Текст книги "The Fields of Death"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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The current of relief that rippled through his officers was palpable. Even Ney’s stern demeanour melted momentarily as he could not help smiling at the outcome of the confrontation between the marshals and their Emperor.

‘Sire, your people will be eternally grateful to you for this.’

‘And so they should,’ Napoleon replied. ‘We’d better draft a proposal for our enemies.’

‘It is already done, sire,’ Ney admitted.‘I had Caulaincourt draw it up as soon as I had the news from Marmont. It only requires your signature and then the Foreign Minister and Marshal MacDonald will depart for Paris.’

Napoleon smiled coldly. ‘It seems that you have planned this well.’

‘If I have, it is because I learned from a good master.’

The compliment was a poor palliative that fooled no man in the room. Napoleon rose from his chair. ‘Then it is done. Make your offer to the allies and let me know the outcome. I will remain in the chateau. You, gentlemen, are dismissed.’ He looked round at them. ‘I just hope that you have made the right decision. If not, then France will never forgive you. Think on that.’

He turned away and strode towards the door, leaving Ney and the other marhsals to arrange the details of the negotiations with the enemy.

Caulaincourt and MacDonald rode out towards the allied outposts later that morning. For two days they negotiated with the commanders of the armies that had conquered Paris and were now closing in on the remnants of the Grand Army. Then they reported back to Napoleon, informing him that the allies would only accept an unconditional abdication. The decision on who should succeed him would be theirs alone.

In the days that followed, as the details of his fate were discussed in Paris, Napoleon fell into deep despair. He could not eat, and sat in a chair by a small fire, brooding in silence as his servants silently came and went, serving and removing meals that lay cold and untouched on their trays.

At length, Napoleon’s hand slipped inside his shirt and felt for the small pouch of belladonna and hellebore that he had kept hanging from his neck since the retreat from Moscow when he had so nearly fallen into the hands of the Cossacks. His fingers gently cupped the pouch and he pressed the soft leather, feeling the deadly powder within. There was little deliberation over the decision. His death would cheat the allies of their prize, and there was comfort and satisfaction to be had from that small victory.

Slipping the thin silk cord over his head, Napoleon withdrew the pouch and steadily untied the binding. He eased the leather open, and stared a moment at the powder, pallid as ground bones. Then he tipped it into a glass, taking care not to spill any of it, before pouring in some of the watered wine left on a meal tray. He stirred the mixture with his fork, then lifted the glass. He avoided smelling it, in case it caused him to hesitate, and provided the least excuse to reconsider his decision. He raised the glass to his lips and drank swiftly, setting the glass down with a sharp tap. Then he sat still, staring into space, shocked by the enormity of the deed. He smiled as he recalled his coronation, how he had taken the imperial wreath from the hands of the Pope and placed it on his own head, announcing to the world that none but Napoleon was worthy of crowning Napoleon. Now the same principle of greatness applied to his death. Only his hand was worthy of the act. That thought calmed his fear of the oblivion into which his mind would be cast, if not his fame. He coughed and then called for his servant.

‘Fetch Caulaincourt. Bring him to me at once.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘He is to bring pen and paper with him.’

The servant bowed his head and hurried away, leaving Napoleon to mentally compose his final testament.

By the time Caulaincourt appeared, Napoleon could already feel the poisons working upon him. Despite the fire, he felt cold, and shivered. His skin began to feel clammy and sweat pricked out on his brow. Inside, his guts clenched painfully, and an aching nausea tightened his throat.

‘Sire, you’re ill,’ Caulaincourt said the moment he sat down opposite his Emperor. ‘Let me summon your surgeon.’

‘No. There is no need. It’s too late for that. I am dying.’

‘Sire! I will get help.’

‘No!’ The effort of raising his voice caused a spasm of pain and Napoleon’s features twisted for a moment, until the worst of it had passed. Sweat trickled down his cheeks. ‘I have taken poison. This is the end.’

The Foreign Minister looked horrified. Napoleon touched his hand. ‘I want you to take down my final statement. I don’t know how much time is left. So we must begin. Quickly, Caulaincourt.’

‘Yes, sire.’ He nodded, and swiftly took out his notebook, rested it on his knees and poised the tip of his pencil on the paper.

‘I will give you the sense of it, then you will compose it for general consumption. Be faithful to my intent, but ensure that what is left is clearly expressed and well crafted.’

Caulaincourt nodded.

‘Very well. I wish it known that I was never the warmonger my enemies would depict me as. All I desired was peace and order amongst the peoples of Europe, even if that could only be achieved by subordinating their will to mine. I trust that my enemies will be as magnanimous in victory as I was when I triumphed over them. Therefore, all those who prospered under my reign should not be disgraced and punished under whatever rule is imposed hereafter. That includes my family, my heir and those gallant officers who have sacrificed so much for France. Their glory must not be denied, however much my fame is impugned and denigrated. They have rendered good service to France and France should honour them accordingly.’ He paused to make sure that Caulaincourt was keeping up, then, collecting his thoughts, he continued.‘If my son, the dearest being on this earth, is not to reign after me, then I wish that he is at least raised a Frenchman and given the opportunity to learn of his father’s achievements, without rancour. His mother, my beloved wife, Empress Marie-Louise, is free to return to her native Austria . . .’

A sudden surge of nausea swept through Napoleon and he leaned over the side of his chair and vomited. Caulaincourt started to rise, but Napoleon waved him back. He vomited again, and again. Each time it felt as if an iron fist was squeezing his insides like a vice. Then, when his stomach was empty, he continued retching, letting out tight groans as his head hung over the acrid stench rising from the glutinous puddle below. Finally the spasm passed and Napoleon lay back, shivering violently. His eyes flickered open and he looked at Caulaincourt.

‘I can say no more. I leave it to you to craft my testimony as elegantly as you can.’

Caulaincourt swallowed anxiously. ‘I will not fail you, sire.’

‘Good.’ Napoleon sat up and rose to his feet unsteadily. ‘Now help me to that couch.’

Caulaincourt laid aside his notebook and supported the Emperor’s weight as best he could as they made their way over to the couch. Napoleon collapsed upon it with a sigh.‘My thanks. For this, and all the services you have done me.’

‘Sire . . . I . . .’

‘Say nothing. Just leave me now. Tell the servants no one is to enter the room, for any reason. You can come back tomorrow and see . . . what has happened.’

‘Yes, sire. I understand.’

Napoleon took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Goodbye then. Now go.’

Caulaincourt hesitated for a moment, then returned to his chair to retrieve his notebook before walking steadily to the door and leaving the room. Once he had gone, Napoleon let out a groan and clutched his hands to his stomach. A fierce stabbing pain throbbed through his guts, and his entire body felt as if it was in the grip of some fever. The physician who had prepared the poison had told him it would be quick and relatively painless. Napoleon cursed him for a liar as he curled up on his side and waited for the end, the steady tick of a clock and the crackle of the fire marking the agonisingly slow passage of what time remained to him. The torment of the poison robbed him of the calm state of grace he had hoped would accompany his death. It occurred to him that this was what it must have been like for Lannes, and all those others, who had gone to their deaths slowly and in agony. There was no glory in this death, no sense of destiny, just the wretched writhing of an animal in its death throes, begging for an end to it all.

The hours passed, and death did not come, just more pain. As night gave way to dawn, and pale light crept through the gaps in the curtains of the study, Napoleon realised that he was not going to die after all. The poison, two years in the pouch, had lost its potency and had only served to deepen the humiliation to which he had been condemned. Gradually the fever passed, he stopped sweating and the agony in his stomach subsided, leaving him in despair.

At the eighth hour the door creaked open and Caulaincourt quietly entered the study, causing Napoleon to stir.

‘Sire, thank God!’ Caulaincourt exclaimed as he rushed over. ‘You live!’

‘So it seems,’ Napoleon whispered miserably.

‘Then I’ll summon the surgeon.’

Napoleon did not protest. If he was not to die, then what point was there in prolonging this suffering? ‘Call him then.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Caulaincourt jumped up, then sensing his master’s disappointment he paused. ‘Sire, you still live for a reason. Destiny must have a purpose for you yet.’

‘Really?’ Napoleon shook his head. He did not care any longer. He was too tired. He rolled on to his back and stared at the ceiling as Caulaincourt’s footsteps hurried away. If he had cheated death, then death had cheated him also.

‘Those are their final terms, sire,’ Caulaincourt reported to the Emperor three days later, handing over a sealed document. ‘The allies will allow you to retain the title of Emperor. You will be given the island of Elba to rule. The French treasury will provide you with an income of two million francs a year. You will be permitted to take a thousand soldiers with you, and any additional servants you may require. The Bonaparte family is to renounce all its other crowns in exchange for pensions provided by the French government, and the Empress will be granted the Duchy of Parma.’

Napoleon stared at the document in his hand, but did not open it. His pale skin still looked faintly waxy, as if it was stretched over his skull. The poison had left him feeling weak and apathetic and he could only stomach the lightest of meals. He lay, wrapped in a thick blanket, on a chaise longue in his study. He looked up. ‘In exchange for my unconditional abdication?’

‘Yes, sire,’ Caulaincourt nodded. ‘It was the best I could do. The Prussians were all for having you shot. I played on what was left of the regard the Tsar once had for you after the Treaty of Tilsit. It was the Tsar who offered you Elba.’

‘Nevertheless, I am to be exiled.’

‘Yes, sire. You will be required to remain on the island until the time of your death. You will not be permitted to enter into any treaty with another kingdom and you will accept a resident appointed by the allied powers through whom you will communicate with them.’

‘While this resident spies on me.’

Caulaincourt nodded.

‘I see.’ Napoleon cradled his forehead in one hand as he continued to stare at the document. ‘How long have they given me to consider their offer?’

‘You are to sign it at once for me to return to Paris. If they do not have your agreement by midnight tomorrow then the offer is withdrawn and a bounty will be offered for your capture.’

Napoleon’s lips curled at the insulting prospect of being treated like a criminal, but there was no time and no choice in the matter. He must accept.

‘Very well,’ he sighed wearily. ‘I thank you for your efforts, Caulaincourt. Now fetch me that inkwell and pen over there.’

While Caulaincourt crossed the study to the Emperor’s desk, Napoleon broke the seal and opened the treaty document. The clauses were simple and direct and a space had been left at the bottom for his signature. Caulaincourt returned and held out the pen, then removed the lid of the inkwell and offered it to Napoleon. ‘Sire?’

Napoleon gazed at the treaty with malevolence. Every point had been calculated to diminish his glory and that of his entire family. It was strange, he mused, that even offended as he was, there was no desire in him to continue the fight at this moment. Exhaustion and his recovery from taking the poison conspired to rob him of the urge to resist his enemies. Flattening the paper on the surface of the couch, Napoleon dipped the pen into the ink and tapped off the excess. He hesitated momentarily before hurriedly scratching his signature, and handing the pen back to Caulaincourt.

‘There.’

‘Yes, sire.’ The ambassador delicately took the treaty and wafted it in the air to speed the drying of the ink. ‘I’ll away to Paris immediately. When you receive confirmation that they have the treaty, you are to leave for Elba.’

‘So soon?’ Napoleon eased himself back down and pulled the covers over his chest. Elba? He recalled the island, a miserable nonenity off the coast of Italy. The allies had found him the smallest of possible kingdoms to rule. But not one person in the whole of Europe would fail to see that in reality Elba was nothing more than a prison. Napoleon closed his eyes and Caulaincourt quietly left the room.

‘Elba it is, then,’ Napoleon whispered. ‘For now.’

Chapter 51

Arthur

Toulouse, 13 April 1814

‘Do you think it might be a trick, sir?’ asked Somerset as he stood at Arthur’s side, squinting through his telescope towards the gates on the eastern side of the town. They had been opened some twenty minutes earlier, and now a small party stood a short distance in front of the defences. Through his own telescope Arthur could see that they were mostly civilians, clustered together under a white flag.

‘I think not. It seems that they want to parley,’ Arthur said. ‘After all, Soult has abandoned them. They have nothing to gain from defending the town.’

Even before dawn, Arthur’s cavalry patrols had discovered the French column, picking its way to the south-east under cover of darkness. General Hill had immediately set off in pursuit, with orders to observe Soult and not engage him. Toulouse was a valuable prize and the army needed to rest and recover from the previous day’s battle for the Heights of Calvinet which dominated the town.

‘Hm.’ Somerset slowly trained his telescope along the walls. ‘There are still plenty of cannon on the walls, and I can see some soldiers.’

‘That may be,’ Arthur muttered, then snapped his telescope shut. ‘However, there’s no harm in talking to them. Ride down there and see what they want.’

Somerset lowered his telescope and nodded. ‘And if they want to discuss terms, sir? What shall I say?’

‘They are to surrender, without conditions, else we will sack the town.’ Arthur paused, and then smiled thinly. ‘You might mention that we have a division of Spaniards with us who are inclined to show little pity to the French.’

Somerset looked shocked. ‘That’s hardly fair, sir. Morillo’s men are as disciplined as any in the army.’

‘Yes, but they don’t know that,’ Arthur replied patiently as he nodded towards the waiting Frenchmen. ‘Now then, don’t tarry, Somerset.’

Arthur watched as his aide mounted his horse and cantered down the slope to cross the canal that separated the Heights from the town. The Spanish corps and Beresford’s two divisions were stretched out along the Heights, on either side of Arthur’s command post, and their sullen mood was evident in the slowness with which they had roused themselves at dawn and apathetically set to digging the earthworks Arthur had ordered constructed in case Soult decided to counter-attack. Even though the French army appeared to have quit Toulouse, Arthur thought it prudent to continue the work. If nothing else, it gave his men something to take their minds off the bitter fighting of the previous day. It had cost the allies over four thousand men to take the Heights, and across the slopes, raked by roundshot and canister, were clusters of freshly dug graves. With the war all but over, Arthur felt such losses ever more keenly. Even so, all the news from the north was encouraging. Paris had fallen and Bonaparte and what was left of his army must surely be compelled to surrender soon.

The distant figure of Somerset had reined in before the small crowd in front of the gates and was engaged in conversation with a man who had emerged as their spokesman. Arthur raised his telescope to follow the exchange more closely. A moment later, Somerset dismounted and the Frenchman rushed forward to embrace him, kissing the British officer on both cheeks. A light breeze lifted the white flag behind them and now Arthur could make out a design that had been hidden in the folds, a blue fleur-de-lys, the emblem of the Bourbons.

So that was it, Arthur thought with relief: the royalists had taken over the town. A moment later Somerset was in the saddle again and galloping back across the canal and up the slope towards Arthur. His face was flushed with excitement as he reined in and swung himself down.

‘Sir, I have the honour to report that Toulouse is ours.’

‘Yes, I gathered.’

‘The mayor asks me to convey his fraternal greetings to you.’

‘That’s very fine of him, I’m sure.’

‘He asks if you will do him the honour of addressing him, and the other worthies, before entering the town.’

‘Not for the present.’ Arthur shook his head wearily. ‘There will be time for that. Tell the mayor that I would be grateful if he permitted me to set up my headquarters in his offices. When that is done I will be pleased to celebrate the liberation of Toulouse.’

‘Yes, sir,’ his aide replied, somewhat deflated. ‘As you wish.’

Arthur looked at him sternly. ‘Now then, Somerset, the war is not over, and the army must be commanded and its needs catered for. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Once we have attended to our duties, you will be free to enjoy the hospitality of Toulouse.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somerset glanced down towards the Frenchmen waiting outside the gate.‘What about them? They seem quite keen to greet their liberators, sir.’

‘Oh, damn it, then send Beresford. Let him enjoy the mob’s adulation if he likes.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Arthur stared towards the small crowd at the town gates.‘I’ll take my turn in Paris, when the time comes, if that makes you feel any better, Somerset.’

‘It does, sir.’ The aide smiled warmly.

While General Beresford and his officers, accompanied by several companies of grenadiers, basked in the adulation of the French townsfolk, Arthur and his staff officers entered by a smaller gate further along the wall. Somerset had arranged for one of the mayor’s clerks to lead them through the back streets to the town square. Every so often the thin young Frenchman would turn and grin and call out,‘ Vive le Roi et vivent les anglais!’ and curious faces would appear at the windows and doors of the houses the small party passed by.

‘If that fellow keeps this up, we shall attract a crowd of our own,’ Arthur hissed testily.

‘You can hardly blame him, sir,’ said Somerset. ‘With the prospect that Napoleon will be forced to make peace any day now.’

The man cried out again and Arthur glared at him, to no effect, and let out an exasperated sigh. His officers read his expression and kept their silence for the rest of the short ride to the mairie.When they were shown to the suite of offices assigned to them they began to arrange the desks while they waited for the wagon carrying the army’s records chests to arrive. The sounds of the cheering carried to the heart of the town and every so often a small cluster of excited civilians would hurry by on their way to join the celebrations.

Early in the afternoon the mayor arrived, somewhat drunk, to invite Arthur and his officers to a special performance of patriotic songs and recitals to be held at the town’s theatre that evening, followed by a banquet. In the interests of cementing the friendship of the people of Toulouse, Arthur accepted, and grudgingly made arrangements to have a bath and shave while his baggage was collected from the camp. So it was that he was standing before a mirror, face lathered in soap and razor poised above his throat, when the door to the washroom was unceremoniously opened and Somerset rushed in, accompanied by another officer whom Arthur recognised as Colonel Ponsonby, from the army outside Bayonne.

‘What the devil?’ Arthur growled, lowering the razor. ‘You surprise me like that, and it won’t be an enemy bullet that takes me. I’ll die by my own bloody hand!’

‘Sorry, sir.’ Somerset thrust Ponsonby forward. ‘But you must hear the news.’

‘Ponsonby?’ Arthur frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was sent to find you directly General Hope received the officers sent from Paris.’

‘Officers? What officers?’

‘Colonel Cooke, and Colonel St-Simon of the French army, sir.’

‘Well?’

‘Sir, I have extraordinary news for you.’

There was no mistaking what the man would say. Arthur held up his hand to silence the colonel. ‘It’s peace. I knew that we would have it.’

‘Aye, sir, we’ve all expected it. But there’s more. Napoleon has abdicated.’

‘Abdicated? It’s time indeed.’ Arthur replied without thinking. Then the full truth of it struck him. Napoleon was finished. With no throne, he would no longer be able to threaten the peace of Europe. At once his severe expression was split by a wide grin. Tossing his razor down into the basin, he clasped Ponsonby’s hands. ‘Abdicated! You don’t say so?’

‘I do, sir.’

‘By God . . . by God, this is wonderful!’ He turned to Somerset and could not help laughing. His whole mind and body was seized by the most pure and irresistible delight. ‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ Releasing Ponsonby’s hands, he snapped his fingers and hopped lightly from side to side. ‘That I should live to see this!’

‘Just what I was thinking,’ Somerset chuckled as he stared at his superior’s unprecedented display of jubilation.

The night’s banquet was a raucous affair as British, Spanish and Portuguese officers celebrated with their French counterparts from the town’s garrison. Just as the main course was cleared away the two colonels sent from Paris arrived, bearing the official despatch. Arthur read it through, then stood to announce to the hushed audience that Bonaparte was to leave France for ever before the end of the month. Louis, the brother of the previous king, was to be returned to the throne. As the cheers echoed round the banqueting hall he sent for champagne to toast King Louis. As the glasses were recharged General Alava, who had recently re-joined the army from Madrid, quickly stood up and raised his glass towards Arthur.

‘To Field Marshal the Marquess of Wellington, el liberador de Espaсa!’

A great roar of approval went up from the assembled officers and they downed their champagne. Then one of the Portuguese commanders made a new toast. ‘ El Douro– saviour of Portugal!’ There was another cheer before the mayor of Toulouse staggered up and toasted Arthur in broken English. ‘To Monsieur Wellington. He save France!’

This time the cheering did not end. The officers thumped their fists down on the table in a deafening rhythm that set the remaining cutlery and glasses trembling. Arthur slowly rose at their acclamation. He bowed his head to each side, and tried to make his thanks, but it was impossible. At that moment, as he looked round at his men, it was not joy, nor triumph, that filled his heart. It was gratitude, and an almost paternal affection for those who had become closer than family to him.

Slowly the cheering subsided and then there was a respectful but expectant silence as they waited for him to speak. Arthur smiled nervously, then lowered his head and shook it gently, afraid his voice would betray the emotions that gripped him. Somerset saw his difficulty and hurriedly rose to his feet, leaning towards his commander.

‘Shall we have coffee, sir?’

‘What’s that?’ Arthur mumbled.

‘There’s been a deal of champagne drunk tonight. Some of the officers will need sobering up before they go back on duty.’

‘Yes. Coffee.’ Arthur nodded. He raised his head, and cleared his throat. ‘I, ah, thank you all, most humbly. And much as I hate to break up the night’s celebrations, it is time for coffee.’

Some groaned at his words, but most were just bemused, and happily cheered and clapped the suggestion.

As he sat down, Arthur turned to Colonel Cooke and his French companion. ‘Do you have a copy of the despatch for Marshal Soult?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then you must find him at once. Ride on, to the south-east. He cannot have more than a day’s start on you.’

‘Tonight, sir?’ Cooke replied, surprised.

‘Yes, tonight. Hill’s men are pursuing him, and I’ll not have one more life lost through any avoidable delay in getting the news through to Soult. Go now.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Cooke said, and gestured to Colonel St-Simon to follow him as he strode from the banqueting hall.

Most of the French soldiers in the south were eager to believe the news, but Soult refused to accept that his master had fallen until he received confirmation from the hand of Berthier. Having allowed his men to celebrate the victory, Arthur soon began to issue the orders for their withdrawal to Bordeaux, from where they would be shipped home to Britain in due course. While the men were excited by the prospect of returning home, their officers were less sanguine once the initial delight over the great victory had faded. For many of them peace would mean half-pay and no chance of further promotion.

While the army began to adjust to the prospect of peace after two decades of war, Arthur travelled to Paris to take his place amongst the victors as they led the parade through the streets towards the Tuileries. There, the new King of France would review the soldiers and offer his gratitude for the sacrifices made by the allies in ridding Europe of the scourge of the Corsican Tyrant.

On 3 May, the day before the parade, Somerset presented Arthur with a letter from the Prince Regent as he sat eating his breakfast in his rooms in the suite provided for him and his staff in the Tuileries. Arthur lowered his knife and fork and finished chewing a morsel of lamb chop as he broke the seal and read through the contents. At length he lowered the letter on to the table and picked up his knife and fork to continue his breakfast. Somerset let out a low sigh of frustration.

‘Well, sir?’

Arthur cut off another chunk of lamb and glanced up. ‘I have been offered the embassy here in Paris. Oh, and it is confirmed that I am officially gazetted as the Duke of Wellington.’

Somerset beamed. ‘And not before time. May I be the first to offer my congratulations, your grace?’

‘I thank you, Somerset. It is, as you say, overdue, in as much as it honours all those who have served under me these last years.’

It might have sounded like a platitude from another man, but Somerset knew his commander well enough to know that the sentiment was heartfelt. For his part, Arthur felt a pang of resentment that this recognition of the army’s achievement should have been delayed by the enemies of his family in Parliament. The wretchedness of petty political intrigue had constantly threatened to undermine him and his men throughout their campaigns in the Peninsula. Well, it was better that reward came late than not at all.

Somerset looked out of the window, across the public square outside the palace, and saw that the crowds had already begun to mass along the route of the procession.‘You’ll have quite an audience today, your grace. All come to see the general who trounced Bonaparte’s marshals.’ Somerset paused. ‘It is a shame that you never had the chance to face him in battle.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘No, I am glad that I never did. I would at any time rather have heard that a reinforcement of forty thousand men had joined the French army, than that he had arrived to take command.’

‘Be that as it may, I have every confidence that you would have beaten him, your grace. You are the better general.’

‘Well, we shall never put it to the test. In any case, I’ll not be appearing before Paris as a soldier. The war is at an end, and as I am to be ambassador, then I shall dress as a diplomat. A plain coat, white stock and breeches and round hat will give the right impression, I think. Now then, if I might finish my breakfast in peace?’

‘As you wish, your grace.’ Somerset bowed his head and left the room.

Popping another chunk of lamb into his mouth Arthur chewed quickly. It was a strange quirk of fate that while he had beaten the cream of Bonaparte’s marshals, and Bonaparte had beaten most of the allies’ finest commanders, the two of them had not clashed. It was inevitable that the Corsican’s apologists would for ever claim that their hero would have mastered the British commander had they met, Arthur mused.

The parade of the allied leaders and their finely turned out soldiers was greeted by cheers of joy by the vast majority of the crowd. Only a handful watched with sullen resentment, Arthur noticed as he rode beside Castlereagh, returning the crowd’s acclaim with a curt nod of the head or brief wave of his gloved hand.

Castlereagh leaned towards him. ‘Odd, ain’t it? You fight the French for over twenty years, and then they greet you like a hero.’

‘Peace and deliverance from tyranny are apt to make one cheerful,’ Arthur replied drily.

‘Indeed.’ Castlereagh waved to the crowd, and drew a fresh cheer from them as they waved hats and coloured strips of cloth in a shimmering frenzy. His expression hardened briefly. ‘Then ’tis a shame that the new King of Spain has failed to learn the lesson. You have heard of the troubling situation in Spain, I take it.’

Arthur nodded. On his return from exile at Valenзay, Ferdinand had immediately set about imposing his authority in the harshest possible manner. All the reforms that had been instituted by the Cortes had been overturned and those who protested were thrown into jail. It was a hard thing for the Spanish people, who had fought one tyrant for so long, to have another imposed upon them.