PROLOGUE: THE MESSIAH

BAYONNE, FRANCE
OCTOBER 1808

Rain. A deluge hammered at the windows of the house on the north side of the Pont Saint-Esprit, so loud it drowned the thunder of six-horse gun teams passing outside.

Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of France, watched the drenched animals through the glass. With slit-eyes and ears laid flat back against the driving storm they leant hard into leather collars, hauling their one-ton loads of cast iron and timber across the river. Dropping his eyes once more the Emperor scribbled a signature beneath the words he had just written before replacing his quill on one side of the leathered desktop with exaggerated care. He stole a glance at the wood-cased mantel clock perched on a tall side-table. That too seemed to have been silenced by the weather. Pain stabbed again; sharper this time. The vile food in Russia had afflicted him, he thought with a flash of anger. Bonaparte rubbed at his midriff: the pain lessened. He let out a long, slow breath. It was gone, thank God: wind, most probably. Straightening in his seat, the Emperor absentmindedly picked up a silver chalk-shaker to sprinkle a dusting of white over drying ink.

From the clock came the tiniest sound; the whirring of finely toothed cogs and gears that presaged a chime. Bonaparte scraped back his chair and crossed the room to the fireplace. He stood before the flames, staring deep into their chaos.

The clock sounded the half-hour, and at precisely the same time the Emperor heard the double doors behind him swing open, then shut. Footsteps approached; soaked leather boots thumped wetly across the wood-tiled floor with short marching steps. They stopped.

“You are late, Junot,” the Emperor glanced sideways at the clock but did not turn round. Half-past eight already! The morning was half-gone. “A poor habit for a general officer to acquire,” he went on, then relented. “You are well?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

Bonaparte turned to face the unfortunate General Junot with a frown. “I am displeased, Andoche. Despite your letters of assurance, I return from most delicate negotiations with the Tzar to find Portugal in the hands of the English!” He grimaced. “Bands of ragamuffins who masquerade as the armies of Spain rejoice at our defeat!” Junot made as if to reply but the Emperor fixed him with a gaze that brooked no interruption. “How can it happen that with all your advantages of disposition you are overrun by a mere handful of redcoats? However,” Bonaparte conceded, “at least you have the decency to profess contrition over this…debacle. And you have returned my battalions mostly intact; with all my guns and horses. Carried home by the English navy!”

Junot gave a nervous cough, “That is thanks to General Kellerman, sire…”

“Ah, yes,” Bonaparte interrupted, “it would seem that thanks to General Kellerman the English commanders are summoned back to London with their tails between their legs.”

“…And Major Michelot,” Junot managed to finish.

Bonaparte looked at him sideways, “Michelot?”

“Kellerman fired the shots; Michelot suggested suitable ammunition.”

The Emperor nodded. “So - where is Michelot now?”

“No-one knows, sire. Soon after the Convention was signed he disappeared. We searched for him, of course, as much as we were able. And…I thought it prudent,” he said hesitantly, “that his name appeared on the repatriation manifest?”

“Hah!” Bonaparte crossed to his desk to collect the paper he had signed, fanning it in the air to ensure the ink was completely dry. “Have no fear, Andoche; Michelot will return.” He held the page out towards his subordinate, “Your orders. Since my brother has seen fit to abandon Madrid it would seem I must be the one to finally subdue Spain and drive the mangy English leopard back into the sea.” He was silent for a moment, considering, “As for you? I shall not hang you in public, Andoche – this time. But beware; do not disappoint me again.”

The Emperor crossed to one window as Junot left. The artillery teams had passed by, and through the downpour the citadel’s massive stone walls were only just visible across the road. Junot deserved censure, Bonaparte thought, but blamed himself. He should have been there. The man was a competent commander, but obviously needed supervision.

And where the devil was Michelot?



The doors opened again. Bonaparte turned, raising his eyebrows in question. Marshal Berthier, the Emperor’s most trusted aide, leant in.

“Sous-Lieutenant Tirenne is outside, sire.”

Bonaparte spoke gruffly, “Well show him in, Berthier, show him in – don’t keep a real soldier waiting.” The grey-haired Marshal gave a small smile to indicate he appreciated the joke at his expense, bowing extravagantly as he retired. Almost immediately a tall young man dressed in the dark green uniform of the chasseurs à cheval strode inside. He halted at attention in front of the Emperor, raising his hand in a smart salute.

“Paul!” Bonaparte looked the young man up and down. The chasseurs cavalry uniform was a personal favourite – he wore one often on campaign. This man’s had been cleaned, but frayed seams and tarnished buttons told their own story. “It is good to see you. How is your father?”

“Not improved, sire, when I was last at home. With each visit he seems to remember me less and less.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” Bonaparte’s voice filled with regret. “I knew him well, you know, when I was your age. A man should find peace in retirement, not be forced to fight a war within himself.” He crossed to the desk, stooping to retrieve a letter from one drawer before smoothing out the folded paper so it could be read. “But I hear only good things of you. Your commanding officer in Spain recommends promotion.” The Emperor drew himself to attention. “In recognition of your father’s loyal service, I wish you to join the chasseurs of my Imperial Guard. As a full lieutenant.”

Tirenne looked delighted. He bowed, “I should be honoured, sire.”

The Emperor chuckled, “I expected nothing less.” He raised his arm so it fell across the young man’s shoulders, steering him back towards the doors. “Now, you must tell me your thoughts of Iberia,” Bonaparte went on, “the English General Moore, for example.”

“His reputation, sire, is as a tactician,” Tirenne advised. “Their army admires him, I understand, though their politicians do not.”

“Much like me,” the Emperor said, before his face again became serious and he lowered his voice. “Soon, we leave again for Spain. I believe this Moore the only general worthy of my attention. Once the English are smashed, Portugal and Spain will have no ally, no bringer of muskets and money. Their armies mill in confusion. The people lose heart. They will turn to me for sustenance; for leadership. I am certain of it.”

“I am sure you are right, sire,” Paul Tirenne said quietly, but Bonaparte’s head was so full of future he completely missed a subtle tone of scepticism in the young lieutenant’s voice.



PART 1: ISCARIOT'S FLIGHT


LISBON, PORTUGAL
OCTOBER, 1808

Chapter 1


“This mule,” Sergeant Bewley Featherstone bellowed, “is the fastest mule in the whole of Portugal!” He jiggled the animal’s lead-rope and the mule flicked its big ears forward and back. “This mule can outrun a thoroughbred! I ‘ave seen this here animal beat a greyhound from a standing start!” He put his left hand on the white belts that crossed his scarlet jacket, where they met over his heart, “I swear!”

There were jeers of disbelief from the group of infantrymen eating and drinking in the shelter. Dinner was late, that day. One man rose from his seat. “You’ll be tellin’ us next that ‘e’s faster than a bullet, Sarge!”

Featherstone shook his head gravely. “No, no, Grimes, I won’t tell you no lies; he’s not as quick as that. You’d ‘ave to give him a ten-yard start!” The sergeant knew his audience, waiting theatrically for their burst of laughter to subside, “But I’m telling you now, lads, get your money on ‘im tomorrow; he won’t let you down!” He raised the tin cup that contained half his rum ration into the air. The mule pricked its ears in anticipation, and he tilted it so that the alcohol ran into the animal’s mouth. The mule drank, and it lifted its head and curled its top lip upwards, as if joining in the joke.

Captain The Honourable John William Killen snapped his sketchbook shut with frustration. He pushed himself away from the tree he had been leaning against, hidden from the diners by the shadows it threw. The shape of the mule’s ears just would not come right. He had rubbed out his first charcoal strokes and re-drawn them half a dozen times, and each time had been displeased with the result. Now the autumn light had gone, and tomorrow he would probably not have time to try again. Killen patted the mule’s rump as he walked past. “If you give it any more of that rum, Sergeant, I suspect you will have to carry it around the course yourself.”

“Officer!” Featherstone spoke out of the side of his mouth and jumped to attention, but holding both mug and lead-rope prevented his saluting. “Sorry, sir; didn’t see you there.” A few of the infantry had stood to attention, but not many. Most pretended not to notice Killen and remained seated, busying themselves with their food or drink, or the playing cards they held. It was because he wore the uniform of a cavalryman; Killen realised that, but decided to ignore the discourtesy. Infantrymen might believe cavalry the pampered sluggards of the British army, provided with horses simply to ease their marching and carry their equipment, but Killen knew the truth of it. He waved the standing men down.

“So you think you will win?” Killen stared critically at the mule. It was nothing special, he thought. Average size and an average sort of shape. It looked quite fit, though.

Sergeant Featherstone’s enthusiasm bubbled over. “Oh yes, sir, it’s a certainty. Cast iron.” He smiled. “Put your money on Dagger here, sir. Look at those limbs! There ain’t a mule that can beat him!”

Killen smiled. He had entered The Tempest in the two-mile race for officers’ chargers. “So if my horse loses, I shall win back my stake with a wager on your mule?” He would not bet, though. The race was just for fun; win or lose.

“Pray you won’t lose, sir,” the red-coated sergeant said seriously, “but Dagger’ll run till ‘e drops, not like some of these fancy thoroughbreds, no disrespect, sir. He won’t let you down, honest.”

Killen nodded affably and walked on, heading for the stone barns where The Tempest and the rest of his squadron’s horses were stabled. Twelve months ago, he thought, he would not have stopped and spoken to the sergeant. He was changed, and not just because of the insignia of his new rank. The Captaincy had still to be ratified by his masters at Horse Guards, of course, but his grandfather had agreed to the purchase price of the vacancy left by Captain Butterill’s death at Vimeiro. And Charlie Harris would in turn buy Killen’s Lieutenancy. That one battle had changed many things.

Tomorrow’s race meeting was the talk of the army. The men grew bored, despite daily marching and drilling, and bored minds made mischief. The huge camp that blossomed on the outskirts of Lisbon had been intended as a temporary bivouac, a staging post for the British force that would march into Spain now that the French had been sent packing from Portugal. These were the men who would help the brave Spaniards throw Bonaparte back over the Pyrenees into France. But it was almost two months since General Junot’s beaten army had been ferried north, repatriated on British transport ships, and still there was no sign of an advance. So ways had to be found to alleviate the troops’ boredom. There had been a boxing tournament. Some of the regiments organised plays, or music-hall. And tomorrow there were the races.

Killen turned down a path between two rows of flax-canvas tents. An infantryman was hammering at one of the pegs, which must have loosened under the guy-rope’s tension. The rain of the previous day had softened the ground. Killen could feel the slight movement of the soil through his boots. The soles were worn thin and were desperate for a cobbler’s attention. And there would be more rain. Autumn was coming; the army must surely march soon or risk being bogged down by a muddy winter. He reached the barn and pushed open one of its gnarled wooden doors.




Trooper Matthew Picker hissed through his teeth as he pushed a brush along The Tempest’s side. At the end of the stroke he flicked it, sending a tiny cloud of dust and loose horsehair into the air. Dragging its closely packed bristles through a metal curry comb he swept the brush again, in a long arc that left a sheen on the horse’s coat. It was odd, he thought as he brushed, how things always worked out for the best. He had been Colonel Taylor’s orderly Trumpeter, but after the 20th’s commanding officer was killed at Vimeiro, the regiment did not seem to want him back. Picker missed the battle. Sir Arthur Wellesley requisitioned his services after his own orderly fell ill, but the General had, for some reason Picker could not fathom, been recalled to London to face a Board of Enquiry. Picker liked the man, brusque and cold though others found him. ‘I never considered the colour of a man’s skin’, he had once said in Picker’s hearing, ‘so long as his job was well done.’ But it bothered other men. Not Captain Killen, though. Picker smiled as he worked. The Captain had asked him to be his groom. Asked him! Paid him, too. And tomorrow The Tempest would win his race, and Picker would win some money. Not much, because the sergeants making book had decided the black thoroughbred would start as favourite, and its price was short. But a win was a win, and there was always a chance the Captain would give him a present if the horse was well turned out. He stopped brushing and stepped back, looking critically at the horse. It was glossy as a well-blacked boot, so he swopped the brush for a wide-toothed comb to make a start on the horse’s tail.


Killen frowned at the horse. He had chosen his groom well. He knew Picker was watching him carefully, lest he found some fault, but he could not. He bent down and felt The Tempest’s front legs. They were cool to the touch, and the horse swished its tail irritably.

“He’s feeling fine, sir.”

Killen straightened up. “He will need to be,” he grinned at Picker and patted his stomach. “I think I shall be carrying overweight.” The enforced inactivity had affected them all.

“He’ll manage alright, sir,” Picker said seriously, “and I’ll be sleeping here tonight.”

“You don’t have to do that, Matthew,” Killen was touched, “really, you don’t. Tomorrow is just for fun. I hardly think anyone would try to interfere with him.”

Picker shook his head. “I seen it before, sir, mark my words. There’s money involved, and where there’s money there’s shenanigans. I’m staying.”




The officer’s mess was noisy. It must have been quite a grand house before the army had requisitioned it; Killen had noticed oblong marks on a number of the white-painted interior walls where paintings must have been hurriedly removed by their owners. A steward stopped in front of him carrying a silvered tray of wine glasses, and Johnny took one and sipped at it. The locally made wine was acid in his mouth, but they had all become used to the taste; the French had stripped the country of its best vintages and much of that would now be lying in chateau cellars, undrunk and gathering dust. It was a crying shame. Killen took another sip.

Charlie Harris waved to him, so he made his way over to where the new Lieutenant sat talking with an infantry officer.

“Jack Stubbs,” Harris offered a perfunctory introduction. “He’s with the 5th, in General Hill’s Brigade.” Killen and the infantryman shook hands. “He knows,” Harris went on, “why we’re not moving.”

Killen dragged out a spare chair and sat down on it. “Because the Spanish are beating the French without our help?”

Charlie Harris snorted. “You don’t believe those rumours any more than I. Tell him, Jack.”

“It’s the mules and bullocks, sir,” Stubbs explained. “There aren’t enough of them for the artillery and the stores and the baggage. Our Division’s been everywhere, trying to get more. They just can’t be had.”

“For God’s sake, Jack, don’t call him ‘Sir’,” Harris laughed. He took a mouthful of wine and turned to Killen, “So you’re stuffed, Johnny; you’ll have to manage without your best clothes!”

Killen cursed silently. He had been looking for a baggage mule for himself, so his spare equipment and the small comforts he had collected on trips into Lisbon could go with him when the army moved. But he should have done it sooner. Now it seemed as if his travel-chests would be doomed to the baggage train, forever at the army’s rear when the cavalry were usually at its front.

“’Ware left,” Harris said suddenly, under his breath, and busied himself with his wineglass.

Killen put his wine down, and stood. He forced a smile, because it was not good form to sneer at brother officers, even one he disliked as much as this.

“Evening, Killen,” Captain Melville Rapton had a glass in his hand and waved it in Johnny’s general direction. “Lieutenant,” he acknowledged Harris but ignored the infantry officer.

“Jack Stubbs, sir,” the Lieutenant stood and held out his hand.

Rapton stared at the scarlet jacket and scowled, then turned back to Killen.

“A toast, Captain.” He raised his glass. “To the morrow. May the best horse win.” Rapton did not wait for Killen to join him but drained his glass with two swallows. “That horse will be mine.”

“There are others in the race besides.” Johnny thought that Rapton’s horse, Pericles, was a good match for The Tempest, but he was confident his black thoroughbred would not be beaten.

“Of course, of course,” Rapton said smoothly, “but both you and I know, Killen, that they are mere also-rans. I have the fastest horse and you,” he smiled, and gave a small, mocking bow, “you have the second fastest.”

Killen bowed in return. “Then we must trust to providence.”

“Speaking of which,” Rapton carried on swiftly, “since it is obvious you believe your animal the better, perhaps you would care to back your opinion?”

“A wager?” Killen sighed. He hated to bet. “Very well, Melville; five guineas says my horse will beat yours.”

“Five guineas? No, no,” Rapton laughed. “Five guineas! You have no confidence, Killen, no confidence at all.” A steward hurried past with a tray of full wineglasses. Rapton snatched one and drained it in a single swallow. He banged the empty glass down on the tabletop. “Two hundred.”

Conversations in the room died. Heads turned. Two hundred guineas was a huge wager; more than ten months pay for the Captain of a cavalry regiment.

“Well?”

Killen glanced around. Everyone else was watching them, waiting for him to give an answer. Rapton was testing him, he knew that, but he was determined not to back down. The damned man had the seniority to buy Hackett’s captaincy even though he had not even taken the field at Vimeiro; he had been on the sick list! Besides, everyone else in the room expected him to refuse. He saw it in their faces. Johnny held out his hand. “Two hundred,” he agreed. Charlie Harris spluttered into his wine and hurriedly put the glass down, face dripping.

“Good, good,” Rapton shook the proffered hand. “Until tomorrow, then.” He went back to his cronies and Killen sat down. The buzz of voices began to rise to its former level, though Killen saw a number of the other officers were still looking his way.

Harris was wiping the last of the wine from his cheeks with a napkin. “You’re mad, Johnny,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “He just delights in winding you up.”

Killen knew that was true. In the past he would have backed down; retreated, or found some way out, even if it meant losing face. He should have done that now, but something had stopped him, and he was angry with himself. He stood abruptly. “Goodnight, Charlie; Stubbs.” Killen stomped off to bed.



Rapton watched John Killen leave and smirked. It was like taking sweetmeats from a child. He knew the Honourable John William Killen would not be able to resist his offer of a wager, and now he would lose some of his inherited wealth. It was only fair, after all. Why should a jumped-up country bumpkin have money just because of an advantageous birth? Rapton scribbled a note on paper pulled from his sabretache and called over another of the stewards.
“You know where the 20th are billeted?” the man nodded. “See that Sergeant Tyloe receives this.”
He dropped some coins into the steward’s hand with the folded paper. Tyloe was a reliable man. The regiment’s sergeants would make a book on the races, and Rapton would take a share of their profits. Silas Tyloe would negotiate his Captain’s percentage, and Rapton had just sent him a plan. A gift that would make his position in their non-comissioned heirarchy unassailable. That was how they had worked before; Rapton had the ideas and Tyloe helped put them into practice. Of course, the sergeant would probably cheat him; Rapton expected that. And this idea was so brilliantly simple he should demand a bigger cut of the profit. But winning the massive wager he had forced on Killen would make the effort worthwhile, and the sergeant would not know about that unless one of the other officers told him. That was a risk Rapton would have to take.

He called a steward over and ordered wine; a full bottle this time. The profits on this one race meeting should cover his mess bills for weeks, and still leave sufficient to pay for his visits to the Portuguese whore he had met recently, and whose bedroom provided excitements he had never experienced before. He smiled when he thought of his last visit, and poured from the bottle.






Mathew Picker looked with suspicion at the bottle Sergeant Tyloe had given him. He pulled the cork stopper from its neck and sniffed the contents.

“See, it’s ginger beer, just like I told you,” Tyloe smiled reassuringly. “Anyone would think I was trying to poison you, Matthew.” He dropped another five bottles onto the straw.

Picker tipped the bottle to his lips and swallowed. It was ginger beer, alright. Quite good, too, although there was something slightly odd about the taste that he could not quite place. “But why, Sergeant?”

Tyloe shrugged. “I just came across those bottles and thought of you. Knew you liked it, see? And people haven’t been very kind to you, have they, since the Colonel was killed. Being his orderly Trumpeter, like. Wasn’t your fault, of course, but some don’t see it like that, do they?” The sergeant seemed to have forgotten that Picker had been far away in Sir Arthur Wellesley’s headquarters when Colonel Taylor was shot by a French infantryman who had inconveniently turned and raised his musket when he should have been running away in terror.

Picker was still suspicious. “How much, Sergeant?”

“Matthew, Matthew,” Tyloe stepped forward and put a hand on Picker’s shoulder, “they’re a gift. Feeling a bit sorry for you, I was; that’s all. ‘Course, if you don’t want them?”

“Thanks, Sarge,” Picker made his voice friendly, “it’s good of you.” He was thirsty, and it would be a long night. A half-dozen bottles of ginger beer was better than a canteen of murky water. He finished the first bottle and uncorked a second. This one had more ginger. He raised the beer towards Tyloe as the sergeant left, and settled down once again in the straw. The horse was quiet. The stables were quiet too, but it was early. Trouble, if there was to be any, would come later, when honest men slept. But he would be ready.





Chapter 2



The docks of Lisbon stank so badly not even a liberal seasoning of Atlantic salt air could mask the smell. Elinor Rapton stepped gingerly down onto wharf-stones worn slick by thousands of boots and looked around for a saviour. Her luggage, a mound of cases and trunks, had been left right on the edge of the quayside precipice; seamen who had carelessly offloaded the stack had shrugged unhelpfully when she asked them how she was supposed to move it. Elinor’s maid was efficient at her duties, but carrying what amounted to a cart-load of packing cases was quite beyond both their capabilities. Where on earth was Melville? She had written weeks ago to provide him with her date of sailing, and again a day later, in case the first letter should be lost or delayed, and still he had not come. And now it was dusk. She was alone, with no idea of where to find his lodgings or his regiment.

Lantern-lighters moved along the quays raising long poles. They touched flame to oil-soaked wicks, so that the stevedores might see some of what they were doing, and the quayside’s shadowed edge become less of a trap for the unwary. Further along Elinor could see men in uniform, loading flat boxes into a cart drawn by a pair of oxen. One seemed to be in charge, giving orders. A tall man; not the voice of an officer but…a sergeant. He would have to do. At least he might know where Melville’s regiment was billeted; that would be a start.

“Sergeant!” The man looked up. “Sergeant!” she called again, waving, and the tall man must have heard because he began to walk towards her. Elinor cleared her throat and pulled the front of her dress straight. As the soldier came closer she could see from his uniform that he was a cavalryman. And, joy of joys, his jacket sported the same yellow collar and cuffs as the 20th; Melville’s regiment.

The sergeant stopped in front of Elinor and pulled off his hat politely. It was soft material; like a floppy nightcap, she thought.

“Can I help you, Miss?” He smiled, and he was young; younger than her, younger than she had at first thought. His dark eyes matched the colour of his hair, and for some reason his smile and words disarmed her. She felt herself blush, and the blush went from her face to spread itself downwards until it reached…well, she did not even want to think about where. She hoped he had not noticed her discomfiture and made her face stern.

“Mrs, Sergeant. Mrs Rapton. Lieutenant Melville Rapton of the 20th Light Dragoons is my husband. Do you know him?”

The sergeant inclined his head and breathed out through his nose. It sounded oddly like a sigh. “I know him, ma’am,” he said slowly, “and it’s Captain Rapton now.” Elinor wondered why Melville had not written to tell her of his promotion, but the sergeant must have realised her ignorance and provided an explanation without being asked. “He was made up after Vimeiro, ma’am, and the mail has been taking forever to get back home.”

“I was expecting him to meet me here.”

The sergeant nodded. “There you are, ma’am; the mail again.”

Elinor was in a quandary. She had expected Melville to arrange their accommodation, but if he had not known when she was coming? “Can you take me to him, Sergeant?”

“That might be difficult,” the young man said, scratching his head. “You see, ma’am, he’s Officer of the Day, which means he’ll be somewhere on the camp, or checking the sentries, or seeing to the piquets.” He looked up at the sky, “and it’s getting dark, ma’am. And I don’t think,” he gave Elinor another disarming smile, “Captain Rapton would want his wife to have to spend the night in a grubby tent surrounded by a lot of soldiers.”

“So what am I to do, Sergeant?”

“I think it would be best, ma’am, if you both stayed here in Lisbon tonight. I know of a suitable …hotel. I must return to camp later so I can find the Captain and advise him of your arrival,” the sergeant gave a small bow, “if you find that acceptable, ma’am?”

Elinor relaxed a little. The young man’s suggestion seemed eminently sensible. She was tired, and the last thing she wanted was to be forced to wander a city she did not know trying to find Melville on a dark night and with no guarantee he would have somewhere suitable for them to stay.

“I believe I must, Sergeant.” She took a silver filigree vinaigrette from a pocket in her dress and held it under her nose for a few seconds. “Forgive me,” she said, breathing the scent in deeply, “but even after having been on board that disgusting vessel for so long, I find the smell of the docks nauseating.”

“Then perhaps it’s just as well, ma’am,” the young man agreed, “that you’ve decided not to go to camp.”




The sergeant solved the problem of Elinor Rapton’s luggage pile more easily than she had imagined. He called two of the cavalrymen who had been loading the ox cart. “Tollit! Pearce!” The men marched over, sweating, and both removed their caps almost gratefully when they saw the two ladies. “See the Portuguese down yonder?” the sergeant pointed. “Go and borrow a handcart from them. Tell them it’s for me. And when you get back, load this lot into it and follow us to Maria’s.” Tollit and Pearce looked at one another for a second before trotting obediently away down the quay. “We should go now, ma’am,” the sergeant suggested, “and my men will catch us up.”

Elinor watched the two cavalrymen pass the wagon they had been in the process of loading. She felt she ought to thank the soldier for his trouble, but she was tired and beginning to feel cold now her flush had passed. “I do hope I shall not cause trouble by delaying you, Sergeant.”

“No ma’am,” the sergeant had followed her gaze, and shook his head again. “It’s only ammunition for the artillery. Case shot. Top secret, it’s supposed to be. The shells explode just in front of the enemy and make a real mess…..” He stopped suddenly. “Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t think.”

“I am not as squeamish as you may suppose, Sergeant,” Elinor said mildly. She turned to her maid. “Come, Libby,” she commanded, and the two women stepped away from the quayside and began walking towards the lights of the city.

“Halt right there, ma’am,” the sergeant abruptly ordered, making the two women start. “I apologise, ma’am, for speaking harshly,” he went on, “but there’s an obstacle right in front of you,” he strode across to them quickly, “a gutter.” The middle of the road was in shadow, and Elinor could see nothing. “Take my arm, ma’am,” the young man suggested, and when Elinor hooked her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow, he explained. “If you take a short pace forward with me..” She did as he asked and the smell assailed her again. This time it was even worse, if that were possible. Elinor disentagled her other arm from Libby’s tight grip and sniffed at her vinaigrette once more.
The sergeant was speaking again. “It’s around two feet across, ma’am. Hold onto me, then take one long step and we’ll clear it. I’d hook up your skirts if you can. Ready?”

Elinor grabbed a handful of material. Libby was holding onto another part of her dress.

“Go,” the sergeant said, and together all three stepped across the foul-smelling trench that drained a little of Lisbon’s effluent into the sea.

Elinor wobbled on the far side and stood still. “Oh.”

“Ma’am?”

She had dropped the vinaigrette. A present from Melville, but there were others in her luggage and she blanched at the thought of having to dip into the vile sewer to find it. “Nothing, sergeant; do not concern yourself.” She allowed herself a smile when she found she was still holding onto the young man’s arm. “Lead on, if you please.”

The sergeant walked the two women towards what looked like the entrance to a well-lit square. Elinor’s spirits rose, but at the last minute the sergeant turned left, leading them up a darkened side-street. They came to a stop outside a three-storey building with a prominent lime-washed façade studded with bright windows.

“Wait here a moment, ma’am.”

Elinor watched the sergeant climb four steps up to a wide black door flanked by two burly and scruffy Portuguese footmen. It seemed they knew the young man, for both nodded at him in recognition. She noticed that one man’s long coat swung open to reveal a cutlass hanging beneath, and the handle of a pistol protruded from the waistband of his breeches. Guards then, not footmen. The sergeant hammered on the door with his fist and after a few moments it opened. The small figure who appeared gave a squeal as the sergeant caught her around the waist and lifted her off her feet. Once the woman’s chattering laughter had subsided, he put her down and turned back to Elinor, beckoning her forward.

“Ma’am, allow me to introduce *Senhora* Maria Favez, who owns this establishment.” Elinor looked down at the short stout woman, who offered her a deep curtsey and rattled something in Portuguese she did not understand, though she thought she caught her surname.

“Senhora Favez says she will be honoured to accommodate Captain Rapton’s wife and servant,” the sergeant translated. “The Captain is well regarded here. You’ll have the best rooms in the house.”

Elinor was relieved and pleased. Though nothing much to look at from outside, inside the door the house seemed bright and welcoming, and she thought she detected a faint lavender scent. The Portuguese woman was all smiles. “Would you thank the *Senhora* for her kind words, Sergeant.” If Melville was known here, then the service she received should be exemplary.

Maria led them up one flight of stairs to a narrow landing and pointed out a second staircase. Elinor noticed that the woman was out of breath, taking a key from a square pocket sewn onto her skirt and handing it to the sergeant. She obviously had no wish to climb any higher, so the young man led them on further. These stairs rose to a long, narrow hallway lit with candles instead of lamps. The sergeant stopped at a door half way along and slid the key into its lock.

Before he had time to turn it, however, a door in the wall behind him opened and another uniformed soldier stepped out, colliding with the sergeant in his haste and almost knocking him over. The man’s jacket was a fog of braid. An officer this time, Elinor thought, but certainly not British.

“*Pardon*,” the soldier took a thin cigar from his mouth to offer a gruff apology. The sergeant stiffened to attention. “*Excúseme*; pardon me, sergeant.” He smiled, to show that contact really had been accidental.

The sergeant saluted. “That’s all right, sir; no harm done.”

The other soldier gave a curt nod and turned towards the stairs. Elinor and her maid had flattened themselves against the wall and as he passed the man doffed his hat and gave a smile that was full of teeth, “Ladies.”

“Who was that?” Elinor asked after he had gone.

The sergeant shrugged, “Spanish colonel, judging by his uniform. All their officers wear so much gold it’s often difficult to tell.” He unlocked the door and ushered Elinor and her maid inside.




The rooms proved to be surprisingly airy, and though the doorway to what would be the maid’s area could not be closed off, it was sufficiently far away to provide a degree of privacy.

“This will do admirably, sergeant,” Elinor said.

A tap on the door announced the arrival of her luggage. Trooper Tollit’s face was flushed with the effort of getting everything upstairs. With the sergeant’s help Tollit and Pearce dragged in the pile of cases and trunks and stacked them against one wall. Elinor supervised them critically, though she had brought only one dozen wine glasses and a single china service, all of which had been carefully wrapped in blankets and bed-linen to guard against breakage. At the same time a chambermaid appeared with a pitcher of hot water and fresh towels to add to the crowd. When the men had finished she thanked them, and the two troopers shuffled their feet awkwardly.

“Pleasure, ma’am,” Pearce mumbled, though Elinor realised from both their faces it had not been, just damned hard work. The sergeant dismissed them, and as they left two well dressed young Portuguese women squeezed past, giggling, in the corridor, the encounter turning Tollit’s face even redder.

“I’ll let Captain Rapton know where you are, ma’am,” the sergeant reminded her. “No doubt he’ll be along to fetch you in the morning.”

Elinor nodded absentmindedly, remembering the two young women. “This hotel, sergeant,” she asked, and stared at him abruptly, “is …?”

“A bordello? Yes, ma’am.”

Elinor exploded, “Then how dare you bring me to such a place.”

“I dare,” the sergeant seemed completely unperturbed by her anger, “because it’s the safest place I know of in Lisbon.” He pushed the room door closed. “There’s four bolts on the inside,” he pointed out, “as well as the lock. And those men guarding the front door aren’t for decoration; they’re paid to keep undesirables out. And they do.”

Elinor’s anger fizzled and died; a snuffed candle. There was little she could do, in any case.“Very well, sergeant.” The young man offered a small bow and turned to leave. “You never told me your name…so my husband will be able to properly reward you for your assistance.”

The sergeant turned back towards her. “Lock, ma’am,” he smiled, and when Elinor looked into his brown eyes she felt the blood rush through her body once more, “Joshua Lock.”

“But… I distinctly heard *Senhora* Favez call you ‘Jericho’.”

“Ah; now that ma’am…,”still smiling, Lock slowly shook his head, “… that’s a long story.”



Lock walked back to the docks to collect his men. Getting Elinor Rapton settled in had taken longer than he anticipated; they should all have been back at camp an hour ago ago. But saving a damsel in distress was duty, and any officer who reported him for lateness would likely get short shrift from John Killen. It was useful sometimes to have a troop commander who was also a friend; except that officers and other ranks could not be friends. Neither should Rapton have any cause for complaint. Lock had dug him out of a hole which was probably of his own making, the bastard. He began to trot. Be careful of the gutter, he reminded himself, crossing the road leading to the wharf, but as he hurdled the shadow that hid it, a flicker of light caught his eye. He stopped short and turned back, crouching at the edge of the stinking pit. Twisting his head back and forth, Lock tried to spot the flicker again, moving his shadow this way and that. There it was. He reached out, but had to poke around in the effluent with his fingers before he found it; a hard, oval shape. Retrieving it, he held it up to the light so the silver sparkled. Elinor Rapton’s vinaigrette. She must have dropped it earlier, crossing the gutter. Lock pulled a rag from his pocket and wrapped the small box in its folds to save the filth soaking into his overalls. He would return the vinaigrette tomorrow; she would be bound to attend the races with her husband. It must be worth a fair bit, and he might get a reward. Then again, he thought, knowing Rapton, he might not.

But Rapton’s wife? She was interesting, somehow. He would be glad to meet her again.



Melville Rapton slammed the half-empty wineglass down. “You’ve left her where?” he spluttered, “In a damned whorehouse?”

“I didn’t know where I’d find you, sir,” Lock lied; the mess was the first place he had thought the Captain would be, even when he was supposedly on duty. “Where else was I supposed to take her? Maria will look after her.”

“I’m known there, you idiot.”

Lock sighed. “I don’t think Maria will let on what a good customer you are, sir.”

Rapton gave him a look full of venom. “I damned well hope you are right,” he said huffily. “What the devil is she doing here, anyway?”

“She did say, sir, that she had written to you. Twice.”

Rapton seemed in thought for a moment. “I suppose she can stay there tonight. Very well,” he looked around to see who was watching, then narrowed his eyes and gave Lock a spiteful look, “you’re dismissed…I’ll deal with you tomorrow.”



Killen lay awake on his cot, staring at the canvas above him. His wager with Rapton still rankled. It was not the money itself. He could well afford losing that, though his grandfather, who subsidised his career to the tune of several thousand pounds each year, would not be pleased. It was the look on Rapton’s face when he took Killen’s hand; as if he knew something Johnny did not. The Tempest would beat Pericles, he was in no doubt, but Matthew Picker’s worries nagged. What if someone was planning to interfere with his horse, so that he should not win? The thought was ridiculous, of course, but he could not get it out of his head. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the cot.

“Can’t sleep, Johnny?” Charlie Harris shared Killen’s tent. “Nor can I. Must be the anticipation of you beating the breeches off Rapton tomorrow.”

“I’m just going to check on The Tempest.” He heard the rustle of a blanket being thrown back.

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to.” Killen pulled on his boots. He knew he was being foolish and did not really want a witness when he proved himself correct.

“Can’t have you blundering about on your own, tripping on tent ropes and disturbing His Majesty’s finest whilst they slumber.” Killen heard Harris smile in the dark, “and besides, I often fancy a brisk walk in the moonlight.”



“You’ve not put on your sword.”

“I do realise that,” Killen answered crossly as the two men approached the stables. He had left it behind in his haste.

Harris had buckled his own on. “And Standing Orders say…..”

Killen grabbed Charlie Harris’ shoulder and motioned him to silence. The barn doors were ajar; unusual at a time of night when there should be few comings and goings. They walked cautiously up to the entrance. Killen peered in, but could see nothing untoward at first. He tiptoed inside but straw rustled under his feet and the intruders turned towards the sound. Two figures, struggling to keep hold of The Tempest’s halter. Dark scarves masked their faces.

“Stop it!” Killen ran at them without thinking. They let go of The Tempest, and the horse whirled away. Killen grabbed at one of the intruders and immediately realised his mistake. The man was stocky, and much the stronger. He took hold of Killen’s jacket with both hands, heaving him sideways. Killen was sent sprawling in the straw. He rolled, springing to his feet, but the melee was over. The two intruders had run.

“Are you alright?” Harris sounded concerned.

Killen pulled wisps of straw from his hair. He was breathing heavily, he noticed, and his heart was racing. He should have held onto his man. “Did you recognise them?”

“With masks on?” Harris shook his head. “They recognised you, though. Ran off pretty damned quick.”

Killen turned towards The Tempest. The horse had backed itself nervously into one corner of the stall. He held out his hand and quietly walked towards it. “Charlie, find a lamp, if you will. I want to check he’s not injured.”

“That was assault, what they did to you,” Harris sounded shocked. He found a light and handed it over. “It’s a flogging offence, assaulting an officer.”

Killen was more concerned with The Tempest, but the horse seemed none the worse. He simply stood, stroking its sleek neck for a while, until Harris interrupted.

“I’ve found Picker.”

Killen went over to him. Matthew Picker lay flat out in another stall. “Is he dead?”

Harris grunted. “Dead drunk, more like.” He pulled a bottle from Picker’s outstretched hand and sniffed at it. “Ginger beer,” he sounded puzzled, “but…there’s something else.” He passed the bottle to Killen, “Here, what do you think?”

Footsteps sounded outside. Both men went still.

“What if they’ve come back,” Harris whispered, but then Joshua Lock stepped into the barn.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said to Killen, “sir.”




“It’s hard to tell,” Lock threw the bottle down beside Picker’s prone body, “but I think it might have been laced with rum. Been there myself,” he admitted ruefully. “Bit unusual though - I've never seen Matthew take a drink. What did they want?”

“They had hold of The Tempest, but I had no time to ask.”

Lock smiled, “So you just laid into them, John…I mean, sir, without thinking?”

Charlie Harris was rooting in the straw. “They must have dropped this.” He handed up a short wooden pole. Lock took it and turned it over in his hands.

“A balling gun.” He twisted the handle and pushed, so the rod it was attached to slid up inside its narrow tube and a spherical pellet popped out onto his palm. Picking it up carefully between forefinger and thumb he put it in his mouth. Harris looked disgusted. Lock spat the ball onto the straw and ground it to powder under his boot.

“Tastes bitter,” he said, hawking saliva after the ball. “Not nice; a purgative, most probably. That would have given him a nasty case of the shits.” He looked accusingly at Killen, “So who wants to stop you winning the race tomorrow?”