The Price Of Honour

‘Yesterday. We were out shooting hares and they captured us.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘I told them I was the wife of an English soldier and Philippe had taken me against my will…’

‘Was that true?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Tell me exactly.’

‘I was married to an English soldier, but he was killed in the chase after the battle for Oporto.’ She did not know why she answered, but it was a relief to have someone to talk to in English, and if he could be made to appreciate her plight he might be prepared to help her.

‘Another husband! How many have you had?’

‘Two.’

‘And still only…how old?’

‘It is no business of yours.’

‘Twenty-two, twenty-three?’ he queried. ‘And already widowed twice?’

‘You are a cynic, aren’t you? Haven’t you ever been in love?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, his face twisting in a wry smile. ‘And little good it did me. But go on with your story, we can come to mine later. Presumably you were at the tail of the British advance with the baggage?’

‘I was, until a courier who had come back with dispatches told me Tom had been wounded. Then I left it and went forward to look for him.’

‘As any good wife would do.’

‘As any good wife would do,’ she repeated.

‘You crossed the river?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘If you are English, you know the whole army crossed in small boats.’ She paused and looked up at him. ‘Or are you testing me?’

He laughed, poured more wine and settled back in his chair. ‘Tell me, did you find him?’

‘Yes, but he died very quickly. I tried to get back but I lost my way and ran into a company of French infantrymen.’

‘And in the blink of an eye you had changed sides and become a French soldier’s wife…’

‘It wasn’t like that at all,’ she protested. ‘You don’t understand. And if that is all you have to say, then I shall leave you and go to bed.’

‘Bed. Now, there’s a thought!’ There was amusement in his voice. ‘Have you a mind to change sides again? I might be able to accommodate you.’

She picked up her glass and threw it at him. It caught his chin and shattered, scattering shards all over his coat, the table and the floor. He calmly stood up and brushed himself down, ignoring the tiny trickle of blood on his chin. ‘I shall take that as a negative answer, which means you are still French, still the enemy…’

‘And who are you to talk?’ she demanded. ‘You are not so lily-white yourself, are you? Unless I miss my guess, you are in disgrace, so what right have you to censure me? I am going to bed. And I mean to barricade the door. And I shall be obliged if you have taken yourself off before I come down in the morning.’

He reached out to catch her wrist. She tried to pull herself out of his grasp, but the more she struggled, the tighter he gripped her. She circled round, pulling him round with her, so that she could reach the rifle he had left leaning against the wall. With all the strength she could muster, she twisted herself free and grabbed the weapon. ‘Now!’ she said, pointing it at him. ‘Do not think I don’t know how to use this because I promise you I do.’

He laughed and put up both hands in surrender. ‘Lord preserve me from a gun in the hands of a woman! You may rest easy, madame, I was only going to suggest a truce. We could help each other.’

‘How?’ she asked warily, still aiming the gun.

‘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. ‘They’ll 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 Philippe’s wounds healed and were joining a new regiment…’

‘You mean that no one in the town knew Philippe either?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Better and better,’ he said. ‘I shall be Lieutenant Philippe Santerre.’

‘For heaven’s 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 man’s bad fortune is another’s luck. I think my voice has been permanently affected by the ordeal.’