The Price Of Honour

They settled down in the mouth of the cave, with their mounts safely behind them, and in minutes he was sound asleep, which convinced her he had stayed awake all the previous night, in spite of what he had told her. She sat there looking at him. In sleep he looked young. Perhaps he was young, but there was nothing like a war for ageing a man. Tom had been immature and gullible when he’d enlisted, but within months, if not weeks, he had grown up, had become hardened, like well-worn leather, brown and creased, but tough. The soldier who had died was not the young lad who had fallen victim to the recruiting sergeant’s patter. And she was not the girl who had left home so consumed by love, so full of defiance, so confident she knew what she wanted. The confidence she had now was confidence of a different sort. It was all to do with self-preservation, the will to survive, the conviction that you never knew what you could endure until you put it to the test.

She smiled. If her contemporaries at home could see her now, they would be shocked to the core. Yet, looking back, it was an experience she would not have missed, but one she did not want to repeat. Home was her goal.

When the light began to go from the sky, the Englishman stirred and sat up. ‘Better eat,’ he said, going to his saddle-bag and fetching out the last of the hare. ‘Then it will be time to go.’

You are surely not going to leave me here alone?’

‘Most decidedly I am.’ He looked up from dividing the food. ‘If you are afraid, I will leave the rifle.’

‘Won’t you need it?’

‘No. This is purely reconnaissance.’ He bolted his meat and fetched the gun. ‘Here. It is loaded, so take care what you do with it. If you need me, fire into the air. Take hold of it so and point it upwards and pull the trigger. It will rebound, so be prepared.’

‘Very well,’ she said meekly.

He took Thor’s reins and led him out on to the path. ‘Don’t fire unless you really must.’

He paused, as if reluctant to leave her, or pehaps reluctant to leave the weapon. ‘How long must I wait?’ she asked. ‘If you do not come back.’

‘Until dawn, but I shall be back long before that.’

She listened as his footsteps and the clop of hoofs died away, then sat down to wait. But Olivia was not a passive person; waiting was something she had never learned to do. She decided to make her way back along the path towards the track which led to the bridge, to see if she could see him going over. And if he managed to cross safely, why then should she not follow? It would save him having to come back for her. She had no sooner convinced herself of the sense of that than she was leading the mule back along the path, feeling her way carefully in the failing light.

She did not see him, though her eyes ached with trying to make out his form among the shadows. She jumped at every sound — the bleat of a goat, the hoot of an owl. As she drew nearer to the bridge, she could hear sounds of revelry coming from the monastery. There was a guard on the far side of the bridge outside the entrance to the building, pacing up and down, watching the road from the east. He did not seem to be interested in the path from the mountains. Had Mr Leopard evaded him? Could she pass him too? The sound of the water was loud enough to muffle the sound of her footsteps, but to take the mule as well would be too risky. She left it with reins trailing and set off across the bridge, darting from shadow to shadow until she was on the far side and very close to the sentry.

And there she froze. Two partisans appeared and called cheerfully to the guard, who answered and then turned towards the bridge. He went down a few steps and peered downwards towards the water as if expecting trouble from that direction. Olivia noticed the rough path down the cliff as she moved lightly out and across the road while his back was turned. By the time he had returned to his post, she was in the shadow of the monastery gate. Now what to do? she asked herself.

The sentry was coming back. There was only one way to go and that was into the courtyard. She darted across to hide behind the nearest of the French wagons which stood just inside the gate. Here she stopped to peer out at the guerrilleros who stood in a circle, facing inwards. In their centre the Englishman sat on his horse with his hands tied behind him. Around his neck was another rope and the end of this had been thrown over a branch of a gnarled cork oak.

‘Thieves we hang,’ Don Santandos said, addressing his prisoner. ‘And it matters not whether they be French, English or Spanish.’

‘You are not thieves, then?’ Mr Leopard said, levelly. ‘You have stolen nothing.’

‘Nothing that was not ours to begin with. Now you will die unless you can prove who you are and why you are spying.’

‘I was not spying.’

‘But you were thieving?’

There was no answer and Don Santandos walked round the horse, stroking its haunch. A good thump would set it off and leave the Englishman hanging. ‘Oh, not again!’ Olivia whispered. ‘Not again.’

‘Where is the woman?’

‘I do not know what you are talking about.’

Olivia held her breath. Surely he would not rather die than reveal her whereabouts? It did not matter; she was not where he supposed her to be. Tell him, you fool, she pleaded silently. Tell him what he wants to know.

But he remained silent and Don Santandos was losing patience. ‘Englishmen are fools when it comes to women,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you want to die. Then I give you your wish.’ He raised his hand and brought it down sharply on the rump of the horse, leaving the Englishman swinging.

‘Oh, no,’ Olivia whispered. ‘No, you do not do this to me twice.’

Slowly, achingly slowly, she raised the rifle, rested it on the tailboard of the wagon and carefully took aim.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_4c87bcca-17c1-5f45-9aab-6a768414ab9b)

FOR one infinitesimal moment after the shot was fired, no one moved, except the Englishman, whose body fell to the ground with a thump and lay still. Olivia, from her hiding place, smiled in triumph and patted the butt of the heavy Baker rifle which had made it possible. But then all was commotion as some of the guerrilleros ran for guns which had been stacked against the wall and others turned towards the wagon where the difting gunsmoke betrayed her position. Now she had to keep the initiative and there was no time to reload. She darted out from her hiding place and ran to where the Leopard lay. Still startled, the men did nothing to stop her.

‘You imbeciles!’ she shouted. ‘You could have killed him!’

Don Santandos was the first to recover. ‘That, madame, was our intention,’ he said. ‘And but for your lucky shot he would be dead by now.’

She bit off the retort that it had not been luck but marksmanship, and concentrated on playing the distraught female. In a way she was distraught; without Mr Leopard, she was lost; reluctantly she had to admit it. ‘He is my husband,’ she said. ‘He is the one who will tell you I am who I say I am. Oh, if he dies…’

The partisans were watching, doing nothing, but she could not expect them to remain inactive for long; she had to convince them. ‘Darling! Darling, speak to me,’ she cried, as she worked to loosen the rope around their victim’s neck. She put her ear to his chest. His heart was beating like a hammer on an anvil. ‘You are my husband,’ she whispered, bending low over him so that her face was against his ear. ‘Tell me your name.’ When he did not reply, she lifted her head to look at him, wondering if he had heard her, or even if he could speak. His eyes were closed and there was an angry red weal round his neck where the rope had been.

‘Oh, do not die on me, my love!’ she cried, with more anguish than ever for the benefit of the onlookers. ‘I love you. I need you.’

She was not sure, but she thought she detected a slight grin on his face and hoped fervently no one else had seen it. To make sure of that, she bent and kissed him on the mouth and was completely taken aback when he put his arm round her neck so that her head was imprisoned and kissed her back. Where he found the strength to hold her so firmly after what he had been through she did not know. She was acutely aware of their audience as the kiss lengthened and became something more than a mere meeting of lips.

Then he moved his mouth, oh, so slowly, round to her ear, making her shiver. ‘Robert,’ he croaked. ‘Robert Lynmount.’

‘Come now, madame,’ Don Santandos said. ‘Enough is enough. Such antics are best left to the bedroom and prove nothing.’

She looked up at the Spaniards who stood round grinning and covered her confusion with a show of anger. ‘You may think yourselves lucky that my husband is not dead, for Viscount Wellington would certainly have had something to say about it, I can tell you. Robert Lynmount is one of his most valued officers.’

Don Santandos laughed. ‘I would say his value is less than a dozen buttons and a metre of braid.’

She chose to ignore this reference to the Englishman’s mutilated uniform. ‘Now, will you please help him to a bed where he can recover?’ She prayed her authoritative manner would have the desired effect, because they had no hope of fighting their way out, even if she still held the gun and could reload.

‘You have courage, madame, I’ll grant you,’ Don Santandos said. ‘It has earned you both a reprieve, albeit a temporary one.’ He turned to give orders to two of his men who went to pick the Englishman up, one at his head and the other at his feet, but before they could do so he sat up and pushed them away. They stood back and watched as he forced himself to his feet. He stood, swaying a little before finding his balance, but Olivia knew better than to try to help him. He was an exceptionally strong man and he was also proud.

Don Santandos smiled. ‘Good. Come with me.’ He turned to lead the way into the building.

Olivia, tagging along behind, realised it had been a long time since the monastery had been used for the purpose for which it had been built. It was a small fortress; every window was a gun embrasure, with weapons and ammunition at the ready. There was food stacked in the room which had once been the monks’ kitchens and truckle-beds and straw paliasses were scattered about. They were obviously preparing for a siege. If they thought she and Philippe had been aware of their preparations when they captured them, it was no wonder they had been so anxious that they should not return to Ciudad Rodrigo and the French army.

‘You look surprised, madame,’ Don Santandos said in French. ‘Why should that be?’

‘Please do not call me madame. I am not French; I have told you so a dozen times. My name is Mrs Lynmount. And yes, I am surprised to find so much preparation for war in a place like this.’

‘Because it is a monastery? They were built to withstand sieges, Mrs Lynmount.’

She was glad that he had changed to English; perhaps he was ready to be convinced, after all. ‘Not just that, but because it is so far from the main road. I can’t imagine an army deciding to come this way. The ground is too rough and the way too narrow.’

‘It would come if there was no alternative. What we have done for a small force, we can do for a greater. Now I have said enough.’ He opened the door to one of the monks’ cells. ‘You will be comfortable in here until we decide what to do with you.’

As soon as they had gone, Robert collapsed on to the narrow bed which stood against the wall, and shut his eyes. His hand strayed to his throat and he tried to swallow.

She knelt beside him. ‘Is there anything I can do to ease it? A bandage perhaps?’