02 - Keane's Challenge (31 page)

‘That would be nice, Maria. Till then.’

They left the kitchen and doubled back into the marshal’s private quarters, where Keane had noted a small dark recess below the stairs. It was in that space that they now hid.

The two men waited in the shadows for almost an hour until, as a clock chimed six, Keane urged Gilpin to his feet and the two of them raced up the back service stairs to the marshal’s
apartments. Keane edged his face around the corner of the wall to the corridor and, just as the cook had said, the marshal’s door opened and he left, attended by the hussar officer, who turned to close the door behind him.

Keane whispered to Gilpin. ‘Right. I’ll go in on my own and try to find some sort of written evidence that he’s taking the north route. Give me an hour and keep watch. We have two hours at the most, but if I’m not out within the hour come and get me.

Keane moved silently along the passage and once outside Massena’s doors put his hand on the handle of that on the right. He pushed down and the door began to open. He pushed hard and was inside, closing the door behind him. He was alone in the room and listened for any signs of life but heard none.

Feeling confident, he walked across to the large desk that dominated the window recess and which presumably had belonged to the British governor, General Cox. He began by opening the drawers and had just reached the second when he became aware that the handle on the door on the wall opposite that through which he had entered had begun to move. Instinctively he felt for his sword but of course found nothing there. The door handle moved again and Keane, deciding it would be best to stand his ground, reached down into his boot and found the dagger, holding it so that the blade was hidden within his palm.

At last the door opened and he found himself face to face with one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. He congratulated the marshal on his exquisite taste.

She was small, of perfect height in a woman as far as he was concerned, with a shock of auburn hair that fell in ringlets about her shoulders. Her light blue eyes flashed across the room and met his while he took in her beauty. Her narrow shoulders
framed an ample bosom which gave way to a neatly tapered waist and legs which seemed impossible, given her height. But the most surprising thing about her was that she was clad in the uniform of a French hussar.

She looked at Keane with alarm, but he could tell that it was not total surprise and he wondered how long she might have been regarding him through some unseen spyhole in the panelling.

She spoke in a voice that was at once afraid and self-assured. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘I’m no one, madame. No one really. An acquaintance of the marshal’s. I delivered this wine earlier.’

‘You’re lying and I’m going to call the guard.’

‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘I think you’re an insurgent. A guerrilla. Be warned. I am armed.’

‘Of course you are. And so am I.’

She stared at him, trying to puzzle out his presence there. Wondering if he was a guerrilla, an assassin or merely a thief. If so, then he had surely come to the wrong place. For Massena was one of the most avaricious and possessive men she had ever met.

‘Who are you?’ she asked. And there was not a trace of panic in her voice.

‘The truth?’

‘The truth will do, if you’ve nothing better.’

‘I’m a British officer.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘You are?’

He removed the hat and the handkerchief and smiled at her and this time he spoke in French. ‘James Keane, ma’am. Captain.’

‘You really are, aren’t you? I should call the guard.’

‘You’d be lucky. They’re all on parade with your man and then they’ll go and get pissed and then he’ll come back to you stinking of hooch and tup you till you’re red raw. That’s the sort of man he is, isn’t it? The good marshal.’

She stared at him wide-eyed. No one had ever been so blunt, so unforgiving. ‘Yes. Yes, that is just what he’s like.’

‘And you hate him for it.’

She looked at him again. How could a man she had just met know so much about her? She nodded.

She looked so strange, standing there dressed as a cavalryman in a uniform which fitted her form so well that it accentuated every perfect contour. The effect was more erotic by far than if she had been naked. Although at that moment that was precisely what Keane was wishing for.

He moved closer to her and gently inhaled. He had forgotten the smell of a woman, musky and heady. He felt intoxicated by her and was suddenly conscious of where they were. What his purpose was and what he had to do. She was very young, twenty-one at the most, and he wondered what she was doing with Massena, a man in his fifties. There must be a tale behind their relationship and he was willing to bet it was a tragedy.

He had a hunch, and on a whim suddenly tore at her tunic and exposed her back.

She gasped and gathered the cloth as it fell around her bosom. But Keane turned her hard so that he could see her shoulders. And sure enough there it was. On her left shoulder blade a small but distinctive mark. A mark in the shape of a dagger, made with a branding iron many years before and that might easily be mistaken for a birthmark or other blemish.

He smiled. ‘I thought so. You’re a cathouse whore.’

She covered herself and stared at him.

‘How dare you? I am a respectable woman. My husband is an officer of dragoons. A major.’

‘That sign says otherwise.’

‘What do you know about it? I was a dancer.’

‘A dancer? I know enough. Enough to have visited one of those establishments in Paris myself a few years ago. All you tarts, you’re all owned by your madames and that’s when you get branded. How old were you? Fifteen? Sixteen?’

She looked away. ‘I was fourteen. My father needed the money. We were very poor.’

‘And so he sold you. The bastard. Sold his own daughter to a meat house. Christ.’

‘Stop!’ The tears were welling in her eyes now. Keane thought he was doing rather well. She went on. ‘He couldn’t help it. He was my father. My family had to live.’

Keane stopped. ‘You’ve done well, haven’t you? Done all right. Mistress of the Prince of Essling. Not bad. Mind you, he was only a guttersnipe, wasn’t he? Perhaps you’re well suited. Did Massena buy you too?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You disgust me. Get out. I’ll call the guard.’

‘I told you, they’re all away playing soldiers.’

He walked over to the sideboard and, picking up the flask of wine, poured himself a glass before going on. ‘I think he did. He bought you. You’re his slave, Henriette. Am I right? You might look the part, but you’re more his whore than his mistress. I’ll wager he’s a bit rough with you. Though maybe you like them that way. No, I think you’ve had enough of the marshal, or the prince or whatever he calls himself when you’re alone. I bet you’re just dying to get away.’

‘What if I am?’

‘Perhaps I can help.’

‘How? What do you know?’

‘I know about you.’

She stopped. ‘Who are you?’

‘I told you. I am a British officer.’

‘Not like any I have ever seen.’

‘That’s because I’m not like any other British officer. For one thing, I’m Irish. For another, I play by my own rules, not the army’s.’

‘What? Who are you really?’

‘Why don’t you ask yourself that question?’

She began to sob. He held her to him and she let herself go, losing herself in his arms.

He whispered gently. ‘Tell me your name.’

‘Henriette. Henriette Lebreton.’

He repeated the name. As if he needed to remind himself who it was he was holding in his arms. It felt unreal and he wondered how he had managed to find himself here. Then she looked up and instinctively he kissed her. Her eyes were open now and she kept them open, wanting to see what he would do. He felt her return the kiss and he knew that his instinct had not been wrong. Danger made a man do such things.

She could feel him against her now, and pulling her face away from his, but without letting go of his arm, she led him through the doors from where she had appeared and laid him down on a huge canopied bed that smelt exactly like she did.

Then, as her ripped uniform fell away, she lay down beside him, unbuttoning his tunic, whispered in his ear, ‘Can you kill him?’

And Keane knew that this was not a dream. It was real and he wanted her.

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘But not now. Not here. Yes, I can kill him. I will kill him, when I have the chance, for you. But I want something in return.’

She pulled him towards her. And outside in the courtyard the servants came and went, and down the hill on the parade ground Massena inspected his troops and the drums played their evening tattoo.

And Keane wondered what he had done.

They rode at breakneck speed back towards the old convent, leaving the soaring, looming ramparts of Almeida behind them. Gilpin had saddled the carthorse and Keane had found a likely-looking mare tethered in the marshal’s stable yard. It was only after they had left the town and were about to quit the city walls that Gilpin, who was riding to the rear of Keane, had commented on the horse.

‘Sir, have you seen what’s on your nag’s rump?’

Keane looked down to his left and past the navy-blue and gold saddlecloth noticed a brand. It was a monogram in the shape of an ornate letter ‘E’, surmounted by a crown.

‘What’s that for, d’you think, sir? Espagne?’

‘No,’ said Keane. ‘That ‘E’ stands for Essling, and the crown is that of a prince. This is one of Massena’s own horses.’ He patted the beast’s neck and smiled to himself. Two of the marshal’s prized possessions, each of them branded, and he had had them both.

They had moved fast and had been out of the archway before the groom and the kitchen staff had known they were gone.

Now his mind was full of Henriette and her smell lingered in
his nostrils and on his fingers and his clothes. Events had not gone quite as he had planned, but the result had been all that he had hoped, and more.

In his pocket he carried a note copied with care by himself from an identical one in Massena’s hand. It was, he thought, perhaps the most precious piece of paper with which he had ever been entrusted. It contained an order written to Marshal Ney to take the army up to pursue the allies by the northern route, through Viseu and then down to Coimbra by way of Bussaco.

Henriette had found the original for him when he had asked, left where she had seen Massena write it earlier that day, and had pressed it into his hand. It had not taken long to copy and he had even forged the signature, such was his skill as a draughtsman.

And he for his part had promised to return. Or at least to find her, wherever she might be, and to rescue her from Massena, if not to kill the man. He would do his utmost to find her. As Keane knew well, promises made in the heat of passion are seldom kept.

But this was more than a promise and they had sworn to one another that if they could not meet again in Spain then they would contrive to find each other somehow in Paris, her home town. Keane knew a place. A place with which she was familiar. A little cafe on the rue du petit Temple, close to the Place des Vosges in the old Jewish quarter. That would be their rendezvous. If ever he could manage it and if both of them were still alive.

He could not quite believe how fast it had happened. It had just felt right. There was nothing more to it. How could there be? He knew that he did not feel the same for Henriette as he did for Kitty Blackwood. But then he caught her scent again and for a moment or two began to doubt himself.

He wondered how long it would be before someone raised the alarm in Almeida. Of course he and Gilpin would not be there to meet Maria and her friend that evening, nor would he be on hand to see Massena in the morning to resume their talk of spying. And he wondered how long it would be before the marshal would discover that there was something missing from his rooms. A silver snuffbox embossed with a gold eagle and the initial ‘E’. Perhaps he would not notice it at all. He would blame one of the servants. Or maybe Dominguez. Keane felt his saddlebag to reassure himself that the box was still inside and smiled as he thought of the marshal’s expression. He prayed that Massena would not suspect Henriette of involvement, nor that he would question why the hussar’s uniform which he had had tailored for her had been torn before she had time to have it mended.

She had given Keane useful information. The number of men in each of Massena’s corps and what she had heard said of their abilities. But one thing had been puzzling him. She had known of the presence of the British spy in Wellington’s army, but had not thought his name to be Macnab. What it was, though, she could not recall.

She had also promised to delay Massena for as long as she could and Keane thought she was in earnest. At first, when he went to leave, she had begged him to take her with him and it had been all he could do to stop her clinging to him. She was desperate for some way out from the hell of being at Massena’s whim and Keane seemed to be her only means of escape. He had to trust her.

Gilpin called to Keane as they rode, ‘There’s the convent now, sir.’

Keane looked, but in the dusk could see no sign of life in the
darkened building and hoped that Silver and Archer were still there and had not been killed or taken by the French. There was no point in subtlety now and the two men carried on riding until they were close to the convent walls. At fifty yards, they were hailed from the top of the bell tower.

It was Silver’s voice, calling down as he might have done many times from a topgallant, ‘Thought you’d never get here. sir.’

Archer was standing at the door. ‘Were you followed, sir?’

‘Not as far as we know, but let’s not delay. We need to get across the river.’

‘Did you get what you wanted, sir?’

Keane smiled and exchanged glances with Gilpin. ‘Oh yes. We got exactly what we wanted, thank you, Archer, and a good deal more.’

They rode through the night from the convent at Barca, not stopping, across the Côa and back to Alvesco where, collecting the others, they had continued on to Celorico, now abandoned by the allies. Keane had told von Krokenburgh they would be absent five days and to meet them at Mortágua on the sixth day, but in truth he had never expected the mission to Almeida to take that long. Keane had something else in mind.