You want to go back to the British lines, do you not?
Yes. Will you take me?
Perhaps. If you do something for me first.
It depends.
You take me to Ciudad Rodrigo and get me through the French lines and later I will take you home all the way to England, if you like.
She lowered the gun to look at him, dumbfounded. You are mad, she said at last. Theyll kill you.
Not if you vouch for me.
Vouch for you! Her voice was almost a squeak. I can hardly vouch for myself. They do not know me. Philippe and I had only just arrived when the town was taken. We had spent the winter in France while Philippes wounds healed and were joining a new regiment
You mean that no one in the town knew Philippe either?
I dont think so.
Better and better, he said. I shall be Lieutenant Philippe Santerre.
For heavens sake, why? Are you tired of living?
He laughed, but the sound was not a cheerful one. Perhaps.
What happened to make you so bitter?
That is my business. Now, will you take me back to Ciudad Rodrigo or not?
Can you speak French like a native?
No, but I can understand it well enough, and, remember, I have just been hanged and my throat is sore. Why did they hang him, by the way? Why not just shoot him, so much quicker and cleaner?
She shrugged. A rope is cheaper than a bullet and, besides, a shot echoes a long way in these mountains; I suspect they did not want their hide-out found.
One mans bad fortune is anothers luck. I think my voice has been permanently affected by the ordeal.
You will never get away with it.
I will if you stay with me to be my guide and do the talking.
You must be crazy if you think I would agree to that. She looked hard at him, trying to make up her mind if he was making some macabre joke at her expense, but his expression was perfectly serious and the light in his hazel eyes was not one of levity. He looked deadly serious, almost as if he was pleading with her. Why do you want to do this? Do you want to change sides? If so, there are easier ways of doing it; you could simply say you had deserted some do, you know.
I could do that, of course, but this way seems the more interesting prospect, certainly more exciting than being a prisoner of war.
And if I refuse?
Ill do it anyway.
Then you will die in the attempt.
He shrugged. Then so be it.
He sat down at the table again with an empty glass in front of him and stared out of the window into the darkness beyond it, as if he could see something, or someone, who haunted his thoughts and dictated his actions. For a brief moment she felt sorry for him, and reached out to lay a hand on his arm. Sleep on it, he said, without turning towards her. Sleep on it. I shall not disturb you.
She left him reaching for the bottle to refill his glass and made her way up to the huge four-poster. It was all part of a macabre dream; he did not exist, the guerrilleros did not exist, Philippe had not been hanged. She was in bed at home and soon Jane would wake her with her breakfast on a tray. Home! How badly did she want to go home? How much was she prepared to pay for it?
CHAPTER TWO
OLIVIA was awoken before dawn by the sound of a horses hoofs on the gravel of the drive, and she sprang up to look out of the window. He was riding away in the blustering wind which had followed the rain, walking his horse in the same slow, deliberate way she had seen him riding the day before. Had he had second thoughts about his preposterous idea or had he decided to go alone after all? If that were so, he would never succeed in passing the guard at the gates of Ciudad Rodrigo, let alone impersonating Philippe. It was true he was about the same height and build, and in a poor light his hair might look as dark as Philippes, but in the glare of day, in the face of questioning She shuddered at the risk he would be taking. Even with her it would be bad, but at least she could give him Philippes uniform coat and take him to their lodgings where she could hand over her dead husbands papers and belongings. As long as he did not speak and met no one who had known Philippe, he stood a chance, if only a slim one.
She pulled herself up short. Why should she concern herself with a disgraced English officer? Why should she care what happened to him? And why, in heavens name, should she delay her own return to the British lines to help him? She did not even know why he wanted to do it. She laughed suddenly. She did not even know his name. And there were other puzzling things about him his demeanour, his speech and the way he sat his horse indicated that he had been an officer, but officers did not usually carry rifles. And the Baker rifle he had with him was only issued to the élite Rifle Brigade and their uniform coat was green, not red. Tom had often said that if he had known about the Rifles before he signed on he would have enlisted in the Ninety-fifth. Poor Tom.
She pulled on the robe and went downstairs determined to put the man from her mind; there were more important things to think of. First, she would clean the clothes she had stolen; she would have liked to say borrowed, but as she could not see how she could return them, nor pay for them, stolen was the only appropriate word. Then she would leave the kitchen and the bedroom tidy; that at least she owed the owner of the house for her unwitting hospitality. After that, she would set off again. The coast of Portugal was to the west, so if she walked with the rising sun at her back she ought, sooner or later, to come across the British lines, or the sea. Obstacles in the form of rivers or mountains, or hostile people, she would deal with as she met them. It was simple.
True, she would rather have had an escort, someone to keep her company and help her overcome the difficulties whatever they might be, but she had learned in the past two years to be resilient and self-sufficient, and when there was nothing else for it, what was the good of wishing otherwise? The guerrilleros would not help her and perhaps that was just as well; friend or foe, they were terrifying.
And as for the Englishman, he was too wrapped up in his own problems to concern himself with hers. But she could not stop herself thinking about him, wondering about him. Why was he in the mountains alone? Why had he been cashiered, if, indeed, he had? She shrugged her thoughts from her as she put on a cotton dress she had found in a cupboard; it had a brown background and was decorated with poppy heads in large red splashes of colour, a servants dress, she decided. The old boots and the straw hat completed her ensemble. Her preparations complete, she picked up the bundle she had gathered together and left by the door she had entered, carefully shutting it behind her. It was none of her business what he was up to.
She stopped when she saw him riding back up the drive, leading a mule. He was smiling.
If you think that bringing that will make me change my mind, she said, without bothering to give him good morning, you are mistaken. I will have nothing to do with your hare-brained schemes. You are mad.
But it is the mad ideas which have the best chance of success, dont you agree? he queried amiably. And I thrive on a challenge.
You will not thrive on this one.
With you at my side, I could succeed.
Succeed in doing what? she demanded.
He laughed. Do you know, I am not at all sure? I will put my mind to it as we ride.
I will not ride with you.
No? Would you rather the guerrilleros finished off what they started?
She looked up at him defiantly but the tone of his voice suggested that she had not left the partisans as far behind as she thought. They are not interested in me.
On the contrary, Madame Santerre, they are very interested in you.
How do you know?
I know.
Where are they?
I saw them riding down the mountainside, about twenty of them, armed to the teeth.
They are coming here?
He shrugged.
I do not believe you. But even as she spoke she realised he was telling the truth. Why would they send twenty armed men after one woman? She paused. Unless they are after you too.
Whichever it is, madame, you and I are destined to spend some time together, so why not accept the inevitable? I will make a bargain with you. When we reach the main road from Ciudad Rodrigo into Portugal, you can go your way and I will go mine.
Is that a promise?
If that is what you want. Come now, we are wasting time. Mount up and let us be on our way; the sooner we start, the sooner you will be rid of me.
She would have liked to defy him, to refuse to do anything he asked, but the thought of riding instead of walking, and having some protection against the bloodthirsty Spanish partisans, was a powerful persuader. Olivia tied her bundle behind the saddle of the mule and, using the doorstep as a mounting block, hitched up her skirt and threw her leg over the animals back, aware as she did so that he was smiling. Do you think I have not ridden astride before? she demanded.
No, it is evident that you are quite accustomed to it. He turned his horse and led the way, not back up the drive to the gates, but along a rough path that led from the side of the house, round an empty stable block and through an olive grove which went steeply downhill towards the distant river. Better than taking the road, he said over his shoulder.
She did not answer but concentrated on watching where the mule was going, thankful for its sure-footedness as it picked its way over loose stones and the roots of ancient olives which clung to any tiny crevice where there was soil. When the path broadened out, he reined in for her to come abreast of him.
Tell me about Ciudad Rodrigo, he commanded. All you know.
I know very little. We had only been there one day, just long enough to find lodgings.
Describe the place, the streets, the buildings, the defences, anything you can think of. How are the inhabitants behaving towards the occupying forces? Do the French have trouble with them? Is there any resistance?
I would not think so. The town surrendered, after all. The resistance is in the hills.
To be sure.
And if I knew anything, would I be so foolish as to tell you, sir? I do not know you or why you are here, do I? You may be a spy. In fact, I think that is just what you are.
Touché, madame. He smiled as if at some secret joke. Did you learn anything of the intentions of the guerrilleros while you were with them?
I do not trust them either; they are a bloodthirsty lot.
So they are, but not without reason. If someone had invaded England and pillaged your home town, raped the women and killed the men for nothing except keeping back food to feed their children, you would be bloodthirsty. He turned to look at her. He seemed far less formidable than he had in the poor light of the evening before and yet, behind the hazel eyes, there was an alertness which was not immediately evident from his languid pose. The Spanish are hopeless when it comes to fighting in the disciplined way of the British army, but in small bands, in the hills where they can remain hidden until the time comes to strike, there are none better. The Peer knows that and he encourages them.
I think they are barbaric. They did not have to kill Philippe; he could not have harmed them.
He could have given away their position.
We were blindfolded when we were taken to their camp.
And yet you found your way out.
That was simple good luck.
They would not view it so. You could lead a French patrol back there.
She looked startled. Why should I do that? I told them I was English.
And did they believe you? Did they even understand you?
Their leader did. He looked as uncouth as the rest of his band, but he spoke excellent French and very good English. He was is an educated man.
Don Miguel Santandos, he murmured, almost to himself.
You know him?
I know of him. He is one of the fiercest and bravest fighters in all Spain, but he is also ruthless. He will let nothing stand in his way; he would certainly not think twice about killing a woman. If he thinks you are likely to betray him, he will come after you; nothing is more certain.
She laughed. If you are saying that to persuade me to go with you, you are wasting your time. I do not want to return to Ciudad Rodrigo, I intend to go home to England, and the sooner the better.
You may do as you please, he said laconically. But before you can do that we have to cross the river and find the road.
She rode silently for a moment or two, but curiosity drove her to speak again. What will you do in Ciudad Rodrigo, always supposing you manage to enter the town at all? You will have to remain silent, you know, so how will you make yourself understood?
A man who has been hanged and survived is still able to write, and my French is good enough for that.
You will never convince anyone you have been hanged. There would be a very nasty mark on your neck if you had.
I shall have to wear a bandage.
They are not fools, you know.
Neither am I.
She could not believe he really meant to do it. It was a silly game he was playing with her, though what his reasons were she could not even guess. Unless he was testing her loyalty? Why? She had told him the truth, if not the whole truth, so what more could he possibly want? You have not even told me your name, she said. What shall I call you?
Anything that takes your fancy, madame.
Have you something to hide?
He laughed harshly. There is little that can be hidden behind a coat with no buttons. I am as you see me.
Cashiered, she said. Dishonourably discharged.
My honour is my own affair, he said stiffly.
So it is; I have no interest in it. After all, we part at the crossroads and I do not expect to see you again. You will undoubtedly be shot by the French for spying or by the English.
Better that than He stopped suddenly and sat forward in his saddle, holding his hand up to stop her. Be silent!
She reined in and craned her neck to look past him. The village lay below them, nestling on the far side of a swiftly moving river which had cut a deep gorge through the mountain rock. There was a lone villa standing at the end of an ancient bridge. She watched, fascinated, as a group of men scrambled up from the rocks among the pillars of the bridge and ran into the villa. A moment later a huge explosion filled the air, flinging debris high into the sky. When the dust had settled, there was no longer a bridge.