standing there, talking to Sergeant Lamont. But his face was turned towards her and she felt the force of his gaze meet hers before it moved on to take in Lieutenant Molyneux. She felt herself flush, remembering what Dammartin had said, and knowing what it must look like with her standing by the tent flap, and the Lieutenant so close outside, their conversation conducted in hushed tones.
‘Thank you,’ she said to Molyneux, and she let the canvas flap fall back down into place.
The morning was as glorious as the previous evening’s sunset had predicted. A cloudless blue sky filled with the soft, gentle light of pale sunshine. A landscape over which drifted small pockets of mist that had not yet blown away, and which during the night an ice maiden had kissed so that everything within it glittered with a fine coating of frost.
Josie noticed none of the beauty.
She thought again and again of what the Frenchmen had said, both of them. And the thing that she could not forget was not the terrible words of Dammartin’s accusation with his fury and all of his bitterness. No, the most horrible thing of all was Molyneux’s kindness. I cannot recall, he had said, but he could and he did. She had seen the pity in his eyes, and his silence roared more potent than all of Dammartin’s angry words.
She knew now why the French soldiers looked at her as they did, and understood the whispers. Yet Josie clung with every ounce of her being to her father’s memory, refusing to believe her gentle papa guilty of such a crime.
Molyneux was ever present during the long hours of the day, attempting to cheer and amuse her when in truth what Josie needed was time alone to think—time away from all of the French, even Molyneux. No sentries, no feeling of being for ever watched, for ever guarded, and definitely no Dammartin, just space to think clearly.
As they struck camp that evening, Josie waited until Dammartin and his men were at their busiest before making her excuse of the need to relieve herself. It was the one place to which neither Molyneux nor his men would accompany her.
Looking up into the Lieutenant’s face, she felt a twinge of guilt at her dishonesty, for Molyneux alone in this camp had tried to help her. But her need for some little time alone overcame all such discomfort.
‘Come, sit down, take a drink with me.’ The Major steered Dammartin back to the table and sat down. He unstoppered the large decanter of brandy and poured out two generous measures. ‘Here.’ He pressed one of the glasses into Dammartin’s hand.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Dammartin took a sip.
‘Snuff?’ The Major extracted an exquisitely worked silver snuffbox from his pocket and, opening the lid, offered it to Dammartin.
Dammartin shook his head. ‘Thank you, but, no, sir.’
‘Forget the “sir”. We are alone now. You are Jean’s son, and since my old friend is no longer with us, I look upon you as my own son.’ La Roque took an enormous pinch of snuff, placed it on the back of his hand, sniffed it heartily up into his nose and then gave the most enormous sneeze. He lifted his own glass of brandy from the table and lounged back in his chair.
‘So tell me, how are you really doing, Pierre? I’ve been worried about you since Telemos.’
Dammartin took another sip of brandy, and gave a wry smile to the man who had helped him so much since his father’s death. ‘There’s no need. I told you I am fine.’
‘Who would have thought that Mallington would have been holed up in that shit-hole of a village? There truly must be a God, Pierre, to have delivered that villain into our hands. I am only sorry that he died before I got to him. At least you had the satisfaction of looking into the bastard’s eyes while he died.’
‘Yes.’ And even La Roque’s finest brandy could not mask the bad taste that rose in Dammartin’s throat at that memory. ‘Yet I found no joy in Mallington’s death.’
‘Come, come, boy. What is this? At long last your father’s murder has been avenged.’
‘I know.’
‘We both waited a long time for that moment.’
‘Indeed we did.’ But the sourness in Dammartin’s throat did not diminish. He took another sip of brandy.
‘Jean can now rest in peace, and you can move on with your life.’
‘At last,’ said Dammartin, but his voice was grim.
La Roque drained the last of the brandy from his glass and reached again for the decanter. ‘Come along, hold your glass out, time for a top-up.’
‘I need a clear head for the morning,’ protested Dammartin.
‘I insist,’ said the Major, ‘for old times’ sake.’ He refilled Dammartin’s glass. ‘Let’s drink to your father. The finest friend a man ever did have and a hero for all of France.’ La Roque raised his glass. ‘Jean Dammartin.’
Dammartin did likewise. ‘Jean Dammartin, the best of fathers.’
They drank the brandy and sat in silence for some minutes, Dammartin lost in memories of his father.
And then La Roque asked, ‘What of the woman, Mallington’s daughter? Her presence cannot be easy for you.’
‘Mademoiselle Mallington does not affect me in the slightest,’ said Dammartin, and knew that he lied. ‘She is a prisoner to be delivered to Ciudad Rodrigo as you instructed, nothing more.’
‘That is what I like to hear, Pierre.’ La Roque smiled. ‘Drink up, boy, drink up.’
Josie sat perched near the edge of the ravine, looking out over the swathe of the rugged Portuguese landscape beyond. The air had grown colder with a dampness that seemed to seep into her very bones. She did not know how long it would be before Molyneux missed her, so she just savoured each and every moment of her solitude.
The fingers of her left hand kneaded gently at her forehead, trying to ease the knotted confusion of the thoughts that lay within. From beyond the trees and bushes behind her through which she had passed came the now-familiar sound of tent pegs being hammered in the distance, and the faint chattering and laughter of the soldiers.
She breathed deeply, allowing some of the tension, which had since Telemos been a part of her, to slip. Within this light the rocks in the ravine looked as brown as the soil that encased them. A bird called from the cool grey sky, gliding open-winged on a current of air, and Josie envied its freedom. The breeze fluttered the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin and loosed some strands of hair to brush against her cheeks.
She thought again of Dammartin and of his accusation, and as terrible and ridiculous as it had been, at least she now understood something of the French Captain’s darkness. He was a man drowning in bitterness and vengeance…and hurt. And all because of a lie.
Dammartin’s father was dead, but not by her papa’s hand, not by murder. Papa had been honest and steadfast, a strong man whose integrity was not open to compromise. But Dammartin believed the lie; she had seen the absolute conviction in his eyes. That knowledge explained all of his hatred, but little else.
Why had he taken her from the monastery in Telemos? For she knew now that he had never intended to honour her father’s dying wishes. For information? Yet he had known of the messengers, and not from her. And why had he come after her across the Portuguese countryside? What did it matter to him if she lived or died?
She thought of his coaxing her down the rock face, and giving her his cover in the night, of his kiss that had gentled to become… Josie did not want to think of that. So many questions, to which she did not have the answers.
A twig snapped behind her, the noise of a footstep upon the pebbled soil. Josie glanced round to tell Molyneux that she was just coming. But it was not Molyneux that stood there.
‘What do you mean she has not come back?’ demanded Dammartin. ‘Where the hell is she?’
‘She wished to use the latrine,’