CHAPTER ONE

June 1810

The Bastard stared down the length of his pistol and maintained that pose for longer than was polite. For the expression on his cinnamon-hued face, he might have been fascinated by the dance of that slender silver-grey smoking tendril rising from the barrel of the flintloque.  It churned lazily; patiently rolling while all of the morning mist about was still. Perhaps he was savouring the pungent aroma of the gunpowder. Nothing about the man's auburn eyes betrayed any hint of interest in the suffering of the flopping form of  Brigadier General Brabantes. Narsico was neither admiring his marksmanship nor pondering his own mortality; He was taking the opportunity to revel in his malevolence.

The pale and dusty juniper trees that surrounded the scene, with trunks twisted and writhing, stretched as though to look away from the murder. The lead ball had pierced the whole of General Brabantes' torso. Now he but sucked for air, not understanding that he was drowning in his own blood. Captain Anatole Montesquieu, among the three uniformed Frenchmen kneeling at the side of the flailing man, tried to steady or console the General. Flailing, Brabantes clutched at the air above him as though he might catch his fleeing life by the ankle. Regret filled the heart of the dying man, pushing his crimson blood out through unnatural apertures to dye his azure tunic indigo. His mouth gaped and gasped, each failed breath mouthing a denial of all that he had been. Polished boots, their silvered spurs bent and broken, dug trenches in the dry Castilian soil. The teenage Captain de Montesquiou imagined, in the dying man's gestures, that the old General was once more at some piano keyboard and this breeched the young soldier's walls for he cried aloud and sobbed into Brabantes' bosom, giving half-muffled promises of both vengeance and remembrance.

Narsico would fear no oaths from de Montesquiou. They would bear the same weight as the oaths that the boy's father, le Comte, had sworn to his French King before The Regicide. With a gesture designed to be disdainful to the entire gathering, The Bastard extended his arm to the side and simply let his spent pistol fall to the grass. Jago was already there with his master's black overcoat. Narsico shrugged into it but stayed there a moment to comment upon the still desperate, dying man.

"Stupid Fool."

The Bastard sneered and turned his spine to scene.

Anatole sprung to his feet to offer a vicious stare of challenge at the back of the towering Spaniard but General Brabantes could not see this gesture of loyalty. One of the dying man's hands clutched fiercely upon Anatole's white-clad knee and in that grip, the youth was reminded of his duty as a gentleman, as a second, as a soldier. Honour demanded… and then the old soldier died and released. The conflict tore Montesquiou apart. It could only be appeased by clutching the corpse of his Brigadier General to his breast. He wept and he wailed aloud until the doctor rested a hand upon the young officer's shoulder.

"Let him go" murmured the physician. "Anatole. Let him go." Doctor Nader had come to witness the destruction of his friend's body. What professional curiosity was behind his attendance? His surgeon's hands could do nothing to ease the pain of the old general that words said the night before might entirely have prevented.

"We will take him to his wife. Brace up."

Narsico and Jago remained but some short ways away, watching the bereavement with certain satisfaction. Caroline would not, the Bastard thought, so wail and rend for the Old Man's end. She would be pleased to know that his pawing hands were lifeless now.

And Anatole just held tight to his commanding officer and made stammered announcements, "He was a good man. He deserved better."

The third of the trio, Major Vaconne, stood to bring the carriage closer. The doctor controlled his anger as he answered Anatole, saying, "We each of us deserve better. Narsico Calatrava deserves worse than he will get."

This was the chance for Anatole to regain some semblance of focus. He swiped at his cheeks to remove tears and said, "I will, I swear, see to it that he gets his reward," and here he shot a glare at the lingering, witnessing Spaniard but that man did not deign to acknowledge.

"Help me." The doctor shifted to lift the dead man's shoulders and Anatole, following his lead, hoisted the booted feet. Once the men had loaded the old soldier's corpse into cart, and placed one of two shrouds over it, Anatole turned back to observe his duty. He had a handkerchief, but Anatole paused to wipe his nose on the gold-threaded embroidery of his dark blue sleeve.

The pair of pistols lay twenty paces apart in the dew-decked khaki-coloured grass. Both of the firearms had cooled from their discharge. Each walnut-handled pistol had the same weight in his hands. Anatole looked up sharply from the weapons on the approach of Jago. The Bastard's manservant, with matching abruptness, halted with raised palms. He was not armed, through from a chain entwining the fingers of one hand, there depended a locket of pink and gold.

Anatole lowered the empty pistols. "They are empty," he said, as though the words might relax the Spaniard. He didn't care if they did. They did not.

"My master bade me give you this." His heavily accented French was terrible. Jago extended the jewelry toward Anatole.

"What is it?"

Jago shrugged.

But the locket, in the palm of Anatole Montesquieu, surrendered up an answer: hand-painted upon the coral locket, within recent years he could guess, was a pretty portrait of Caroline. The dead General's young wife, here, was a picture of chastity and devotion. The painter had nicely captured the particular bound-up blonde-brown hair of Madame Brabantes, with those playful curls that adorned her uncreased brow like white-gold rings.

The pistols now were only impediments under the arms of Anatole while he fumbled to find a catch. Why, he wondered, were his hands shaking now? Was the death of the good General affecting him? With the softest of clicks, the locket unfastened to reveal the precious golden cache.

"What does this mean?" demanded Anatole of the servant. The shrug that replied accompanied a subtle smirk.

"What does your master mean by giving this to me?" Anatole shifted vigorously forward to make his point.

Jago grinned when he gave answer, saying, "Senor Calatrava does no tell me things. He say, 'tell him that my master bid me give you this' and I did, and you see." The Spaniard pointed to the open locket in the Frenchman's hands, quite unnecessarily.

            At that, the servant determined that he had completed his task and spun about on his heel. Anatole Montesquieu did not arrest the exit. Instead, he looked past the black back of Jago to where The Bastard was waiting astride one of two dark horses, pressed the image of that cruel villain into his own melted heart, and then turned his gaze down to his palm and the locket there, and within that, the red-ribboned lock of golden hair.

"Captain Montesquieu, are you with us?" It was Major Vaconne, upon the wagon, with reins at the ready. At his side, the doctor, with his wild and wiry grey hair, gestured for the teen to come.

"No," resolved Anatole. "I ride ahead," and he thrust the brace of discharged pistols into his uniform tunic. The locket, he pocketed.

"To the Marshal? We should speak with common voice."

The doctor urged patience, "We must talk."

And Anatole, already now mounted upon his chestnut gelding, issued his intent, "I ride direct to Caroline."  The intended masculine aplomb was betrayed by a quivering lip. Then, "Madam Brabantes... I must speak to her immediately. I must tell her. She must know what has occurred. She will not forgive us." His steed hooved the earth restlessly as the young captain rode about, trying to deceive his commanding officer. He could not speak of the lock of hair, nor moreso, the mysterious airs surrounding the locket affair.

"Anatole," urged Doctor Nader, "Come with us. First we will inform Marshal Massena. The Marshal needs to know that he has lost a Brigadier General, and a friend."

"I have lost a friend!" cried Anatole. His fists yanked violently upon the reins. He rose up in the stirrups. "I will not lose another! Caroline must be told!"

"Captain," began Major Vaconne, in certain measured tones, "You are ordered to accompany us."

And Captain Montesquieu dropped his seat back into the saddle, swiftly defeated

The doctor nodded vigorously, "Of course, we will inform Madame Brabantes, immediately after. We will take her the corpse. Everything will be done. Done properly."

Anatole turned his face aside. He would follow the creaking wagon through quiet, dawn misted wood and away.

*

It was only sparrow songs that drew Caroline drifting through the veil of dreams and, for the first seconds, her lips slipped into a delighted smile. Her bare arms wrapped themselves about a warm down pillow and she nuzzled her cheek against the cotton, luxuriant. Through lazy lids, her eyes could sense that the day had long begun, but it could wax on without her. She would tarry a good while yet in the tender bosom of these bedclothes. Then, the incomprehensible bellowing of a hawker broke her reverie. She was in Spain. It was that awareness that had so ruined every morning for three months past. Almost every morning. She turned her pillow over, punched it twice with a tiny, balled fist, and then flipped herself over to try to get back to her sleep.

The General was gone!

Caroline sat up and stared at the indentation in the sheets next to her. Had he woken her? He had not. He would have woken her. A husband tells his wife before he marches of to war. She scanned the bedchamber hastily. His uniform was gone from where it had draped over the chair the night before.

The night before!

What a mood had the man been in! He was intolerable... fretting and wringing his hands, snapping at any questions. One moment he would be clinging to the curtains as though he intended to throttle them, and the next he would pursue her around the card table trying to embrace her, weeping for forgiveness, but without ever saying what he might be sorry for. But then, just as Caroline would soften to accept those entreaties from the general, he would recoil from her with protestations that she was not to touch him! Never before had her husband refused her caresses, and these would only have been caring embraces. It was only ever she that was discouraging the advances of the old man. The soldier had energy and appetite.

The small bare feet of the wife set themselves upon marble tiles of green and grey. The sounds from the street drowned out the clamour of memories from the night before. Why had she ever answered the summons and left Paris to come to this wasteland of Leon? It would have been the easiest thing to refuse: wives did not accompany husbands on campaign. Not in Napoleon's army. But this was Marshal Massena's army. The Marshal did things differently. Caroline had several times seen that harlot of the Marshal's, parading about brazenly in the uniform of a dragoon, following along after the famous letch, jacket open to the navel, wanton, sleeping with that commander even on the eve of battles. Mme Leberton was a scandal. It took little effort for Caroline to imagine what debaucheries must go on at the front with local Spanish whores.

Maybe that was where her husband had waddled off to without a word this morning.

She shrugged though, did Caroline, and sighed a little. So what if the old man found his pleasures in the arms of others? What cared she if some raven-haired other got paid to endure the clumsy hungers of her husband? It only meant less for her. Less money... but no, she could not deny that the idea of the general's infidelity brought pangs to her heart. She had to admit that she cared for the man. This morning, as she paced through all the rooms of their suite in her nightdress, seeking any clue to her husband's whereabouts, Caroline knew that she was becoming worried for him.

The ink was unstoppered. An ivory pen, still glistening black, lay set aside at the general's writing desk. Pages of vellum were, as ever, stacked bare to side but one sheet bore two words writ by unsteady hand:

Dearest Caroline,

A comma followed on, as a promise unspoken. In the basket of debris, Caroline noticed three castaway pages and knelt upon a single knee to retrieve these fragments of a mystery.  Just as lithe, little fingers were unravelling the clue, the door to the apartment was swung open, and then, just as swiftly closed. It was an instant only, but in that moment, the dark figure of a tall man dared to enter.

Black was his colour, from boot to chin. He wore his dark hair tight bound back to full reveal an angular face with Mediterranean skin. The voluminous overcoat, too black, fell from square shoulders to the floor behind and with a dancer's grace, he closed the distance to the startled girl in a single pace. Caroline did not wait for him but fair flew from her perch. The man caught her, as though practised, and pulled her slight weight in tight to his torso, and they embraced.

"Nico!"

"My Caroline."

She, slender, blonde, and all in white, clung as despairing to this ebon knight. He lifted her, as he thrust eager lips against her gasp, so that her naked feet were pulled from the tiles. Caroline did neither notice nor care, for in the arms of Don Calatrava, she had no need of floor. He danced her in swirling circles about the narrow room, fleeting past the General's silent harpsichord, and all the while, as the lovers spun, they kissed and whispered and murmured secret names with darting tongues until he set Caroline down upon the windowsill and, seating her there and seeming careless of who might spy the pair through the panes, knelt between the woman's knees. He ran his hands across her calves, soft and sure, beneath her flimsy gown while his gaze stayed fixed upon the widened eyes of Caroline.

The fingers, four, she could feel each one, on each hand, chilled by the morning air, were coaxing warmth from her naked flesh, stroking back and forth across her calves, and sometimes, for fleeting teases, flashes, those searching digits would creep slow upon her unseen skin to touch the back of her knees. They stopped there once, and drew ever-diminishing circles and she gasped.

"My husband. Nico, we cannot. Not here."

Narsico did not deter his fingertips in their progress and he said, as those tendrils further strayed to gently glide, beneath the skirts of Caroline, along her slowly parting thighs, "He will not seek us here. He has gone to the provost."

No longer could Caroline meet the Spanish eyes. The woman, intent upon the trespasses, could only lower her lashes. She fought to articulate the sentence, "The provost. Has he been arrested?"

Those tender hands drew back and circled round and cupped the outer thighs of Caroline and Calatrava lowered his head into the gathered white muslin lap of the lady. Soft, he answered, saying, "He is ordering my arrest. The whole of the French Army will hunt me down... will hound me... They will hang me."

"But why?" and she took the head of Calatrava between her gentle hands to lift it up to look at her. "What have you done?"

"My crime is one that I cannot renounce nor regret. I have loved you."      

She bent her neck to kiss him then.

"What will you do?"

Narsico rose up upon his knees to press his parted lips to hers. The spiced scent of the Spaniard clouded with Parisian perfumes. Caroline, breathless, fell back before this advance. She neared surrender. A single, slight hand of hers tried, with half a heart, to rest against Narsico's breast and press him back but on he came, with a wild rush of kisses until her shoulder blades touched glass.

"Listen," whispered Narsico, while he suckled upon the little lobe of Caroline's ear, and his breath blew through her short blonde hair. "I must fly! It is not safe for me here. They would destroy me."

No sooner had the pale lips of the girl parted to protest, but two strong fingers of the man rose up to silence them.

"I will make for Almeida. The British are there. I had to see you one last... one final time," and the words, as a warm and saffron wind, played upon the sensitive ear of Caroline. She drew the fastening fingers down from her dry lips - they offered no resistance - and answered.

"It must not be final. I could not..." then she was brought to pause, breathless, by the touch of that once chastised hand, now caressing the thin white cloth at the very base of her feminine belly. They played, those digits, along the folds and rises, rounded forms and curves, exploring the creases of her soft flesh beneath her dress. That filmy cloth was no barrier to the wanted intrusions of his fingers, probing and circling, lingering lightly, only to glide on and away. She parted for him and he took it, forcing the fabric of her gown taut and tight where those seeking blind fingertips found fiery heat on that cool early day.

When Caroline smiled, it was mischievous, and it was wanton. It was decided and and it was determined. She wriggled her round bottom in the window seat, and lifted her hips up into the Spaniard's kneading palm.

"I will go with you!" It was almost a gasp. "Take me to Almeida."

Narsico squeezed, playfully, and bared fine white teeth to nibble and gnaw upon the pale, exposed and surrendering throat of  Caroline. Her head rolled helplessly.

And then, The Bastard rose up, stepped away, and twirled to turn about. "Very well, My Angel, let us make haste," he said. He was already in her bedroom. "We must pack your things. Where are your travelling cases?"

For a turn, Caroline could not move. She could hardly dare to blink. What had happened? What was happening? But then, at the prospect of packing, the girl was galvanized into action. Her bare feet padded fast to follow Narsico and she jostled past, into her closets. There was so much to do! Boxes and dresses, slippers and shoes, were swiftly judged and weighed.

"The General is going to be furious," said Caroline. Abruptly she stopped everything. "Father and Mother will be furious..."

"Liberty, Fraternity, Equality." His answer, while glib, did fortify this child of the revolution. Still, she stared down at her half-packed gowns.

"They will be hurt."

Narsico moved his body against Caroline's breast, taking the weight of fashions from her. He said, "They love you, I am sure, and only want your joy." Then he slid a finger tenderly across the pale flesh of Caroline's face. "Such a pretty nose," he whispered in appreciation.

Her distress, did not wane so he resolved, "Do what your heart demands, but I must away. General Brabantes may arrive at any instant to drag me away in cruel chains. I cannot require you bear witness to his triumph. If his soldiers find me, it will be in the wilderness and, God willing, no word of my murder shall ever reach you."

Caroline, shocked by these imaginings, gave an audible gasp and clung to the hands of her dark hero.

"No!"

"Have the strength of a lioness," he urged.

"No!" repeated Caroline and gave a stamp of her bare foot in defiance. "That ass will not have his triumph! We shall escape... together... now... this instant!

Narsico lowered his head to bestow a kiss upon the quivering lips of Caroline.

"Hurry," was his whisper.

They were a flurry then, the pair, as a brace of waterfowl, flushed from the thicket. They beat their wings to pack and take flight. Caroline knew, as she bundled herself out the door carrying two cases, that she would regret the loss of some very fine dresses. And oh, those shoes! But Narsico was behind her; arms greater encumbered, and there was no going back. "Onward!" he urged when he saw the pause.

"Oh!" another thought. "I should at least leave something for Captain Montesquieu. Anatole will worry."

Narsico touched an arm to the back of the girl. She had not had time to dress but now was thinking of the General's aide? He gave assurances though, saying, "I have made arrangements for the Captain to understand your heart."

There was no time for Caroline to try to make clear sense of this sentence. Down the winding stairs they trundled and pitched, and into the warming courtyard. Jago was waiting beside the open door of a carriage. A livery-less coachman sat atop the vehicle and held the reins of four strong, now restless horses. Calatrava, on entering the courtyard cast nervous glances about but his servant shook his head decisively to assure him that they had not yet been discovered. The rush to depart continued though. Caroline was rather rudely pressed into the small opening of the carriage door, but as she fell into her bench seat she laughed it off, nervously. It was all going to be quite the adventure! They did not pause to secure the few belongings to the roof (there were already some contained thereon), but hastily stuffed the interior compartments. Jago, obliged to ride alongside the coachman, issued no complaint but gave the man the word to go, and out the cobbled courtyard rolled the horse drawn car, beneath the whitewashed archway and away.

So it was that Anatole, when arriving only hours later on that day, found nothing of either Caroline or Calatrava. He wore a pink coral locket over his heart, beneath his uniform tunic.