A drummer boy, no more than twelve, watched her with wide eyes, stick frozen in mid-beat. Two Spanish cavalrymen, their sabres slung and faces masked by days in the saddle, nudged each other and grinned as she passed. “Mira la maja,” one breathed, not quite under his breath, and his companion leered openly.
“Keep moving,” Fitzwilliam snapped in Spanish, his voice like a whip. The riflemen closed ranks, Don Mateo’s hand tightening on the hilt of his knife. Elizabeth kept her chin high, eyes fixed on the marquee.
At last, they reached the sentry, who eyed them all with suspicion, gaze lingering on Elizabeth before snapping to Fitzwilliam’s insignia. With a begrudging nod, he stepped aside, and Fitzwilliam ducked through the flap, motioning the others to follow.
Inside, the air was blessedly cool, filtered through layers of canvas. A single table stood at the centre, covered in maps and dispatches. At its head sat Lord Wellington, his posture deceptively relaxed, a half-eaten biscuit resting on a plate beside his elbow. His eyes, cold and sharp as flint, took in the newcomers in a heartbeat—a flicker of recognition for Fitzwilliam, a raised brow at the sight of Elizabeth.
Beside him, his adjutant scribbled notes, oblivious to the dust and noise outside. The general’s pen paused mid-sentence as he regarded the party.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” he said, voice clipped and precise. “I did not expect you.” He turned to Don Mateo. “You may take yourramera. Or is she the Colonel’s woman?”
Elizabeth, worn to breaking point, stepped forward and slapped Wellington hard across his face. There was a deadly stillness in the air, the chill enough to freeze water.
The adjutant made to stand, but Don Mateo’s knife was at his throat before he had risen an inch. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, now released from its scabbard, a finger’s width of dull, honed metal glinting in the chill light of the tent.
“You. Will. Apologise. My. Lord. “ he hissed. “If I am forced to draw my sword, then you, sir, will defend yourself. Now!”
Wellington stared. Never before had a subordinate officer dared to challenge him. There was a cold contempt in the Spaniard’s face. Damnation!
“A glass of wine would be very welcome, my lord. And perhaps your adjutant could fetch me a chair, for we have just now come from León and I am bone-weary.” Her voice was soft, melodious, out of place in this camp of dirt and sweat and flies.
“Ma’am, is all well with ye in there?” A hard, weathered man looked through the flap of the tent, peering intently at the lady, scowling at the General.
“Donnelly, if you would, let us have some privacy—no one is to enter.”
Wellington heard the unmistakable sound of flintlock rifles being cocked. “Harrumph. Crawley, some wine for our guests, a chair for the lady.”
The tension in the room eased. Don Mateo’s knife disappeared, Fitzwilliam stepped back from the table. “Sir, it is my honour to present Miss Bennet, and Don Mateo… the General Lord Wellington.”
Elizabeth curtsied, then sank wearily into a canvas chair that the adjutant had placed near her. Chairs were also brought for Don Mateo and the Colonel.
Lord Wellington’s gaze lingered on Elizabeth—God, she was beautiful!—yet he kept his expression inscrutable. He picked up his biscuit, considered it, and set it aside. “You have travelled far, Miss Bennet. How came you from León?”
Elizabeth, gathering herself, managed a smile that was more pride than warmth. “Easy, my lord? Only if one counts hunger, exhaustion, and the occasional misplaced gallantry among your officers as nothing extraordinary.”
A faint smile ghosted across the general’s lips—gone as swiftly as it had come. “Not many English ladies find themselves so deep in Spain, nor so quick to take offence.”
“She is here by necessity, not choice,” Colonel Fitzwilliam interjected, his tone polite but edged with warning. “And her courage, I think, should speak for itself.”
Don Mateo, fingers drumming idly on the table’s edge, inclined his head. “Señora Isabella has endured what many men could not.”
Wellington’s eyes flicked from one to the other; his adjutant scribbled notes with nervous haste. “Very well. You come from León, you say. What news? Speak freely—my patience grows thin, and Marmont grows bolder with each passing day.”
The Colonel leant forward. “Caffarelli and Bonnet have joined forces at León—they have reformed Napoleon’sArmy of the North. They have cavalry in strength, and over fifty guns.”
Wellington leant back in his chair, a smug look on his face. “Their intention? Perhaps they wish to prevent Santoclides from laying to siege to the garrison at Astorga?”
“No, General. They are already marching—the vanguard has reached Benavente. Their intention is a pincer, to trap youbetween Marmont to the south, Souham to the west, and their army from the north. They know the bridges at Zamora and Toro are only lightly defended.” Elizabeth was tired, too tired to argue with a recalcitrant general who was unaccustomed to being wrong.
Wellington’s jaw tightened. “Miss Bennet—five days from León, three days from Benavente? You could not possibly know the French are there!”
“Señor, you will listen, for much is at stake,” interrupted Don Mateo quietly. “Please, send for Major Hurley, your intelligence officer. Then, you both must listen to Señora Isabella. She speaks the truth, and you disdain her at your army’s peril.”
“Humbugged, by God!” Wellington slammed his fist on the table. “What say you, Hurley? We last heard that Bonnet was still on the north coast near Santander.”
“Indeed, my lord,” said Major Hurley, wryly. “We have been tricked, bluffed, chicaned, flimflammed—all words more suitable for the ear of a lady. Yet, Miss Bennet has given us further vital information as to how we can act: this Colonel Dumoustier retreats from Zamora.”
“Ah, indeed he does.” Wellington turned to Fitzwilliam. “Can he cross elsewhere? Is there a ford?”
