He looked south, where the partisans had spoken of Wellington and the French Marshal, Marmont, marching across the plains, almost within sight of each other, each searching for ground of their own choosing, in order to win a decisive victory.
Don Mateo slipped away, vanishing into the trees like a wraith. Fitzwilliam stood with his arms folded, staring at the distant fires, his face bleak.
“Colonel, do we remain here?” Elizabeth tore her gaze from the French camp. “We are exposed, and Georgiana and Lydia are close to exhaustion. They are doing well, but the traverse of the ridge was extremely tiring.”
Darcy’s thoughts snapped back to the present company; thoughts of French armies were the least of their present worries. “Richard, we should move off the ridge. To the east, there are some ruins, mayhap a place to make camp. It is below the ridge, out of sight of León—and out of the wind.”
* * *
The morning brought Don Mateo and news—but nothing good. “My men could not get into the camp; none but soldiers may enter. Their security is very tight. A young boy tried to sneak a piece of bread from their bakery—he was caught—” Tears glistened in Don Mateo’s eyes. “I am a hard man, Colonel, but he was only a boy! They are animals, pigs—I will castrate them all!”
Colonel Fitzwilliam slapped his thigh in frustration. “If a boy cannot enter… surely they must collect fodder for the horses.And wine? An army of this size, twenty thousand men, must have the thirst of the Irish.”
“No, señor, only whores and their pimps are allowed to enter,” said Don Mateo. “The pimps are closely guarded. Were they to ask even one question about the army’s destination, they would be shot, and the women—” he shrugged. “If the pigs can violate a young boy, I know not what they would do to a woman.”
“Colonel, how important is it to know what General Caffarelli is planning?” asked Elizabeth, who had come to listen to Don Mateo. “You appear to be desperately worried.”
“I know from intelligence I received in England, and from Don Mateo’s partisans, that Lord Wellington intends to force Marshal Marmont to battle, but only on ground of his choosing, likely near Salamanca.”
“Salamanca? Due south of here?” Elizabeth gasped.
“You know of it, Miss Bennet? How so?”
“My gift—or curse, as I have begun to think of it—Simms and Donnelly fight on a hill, the Lesser Arapile. It is a desperate battle.”
Don Mateo stared at Elizabeth with astonishment. “Yes, yes! The Lesser and Greater Arapiles. Señora Bennet, you are avidente, a seer?” He crossed himself. “Then, surely, you know the purpose of this great army?”
“No, Señor Mateo. It is only if I am close, if a person touches me or I them. My sight also fades with familiarity, over time. I know no more than you and the Colonel as to where the army intends to go—whether to fight Santocildes in Galicia or remain here at León.”
Elizabeth paused, deep in thought. “Does Wellington know of this army, Colonel?”
“No, his intelligence is likely out of date—that Caffarelli remains at Burgos; that Bonnet is on the northern coast. Hecannot divert troops to protect his northern flank, for then Marmont would attack him on the west.”
“And if he knew, for certain?” Elizabeth pressed the Colonel.
“Timing, ma’am. If this army were to march tomorrow, and Wellington were warned, then he could turn, force Marmont to battle, then hurry to reinforce the bridges across the Douro at Zamora and Toro. Likely, a very close thing. Yet, if he were to delay just one day, it could mean defeat for the British, perhaps retreat to Portugal. All the gains of the past year lost.”
Darcy stared at her. Whatever was she thinking? “No, you cannot!” he cried, but Elizabeth had already turned to Don Mateo.
“Señor, have you a man who will accompany me? And, perchance some clothing suitable for—what did you say—una ramera, a whore?”
“No, Elizabeth, I forbid it! You cannot be serious?” Darcy clutched her arm, desperate to stop her madness.
“My apologies, Mr. Darcy, but I could not live with myself if Wellington were to lose, if Portugal were to fall once again under the tyrant’s rule. How many young men, young women would die merely because I sought safety, returning to the peace of Hertfordshire, drinking tea, readingLa Belle Assembléeand laughing at puffed sleeves and daring ball gowns showing my ankles?”
“Señora Bennet, you speak French and Spanish?”
“I am fluent in French, a little Spanish—some Asturian that I have learnt over the past few days. Enough, I believe, to pass through the gates—though my chestnut hair is uncommon, it is not unknown. Perhaps your man is already familiar with the camp? I will not think the less of him, or his ladies. War is a difficult time, especially for women.”
* * *
Chapter 16
León
Darcy had never felt so helpless. Even standing on the Marine Parade, watching theHirondellepull away from the shore, there had been some hope that he could sail after the vessel, board it, and lead a rescue. But now, there was no hope; no hope that he could persuade Miss Bennet—Elizabeth—that it was folly to venture into the French camp. That she would be a ruined woman, that her reputation, even were she to return, would forever be tainted with the wordwhore. There was but one reason the French allowed prostitutes into the camp: otherwise, twenty thousand men would rampage through the town of León, looting and raping. Already they would be hungry, supply lines stretched, wagons pillaged by partisans, with little or no forage on the plains. The Spanish had long since learnt to hide their grain, their cheese, their cattle and sheep led up into the hills to hide them from scavenging French soldiers.
The soldiers’ solace, confined to the camp, was finding some transient pleasure in the body of a woman, likely forced into selling herself to secure food, shelter, and protection for her family. Enough! He watched Elizabeth descend the trail with Don Mateo.
