Authors: Mary Nichols
In late
afternoon, when she felt she could go no further, they reached Toulouse and he
pulled up at an inn and dismounted. 'We'll rest here,' he said as he came to
help her down. She was so stiff and saddle-sore, she could hardly stand. 'Oh,
ma pauvre,' he said, putting his arm about her and helping her indoors, leaving
the ostler to see to the horses. 'I am a hard taskmaster, am I not?'
She smiled
weakly. 'Dreadful.'
He settled her
on a sofa then went to arrange accommodation and food. He was gone less than
two minutes, but she was almost asleep when he returned. He picked her up and
carried her upstairs behind the innkeeper, passed through a sitting room into a
bedchamber and put her on the bed. She was half aware of someone pulling off
her boots and covering her and then a blissful slumber claimed her.
`Sleep, my
little one,' he murmured softly. 'Sleep while you can.'
He returned to
the sitting room and the innkeeper brought food and wine, but he did not wake
Juliette. Rest was more important for her than sustenance at the moment because
they still had a very long way to go and he meant to be on the road again at
dawn the next morning. They could make better progress during daylight hours
and, with luck, Clavier and his motley crew were far enough behind not to be a
threat. In any case, there was something else he could do as an extra
safeguard. He rose and went into the next room. Juliette was sound asleep, her
glossy hair cascading over the pillow, one hand flung out, her lips slightly
parted. He bent and kissed her forehead. 'Sleep on, my love. I shall not be
long.'
He left her and
went downstairs, where he instructed the innkeeper to tell her he would be back
for supper. On no account was he to allow her to leave. Then he strode off in
search of the British agent he knew to be in the town. It was contrary to his
orders to contact him except in an emergency, but as far as Philippe was
concerned, this was an emergency.
It took him
longer than he expected to find his contact. Emile - it was a false name and
the only one by which he was known in France - was a very elusive man, which
was why he was such a good agent, but he found him just as dusk fell, drinking
with his cronies in one of the taverns in a back street.
Philippe was
introduced as an old friend, a hero of Salamanca, and was soon made welcome and
plied with wine and cognac. It was several hours before they could detach
themselves and the moon was riding high by the time they left, staggering down
the street, apparently the worse for drink. Once out of sight of their
erstwhile companions, Philippe lost no time in telling Emile just what he wanted.
If Michel Clavier put in an appearance in the area, he must be dealt with in
any way Emile saw fit and if James Martindale showed his face, he must be
securely held where he could do no more harm. `I'll deal with him when I come
back,' he said.
`When will that
be?'
He shrugged. 'A
week, maybe more. I have to deliver something to the British lines. Do you know
where they are?'
`Laying siege
to Bayonne, the last I heard.'
`Will it hold
out?'
`Not long once
Wellington decides to move. You may tell him that the Boney has suffered a
resounding defeat at Leipzig. The Grande Armee is so depleted he is faced with
recruiting schoolboys and old men to carry on the fight.'
`There has been
talk of peace terms.'
`The Emperor
rejected them. Now there is nothing to stop our troops from carrying on into
France. Bayonne will fall.' He smiled. 'After that, who knows? North or east? I
hope they make for Toulouse, then I can go home.' He seized the other's hand.
'Good luck, my friend.'
`And to you.'
Philippe
hurried back to the inn, where he found Juliette pacing the floor of their
sitting room. Without stopping to think, she threw herself into his arms.
'Where have you been? I have been sick with worry. Don't ever do that again.'
He held her a
minute, savouring the feel of her body against his, the faint scent of soap
about her, then gently disengaged himself. 'I had business to attend to.'
`You could have
told me. I thought you had been caught.'
`Caught? By
whom? And why?'
`Major Clavier.
You have been on edge all the time we have been travelling, looking about you
all the time. And you said he would come after us.'
`But that was
two days ago,' he said, sinking into a chair. He was bone weary, but there was
still a long way to go and he must rest. 'He will have given up by now. After
all, he is a soldier, he cannot go chasing off wherever the fancy takes him. He
has to obey his orders.'
`And you do
not, I collect,' she said sharply.
He laughed.
'Touche, ma chèrie.'
`Now it is
dark, I suppose we must set off again.'
`No, we will go
in the morning.'
He opened the
door and shouted to the innkeeper to bring food and drink. It was brought
promptly and they .sat down to a meal such as they had not had in weeks:
chicken soup, lamb chops and peaches, washed down with wine.
Afterwards, he
escorted her to the door of the bedroom, but he did not follow her inside.
Their earlier intimacy had gone; he was not disposed to tease her or flirt with
her or even to talk. She was hurt by his apparent change of mood. Oh, how she
hated this dreadful war, which made enemies of those you would rather love.
Where, oh, where was it all leading? The long day in the shepherd's hut had
apparently been forgotten by him, but she could not forget it. Was that all she
would ever have, a memory of such sweetness it hurt, deep inside her, whenever
she thought of it. Better not to think at all.
He was already up and dressed, waiting for her in the
little sitting room, when she rose next morning. They ate breakfast in silence,
each determined to maintain a coolness; it was the only way they could control
their emotions. Afterwards he escorted her downstairs and out to where the
horses had been saddled and were waiting. He helped her into the saddle,
mounted himself and they set off again.
They travelled
for two days, passing through vineyards, many as neglected as those at
Hautvigne, and staying at little inns in the villages, pretending to be husband
and wife, though he never took advantage of it, but slept in a chair. Their
conversation was desultory; they seemed not to have the energy for the
enthusiastic repartee and the sharp riposte which had characterised their
exchanges before. They were like strangers, polite, but distant.
She supposed it
might have something to do with the fact that they were nearing the fighting.
They had been hearing the occasional boom of heavy guns for some hours and the
roads were becoming clogged with the traffic of war, soldiers, mounted and on
foot, guns on limbers, wagons, carts pulled by mules, women and even children.
But they all seemed to be going in the opposite direction.
`Where are we
going?' she asked.
`To Bayonne.'
`Why?'
He turned to
look at hen 'That is where the lines are drawn.'
`Battle lines?'
`All the
lines,' he said. Lines between friend and foe, between life and death, her life
and his.
`Supposing I do
not want to go?'
`There is no
alternative.'
She did not
answer, but plodded on beside him, not because she had no choice, but because
that was where she wanted to be. Always.
They rode a
little and walked a little, dodging patrols and the remnants of the French army
who were retreating to take up new positions. The ground around them was
devastated, uprooted trees, broken-down guns, dead horses, deep holes filled
with icy water, human bodies, men digging graves. She shuddered. So this was
the aftermath of battle.
`It's inhuman.'
She whispered, not because there was anyone taking any notice of them but
because she felt it was respectful to do so.
`But of the
animal kingdom, only humans wage war,' he said.
`It doesn't say
much for the human race.'
`No. '
Suddenly they
seemed to be alone on a hill overlooking a town. Beyond that was the sea. 'Come
on,' he said, turning to look at her. She was exhausted, her hair had lost its
sheen and her eyes had lost their sparkle; there was a smudge of dirt on her
cheek and her skirt was torn, revealing the much-worn riding breeches. But she
was still smiling, this brave and beautiful love of his. He smiled too, though
it was an effort. 'The last two or three miles are always the worst.'
`We are going
down there?' She had noticed the flag fluttering from one of the tallest
buildings and though it filled her with joy to see it, she was afraid for him,
dressed as he was in a French uniform. 'Is that Bayonne?'
`No, it is the
harbour of St Jean de Luz. The British command has its headquarters there.'
`We are going
home, after all?' Her face lit with joy.
`Not me. You. I
will see you safely through the British lines where you will be looked after
and sent back to England. Viscount Martindale will welcome you back, I'll stake
my all on that...'
`But why not
you too? You are not the French soldier you pretend to be, I know that, even if
you will not admit it, and even if you were, the prison camps are not so bad -
there is one very near our home.' She paused, remembering how he had followed
the escaped prisoners. `But then you know that already, don't you? Philip
Devonshire left England and Philippe Devereux arrived in France. And don't you
dare deny it.'
He was very
tempted to admit it, but when he thought of James and what he had to do, he
knew nothing had changed. But he could not lie any more. Instead he said, `We
spoke of cowardice and dishonour, remember?'
She had not
wanted to remember and she could not see that it had any bearing on the present
situation. 'Oh, you make me so angry,' she cried. 'Fighting and killing, hate
and revenge, it's all you live for, isn't it? I don't want you dead, I cannot
love a corpse.'
`Love,
Juliette?'
`Yes, love,'
she shouted in English. 'Don't you understand, you buffle-head, I love you.'
He dismounted
and ran round to lift her off her horse. He stood with his hands on her arms,
looking down into her troubled face. 'Say that again.'
She repeated
what she had said in French though she knew he had understood. 'Now, tell me I
am shameless.'
He threw back
his head and laughed, though his heart was breaking. `Oh, you are very
shameless, my love.' And he kissed her hungrily.
She clung to
him, returning kiss for kiss, knowing now that he did love her and that what he
was doing, the risks he was taking, were all borne of that love. But she didn't
want his sacrifice; she wanted to stay with him. 'Take me with you.'
`No, it's
impossible. I love you more than life itself and it is that love which is my
greatest danger. Don't you see, my darling, only with you safe among your own
people, can I go on and do what I have to do.'
`You love me?'
It was the first time he had said the words and her heart sang to hear them.
`How could I
not love you? You are everything to me. My life, my whole existence is bound to
you. It was ordained from the beginning and will never change, no matter how
long we are apart.' He touched her face with gentle fingers. 'But part we must.
Please don't make it difficult for me.'
The tears were
pouring down her face, though she made no sound. He had said he must be the
strong one and he was, but he was asking her to be strong too. She wasn't. She
was weak and she needed him. Why couldn't he see that?
He tethered the
horses in a ruined barn. 'Horses are like gold,' he said, forcing himself to be
practical. 'They will be confiscated if we take them with us and I need them
both; riding them alternately will hasten my journey.' Then he took her
cloakbag from her saddle and led her by the hand down the hill on to the road
into the town.
Juliette found
she was shaking, though she could not tell if it were caused by fear or the
imminent parting from the man she loved. A figure loomed up in the darkness
ahead of them and startled her. She clutched Philippe's hand as the soldier
levelled a rifle and shouted, 'Who goes there?'
`Friend!'
Philippe responded in English.
`Password?'
Juliette held
her breath. 'Bucephalus,' Philippe said. `And I have a package for old Hooknose.'
`Package, eh?
And what might that be?'
He put up the
hand which held Juliette's. 'This one.'
`What's so
special about her?'
`Take her to
Lord Wellington and you will see.'
`Do you think
the Peer has nothin' better to do than entertain French whores?'
Juliette saw
Philippe's jaw tense and the hand that held hers tightened so that she almost
cried out in pain. 'I am English,' she called out. 'My name is Martindale. You
have heard of Viscount Martindale? I am his daughter.'