Beyond the Sunrise (12 page)

He was to give Captain Blake every assistance, he read. But he must not reveal their relationship to the captain. She would be coming to Mortagoa herself within a week of his receipt of this letter.
Would he be back from the border by then? He must not worry about sending to meet her. She would come in the usual manner. She needed his assistance in some delicate business.

“Some delicate business” was Joana's usual way of referring to her journeys into Spain, going right in among the French in search of Maria and Miguel's killer. He hated her putting herself in such danger, but there was nothing he could do about it. She was not even his full sister to be taking orders from him, and even if she were, he suspected that Joana would be beyond his control unless he were willing to tie her hand and foot.

And now she was going again, it seemed. And coming here first “in the usual manner.” That meant that she could be alone and dressed like a peasant and willing and eager to join in all the activities of his band for however long she felt she could stay. And the damnable thing was that she was good at it. The delicate Marquesa das Minas became virtually unrecognizable in the reckless and fearless Joana Ribeiro.

Duarte clamped his teeth together. The devilish woman! She was all he had left in the world. No. He folded the letter back into its original folds. Life was not that uncomplicated any longer. Harassing and killing the French was no longer a simple game of revenge. It was a serious business of survival, a matter of a man doing all that was necessary, even killing, in order to protect his woman and his child and the homeland in which they lived. There were Carlota and Miguel now, closer to him even than Joana, and the sooner the three of them could take themselves off to find a priest, the better he would like it.

“Duarte? Bad news?” Carlota touched his arm while the other three men looked up at him from the table.

“No. Not at all,” he said, thrusting the letter into a pocket. “So, Captain Blake, when are the English going to let the French past so that we can have our share of them too?” He sat down at the table and reached for his cup of wine.

*   *   *

It
was all almost frighteningly easy. Even the most carefully made plans had a habit of going awry. But not this one. This one happened just as it was meant to happen.

Duarte Ribeiro, Francisco Braga, and Teófilo Costa were cheerful companions and took him to the border and directly to the temporary camp of the Spanish
guerrillero
leader with a sureness that suggested a long familiarity with the rugged hills and the deep clefts of ravines that tended to all look alike to Captain Blake.

All three of his guides shook hands with him after he had been greeted by the Spaniards and wished him luck in his mission. They did not know what it was and they had not questioned him. They understood the rules of war better than the Marquesa das Minas had, he reflected, finding it impossible not to think of her frequently.

“Good luck,” Duarte said to him. “I hope it is our good fortune and yours that we meet again. I have been sent no instructions about conducting you back again.” It was the closest he had come to showing the curiosity that he must feel.

“No.” Captain Blake smiled rather ruefully. “I shall find my own way. Perhaps my nose will help.”

“If someone does not break it in the opposite direction,” Teófilo said, and they all laughed.

Captain Blake watched them go with regret. He felt very alone with strangers on the border of another country, enemy territory.

Like the Portuguese, the Spaniards knew only as much of his mission as they needed to know. Theirs was a dangerous task. They were to take him down from the rugged hills of the border into the
more rolling hills below and close to Salamanca. There they were to make their presence known so that the French would come in pursuit of them. All but one of them—Captain Blake—were to elude capture.

If they failed, theirs would be a terrible fate. They would not be granted the honorable captivity afforded to enemy soldiers, but would be executed after a suitable interval of torture.

“But, señor,” Antonio Becquer, a great mountain of a man with arms and legs like tree trunks, said to him with a smile and a shrug when Captain Blake expressed his concern, “we do the same to our French captives, you see. And we have far more of them to bring us enjoyment than they ever have of us. War is war in Spain. It is not the game you soldiers play.”

Captain Blake found himself wishing for the first time in his career that his uniform was scarlet and quite unmistakably British. Not that he would shun a good fight. Indeed he would welcome one to blow away the cobwebs of a winter of inactivity. It was the idea of
not
fighting that was filling him with the jitters.

“We are close to the city instead of being up in the hills because some of your number need to be called out of the city to hear my news,” Captain Blake said long before they drew close to Salamanca, when they were reviewing their plans. “That will explain why I am mad enough to venture so close to French pickets. Is it plausible? Is it likely that some of your men would be in Salamanca when it is occupied by the French?”

“Señor.” Antonio looked around at his men, who had all chuckled at the question. “We are Spaniards. This is our country. We are everywhere.”

“An uncomfortable thought for the French,” Captain Blake said.

“We intend it to be.” The Spaniard grinned. “We would consider it a personal shame to allow a single Frenchman a good night's sleep on Spanish soil. Not that we are inhospitable, of course.”

“So it
is
plausible,” Captain Blake said. “And they will know it?”

“They will all have a friend or a friend of a friend who has had his throat cut mysteriously in the night,” Antonio said.

Captain Blake shuddered inwardly and was thankful that the British were the friends of the Spaniards.

And so it happened as planned. It had to happen at night—dangerous, everyone agreed, when the French might not immediately be able to see the uniform of their captive, but not unduly so. They would not be anxious to kill a
guerrillero
too easily.

“Though what your general means by sending you here simply to be captured, I do not know,” Antonio said with an expressive shrug. “You are an assassin, señor? But even your uniform will not save you from death once you have killed. Is it Massena himself you are to kill? If it is in his bed, be sure that it is he you kill and not his mistress. She goes everywhere with him, did you know, and is officially listed as his aide de camp? Ah, these French. Such aids they need.”

His men all laughed heartily.

“They say he is still in Salamanca, even though the year is already advanced,” one of the men said, “because he is too busy in his bed to think of being busy out of it.”

Another burst of laughter.

They were on foot on the night in question, making clumsy noises close to a picket line that disgusted Antonio with its lack of subtlety.

“It will be a blow to my pride, señor,” he had said the day before, “to have the French believe that I would betray my presence to them in such a stupid manner.”

Captain Blake knew how he felt. His ankle turned beneath him as he fled with the rest, and then he tripped over his sword and fell heavily, cursing roundly—in English—lest the pickets pass him by and not even notice him lying among the trees on the south bank of the Douro River, within a hundred yards of the old Roman bridge crossing it to the city.

And so he had to stagger to his feet, hands held high above his
head, while a frightened French boy held a bayonet to his chest and another relieved him of his rifle, bumping him roughly and painfully against the side of the head with it, and kicking him hard on the shin of his injured leg.

“He is a soldier,” the boy said, his eyes widening as someone else came running with a lantern. “British. An officer.”

The soldier who had done the bumping and kicking became considerably more respectful.

“We should take his sword?” he asked the boy in French. “Be careful that he does not grab your bayonet and turn it on you. Were those others British too? Are they invading?”

If he had just said, “Boo!” Captain Blake thought, the boy would have turned and run.

“I will surrender my sword to an officer of your army,” he said haughtily, “not to a private soldier. Take me to one.”

But the commotion of the pursuit of the fleeing Spaniards and of his capture had drawn an officer—a fellow captain—out of the darkness. He directed the lantern holder to shine its light more fully onto their captive.

“Captain?” he said. His eyes strayed up and down the uniform. “A rifleman? Always our greatest enemies and our primary targets in battle. I will accept your sword, sir, and escort you across the bridge. It will be an honor to have a rifleman as our prisoner.”

Captain Blake held the French officer's eyes as he unbuckled his sword belt, lifted the heavy sword and scabbard from his side, and held them out. He half-expected that the man would direct one of the gawking private soldiers to take it, but he accepted it himself.

“Thank you, monsieur,” he said. “Captain Antoine Dupuis at your service. And whom do I have the honor of escorting?” He indicated the bridge with one outstretched hand, and Captain Blake moved toward it.

“Captain Robert Blake of the Ninety-fifth Rifles,” he said. He did not believe there could be a feeling of greater humiliation. He had felt, removing his sword, as if he were stripping himself to the view
of the French soldiers. He felt naked now without the weight of his sword at his side.

J
OANA
made her usual stop at the Convent of Bussaco, high in the hills west of Mortagoa. She and Matilda were always welcome to spend a night there. Indeed the nuns kept a small trunk of hers so that her change of person could be made with the minimum fuss.

And so the Marquesa das Minas arrived with some pomp from Viseu early one evening, smiling graciously at her coachman as she was handed from the white-and-gold carriage, and more dazzlingly at the mother superior, who greeted her inside the door. She ate a quiet supper with the nuns and joined them for evening prayer, retiring late to the small bare room she shared with her companion.

The following morning a morose Matilda sat down to breakfast without the marquesa and retired to the small room afterward to put away the white clothes with care and to prepare others of more gorgeous hue. The marquesa herself was nowhere in sight. But the small trunk was empty and one of the footmen who had accompanied the carriage was missing.

Far along the stony track to Mortagoa, the footman trudged behind a young peasant girl dressed in a faded blue cotton dress, sandals on her feet, dark hair hanging in a wavy cloud about her face and down over her shoulders. Her only ornaments appeared to be a wicked-looking knife thrust into her belt and an old musket slung over her shoulder.

It was only José's silent presence behind her that prevented Matilda and Duarte from declaring open war on her, Joana thought as she strode along, so exhilarated by the sense of freedom the morning had brought that she had to exercise the utmost self-control not
to jump for joy and shout out her greetings to the hills. José would think she had taken leave of her senses if she did either of those things.

She did not really need José. She had her musket, though muskets were notoriously poor at hitting any definite target. She thought enviously of Captain Blake's rifle. And she had her knife to defend herself against anyone who got past the musket. Anyone who got past both would doubtless get past José too. But then, men—and many women too—had a tiresome tendency to believe that a woman was perfectly safe provided she had some male hovering over her. And José was a large enough male almost to satisfy Matilda and Duarte.

“We are there,” she said, turning to her silent servant as they approached Mortagoa. “You may go visit your friends, José.”

She approached her brother's house with quickened footsteps. She had not yet seen the baby. The last time she had been in the hills, Carlota had been huge with child and fretting over the fact that Duarte had laid down the law and forbidden her to go out anymore with the other members of the band. She was not his wife, Carlota had argued. He could not give her orders. She would go if she pleased. She would die if she had to stay at home with the women and children.

But he could give her orders, Duarte had said, looking very handsome and very formidable, standing feet apart, glowering down at his pregnant woman. He was the leader of the band of which she was a member, and if he said she was to stay, then stay she would or face disciplinary measures from the whole band.

Besides, he had added, his voice and expression softening, and Joana had felt an unexpected and unaccustomed flash of envy for the other woman, she was to be the mother of his child and she would do whatever he bade her to do for her own and their child's safety.

Joana knocked lightly on the open door of her brother's house and peered inside, wondering if Duarte had won that particular war or if Carlota had proved too much for him. And she wondered if
Duarte was back from the border yet. The thought made her stomach lurch uncomfortably.

She had tried very hard not to think of Robert since he had left Viseu, or at least to think of him only in a purely impersonal way, as part of the job they were to accomplish jointly. She tried hard to think of him as Captain Blake, not as Robert. She tried hard to forget that she had wanted him to make love to her at the Viseu ball and had felt flat with disappointment all night long after he had left because he had shown more restraint—or less desire—than she.

She tried hard to quell the unwilling pictures of matters gone wrong, of his bloody and mangled remains lying somewhere outside Salamanca.

“Carlota?” she said, seeing movement at the other side of the room onto which the door opened, even though the sunlight outside had momentarily blinded her. “Carlota? And the baby? Oh, he is gorgeous! All that black hair. Just like Duarte.” She laughed. “And you, of course.”

Perhaps it was as well that Duarte did not return from his journey to the border until two hours later. Much time had to be given to laughing and hugging and admiring the baby, who slept the whole time as he was passed from one woman to the other.

“And you two will be marrying?” Joana asked.

Carlota pulled a face. “Ah, that man,” she said. “Now that my body has performed like a woman's and produced a child, I am to be treated like a woman. Nothing but a home and children and safety and boredom, Joana. If I could go back to last summer I would do things a little differently perhaps. Deny him a few times. Leave him panting a few times. But there.” She laughed. “I would have had to deny myself too, and done some of my own panting. And I would be without Miguel. I cannot imagine life without Miguel. Yes, Duarte is talking about priests and weddings and baptisms and all that. A typical man.”

When her brother did arrive home, Joana discovered that for the
first few minutes she might as well have been invisible. Carlota rushed into his arms and he hugged her wordlessly while she showered him with questions and scoldings and news of the baby.

“And Joana is here,” she said. “Another woman for you to bully. There were no French soldiers near the border?”

“Joana?” he said, finally releasing Carlota to cross the room. He bent to kiss her cheek and smooth a hand over the hair of the baby as he lay asleep in her lap. “You are making friends with Miguel? Ah, it is good to be home again. You should be in Viseu or Lisbon. It is not safe to be here now. The summer campaign is about to begin.”

“Is he safe?” she asked quickly. “He came to no harm?” She bit her lip. Where had those words come from? She had not planned them at all. “Captain Blake,” she said. “We are working together. At least, he does not know it, but we are.”

He sat down at the table slowly and looked steadily at her. “Why do I have a terrible premonition of danger, Joana?” he asked. “What do you mean, ‘working together'? You are going to Salamanca, I suppose? Is that where he is going? Are you planning to do more there than try to spot a face that has eluded you for three years in addition to soaking up whatever small pieces of information come your way? Is it an active job this time?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice somewhat breathless. “I cannot give you details, Duarte. I am under orders from the Viscount Wellington, as is Captain Blake. But—”

“Under orders?” Duarte's eyebrows drew together and he banged the table with one fist so that the baby jumped and opened his eyes to frown up at Joana. “Is the man using innocent women now to do his work? Is that how the English do things, Joana?”

“We are half-English,” she reminded him. “And you must know that Arthur is as unwilling as you for me to involve myself in this war. But when he knew that I would go anyway, that I am not easily manipulated by men, then he consented to make use of my talents.” She pulled a face. “They seem to be mainly talents for flirting. I am
a dreadful flirt, Duarte. The officers at Lisbon and Viseu flock about me. I could be married ten times over each week.”

“There will come one eventually,” he said, “who will not be manipulated by you, Joana. Then we will see an end to your flirting and to this nonsense of putting yourself in danger too.”

“It is not nonsense,” she said. “I shall see that face one day, Duarte, I know it. And the long wait will be worth it. Finally Miguel and his wife and children and Maria will be able to rest in peace.”

He sighed. “But if you do see him by some miracle, Joana,” he said, “you must not go after him yourself. You must send for me. Promise?”

“I shall see,” she said vaguely. “Did he arrive safely, Duarte?”

“
He
being Blake this time?” he asked. “I conducted him to Becquer at the border, as arranged. I did not know that his destination was Salamanca. Right among the French.” He frowned. “Is everyone mad?”

“I need you, Duarte,” she said. “But it will be very dangerous for you.”

He snorted and Carlota got quietly to her feet and took the fussing baby from Joana's arms.

“The time will come,” Joana said, “at least I hope it will, when Captain Blake will need to be rescued from Salamanca. By that time I do not believe it will be easy for him to escape unassisted.”

Duarte scratched the back of his neck and looked up at Carlota.

“He will have given his parole, you see,” Joana said. “Then he will have considerable freedom but will be honor-bound not to escape. I will have to see to it that he is released from his word.”

“How?” Carlota said. “Men set such store by honor, Joana.”

“By seeing to it that be is badly treated,” Joana said, “perhaps even imprisoned. Then the French will have broken their part of the bargain, you see. But then, also he may not have the freedom—or the strength—to do it alone. And I think I should be taken hostage at the same time, Duarte. The French will be a little more cautious in their pursuit of you if you have me hostage. I shall make sure that
scores of them are expiring with love for me. Besides, I will need to leave, for soon after that they will discover either that I have betrayed them or that I am unbelievably stupid. My pride hopes that it is the former.”

“You would not care to go into explanations, I suppose?” her brother asked.

“No,” she said. “No, I would rather not.”

“He was going to Salamanca, then, knowing that he would be captured?” he said.

“Yes.” She drew a deep breath. “If they have not killed him first and asked questions after, that is. I will not know until I arrive there myself. Do you think they would shoot rather than take a captive, Duarte?”

“Joana,” he asked, looking at her closely, “does this man mean something to you?”

“Only as a colleague,” she said. She frowned. “Although he does not know I am that to him. He is going to hate me dreadfully when he believes that I am allied with the French. But I could not warn him or apologize in advance. It is all part of Arthur's plan, you see.”

“He is a very handsome man,” Carlota said. “That blond hair and those blue eyes. And the broad shoulders.”

“Hey, hey,” Duarte said.

Carlota threw him a saucy look. “Of course,” she said, “war has spoiled what must at one time have been a lovely face.”

“And has made of it a wonderfully attractive one instead,” Joana said absently, gnawing on the side of one finger.

Duarte and Carlota exchanged a look over her head.

“Will you do it?” Joana asked, her eyes focusing again and her head coming up. “If I send Matilda home—I think a sister of hers will have to die suddenly or something like that—will you come? I cannot predict exactly when it will be, so we cannot plan on a definite date. But I will send Matilda. Will you do it?”

“To Salamanca and actually into Salamanca?” he said. “It sounds like suicide to me, Joana. Also marvelously challenging. I shall have
to seek out Becquer again. He would probably like it less than the French if I encroached on his territory without leave.”

“But you will do it?” she asked.

“He will do it,” Carlota said angrily, “and I will be left at home to sweep the floors and play with the baby, like the good wife he wants to make me into. He will do it, Joana. Oh, what I would not give for the chance to come too.”

“Thank you.” Joana breathed a sign of relief. “I have to leave tomorrow, early. It was hardly worth changing persons and walking out here, was it? But how could I resist even one day of glorious freedom? I am beginning almost to hate the Marquesa das Minas.”

“So am I,” her brother said fervently. “She gives me too many sleepless nights. But then, Joana Ribeiro gives me plenty too.”

“This will probably be the end of the marquesa,” she said. “She will soon lose her usefulness. I shall have to find someone else to be for the rest of my life.” She sighed. “But I so want to see that face first.”

“Be careful,” her brother said with a frown. “This sounds too dangerous, Joana. I suppose I cannot persuade you to change your mind?”

She smiled at him.

“I did not think so,” he said. “Be careful.”

“Have fun, Joana,” Carlota said. “Have fun while you can.”

“Oh,” Joana said, and her smile brightened, “I intend to. Yes, I do intend to.”

*   *   *