‘That is why he assured me that I could always trust an Englishman,’ said Maria, staring up into his eyes. ‘They are a good race even if they are heretics.’
‘Generous of him. Sound chap, your uncle,’ was the best Pringle could manage. Maria had shifted her arm and his own hand slid round till it was above her ribs. Instinct was taking over and she did not seem to mind as he traced the outline of her body. The material of her habit was surprisingly thin.
‘Before my uncle left, he sent a large sum of money to me to provide for the nuns during the crisis and to permit us to continue our charitable works. He guessed that the French would be cruel, but alas, even he did not truly appreciate their viciousness. He gave the money to a priest who brought it to a little church five miles west of Obidos and hid it near there. Then he came to me here at the convent, but on his way a party of French soldiers arrested him as a spy. They hanged him by the crossroads.’
‘Goddamned rogues,’ murmured Pringle. Maria did not seem to register the blasphemy. Billy was struggling to listen. Both his hands had moved to hold the girl’s body. She did not seem to register that either, although he found it rather hard to believe. Her tale had the ring of fiction about it. At the moment did not seem to matter.
‘Only his servant escaped and he brought the news to me.’
‘Brave fellow, I’m sure.’
‘Then he ran away with his own and his master’s horses.’
‘Swine.’
‘I must go to Obidos and speak to the priest of that church. He will know where the money is hidden. Then I can bring it to my abbess and she will be able to use it to help the needy.
‘Please help me to do this thing. It is not safe to travel alone. There are French soldiers everywhere and they spare no one. Even nuns have fallen prey to their lusts.’ Maria paused and looked down as if only now noticing that Pringle had his arms around her. The Englishman coughed and then withdrew his hands, muttering an apology. Even then he wondered whether she was truly so naive. Surely a real nun would have been more outraged or even oblivious?
‘Oh, you are so sympathetic, so kind and honourable,’ she continued. ‘Will you escort me there and protect me? It is much to ask, but I beg you as an English gentleman to aid me now in my distress. Please, señor, please, I am begging you on your honour.’ Once again her head pressed against his knees imploringly.
‘Well, of course, if it’s a question of honour . . .’ said Pringle, tentatively patting her head, but taking care to suggest nothing beyond mere sympathy.
He remained sitting for a good five minutes after Maria left. Already the whole thing seemed unreal. Yet he had agreed to meet the nun at a crossroads shrine outside the town at three o’clock. Unless the orders had changed, the army would not be moving again today. He would bring horses and a few friends for added safety and they would take Maria to find the church and its priest, and then escort her back in safety with her money. It seemed simple enough, apart from borrowing horses, finding the man and evading any prowling French patrols. Simple, he thought to himself, and wondered why he had agreed so readily, even though he knew that he could never resist a pretty face. For all his bluff, at heart he was a romantic – or perhaps a damned fool, and maybe there was no real difference. Now he needed to find some more damned fools to help him.
Hanley, Truscott and Williams appeared in the doorway. Pringle smiled.
‘You will never guess what has just happened,’ he said.
23
‘Perhaps she isn’t coming?’ asked Hanley. They had been waiting for a good half-hour. A few travellers had passed, but there had been no sign of Maria. All three of Pringle’s friends had readily agreed to come. Indeed, he suspected that he could have recruited most of the officers in the regiment – probably in the army – with the prospect of helping a nun in distress. The idea was romantic, but far more than that everyone was still restlessly energetic, frustrated by a so far disappointing war and an enemy who had failed to turn up and fight.
Together the four men had called in favours, and spent almost the last of their money to borrow four horses. None was too impressive, but even so solemn oaths had been sworn to return them to their owners before dawn. All four men had felt the excitement of questing knights. It was now beginning to wear off in the baking afternoon heat.
‘Perhaps you imagined the whole thing?’ suggested Truscott. ‘Could all be a touch the sun. After all, to call her Maria.’
‘All the women in this country are called Maria,’ said Pringle stoutly. His doubts had grown, however. The whole episode now seemed unreal, the ‘nun’, her story and her behaviour like something from the stage.
‘Well, a lot of them anyway,’ acknowledged Hanley.
‘She felt real enough.’
‘Please remember that she is a nun,’ put in Williams.
‘Yes, don’t get any ideas.’ Truscott shaded his eyes to look up into the sky. The sun was still beating down and part of him wanted to lie in a shady spot and do nothing for a very long time. ‘Unless she is a figment of your imagination, in which case you are free to indulge in any sort of depravity.’
‘That almost makes me regret to have to say that she is coming.’ Pringle was pointing to a black-robed figure riding a donkey out of the town. The four Englishmen assumed respectful poses. Maria greeted them demurely and instantly won their devotion. She was humble and grateful, and even Williams’ suspicions of the Roman Church in all its forms were quickly turned into admiration for a godly young person willing to take risks to help the unfortunate. At the same time he could not help noticing that for all her simple and concealing clothes she was a remarkably attractive woman. He tried to suppress that thought and failed utterly. When she gave him the slightest of smiles he beamed back enthusiastically.
It took them more than an hour to ride to the little church. They passed a few whitewashed farms, but saw no villages. Even Obidos itself was out of sight, hidden by some low hills. There was no sign of the French, and barely any indication of people of any sort. The few travellers they passed tried to avoid their gaze and hurried away.
‘It used to be more important,’ explained Sister Maria. ‘Almost three hundred years ago a little girl was carrying water to her mother when she saw the Virgin herself standing tall on a boulder. She was very beautiful, and the sight of her face gave wisdom to the child to know instantly who it was.’ Williams only just managed to restrain a sceptical sniff.
‘Later the child became an abbess in my order. In the meantime a local nobleman paid for this church to be built.’ They had arrived and could see that it had a grand tower with a small but very high hall. ‘For over a century people came to light a candle at the shrine and pray for healing. There were some miracles.’ Maria’s tone was matter-of-fact. ‘These days, people rarely visit.’ Signs of decay were obvious in the crumbing stonework and loose tiles.
‘Why did they stop coming?’ asked Hanley.
‘There are other shrines and new miracles.’ Maria shrugged, and the gesture struck Truscott as somewhat incongruous in a nun, but then since he knew little about how such ladies were meant to behave he thought no more of it.
They fell silent as they stopped by the arched gateway to the churchyard and cemetery. Dismounting, they tethered the horses and the donkey to a hitching post that did not seem too rotten. Maria was about to go through the gate when Pringle stopped her. He drew his pistol and went first. All three of the officers had loaded pistols as well as their swords, and Williams had his musket. There was no sign of life in the church, and perhaps for that reason Billy Pringle felt the need for caution. The four men searched about for any threat, and kept Sister Maria in the middle of them.
Pringle lowered his pistol when he came to the small doorway setn the main double doors of the church itself. It seemed a necessary mark of respect, but he was still wary. He turned the handle and tried to use no more force than was necessary to open the door. Its hinges creaked alarmingly. He looked in, but it t
ook a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior after the bright sunlight. There was nothing – no movement and no sign of life. He went in, pistol ready down at his side.
Nothing happened. He looked up at a high vaulted ceiling and towards the ornate plaster altar. No, not plaster, he thought, but gilt decoration whitewashed in the hope of fooling French plunderers. Pringle’s footsteps echoed in the empty church. There was no other sound. He beckoned to them, and Maria and his three friends came in.
‘The place seems deserted. Might the father be away?’ he asked Maria. ‘After all, he did not know when you would come.’
She ignored him and walked across to a side door. Pringle followed. ‘Stay here,’ he said to the others. ‘Oh, and somebody keep an eye on those horses. I fear we have had a wasted journey. Don’t want to make it worse by having to walk back!’
Maria had already vanished. Pringle followed her, just in time to see the nun go through another door leading off the passage. When he reached it he could see her standing still in the centre of what looked like a kitchen. Her head turned back to stare at him, her expression blank. Pringle heard a noise from the corridor behind him, but before he could turn something hit him hard on the back of the head. There was an instant of searing pain and then nothing. He fell heavily, twisting his glasses off so that the edge of the wire frame left a cut on his nose.
The one-eyed sergeant nodded with satisfaction. Then he gestured to his men. Two left the building and made their way round to the front of the church. Another followed him down the corridor. All had fixed bayonets. Denilov followed, holding Maria tightly by the arm and with a cocked pistol pressed against her head. The remaining soldier left the priest, bound to a chair and already badly bruised, and covered the unconscious Pringle.
The two soldiers grabbed Williams by the arms before he knew they were there. He had propped his musket against the wall as he took a long drink from his canteen. He nearly choked as the water went down the wrong way.
Truscott and Hanley heard the main door kicked savagely open and then saw Williams flung through to land hard on the floor. Two soldiers in dark green jackets and trousers followed him, their muskets levelled directly at the officers. With another loud bang the side door slammed back against the wall and two more soldiers rushed into the room. There was no time to raise or cock their pistols. Then a taller man came in, holding the nun and aiming a double-barrelled pistol at her head. There were epaulettes on his shoulders and a gorget at his throat.
‘Welcome, gentlemen,’ he said in English. ‘I would take it as a personal favour if you would both drop your weapons. So would Maria, as otherwise I shall be forced to blow her head off.’
The pistols clattered to the ground.
‘And your swords.’
Hanley and Truscott each took a light hold of their swords and drew them slowly. Clutching the hilts with just thumb and index finger, they let the blades drop.
‘Excellent, I can see we shall be such good friends,’ said the count. The other soldier dragged Pringle into the hall and rolled him up against the wall. Hanley and Truscott both rushed to see how badly he was hurt. Prodded by bayonets, Williams scrambled across the floor to join them.
‘Who the hell are you?’ demanded Truscott, relieved to see that Billy Pringle was only unconscious and did not seem to be seriously hurt.
‘Merely a visitor to these shores. You are in no position to demand any more information than that. Indeed, you are in no position to demand anything at all.’ Denilov barked an order in a language none of them recognised and three of the soldiers took a step closer and stood watching the Englishmen. Their bayonets looked sharp, and the men themselves well practised in their use.
‘It is good to see Maria, again. Sister Maria now, of course. That would seem such a waste for a woman of your undoubted talents, my dear.’ The girl glared at him, but said nothing. The tall officer pushed her a pace away from him, then yanked off her headscarf, shaking loose her long curling black hair.
Williams stood up and took a step forward, but then the soldiers levelled their bayonets and he halted.
‘She doesn’t look much like a nun,’ whispered Hanley.
‘She is still a woman, and he is a brute.’
The officer laughed. ‘Where did you find these fools, Maria?’ She spat some insult at him in rapid Portuguese. Hanley recognised just a few of the words.
‘Definitely not a nun,’ he said.
‘What the hell is going on?’ asked Truscott, his annoyance fighting with sheer confusion.
Denilov did not look at him, but simply watched Maria. ‘Shall I continue? It wouldn’t be the first time, would it, my dear.’ She was crouching now, hands crossed over her chest and clutching her shoulders. ‘Your modesty seems new. But then, perhaps you have always needed it for some of your clients.’
‘I have tried to forget what I needed for you, Denilov.’ Maria spat the words at him, using English this time.
The officer smiled. ‘Ah, that is the old Maria. Come, my dear, we have things to discuss. Forgive us, gentlemen.’ He gave a languid wave and ushered the girl out through the side door. The sergeant and one of the soldiers followed, carrying the Englishmen’s weapons.
‘Just what the hell is going on?’ said Truscott once again, this time whispering to his friends. He and Hanley sat with their backs against the cold stone of the wall. Williams was standing, and in some vague way felt this was a small act of defiance.
‘We are prisoners of the French,’ replied the volunteer.
‘Do the French wear green?’ asked Hanley, happy to be talking rather than simply waiting in silence surrounded by murderous-looking armed men.
‘Some of the German regiments do,’ said Truscott. ‘And the cavalry, but these fellows aren’t cavalry.’
‘They might be if they steal our horses.’ Williams grinned at his own joke. It was better than thinking, for try as he might he could see no way of surprising and overpowering the guards.
‘They are not Germans. I don’t know what language that was, but it was not German. Maybe Polish?’ Hanley ventured. ‘Or Russian. Denilov sounds a bit Russian to me.’
‘What the devil would Russians be doing here in Portugal?’ asked Truscott.
‘What the devil are we doing here?’ replied Hanley.
‘Helping a nun who looks rather like she is lly a fallen woman,’ said the lieutenant.
‘She is still a woman and needed our help.’ Williams’ voice had all its usual certainty when he spoke of anything connected with honour. He took a slight step to one side. The soldiers raised their muskets. One brought his up to his shoulder and aimed directly at the volunteer’s head. Williams went back and held his hands up by his sides. After a moment the guards lowered their muskets. ‘How’s Billy?’
Truscott leaned over. ‘Sleeping peacefully. Far too peacefully for the man who got us into this.’
‘The French treat prisoners well, don’t they? That’s assuming they are renegades fighting with the French.’ Hanley was trying not to remember the sabres cutting down the panicking crowd in Madrid and wanted some reassurance. There was a menace about Denilov which made him deeply uneasy.
‘Not renegades. Russia is allied to France. They are supposed to be civilised, though.’
A scream cut through their nervous conversation. It was bitter and filled with agony. Williams once again made a move forward and did not halt until a bayonet was almost touching his chest. ‘Now look here,’ he said rather weakly.
‘That did not sound like a woman,’ said Hanley.
‘The priest.’ Truscott winced as another cry of pain shattered the stillness of the church. ‘It would be too much to hope it’s Denilov.’ Another scream followed. ‘Poor devil.’
‘I think I may have to kill these men,’ said Williams quietly.
‘An admirable sentiment, but not a practical one at the moment.’ Truscott gave Pringle a shake. ‘No, still out cold.’
There were no more
screams, but in some ways the silence was almost worse. A few minutes later Denilov came back into the room. There was no sign of Maria. He ignored their questions and simply levelled his pistol to point directly at Truscott’s head. Then he waited for silence.
‘Thank you, gentlemen. I now have what I came for. I suggest you forget Maria. There are plenty more whores in Lisbon, if none quite so special. Still, such things will no longer be your concern. I regret that we never had time for formal introductions.’ He pulled back the hammers to cock both barrels of his pistol. The three soldiers did the same with their muskets and Williams wondered whether any sound had ever been so loud. He tried to prepare himself for one last spring, knowing that he would die before he could reach even the nearest of the soldiers. Fear fed his anger.
Then the sergeant came in through the door set into the main entrance. He raised a finger to his lips. Voices came from outside. The sergeant whispered something to Denilov and the count smiled.
‘Even better,’ he said. He kept his pistol firmly aimed at them as he walked backwards. The soldiers did the same. Only at the last minute did they turn and run through the side door. Williams dashed after them, but the door was slammed and bolted before he reached it and he simply hurt his shoulder when he barged into it. Truscott had gone to the main door. He looked out and saw green-coated cavalrymen in the gateway to the churchyard. One saw him and shouted.
He jerked his head back in and flung his weight against the door, feeling for the bolt.
‘French cavalry!’ he called.
Hanley came to help him. ‘So are we really going to be prisoners of the French this time?’
I’m damned if I am,’ shouted Williams, and the other two did not even notice that he had sworn. The volunteer was looking for something he could use as a weapon.
A flurry of gunshots came from outside. There were shouts, and then more shots. Hanley was about to suggest lifting Truscott up so that he could peer out of one of the high windows when a musket ball shattered the glass.
True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) Page 24