. The man scooped the money into his palm as she spoke. ‘Morillo’s camp is just on the other side of the hills, to the east, and across the plain of the Coa. Then it is a climb into the mountains. By horse it will take you four, maybe five hours. Go just as far as Trancoso, then turn east, further into the mountains.’
‘How will I find him?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. He is sure to find you, señor.’
She flashed another smile and then turned and walked away. Keane thanked the landlord then went to join his men, and began to turn his thoughts to a warm bed.
*
When Keane awoke at dawn, the innkeeper’s niece, if that indeed was what she was, was long gone. He felt as he always did in such circumstances. Saddened, yet reassured once again that there was more to life than the business of death in which he was more usually engaged. He felt no remorse. No more at least than she might have done, and no regret. It had been a deal. Part of a deal, and she had carried out her part of the bargain admirably. And then she had gone. Pulling on his clothes, Keane tried to remember a time when he had not felt like this about women, and could not. To him such encounters were merely a part of soldiering.
He buckled on his sword belt and opened the shutters to the light.
*
They saddled their mounts as the sun was crowning the peaks of the Serra da Estrela and moved off through the little town as noiselessly as they could. At the old defensive gate a sheepdog stood and barked at them like some ancient sentry, but that was the only sign of life they saw. Taking the high road towards Caloric, they gradually dropped down into the valley of the Mondego. The country now was quite different. The stark grey granite had gone, to be replaced by lush fields and pastures where sheep grazed in their hundreds. Along the banks of the river’s tributaries stood watermills and to Keane the land seemed untouched by time. He was reminded of the landlord’s words and wondered how much longer this paradise would exist. The French armies lived off the land, taking what they needed and laying waste to anything they did not. Soon, perhaps, he thought, all this will be gone. For all we know we may be the last travellers to see this land as it is. As it has been for hundreds of years and may never be again.
Following the road, they began to climb again on the route that would take them deep into the mountains. The earth was hard and dry and the horses’ hooves crunched on the stones. Reaching a junction in the road they saw below them a valley.
Keane pulled up and dismounted. Opening his valise and taking out Grant’s map, he unrolled it and smiled at Morris. ‘That’s the Coa, Tom. And over there’ – he pointed eastwards. ‘Over there, that’s Almeida and then Spain.’
‘And the French, James.’
‘Aye, and the French. But that’s not where we’re going.’ He turned to the north. ‘That’s our road, there. North, across the river and into the hills.’
‘To the guerrillas.’
‘Yes. God knows what we’ll find, if the girl’s to be believed. I can’t help but think that we’ve had it too easy these last few days. I know it’s been hard going. But I have a feeling that we’re about to get a rude awakening, Tom. Make sure you’re ready for it.’
*
It was down in the valley where the girl had sent them, on the banks of the Coa, that Keane first became aware that they were being watched. He was conscious of movement in the undergrowth quite a way off in the hills away to their left. Nothing visible. Just a general feeling of unease and an imagined, unwanted presence. It could have been anything, he supposed. A deer, a goat, or a flock of sheep. But somehow he knew it was a man. Or men
. They went on another few miles, with no one saying a word. Only Silver carried on humming one of his monotonous shanties. But even he was quieter now, such was the growing sense among them all that they were being tracked.
They were in a defile now, narrow with steep sides and the stream running along to their right. Following a bend in the road, they found the way blocked. A fall of rocks had come down the hillside and now extended from the rise on the left to the drop on the right.
Keane stopped in his tracks. But it was not the vertiginous view that unsettled him. For now he could see that behind the rocky barrier ahead of them stood a man.
He stood with his arms folded, staring at them. He was of medium height with a shock of dark-brown hair which fell forward onto his tanned forehead in two long curls and in his right hand he held a cigar. He had piercing black eyes which were fixed on Keane, and above the curiously feminine bow of his lips was the suggestion of a moustache. He wore a black bicorne hat trimmed with a cockade in the Spanish colours, placed fore and aft as Wellesley did, and the blue uniform of an officer in the Spanish army, heavily encrusted with gold braid. On his breast he bore the star of the Order of Charles III.
The man nodded formally at Keane. ‘Coronel Pablo Morillo at your service, captain.’
Keane nodded in return and slipped down from his horse, ordering the others to do likewise.
‘Good day, colonel. James Keane, captain attached to the staff of Lord Wellesley. I’m obliged to you, sir.’
‘I have been following your progress with interest for some time, Captain Keane. And here you are at last. So tell me, what is it that brings you to our camp, at the risk of your life? I am sorry, but some of my men cannot tell an English soldier from a French one. You might have been killed.’
Keane smiled. ‘Yes, that would have been awkward. I’m here at the request of the commander-in-chief of the British expedition to Portugal, colonel. He desires information and in return will assist you in ridding your land of the French.’