The Price Of Honour

‘He was nothing of the sort. How you think you can impersonate him when you have no idea what he was like I do not know.’

‘But you said no one else in Ciudad Rodrigo knew him either, so it hardly matters.’

‘You never know, someone might come along, an old friend, a fellow officer, someone who fought with him at Talavera…’

‘That is a chance I will have to take.’

‘I still say you are mad. Even madder to attempt it without me.’

‘You will come, then?’

‘No,’ she said sharply.

His complacent smile annoyed her, but she was angrier with herself for even suggesting she ought to go with him. That was not her intention at all. She fell silent, concentrating on the group of rocks which were their goal and which seemed as far away as ever.

It was the middle of the afternoon when they reached them. He dismounted and left his horse to graze on the sparse vegetation and turned to help her down. She felt herself being lifted clean out of the saddle as if she had no more weight than a feather. And yet she was over average height and well built, if over-thin. As he set her down, keeping his hands about her waist for a breathless moment longer than he needed to, she realised how tall he was; that, unlike many men, he towered over her. Slowly she looked up into his face, wondering whether to speak or remain silent, to scold him for manhandling her or to thank him for his courtesy, but what she saw there silenced her. Behind the hazel eyes was a look of anguish, of a pain too deep for speech. Someone, or something, had hurt him very badly.

‘Now, where is this feast?’ he said lightly, turning towards the pack on the back of the mule’s saddle.

She took out cold hare and a bottle of wine and from the depths of his saddle-bag he found bread.

‘You did not have that last night,’ she said, pointing at it.

‘I did not have a mule either.’

‘Where did you get them?’

He laughed and the hurt look left his eyes and was replaced by a twinkle of humour. ‘Better not ask, madame.’

‘My name is Olivia,’ she said. ‘And I do not like the French form of address.’

‘Not even when it is correct? But as I have taken on the mantle of your dead husband, then it would be better to use your given name, I agree.’

‘You surely do not intend to go through with that wild scheme of yours?’

‘More than ever.’

‘What have you to gain?’

‘A new set of claws.’

‘Is that all?’

‘All? To me it is everything.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Not now. It is neither the time nor the place; we have to finish our meal and go on if we intend to find a river crossing by dark.’

She was wise enough to desist from prying and they ate in silence. When food and wine were both consumed, they set off again. ‘That was dinner,’ she said with a laugh which sounded hollow. ‘What shall we have for supper?’

He smiled. ‘“Sufficient unto the day…”’

‘Oh, very droll. If we had turned south, we would have found some habitation, somewhere where we could buy food and drink and a bed for the night. Up here in the mountains…’

‘The mountains are teeming with life — hares, goats, boars, maybe a mountain lion or two.’

She laughed. ‘Leopards with claws.’

‘I sincerely hope not.’ His answer was clipped and stopped her jesting. She did not know how to take him; he was cheerful, almost boyish one minute and morose and short-tempered the next, and neither her teasing nor her anger seemed to change that. She should remain silent, allow him to brood on his own if he wanted to, but it was not in her nature to let things lie. He needed taking out of himself and then he might be prepared to confide in her. If he did that, and he had some very compelling reason for wanting to go to Ciudad Rodrigo, she might consider helping him. She brought herself up short. Was she weakening? No, she told herself, she would leave him at the first opportunity. Would he come after her? Riding a mule, she had no chance of outpacing him.

‘What’s his name?’ she asked, looking at the beautiful black stallion.

‘Thor.’

‘The god of thunder,’ she said. ‘Is he thunderous?’

‘He is more than you can handle.’

‘Indeed?’

The mischievous note in her voice made him turn to look at her; her green eyes were laughing at him in a way which made his pulses quicken. ‘Indeed,’ he repeated firmly.

It was dusk when the track turned away from the gorse-clad slopes and entered a pine wood. Once in the shelter of the trees, he stopped and dismounted. ‘Madame desires a good hotel,’ he said, eyes twinkling. ‘This is the very best the region has to offer. The beds are soft and cleaner than most.’ He pointed to heaps of brown pine needles. ‘Supper will arrive in due course. Make yourself comfortable.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To find our supper.’

‘Another hare.’

‘I had my thoughts on something a little tastier. I caught a glimpse of a herd of goats.’

‘But they belong to the people. And in any case, what would we do with a whole goat?’

‘Not a goat, a kid.’

‘No!’ Her voice was sharp. ‘That would be cruel and unnecessary.’

‘You may go hungry, if you prefer that,’ he said. ‘But I intend to eat.’ He picked up his rifle, pouch and ammunition and set off through the trees, leaving her to make herself comfortable on the pine needles. She had eaten kid many times before, but then she had not seen it newly slaughtered, nor had a hand in the skinning of it; that had been done by someone in Philippe’s troop. Half the time she had not known what she was eating anyway; hunger had made her less than fastidious.

She smiled to herself; she was deliberately trying the patience of the Englishman — the leopard without claws — just to see how far she could go before he lost his composure. It was a dangerous game to play. Supposing he left her and supposing the guerrilleros were really after her and not him? Supposing she lost her way? Supposing she was attacked by wolves or wild boars? She ought to be thankful for his protection. She sat down and leant her back against one of the trees. She ought to start a fire or, at least, gather the firewood; he would return soon and she had done nothing but dream.

He was coming back now; she could hear him walking through the pine needles. She smiled; he had grumbled at her for making a noise, but he sounded like an army on the march. She would tell him so. She turned and opened her mouth to speak as the undergrowth parted, but it was not her companion who faced her but a huge boar with tusks a foot long. She stood frozen for a second which seemed like an hour as they faced each other and then, galvanised into action, she scrambled up the tree she had been leaning against, leaving the animal in possession of their belongings.

It rooted around for a time and flung her bundle about with its snout but there was nothing edible in it. ‘Go away, you stupid brute,’ she hissed down at it from her perch. ‘There’s nothing there. Oh, go away, do, I feel such a fool.’

The horse and mule, both tethered near by, set up a neighing and braying as the frustrated boar began snuffling round the campsite. If only she had a gun! She began pelting the animal with pine cones but it did not even feel them. Where was Mr Leopard? Why didn’t he come back? No, she did not want him to find her in this ignominious position, but neither did she want to stay up the tree all night. She took off her boot and flung it at the boar’s head. It landed on its snout. It looked up at her, as if surprised at her temerity. ‘Get out!’ she said, determined not to raise her voice. ‘Don’t you know you are not welcome?’