Abruptly, a rifleman whistled, gesturing down the slope. The company tensed, hands finding rifles and cartridge boxes. But it was only Don Mateo, returning from scouting the terrain ahead, his face split by a grin.
“All is clear. The French are nowhere near. We will reach the old hermitage by nightfall, and from there the road to León is less perilous. But we must bypass the town itself, for it is likely occupied by French infantry.”
The company pressed on, spirits rising. The hills rolled away, green and gold under the afternoon sun. As dusk fell, they crested a low ridge, and the land below unfurled in shades of violet and blue. The hermitage stood on a promontory, its stone walls weathered by centuries, a single bell silent in its arch.
The riflemen made camp, fires flickering against the coming night, hidden by the building’s walls. Elizabeth sat beside Georgiana, who had rallied enough to smile and press her hand. Lydia stood, a spark in her eyes which had been lost since her abduction in Brighton. She came and knelt beside Georgiana.
“Do you recall the fashion plate in Mr. Patterson’s window? I think the violet ribbons were the ugliest I have ever seen. Do you not agree?”
Georgiana chuckled. “You must never let Harriet hear you say it, for violet is her favourite colour. Lydia, I am very thirsty. Could you please fetch a flask? But none of thataguardiente;it is far too strong for my taste.”
Elizabeth stood and let the two girls continue their chatter. Perhaps tomorrow, they could both walk, and need not be carried in the litters. It would be a good beginning, soon they would have breasted the worst of the hills and ravines, and could descend to the Meseta Central, the vast, dry plains lying south of the Cantabrian Mountains, and, perhaps, safety.
* * *
Chapter 15
León
The seventh day of their journey. The dawn was silent and windless; the grey west wind had passed away. When the day arrived, the mood of the world about them had subtly changed. Slowly the dawn grew to a pale light. Mist swathed the hills and ravines, but was quickly dissipating as the sun broached the mountains to the east.
“Are you able to walk?” asked Elizabeth, as both Georgiana and Lydia climbed to their feet.
“I shall try,” said Lydia. Her face was drawn, but her eyes held the spirit that Elizabeth had glimpsed the night before. There were no hysterics, no crying for Mama—that was in the past, left behind in the Bay of Biscay.
“If Lydia is game, then I am also,” said Georgiana, “though I may need help, for the trail ahead looks so very fearsome.” Lydia took her hand. Their illness—and the both of them being carried in litters—had created a bond.
The party was quickly packed—breakfast would wait until they were well away from the hermitage. With a heavy heart, Darcy watched Georgiana and Lydia take their first tentative steps along the trail. They ascended a narrow path cut into a steep, almost sheer, hillside, which led to the Hoces de Rodiezmo, a narrow gorge with steep rock walls on either side, the source of the Rodiezmo River. They followed a mule-trail down a gentle descent until Don Mateo called a halt.
“We shall wait here. I have sent a man ahead to see whether there are any French in La Robla. If so, we must bypass the town. It is a steep path, and the young ladies may find it very difficult.”
“Is there another route, perhaps a little longer, but easier going?” Darcy came up to stand with Fitzwilliam and Don Mateo.
“Perhaps,” replied the Spaniard, “but we would be forced to travel to the west, nearer to the French garrison at Astorga, and cross the road from León. The road is heavily patrolled, and we may have to cross at night. And, as you have seen, the terrain is very difficult. I believe your riflemen would have no difficulty, but—”
He let the implication linger. While Georgiana and Lydia were showing remarkable resilience, having walked without complaint for the past five miles, scrambling through brush-covered hillsides in the dark would be nigh on impossible.
A faint whistle echoed down the gorge. Don Mateo stiffened, listening. Moments later, a wiry man in a battered felt hat appeared at the bend in the trail, breathless from running but grinning broadly.
“La Robla is quiet,” he said in quick Spanish, “but there are rumours of a patrol heading north. Best to keep moving, señor.”
Don Mateo turned to Fitzwilliam. “We must make for the valley before they arrive. If we are fortunate, we may find shelter in the woods beyond the town.”
Fitzwilliam nodded. “The girls—can they manage it?”
“As well as any of us,” Darcy replied, watching as Georgiana rose, brushing dust from her skirt and squaring her shoulders.
They set off, the trail narrowing, stones shifting beneath their boots. Above, a hawk circled lazily, indifferent to the urgency below. Elizabeth kept close to Lydia, steadying her when she faltered. Every so often, Don Mateo would glance back, hisface grim, as if measuring their progress against some invisible clock.
Twice they paused to listen—for hoofbeats, for shouts, for any sign that the French were drawing closer. Each time, only the sound of the river and the distant clangour of cowbells greeted them. The sun climbed higher, burning away the last of the chill, and by midday they came in sight of the clustered roofs of La Robla, smoke rising gently from the chimneys.
“Now,” murmured Don Mateo, “we must be quick and very quiet.”
The village was small, a hamlet of only a few dozen families. The party hurried along the road between the cramped houses, aware that if they were discovered by a French patrol, it was not only they who would suffer, for the village itself would be burnt.
As they passed, a woman came hurrying from a low stone house, the roof thatched with rye straw. She carried a loaf of bread which she thrust into Elizabeth’s hands.
“Muches gracies—thank you very much.” Elizabeth embraced the woman, who hurried back to her house. These people, who had so little, were giving whatever they had to the partisans, and to the British soldiers. She had noticed, when they first came to the town, a few young men scrambling into the hills, deserters from the Spanish army, or hiding from the French.
