The Price Of Honour. Mary Nichols

there is one.’

      They rode on in silence until he found the track he wanted and turned his horse northwards. Olivia followed because there was nothing else she could do. The ground became rougher and the hill steeper. She glanced behind her every now and again, but there was no sign of the guerrilleros and she began to think he had been wrong or trying to frighten her. ‘Do you really think the bridge was blown to trap me?’ she asked at last. ‘Surely they would not inconvenience a whole village just to punish one woman?’

      ‘It depends what they think you know.’

      ‘I know nothing. If we were to wait and face them, could we not convince them of it?’

      ‘I doubt it.’

      ‘I begin to think it is not me but you they want. You are their enemy.’

      ‘You may think what you please.’

      ‘Are you going to ride all day without stopping?’

      ‘If I have to.’

      ‘I have some food in my pack.’

      ‘Good.’

      ‘You are not very talkative, are you?’

      ‘No need to be; you do enough talking for both of us.’

      ‘You wish me to be silent?’

      ‘It might help.’

      ‘Help you to think?’

      ‘And help me to hear. Good heavens, woman, you would be useless on patrol.’

      ‘I am not a soldier.’

      ‘No, thank heaven. Listen!’ He reined in and stood in the stirrups. ‘The river is over there.’ He started off again towards the sound of running water.

      When they arrived on the top of the rise they had been climbing they could see the river, hundreds of feet below them, cut into a gorge whose cliffs were unscaleable. Olivia’s heart sank. ‘I said we should go south,’ she said. ‘Are you going to turn back?’

      ‘Certainly not! Come on.’

      She looked up at the distant mountain; the source of the river was almost certainly high up in those peaks. ‘We can’t go up there.’

      ‘We may not need to.’

      She was reluctant to start moving again, but he did not wait for her and she clicked her tongue at the mule and set off in his wake.

      The sun climbed to its zenith, but they were so high in the wind-swept mountains that they could not feel its warmth. Olivia stopped to fetch Philippe’s jacket out of her pack and put it on. She was not sure, but she thought he had slowed his pace a little to wait for her. It pleased her out of all proportion and she decided to test it by lingering longer than she needed, just to see if he would turn back. But he did not even turn his head; he simply walked his horse slowly until she caught up with him again.

      ‘Do not do that again,’ he said. ‘Not without telling me. I could have gone on and left you behind. Anything could have happened to you.’

      ‘I was cold. And I am hungry and thirsty. When are we going to stop?’

      ‘When we reach that outcrop.’ He lifted his hand to point at a group of boulders poised on the skyline as if some giant hand had taken great pains to set them there, finely balanced and yet immovable. ‘It will afford some shelter from the wind and a fine view as well. You shall have your picnic there.’

      His tone annoyed her; it was as if he thought she was a frivolous, empty-headed female who behaved as if she were at home in England. Would that she were! ‘Even I know that an army marches on its stomach,’ she retorted. ‘We will go the better for having rested a few minutes. And besides, what is the hurry? I cannot see us being on the other side of the river before nightfall however hard we press on.’

      ‘You may be right.’

      ‘I begin to wonder where you are leading me; we are moving away from the river now.’

      ‘If you had not been so busy refining upon this and that, you would have noticed the river was taking a wide curve; we are simply cutting across the bend. When we reach the top of the hill, we shall see it again.’

      You seem to know your way very well. Have you, perhaps, been here before?’

      ‘I am a soldier, trained to be observant.’

      ‘So you said before.’

      ‘Did you learn nothing from either of your husbands?’

      ‘I learned a great deal, but as one was no more than a private and the other a mere lieutenant tactics did not come into it. Poor Tom was drilled to obey without question, and Philippe…’

      ‘Philippe was what?’

      ‘A dreamer, a romantic. He came from a noble family and he never took war seriously. Even when he was wounded he laughed and said it was just bad luck.’

      ‘Were you never exhausted and hungry?’

      ‘Philippe always had money for food and a good bed, but many of the ordinary troops suffer badly; you must know the French commissary always relies on what the country can offer…’

      ‘Offer! That is hardly accurate. If I know the Spaniards, they offer nothing.’

      She smiled. ‘You are right, which is why supplying the army is such a problem to the French command.’

      ‘It is the same in any army, but forethought and planning and money to pay make the difference. Did Philippe not feel guilty, using his wealth to fare better than his men?’

      ‘I do not think so. Sometimes he bought food for his troop as well.’

      ‘Very magnanimous of him. He sounds exceedingly pompous to me.’

      ‘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