Текст книги "The Fields of Death"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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He could no longer deny the need to look at her, and his gaze fixed on hers. Fresh tears glistened in her eyes. She quickly raised a hand and dabbed them away.

Napoleon breathed in deeply, then stood up and signalled to Fouchй, the Minister of Police and one of Napoleon’s closest advisors, to bring forward the decree. Fouchй strode up on to the dais with a small writing case. Flipping it open, he revealed the document, and held the case in front of Napoleon. Taking up the pen inside the case, Napoleon opened the inkwell, dipped the nib inside and then moved his hand towards the bottom of the decree. He paused for a moment, looking past his brother towards Josephine. She gave the faintest shake of the head as she stared at him pleadingly. He looked down and quickly signed his name before returning the pen to its holder.

Fouchй retreated two paces and turned to approach Josephine. He addressed her coldly.

‘If you would sign the decree, your imperial majesty, then it is all over.’

Josephine stared at the document as if it were a poisonous snake, and then slowly raised a trembling hand to reach for the pen. She picked it up and charged the nib before preparing to sign her name next to Napoleon’s. She started to write, and then shook her head.

‘I-I can’t.’ Her voice caught on a sob. ‘I can’t do this.’

‘You must,’ Fouchй urged her quietly. ‘You have no choice.’

She shook her head, blinking back more tears.

Napoleon could bear it no more and rose from his throne and crossed to her side.‘Josephine, my dearest love, you must sign the decree, or all that I have worked for can come to nothing. Sign it, I beg you, for me. Sign it out of the love you have for me.’

Josephine nodded, held the pen ready again and then, slowly and deliberately, signed her name. As soon as she had finished, Fouchй took the pen from her hand and closed the writing case.

‘It is done,’ he announced to the people standing in the audience chamber. ‘The decree is signed and the divorce is official.’

His words were greeted with silence, the only sound in the room the sobbing of Josephine as she clutched her arms around herself. Napoleon raised a hand to comfort her, then withdrew it, and made himself return to the throne. No one spoke, unsure how to react, and nervously watching for a cue from the Emperor, but Napoleon sat still and silent, staring straight ahead. Then he rose abruptly and left the chamber.

Early the following morning Napoleon was woken by his personal valet, Roustam, and he dressed and ate a hurried breakfast before making his way down into the courtyard of the palace. It was not quite eight o’clock and the light was thin and pale. A convoy of carriages and wagons waited to carry Josephine and her retinue and belongings to Malmaison, the country chateau that Napoleon had decided to grant her, amongst other gifts and riches, that would ensure that she lived comfortably for the rest of her life. The horses pawed at the cobbles and the servants stamped their boots and rubbed their hands to try to stay warm as they waited for their mistress. Napoleon saw that her carriage was empty and called one of her ladies-in-waiting over to him.

‘Where is your mistress? She is supposed to leave on the hour.’

‘I’m sorry, sire. She sent word that she would be here at the appointed time. I last saw her in her bedchamber.’

‘I see.’ Napoleon lowered his voice. ‘And how is her imperial majesty?’

‘Tired, sire, for weeping most of the night. She was sitting on her bed when I last saw her, looking at your portrait.’

‘You’d better get into your carriage. No sense in you getting cold while we wait.’

She backed away and turned towards the carriage, and Napoleon looked up at the clock above the arch of the courtyard. The large hand notched forward another minute and he suddenly felt a familiar irritation with Josephine, who had always contrived to be late for events, keeping him waiting. His mood continued to sour as the eighth hour approached. Then, as the clock struck, a door opened and Josephine emerged from the palace, wrapped in fur and coolly elegant as she strode gracefully across to her carriage. Her step did not falter as she recognised Napoleon and she held out her gloved hands to him. With only the slightest of reservation he took her hands, and leaned forward to kiss her on both cheeks before drawing back. A pained look flickered across her face and he felt her hands gently attempt to draw him closer.

‘No, Josephine.’ He smiled softly. ‘That would not be a good idea.’

‘Is it so easy for you to resist my love?’

‘It is never easy.’

‘So?’ Her eyes invited him. ‘If you should ever want to visit me, I would not breathe a word of it to anyone else.’

‘That will not happen. We must both be strong in this.’

She bit her lip and then nodded. ‘Very well. Then I must go.’

‘Yes.’

She released her grip on his hands and turned away, taking the hand of a footman as he helped her up into the carriage. The door closed behind her and all along the small convoy of vehicles men clambered aboard and drivers took up their reins and whips. An order was shouted from the front and the convoy lurched forward, iron-rimmed wheels and iron-shod horses filling the chilly air with a clattering cacophony. As Josephine’s carriage started forward and headed towards the arch, Napoleon stared after it for a moment. The window did not open. There was no sign of her face at the small panel at the rear, and a moment later it passed through the arch and turned into the avenue beyond and out of sight.

Two weeks later, on the first day of the new year, Napoleon convened a meeting of his family and closest advisors. The clouds and rain that had seemed to hang over the capital for all of December had departed and left a clear blue sky. However, the Emperor had begun to brood over the loss of his wife, and his mood was not helped by the need to make a decision about her replacement. After consulting with his diplomats and sending messages to France’s ambassadors to put forward the names of suitable women a list of candidates was drawn up.

In the end there were only two that matched Napoleon’s aspirations, and he had called the meeting to help him choose between them. Once everyone was settled at the long table in the briefing room of his private apartments, Napoleon rapped his knuckles on the table.

‘Quiet, gentlemen.’ He paused until the others had fixed their attention on him. ‘We need to decide who is to be my wife, and the new Empress of France. You will be aware that I have been considering a number of women, and it is my belief that our interests will be best served by either the Grand Duchess Anna of Russia, or Princess Marie-Louise of Austria. As most of you will know, the Grand Duchess is the sister of Tsar Alexander. With relations between Russia and France as they are at present, a marriage into the Tsar’s family would help us to repair some of the damage that has been done to our alliance. In time, when there are children, they can only help to strengthen the union of our two powers.’

‘Sire,’ Joseph interrupted. ‘There is no guarantee that the Grand Duchess will be fertile. The most pressing need is to produce an heir to the throne. At fifteen, she will be somewhat on the young side to bear children. There might be a risk to her health that would not apply to an older, stronger woman.’

‘She is old enough,’ Napoleon replied.‘There are many women who are capable of bearing children at such an age. Besides, if she proves to be fertile then we can be guaranteed an extended period of child-bearing age. The Grand Duchess may well provide us with a good many heirs to the throne over the years.’

‘That is true,’ Joseph conceded. ‘However, we must consider her stock. The Romanovs are renowned for producing many sickly offspring, as well as a small number afflicted with insanity. We would not want to risk contaminating your bloodline with such specimens.’

‘No, we would not.’ Napoleon nodded thoughtfully. ‘Even so, we must bear in mind the political advantages of a union between France and Russia. Particularly now when England is so close to collapse. Fouchй’s agents report that the embargo on English trade is causing goods to pile up in their ports. Factories are closing and their workers are going hungry. Soon they will begin to starve, and when the people starve, they begin to demand change.’

‘We have heard this all before from the Minister of Police,’ Joseph said wearily. ‘How long is it that he has been promising us that the common people of England are close to revolt? Two years? Three?’

Minister Fouchй pursed his lips and shrugged.‘I trust what my agents say. The problem is that the English have a distressing capacity for endurance, and a lack of appetite for revolution. But trade is their Achilles’ heel. Cut that and they are hobbled.’

‘And still they fight on,’Talleyrand intervened from the far end of the table. Despite the deepening rift between them, Napoleon had summoned his former Foreign Minister with the rest. Talleyrand’s advice was too precious to overlook. ‘Indeed, far from showing any sign of weakening, their influence grows from strength to strength in the Peninsula. They defeated us at Talavera.’ He raised a hand as he saw Napoleon lean forward to protest. ‘I know that Marshal Jourdan and Victor claim it was a victory, and that is how you ordered it to be represented in our newspapers, but the truth is that our forces were repelled by the English.’

‘Really?’ Napoleon’s lips curled into a faint sneer.‘Then how do you explain why General Wellesley felt compelled to retreat all the way back to Portugal, if he won the battle?’

‘Strategic necessity, sire. All the English have to do is maintain an army in the Peninsula in order to tie down French forces many times their number.’

‘Enough!’ Napoleon slapped his hand down. ‘The situation in the Peninsula is moving in our favour. Victory there is inevitable. In the spring I shall send more men to Spain, together with Massйna, and the English will be routed once and for all. So let us not waste another moment thinking on it. We are here to choose a bride. As I pointed out, a marriage would do much to strengthen our ties with Russia. The risk lies with the ability of the Tsar’s sister to present us with an heir.’ He paused. ‘On the other hand, Princess Marie-Louise is nineteen, a ripe enough age to produce children. The pity of it is that she is no beauty.’ He recalled the long Hapsburg face she had inherited from Emperor Francis, together with a narrow nose and bulging eyes. ‘I admit that the thought of bedding her appeals more to my sense of duty than to my desire as a man.’

‘Sometimes great men are called on to make great sacrifices,’ Talleyrand shrugged. ‘Do not forget, sire, that it is your duty to provide France with an heir.’

‘True, but in this case I wish there was an easier way to achieve that end.’

Louis, who had not yet spoken, or even seemed terribly interested, stirred and caught his brother’s eye.‘If you’ll pardon me, I seem to recall hearing that one of her forebears, a great-aunt I think, gave birth to twenty-six children. That answers to her suitability for marriage on one ground.’

Napoleon stared at Louis. ‘Twenty-six children? Astonishing. That is just the kind of womb I want to marry.’ He turned to Champagny, Talleyrand’s successor as minister for foreign affairs. ‘Do we know how the Austrians will react to the offer?’

‘Indeed, sire. When I discussed the matter with their ambassador, he said that Prince Metternich had suggested a similar form of alliance between France and Austria. Apparently he had even mentioned Marie-Louise by name.’

‘That’s good,’ Napoleon mused. If Metternich could smooth the path for the marriage proposal then it stood every chance of success. However, he reflected, if Metternich was for such a marriage, then he was sure to be playing some kind of long game. Be that as it may, marriage to Princess Marie-Louise served France’s immediate interests, and if she proved fruitful, France’s long-term interests as well. He looked round the table and nodded.

‘All right, then, Princess Marie-Louise it is. Champagny, you must place our offer before the Austrians as soon as possible. If they agree, then we will need to move swiftly. I want to give the Russians as little time as possible to register any kind of protest about closer ties between France and Austria.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Inform Emperor Francis that I wish the marriage to take place no later than spring. Affairs of state will make it impossible for me to leave Paris for some months, so I will send an envoy to make the offer on my behalf. If Emperor Francis agrees, then the envoy can act as my proxy and the marriage can take place at once, and Marie-Louise can travel to Paris as my bride.’

‘A proxy marriage?’ Joseph raised his eyebrows.‘Would that not seem a bit rushed? Surely if we are to give the impression of a union of our two powers, a state wedding would be more emphatic?’

Napoleon waved the objection aside. ‘We can put something on later, if necessary, to keep the people happy. What matters is that we tie things up swiftly and that I endeavour to make my new Empress pregnant as soon as possible. Are all agreed then, gentlemen?’

His advisors nodded, except Louis who stroked his jaw with a rueful expression.

‘What is it, brother? You wish to raise an objection?’

‘No, sire, not as such. I am only concerned about the damage this will do to the French reputation for romance.’

The other men smiled and a few laughed, but Napoleon’s expression remained humourless. ‘There is no place for romance in the affairs of state.’ He frowned and hardened his voice. ‘Not any more.’

Chapter 14

Arthur

Lisbon, February 1810

‘The government is making a fine mess of things.’ Henry Wellesley shook his head as he helped himself to another glass of Arthur’s Madeira. The two brothers were seated in front of a fire in the country house Arthur rented from a local noble. Outside night had fallen and rain lashed the shutters. The army was in winter quarters along the border with Spain and he had taken the opportunity to visit Lisbon to arrange for provisions to be sent forward. He was also taking stock of the progress of the network of defences he had ordered to be constructed across the strip of land north of the city, between the sea and the river Tagus. Tens of thousands of Portuguese peasants had been conscripted to build the forts, redoubts and trenches on either side of the town of Torres Vedras that were intended to hold back the onslaught of the French army when it next attempted to sweep the English out of the Peninsula.

Henry had arrived from Cadiz in a packet ship, bearing the latest despatches from London. It was a source of considerable infuriation to Arthur that his political masters informed the British representative at Cadiz of developments at home, before such news was passed on to the commander of the English forces in the Peninsula. There was some small cheer on this day at least since Henry had brought the despatches in person, together with letters from friends and family.

‘By God,’ Arthur growled. ‘Those fools back in London. Anyone would think they would rather dish their political opponents than the enemy.’

‘But Arthur, as far as they are concerned their political opponents aretheir enemy. The French are merely an inconvenience.’

‘Precisely. I thought I’d heard it all when news arrived of that ridiculous duel between Castlereagh and Canning. It’s a miracle only Canning was wounded. Now both men are in disgrace and out of government, precisely at the time when all Englishmen should be putting country above all else. Meanwhile, we have that religious zealot, Spencer Perceval, as Prime Minister. At least in Lord Liverpool we have a cool head as War Minister. He at least appreciates the need to keep an army here in Spain.’

‘That he does, but Liverpool is struggling to defend that point of view. There are men in the cabinet who are quite open in their calls to either have you replaced, or have the army evacuated and returned to England.’

Arthur stared into the heart of the fire and asked quietly,‘Why would they want to replace me? What reason could they have?’

‘Reason? You are a Wellesley; Richard’s brother. That is reason enough as far as they are concerned.’

‘You forget.’ Arthur smiled. ‘I am not Wellesley any more.’

‘I know. You now serve under the name of Wellington. A silly choice, if you ask me. Typical of brother William.’

‘Wellington will suffice for the present,’ Arthur replied, briefly reflecting on his ennoblement following the battle at Talavera the previous year. The King had agreed to confer a peerage on Arthur to reward his victory. William had taken charge of the process of finding a title and he had discovered a small village named Welleslie in the west country. But rather than risk confusion with Richard’s name and title, the College of Heralds had chosen the name of the nearby town of Wellington instead. And so, from September, Arthur had become Viscount Wellington of Talavera. An awkward-sounding title, he had decided.

‘We cannot afford to abandon our hold here,’Arthur continued.‘Our presence forces Bonaparte to keep a quarter of a million men tied down in the Peninsula. Every day costs the enemy dearly in lives and gold. France is slowly, but surely, bleeding itself dry. And while that continues it weakens Bonaparte’s ability to field powerful armies in the rest of the continent.’ Arthur leaned forward and tapped his brother’s knee. ‘Henry, I need you to press the case in London. You must make sure that the government does not abandon the only strategy that can defeat the French.’

Henry sighed. ‘I will do what I can, Arthur. You have my word. The trouble is that our Spanish allies are not helping the cause. Their generals seem to be incapable of mastering their French opponents.’

‘Indeed.’ Arthur shook his head sadly. ‘But we need not abandon all hope. If the rulers of Spain have failed us the same cannot be said for the common people. Their hearts are made of sterner stuff and they will fight on.’

‘What good will that do them, or us? The rebels are no match for Bonaparte’s regulars. They will be massacred if they try to resist.’

‘I think not. Say what you will about the junta, and the army, but the war of the partisans will continue for some time yet. In that you may find the seeds of our eventual victory in the Peninsula.’

‘I hope you are right.’ Henry picked up his glass and turned it slowly in his hands for a while before he continued. ‘Arthur, I must ask you to take me into your confidence, if I am to help persuade the government to continue backing your work here. I must know precisely how you plan to wage this war.’

‘There is little I can do at present,’ Arthur responded flatly. ‘I am outnumbered ten to one. The men we lost at Talavera have only recently been replaced by fresh recruits. Many of the men who survived the battle are worn out, and some have been broken by sickness following our retreat to Portugal. What is true of the men is also true of my officers, with the additional complication that some are disloyal, some are incompetent and some are a downright danger to our own side. Even supposing that the army was ready to strike deep into Spain, I have not yet solved the problem of supply. The government’s parsimony means I can barely afford to feed and equip our soldiers here in Portugal. I will not be able to rely on our Spanish friends for supplies, and so if I am to wage war in Spain I shall need far more gold to pay our way.’ He gave a weary smile. ‘So, Henry, you see how I am constrained from taking the fight to the enemy.’

‘I understand that well enough, but then what is your plan?’

‘If we cannot attack the enemy then we must lure him into attacking us. That is why I have given orders for the construction of the defence lines to the north of Lisbon. For the moment Napoleon has fashioned a peace with the other powers on the continent. That means he will be able to concentrate a large army in Spain, tasked with crushing my forces here in Portugal. So, I will make a show of preparing to fight the French, while the land in front of the lines is cleared of people and stripped of food, shelter and forage. Then I will fall back into the defences and wait there for the enemy. The French will face the choice of trying to starve us out, or retreating back into Spain. Since we can be readily supplied by sea we shall not go hungry. The enemy on the other hand will begin to starve, yet they will not retreat for fear of incurring the Emperor’s wrath. That dilemma will destroy them.’ Arthur eased himself back into his chair. ‘That, Henry, is my strategy. We may not be able to win the war here, but we certainly won’t lose it, provided England is patient and generous with its supplies of men and money. It may seem perverse, but I would welcome a French attack. I only hope it arrives before the government in London loses its nerve and orders me to withdraw.’

Henry was silent for a moment and then nodded. ‘I will do what I can to prevent that, but you must realise that England expects victories, sooner rather than later.’

‘Victories we will have, when I am ready to deliver them.’ Arthur refilled their glasses and looked closely at his brother. Henry’s face was lined and his hair was streaked with grey. His duties in the service of his nation had aged him.

There was a tap on the door and Arthur twisted round towards the noise. ‘Come!’

The door opened and Somerset entered. Behind him, in the corridor, stood another junior officer, waiting in the shadows.

‘What is it, Somerset?’

‘Sir, I have to report that Captain Devere has returned.’

‘Ah, good! Show the man in.’

Somerset stood aside and beckoned to the officer outside. He strode into the room, the firelight gleaming off the braid adorning the pelisse of his hussar’s uniform. Devere was a recent arrival. He had been assigned a position on Arthur’s staff as a favour to one of Richard’s allies in Parliament. He was competent enough, but his arrogance was yet to be tempered by experience. Arthur had sent him out at dawn to negotiate the sale of a herd of cattle from a Portuguese landowner. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the walls as he strode across the tiled floor and halted in front of Arthur with an elaborate salute.

‘Sir, beg to report that I have returned from my assignment.’

‘Good. How many head of cattle did you manage to buy?’

‘None, sir.’ Devere stared straight ahead.

‘None?’ Arthur frowned. ‘What is the meaning of this? Explain fully, man! I assume you found his estate? The directions were clear enough.’

‘Yes, sir. I reached the house just after noon, and presented your terms to him for the purchase of his herd.’

‘And?’

Devere’s steadfast gaze faltered and he could not help glancing warily at his commander before snapping his eyes front once again. ‘Sir, I told him our price and how many we required, and he seemed somewhat put out by my direct manner. After we agreed a price, he told me he would not complete the transaction unless I begged him to sell me the cattle.’

‘Begged?’

‘Yes, sir. Don Roberto Lopez ordered me to go down on one knee and beg.’

Arthur rubbed his brow. ‘I assume that you refused his request?’

‘Yes, sir. Of course. I’m an English gentleman and I’ll be damned if I’ll go down on bended knee to some dago.’

Arthur shut his eyes and winced. ‘And did you actually say that to him?’

‘In as many words, yes sir. Through my translator, naturally. After all, I don’t speak the lingo and the bloody man refused to speak any English.’

‘I see.’ Arthur looked up. ‘And what happened then?’

‘Then?’ Devere frowned. ‘Nothing, sir. Don Roberto said that he refused to sell me the cattle. Not until I went down on my knee. I told him his cattle could go to hell and that we would find another seller. After that I took my leave and came back here to report. I’ve returned the gold to the clerk in charge of the war chest, sir.’

Arthur stared at the young officer. ‘Tell me, Devere, do you have any idea how much trouble I have been to in order to locate such a quantity of meat for our troops? There is hardly a herd left within twenty miles of Lisbon. Our men need to be fed. Now, thanks to your petulant display of hubris, they will go hungry.’

Captain Devere instinctively opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it and clamped it shut instead as he stood stiffly and stared straight ahead.

‘Look here, Devere, you’re a cavalry officer. What is the maxim of such officers? It seems that you need to be reminded: you look after the horses before the men, and the men before yourself. That means you put aside all other considerations until horses and men are properly fed. Correct?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Arthur gazed levelly at Devere for a moment. ‘See here, Captain. We are a small army of which a great deal is expected by our country. We need every ally we can get. In future let that thought be your guide in all your dealings with the Portuguese and the Spanish. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well, dismissed.’

The officer saluted, turned and marched from the room as swiftly as he could, shutting the door behind him. Henry cocked an eyebrow at his brother.

‘The man is not a natural diplomat, it would appear.’

‘He is young.’ Arthur shrugged. ‘And that melancholy affliction will soon pass. If Devere lives long enough I think he will do good service for his country. But for now, alas, he has left me with yet one more problem to resolve.’ Arthur pulled out his watch and glanced at the hands. ‘Nearly eleven. The hour is late, my dear Henry. Forgive me, but I have some work to do before turning in. I am sure you are tired after your voyage from Cadiz. We can continue our conversation in the morning.’

Henry smiled. ‘As you wish.’ He drained his glass and rose from his chair. ‘I’ll bid you good night then.’

Arthur nodded, and sat staring into the fire as Henry left the room. He waited a few minutes before making for the door and ordering the duty orderly to bring Somerset to him. Somerset entered, stifling a yawn, a few minutes later.

‘You sent for me, sir.’

‘Yes. I want two squadrons of dragoons in their saddles, immediately. And I’ll want some gold from the war chest.’

‘Gold?’ Somerset blinked.‘You intend to buy something at this hour, sir?’

Arthur stifled a yawn and smiled wearily. ‘Merely some goodwill.’

The estate was two hours’ ride from Lisbon. The route was hard to follow in the dark, made worse by the rain clouds that obscured the stars and moon. Three times they lost their way, and were obliged to find a farmhouse and wake the occupants to get directions to put them back on the right path, but finally, at two in the morning, the column passed through the gates of the estate belonging to Don Roberto Lopez. A long drive weaved through groves of fruit trees, bare-limbed in the winter, and stretches of pasture where the dark humps of cattle and goats clustered for shelter beside ancient walls. At length Arthur spied a single lantern burning in a portico. Around it loomed the barely visible mass of a large house.

The column halted by the portico and Arthur dismounted. He beckoned to his translator and strode stiffly towards the door and rapped the heavy iron ring against the stout timber. There was no reply and he waited a moment before rapping again, more insistently. The hiss of the rain and the low moan of the wind made it impossible to hear any sound from within. After a brief delay, the bolts on the inside of the door suddenly rattled back and the door opened wide enough for a man to peer suspiciously through the gap.

‘Good evening.’ Arthur smiled. ‘Please inform Don Roberto Lopez that he has a visitor.’

The translator spoke and there was a brief exchange before he turned to Arthur.

‘He says his master is asleep, sir.’

‘I should imagine so. Tell this man that I am General Lord Wellington, Marshal of Portugal and commander of the allied army. I must speak to his master on a matter of some urgency.’

The introduction was translated and the servant looked at Arthur closely and then opened the door and waved him inside. There was a large hall within, and Arthur could just make out the forms of picture frames and tapestries adorning the walls. The servant indicated some benches on either side of the door and muttered a few words.

‘He tells us to wait here, sir,’ said the translator, ‘while he wakes his master.’

‘Very well.’

Arthur sat on one side, and the Portuguese translator respectfully took the other bench. Removing his hat, Arthur wiped his sodden locks of hair aside and made a mental note to have his hair cut short again, as soon as opportunity permitted. He unbuttoned his coat, setting it to one side so that his uniform jacket would be visible, with the star of his knighthood and other decorations pinned to his breast.

Don Roberto did not keep his unexpected visitors waiting long. The loom of a lamp appeared in a corridor off to one side of the entrance hall, and a moment later the servant returned, holding the lantern high to light the way for his master. Arthur and the translator rose to their feet and bowed their heads in greeting.

The Portuguese landowner was an elderly man with a thin, haughty face. A neatly trimmed beard of snowy white lined his jaw and he regarded Arthur with piercing brown eyes. He gestured to the bench and muttered to the translator.

‘His honour bids you sit down, while his servant fetches a chair.’

The servant put the lantern on the floor and hurried to the side of the hall, returning a moment later with a heavy oak chair, inlaid with ivory in a geometric Moorish design. Arthur waited for his host to sit before taking his place on the bench again. The translator remained standing.

‘The hour is late,’ Arthur began,‘so please excuse me if I speak to the point.’

Don Roberto inclined his head in assent as he heard the translation.

‘I have come to apologise for the behaviour of the officer I sent to buy your cattle. Captain Devere is newly arrived from England. He is unused to the ways of foreign people, and he is young enough to not consider the impression he creates. I would have you know that he is not typical of English officers. I have also come to ask that you reconsider your refusal to sell your cattle.’