by Sherry Gloag
“You think there are pickets set to watch this road? Why would they remain in the area after what they’ve done?” Honor pointed to the village, where thick black smoke still hung in the air.
“We don’t think they have, but we cannot take the risk. Come now, mount quickly.”
“What do you have in your sack?” Consuela asked Juan once she rode beside him again.
“Food. Not much, but enough to keep us for another few days.”
“It seems like a lot of food to me,” Consuela contradicted.
“Your English friend…” Juan turned in his saddle and addressed Honor. “He is thoughtful and found some under garments for both of you and shawls to keep you warm when it cools down at night.”
“I don’t want to wear the clothes of the dead,” Consuela protested, and fell back to ride beside Honor. “Tell him, we do not want those clothes.”
“I cannot, for I dropped my shawl two days ago, and admit I find the evenings very cold without it.” She stared towards the mountains in the distance. “I imagine we will be very grateful for them when we start climbing in earnest.”
Consuela nodded, her pout replaced with grudging appreciation. “You are right. So far we have crossed cornfields. Lots of them and most of them set to the torch.” Anger sharpened the edge of her tone. “The waste! Sometimes, now we climb, I think every Frenchman in Spain must see us, or that we will be discovered by a group of partisans.” She shuddered. “The villainy of it! I am ashamed that one Spaniard, let alone many thousands, agrees with the dispossession of the royal family. It is a crime!”
“You are quite right, Consuela,” Juan said, “but this is neither the time nor the place to discuss it. Come, we must avoid the road from now on. There is a track that will take us round the village and into the woods.”
“Marmont stationed his troops within woods near Salamanca for their protection,” Honor said. “Do you not think these soldiers may be using those woods you mention to avoid detection?”
“One of the reasons we have taken longer than we intended was to ascertain which direction the French took out of the village. We have decided they left by the road, and have no expectations of anyone following them, and we believe they are French troops returning home on leave.”
Weighing Vidal’s words, Honor cast a glance at Juan. “And you agree?”
Juan nodded.
“Do you have any idea how many soldiers are travelling home?”
She saw the dark flash of anger that slipped through the Spaniard’s eyes and guessed the number was larger than either man would admit to.
“Let us be on our way, in case there are more French behind us, also returning home,” he said, without answering her question.
* * * *
“While I am grateful to have the mule, I swear trying to walk these distances would be more than I could endure.” Honor acknowledged. Recovering from the bite or sting had drained her energy more than she cared to admit verbally. “They are not as comfortable or easy to ride as the horses Dev and I had.” A brief image of the columns of soldiers streaming away behind them as they marched towards Salamanca flashed through her mind. Shifting in the saddle, she glanced over her shoulder. Juan took the lead on the single track through the woods, followed by Consuela and herself with Vidal bringing up the rear.
The sparse sunshine filtering between the leaves of the thick canopy above created dark shadows on the path and left the air dank and humid.
“I never thought I’d admit to wanting to see the sunlight, when we have complained for most of our journey about the heat and lack of fresh water.”
“True.” Vidal brought his mule closer. “Although relying on water from the streams is not always wise, at least not until we climb higher. Juan says he knows routes the soldiers will never discover and will take us along them.”
“I hope he may be right. Callous as it sounds, I admit the money you found back at the village last week has at least allowed us to carry a little wine to cover the times when we have failed to find safe water to drink. The generosity of the people we’ve met along the way never fails to amaze me. They have so little but are still willing to share their own supplies which are so scarce.”
“I will never cease to be amazed…”
A scream cut off Vidal’s words.
“What the—“
If he’d intended to pass Honor, she forestalled him by digging her heels into her mule’s sides. If Consuela was in trouble she needed to help the woman. The thought ousted her normal common sense as she entered an unexpected open flat expanse of the sunlit clearing and discovered the cause of the Spanish woman’s distress.
Women and children, their dishevelled clothes rent and muddy, covered the ground like broken dolls.
She’d seen atrocities while marching with the army, but never on this scale. The numbers — she couldn’t begin to count them as they lay piled one on top of the other in places. Bile rose to her throat and she leaned over to release it.
“Come away.”
Vidal’s harsh voice impinged on her shock and stiffened her spine.
“We need to search for survivors.”
Did she believe the perpetrators of this massacre had left any witnesses? Of course not, but how to walk away without checking? The sound of Consuela sobbing in Juan’s arms drew her attention away from the horrifying scene. Even the birds had ceased their singing, and within the seclusion of the clearing not a breath of wind stirred.
“There is nothing we can do for them. “
Juan’s harsh edict drew her attention.
“They are too many of them for us to even offer them the decency of burial. And if we remain here too long—“His voice trailed away. Honor recognised the truth of his words, conveyed as they were, in the dark hatred sparking from his eyes.
She nodded, and looked back to see Vidal’s faced leeched of all colour as he stared at the horrific scene. “It grieves me to say it, but I agree with Juan. And it goes against everything I’ve learned while following the drum. I tended many sick and injured over the years, and the thought of walking away—“ She waved her arm in the direction of the dead, and discovered it shook violently.
“Come.” Juan’s command cut through the silence. “We must leave this place now.”
“Don’t look.”
Vidal’s instruction came too late. How could she not? Much as she wanted to turn away, she searched for survivors as they moved round the edge. Hopeless, she acknowledged.
“I suppose you witnessed something similar in the village?”
Vidal rode so close beside her, his knee pressed against hers on the narrow path. He nodded, his eyes flat, his face expressionless. Shock, she realised. For a man who, like Devlin, had fought in Portugal and faced death, he must have seen many atrocities. But this? Honor cast a last glance at the piles of bodies, and failed to hold back her cry of despair when she spotted the children. He’d never condone this kind of behaviour within the English army.
She saw Juan had his arm round Consuela’s shoulder, and registered her stifled sobs.
“I thought we came this way to avoid the French soldiers,” she said, “but it seems to me we may well run right into them if we continue on this path.”
Uncertainty perched on her shoulder. Why had Juan deviated from Phillipe’s suggested route? And why bring them this way round the village and not another way?
“Is this the only alternative?” Bringing her mule to a halt, she reached for Vidal’s reins and searched his face. Cavernous grooves travelled across his forehead and cut deep lines between his brows. When he didn’t speak immediately, Honor thought he wasn’t going to answer, and assumed his silence told her all.
“What is troubling you?”
She searched his face at Vidal’s, quiet query.
“I’m not sure anymore.” The truth of her words struck home. Apart from Vidal, she didn’t know who to trust. Where were the men who’d been tracking them so diligently for weeks? And why
hadn’t she noticed them when they crossed the plains? Now that they’d reached the wooded foothills of the Pyrenees, their followers could close the gap without being spotted, so where were they? They’d lost any benefit they’d gained from trekking along the river bed when they’d had to stop while she recovered from the scorpion bite, or whatever it was. So, where were they? And more to the point, who were they?
If they intended harm to their small company of four, why wait so long? Why? The question drummed inside her brain.
“Tell me what ails you before we lose contact with Juan.”
The urgency in Vidal’s voice pulled her out of her troubled thoughts.
“Would that be such a bad thing?” she asked, before she could prevent giving life to her question.
She looked ahead, to see Juan and Consuela had indeed disappeared and spurred her mule forward. “Would it be so bad?” she challenged.
“Yes it would.” Vidal loosened her grip on his reins.
“He wouldn’t check for survivors.” Honor fought to keep the tears out of her voice when she indicated the path behind them. “And yet he’s more than happy Consuela has joined our party.”
“Jealous?” he asked, with a twitch of an eyebrow. “And you just newly widowed.”
The chill in Vidal’s voice shocked her almost as much as his snide remark. So used to talking her thoughts through with Devlin, it took her a moment to decide perhaps his best friend did not encourage the same kind of open discussion.
Loneliness descended on her, bending her shoulders and threatening to break her resolve to remain strong in adversity. How she wished Devlin were there to hold her. Then she snorted as she realised, if he’d been here, she’d still be marching with Wellington’s army.
* * * *
“How did you come to know about Devlin?”
Half-an-hour after leaving the clearing behind, the images refused to fade from her memory. Fears, stalking beneath her resolve to abide by Dev’s last wish tugged at her reserves of courage.
Someone had betrayed her husband hours before his departure for England. Had the same person informed the war office of Phillipe’s whereabouts? How else would Vidal have managed to find his village? No, Juan had guided Vidal there.
And Juan had deviated from Phillipe’s instructions. Why?
And why had Juan insinuated himself into the guide party leading them towards France? Or should that be "how"?
And Phillipe? The image of him standing so close to the earl’s tent that fatal morning flashed into her mind. The shock of it almost rocked her out of her saddle. Phillipe? Devlin’s batman and long-time friend? Surely not?
She cast a look at Vidal’s stony features. According to her husband, Vidal had remonstrated with him when told that Honor was joining him in Spain. How had he known where to find Phillipe’s village? And why had he come out to bring her home if he’d disapproved so much?
She wanted to gallop away from them all and almost laughed aloud. Her mule would probably die from the effort and a woman on her own stood no chance in such isolated countryside. Never in her life had she distrusted the people around her, and now she wondered whether she could trust any of them. Even Consuela.
She’d have been safe if she’d remained behind with Dev’s family, but no, she’d insisted on travelling with them, and now look at her and Vidal.
Honor snapped out of her depressing contemplation when her mount stumbled and she almost lost her seat.
When had Vidal gone ahead? Casting an anxious glance over her shoulder, she urged her mule forward before she realised the animal had hurt itself when it tripped.
She slid from the saddle and encouraged the mule forward. Her mount had injured its front leg and refused to put it to the ground. Her contemplation of going it alone had just become a reality.
Chapter Eight
Why on earth had he snapped at Honor like that? And to accuse her of jealousy was beyond outrageous. Just because he wanted the woman, and couldn’t have her now any more than from the moment she’d chosen Devlin over him, was no reason to accuse her of lusting after the Spaniard, especially when it wasn’t true.
In his stupid anger he’d overtaken her and left her to follow, even though he’d known she was so preoccupied she hadn’t noticed.
And her question? She had a right to ask, even if it did offend him. Hadn’t he asked Lord Dundas the same one? And he hadn’t been given an answer either.
The woods gave way to sloping grassland. He looked back and wondered why it hadn’t struck him and Juan that they’d only seen males in the village. He halted. Had it occurred to Juan? Had he been aware of the lack of women in the community, or had he thought they’d been taken alive?
He judged the Spaniard and Consuela had widened the gap between him and Honor by at least half a mile.
Honor!
He spun round to search the empty path behind him. Where was she? She should be following him. Had she fallen back because of his disgraceful accusation? He couldn’t blame her if she had, but to do so was utter folly.
Juan and Consuela rode on oblivious of his dilemma. Was Honor right in wondering whether the man was steering them toward the French and would, at some strategic point, desert them to their fate?
If he tried to catch up with them the gap between them and Honor would widen, and if he didn’t the Spaniards wouldn’t know, and perhaps wouldn’t care what happened to them.
To call out might draw unwanted attention.
Not to do so would court disaster and increase the risk to their personal safety.
He searched the path behind him and groaned. He’d have to go back and hope Juan would notice before too long that he and Honor no longer followed. He turned his mule and began retracing his steps when the sound of approaching hoofbeats had him wheeling about.
“What is the matter?”
“Honor has fallen behind.”
Juan’s concern changed to anger. “Did you not keep her in view? I thought you were together.”
“We were, but I rode on ahead.” Vidal refused to admit his own stupid ego had caused him to drop his protective guard.
“Bah! We do not have time for this. Go and fetch her, and be quick. I will keep a look-out, but we cannot stay in one place for too long.”
“Then I suggest you and Consuela join me as it will look better if we go as a party.” Vidal swung his mount back the way he’d come without waiting to check whether Juan followed or not.
He heard Honor before he saw her. Her sobbing tore at his heart and turned a screw on his guilt. About to race forward, Juan’s hand on his arm halted him.
“Do not be a fool, man. If she is not alone, we can’t help her by charging in.” To Consuela who’d just ridden up, he snapped a low-voiced order for her to fall back and keep herself hidden.
For a moment Vidal thought she intended to dispute Juan’s command, but then with a curl of her lip, she did as he bid.
“Why is she on her own?”
Only truth would serve now, Vidal admitted. “We quarrelled.”
“Bah! Can you not quarrel without sulking? She is more stupid than I supposed if she fell back in a fit of the sullens.”
“Whatever your opinion, it’s not worth a row of skittles while we sit here debating the issue. We need to discover what is going on there, for Honor is not one who resorts to tears. For her to do so indicates she is in dire straits.” He shifted in the saddle and looked around. “Is there another path so we can approach her from two different angles?”
The sound of Honor’s voice, muffled by her tears, reached them.
“What am I going to do with you? I can’t ride you, and I can’t leave you here to starve.”
The following silence stretched while the two men stared at each other and then at the path leading back into the woods. Images of what they’d left behind rose between them.
“She’s talking to her blasted mule,” Juan raged. He dug his heels into his animal’s flanks and surged forward, but not be
fore Vidal had set off.
She was sitting on a fallen tree trunk, the dappled sunlight glinting in her hair, with her mule standing forlornly in front of her, its head down in abject misery. If he didn’t know better, Vidal would swear the beast shared the guilt weighing on his shoulders. He’d let her down by riding off without checking Honor was behind him, and the animal looked guilty for…
No, it had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with pain and the foot held off the ground. The mule had an injured leg. No wonder she mentioned something about not riding it any more.
“What is this?" Juan demanded from behind him.
Honor’s head whipped up and she glared at Juan while scrubbing the back of her hand across her eyes.
“What do you think? My mule is lame.”
“You stupid girl, do you not understand he is the most valuable possession you have right now?” Swinging from his saddle Juan knelt in front of Honor’s mount and with gentle hands checked the injury, then swore fluently and prolifically in Spanish.
She understood every word, Vidal discovered, when he looked at the rising colour in Honor’s cheeks.
“You are right, you cannot ride him. He is of no more use to us, and must be shot.”
“No!”
Birds flew off screeching at Honor’s protest. “You will not shoot him. We must leave him at the next village but you will not shoot him. I won’t allow it.” She moved between Juan and the mule, her hands spread out wide in futile protection.
With a glare at Juan, Vidal rode up beside Honor and studied her tear-swollen face. Was she crying for the animal or because of his cruel words? In all the time he’d known her, he’d never seen her cry. Not when her mother had died in a carriage accident, nor when her father had broken his neck riding at a fence during a hunt.
“I will take you up with me,” he offered.
“No, you will not,” Juan snapped. “We’d end up with another lame animal before the day’s out if you do that. You will carry her bag and she—“ he stabbed a finger in Honor’s face, “—will ride with Consuela.” He dragged Honor’s pack off the mule and threw it at Vidal. “Now take her away.”