He slithered down the slope and then turned and whistled. Sultan responded and somehow managed to pick his way down without mishap. The fact that there was a roving troop of French cavalry in the area meant he must move in the opposite direction. The meeting with the partisans was more important than searching for his missing companion.
After two days he was higher in the mountains and certain he was undetected. However, either O'Reilly had been killed or captured as his man hadn't caught up with him despite the fact that he was travelling slowly.
On the third day he was searching for somewhere suitable to stop overnight and came across a small clearing with a crystal-clear stream trickling down the cliff face and lush grass growing for his horse. He had finished his rations the day before, but as long as he could continue to drink his fill he would be able to travel for another few days.
There was an opening to a cave just above where he intended to camp. He gave it a cursory glance and then ignored it. Then the hair on the back of his neck stood up. There was something moving just above him. He scarcely had time to glance up and see a mountain lion about to pounce. Sultan, who was grazing quietly just below the cave, threw up his head and bolted.
Perry screamed at him, but the horse was too terrified to listen and his panicked gallop sent him towards the edge of the ravine. He managed to grab the horse's tail but was too late to prevent the inevitable. They both fell headlong into the ravine.
Perry opened his eyes but could see nothing. Either it was the middle of the night or he had become inexplicably blind. He ached all over, there wasn't an inch of him that didn't hurt after his catastrophic fall. How could he have been so stupid? He should have checked before letting his horse graze directly below the lair of a huge cat. How long had he been here? Was it a night or day?
He raised his hand slowly and traced his fingers over his face. They came away sticky. It could only be blood. He flexed each limb in turn and although stiff and sore they functioned reasonably well. If he was blind because of his accident then he might as well be dead. In fact, a broken leg would be preferable in the circumstances.
He whistled and waited to see if his horse responded. He was pretty sure the poor beast would have perished when they had somersaulted over the cliff edge. He tried again, and again nothing. He could taste the salty, metallic tang of his own blood. If he was to have any hope of surviving he must try and stem the flow coming from his head.
After blinking he could still see nothing. His eyes could swivel but they weren't functioning. He would just have to pray it was temporary, caused by banging his head, and he would gradually regain his sight over the next few hours.
At least he had fallen into the shade and wasn't being boiled alive by the merciless sun. He pushed himself onto his elbows and regretted it. He flopped back as an excruciating pain ripped through his head. He left it for a while and then attempted to sit up a second time. Same result, only this time he cast up his accounts. Then merciful blackness enveloped him.
*
Sofia had completed her patrol of the region and was satisfied there were no filthy Frenchmen lurking anywhere. Papa had been an English cartographer employed by the British Army but had been killed two years ago. She and Mama had been taken in by some Spanish villagers. She now considered these partisans her family and was only too happy to be included in the patrols.
As she was about to turn her horse and head back to the village her horse shied and she lost a stirrup.
'What is it? What has disturbed you?'
She patted the animal's neck and he calmed beneath her touch. She decided to investigate. Perhaps a goat had become stuck in the ravine and needed her assistance. These animals ranged freely but still belonged to someone or other in the village and were therefore her responsibility.
She dismounted and tethered Pedro to a convenient branch. 'Wait here, boy, I shan't be long.'
Once, when she had been on a patrol in the early days, she had made the almost fatal error of not taking the correct precautions before going to investigate a suspect noise. If it hadn't been for Carlos the French soldier would have shot her. Instead, the Frenchman had had his throat slit. It had taken her several weeks to recover from this shocking episode but now she was more resilient.
So far, she had not had to stab or shoot anyone herself, she wasn't sure she would be able to do it, but she carried a knife and a pistol and knew how to use both. She had also seen three other bodies and thought herself immune to such sights.
She pulled out the pistol from the holster attached to her saddle – she rode astride as everyone did in the mountains – cocked and primed it just in case – before making her way to the edge so she could look over and see what had scared her horse.
Her lips curved at the thought of what her grandmama, Lady Amanda Appleby, would say if she could see her now. Gently bred young ladies were expected to dress in pretty muslins, ride side-saddle, and be subservient to the gentlemen of the family. She glanced down at her man's garb, shirt, waistcoat, breeches and riding boots. Her hair was worn in a braid which hung down her back.
When the war was over and the French had been driven from Spain and Portugal it was possible Mama would wish to return to England – but she doubted it. She rather thought she was about to have a Spanish stepfather – the leader of the small town, Carlos's father, was definitely interested in marriage.
She dropped to her knees and then peered over the edge. She almost toppled head first so great was her shock. There was a magnificent horse lying dead at the bottom of the ravine and a few yards away was the rider and he looked in little better case. Then she saw his hand move. He was alive and definitely not a Frenchman. Although he wasn't in uniform she recognised his clothes as coming from an English tailor.
However much she wanted to she could not get down to aid the injured man. She would have to go back and bring her comrades and some rope. She prayed the young man survived long enough to be rescued. His head was matted with blood and he was pale as a ghost beneath the gore.
It took scarcely a quarter of an hour to gallop home and her arrival attracted the attention she had hoped. She tumbled from the saddle and explained the reason for her precipitous entrance.
'We must get back there immediately. I fear the young man might have bled out before we reach him.'
Her mother handed her the haversack in which were the necessary items to deal with the injury. 'Are you quite sure he is not a Frenchman, my love?'
'I am, Mama, the ravine is not so deep I could not recognise the cut of his clothes. His horse was English too, a great shame it perished in the fall.'
Outside the men had gathered the necessary ropes. Carlos tossed her into the saddle. 'Sofia, lead the way and we shall follow.'
They travelled as speedily as she had and she pointed to the cliff edge. 'He's down there. I think it no more than seven or eight yards so it should not be too difficult bringing him out.'
Carlos strode to the edge and looked down before answering. 'The man's still alive. As long as he has no broken bones or damage to his insides raising him should not injure him further.'
