Flashman in the Peninsula (26 page)

For a second I was appalled and it quite put me off my stroke. ‘You can’t stop now,’ she gasped, and she wiggled herself against me in a way that could only be described as sublime. I don’t like to be used but by God there were compensations in this case and she was right, I was too gone in lust to stop now. But I was damned if I was going to be caught
‘in flagrante delicto’
either. I grabbed hold of her hips and pounded away with even more vigour intending to bring things to a speedier conclusion. She gave a slight squeal of delight and the regular groans became faster and louder. Over the top of the piled dress on Agustina’s back I saw the two ladies in the congregation look back across in our direction. Several other heads turned too but then the procession started down the front of the church.

An unbidden memory came into my head of my school days and the time a master had accused me of playing pocket billiards with myself in prayers. I well remembered burning with embarrassment but that would be nothing to the scandal of a British officer, Wellesley’s envoy no less, caught bulling away at a national heroine of Spain in the middle of a cathedral service. Throughout the long procession down the centre of the church my mind and body toiled to bring satisfaction to us both. Agustina was undoubtedly a prime piece and normally this would not be difficult, but now as I tried to lose myself in the moment my thoughts would be interrupted by visions of laughing schoolboys and sneering masters, which took the edge off, so to speak. Not that Agustina seemed to mind my prolonged performance. Her groaning had got even louder so that she had buried her face amongst the multiple layers of the front of her dress to muffle the effect.

I watched the procession as it neared the church door to see in which direction it would turn. A man with a large cross led the way followed by an altar boy with an incense burner. Then came the bishop walking between four more altar boys all carrying large candles, which illuminated yards all around them. The bishop seemed half asleep, still blessing on both sides even though he was well past where the congregation had gathered. Behind him trailed half a dozen other assorted clerics, with the whole mass chanting in Latin. There was an inevitability to the fact that when the man with the cross approached the door he turned right, in our direction. Flight was not an option. I was now at the point where wild horses could not have dragged me off Agustina and from the muffled noises she was emitting I sensed she was the same. Tearing my gaze from the procession I renewed my efforts with a desperate urgency. I shut my eyes and lost myself in the pleasure of the flesh.

‘Oh God!’ Maybe there is something in the risk of discovery after all, for I have rarely known a convulsion of pleasure like it. I had called out in English without thinking and opened my eyes just in time to see the bishop’s procession pass by ten yards in front of me. The man with the cross and the altar boy with the incense burner had apparently passed by without noticing us, lost in their own chanting and religious devotion. The bishop, though, had heard my appeal to a higher power. Still looking half asleep he turned and with his hand made the sign of the cross in my direction while muttering a blessing. The young altar boys holding the candles, with sharper eyes and hearing, had also heard me and while their vision must have been affected by the lights in front of their faces, they stared into the darkness with an intense curiosity. Agustina’s body shuddered deliciously against me, and I saw her raise her head and emit another deep groan of pleasure that had the two ladies in the congregation look across again with what I thought were looks of naked envy.

There was still a dim darkness around us, but now I guessed that the light blue silk of Agustina’s dress could be seen like a cloth cloud in the darkness of the church. Clearly the candle bearing boy on our side just in front of the bishop had the best eyesight as now he stopped in his tracks, his jaw gaping in astonishment. He may have seen me standing behind Agustina, or her breasts as she half rose from the folds of her dress. The boy must have guessed what had been happening for he allowed his candle to droop as the oblivious bishop walked past, his vestments trailing over the flame. The candle holder behind blundered into his colleague and with some heated whispering they resumed their stations, neither seeming to notice a wisp of smoke coming from the bishop’s robe. Agustina and I stood frozen as the rest of the procession went past. I had half expected her to call out something to make sure we were discovered but she just stood there, pressed into me and breathing heavily.

For a moment I had thought we would get away with it, but then came the last priest in the procession. It was our old friend. Even though the candles had moved their arc of illumination further down the church, he stared intently into the darkness around us and I saw him stiffen as he seemed to recognise us. ‘Bastard,’ Agustina whispered, I thought loud enough for him to hear. He stopped and a look of fury crossed his face. I thought he was going to march towards us and throw us out of the church but he reluctantly glanced back to the procession. This was returning slowly to the altar with one of the candle bearing boys now discreetly trying to put out the bishop’s smouldering vestments. The priest’s mouth set in a grim angry line and he resumed his ceremonial pacing down the aisle, while I sagged with relief.

‘Do you feel a sense of release?’ Agustina whispered to me quietly.

‘I did a minute or so ago.’

‘No, no that,’ she giggled. ‘Although that was good too. I mean I don’t think the church will be bothering me anymore.’

‘For what we have just done, we could probably be tortured by the Inquisition.’ I wanted to feel angry that I had been used, but I was still in that post coitus glow as we separated and adjusted our clothes. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ We moved quietly to the door we had entered through but I could see one of the monks waiting outside. I didn’t dare look back at the altar as now we were clearly visible in the candles by the door. If the priest had harboured any doubts that it was us then my distinctive red coat and Agustina’s blue dress would dispel them.

‘Come along, we can leave by the orangery,’ Agustina whispered. As we disappeared once more into the gloom on the opposite side of the church from where we had been, she explained that this huge building, the largest cathedral in Europe, had originally been a mosque built by the moors. Down one side was a courtyard with a fountain where the faithful used to wash, and it was now planted with orange trees. We emerged into the night through a side door and had nearly got to the gate when another figure stepped out to block our way. It was the second monk, but as he raised his arms to stop us a voice called out from behind.

‘Let them be!’ shouted the priest. I turned and he was striding towards us from the door we had just used, and while it was too dark to see his features his voice was cracking in anger. ‘You are a whore and a disgrace to the church and to Spain. I swear by all that is holy that I will see you ruined. And as for you sir, your general will hear of this. I will tell him that you are an abomination to the Catholic church.’

‘You are very kind,’ I murmured, and smiled at him serenely. There was so little respect for the Spanish amongst the British then that the threat held little danger. British soldiers, even the Anglican officers, did not understand or trust Catholicism. As I had not been caught in the act, if the church did try to spread damaging stories about me most would probably assume that I had been successful in tempting a nun out of a convent.

Chapter 18

The sour news of the withdrawal from the battlefield of Talavera spread through Seville during the morning after the victory celebrations. It left many of those enthusiastic party goers with a bitter taste in their mouth to go with their sore heads. The news was all several weeks old and having been suppressed for a few days, the facts were coming out in the wrong order or being misunderstood. It seemed that Cuesta had wanted the combined allied army to take on Soult on the northern shore of the Tagus, but Wellesley had refused. He was not fighting a battle with a river at his back, heavily outnumbered and with unreliable allies. The British therefore pulled back over the river and effectively forced the Spanish to do the same. Some hot heads thus blamed the British for the ignominious withdrawal. Furious complaints sent by the British about their abandoned wounded got little support. Wiser heads however were starting to realise that this would be a long war, even with the British help.

Various regional junta representatives were summoned to discuss strategy, with many believing that pitched battles between standing armies would not succeed, while the French veterans outnumbered any combined allied army. They pressed instead for more support to the guerrilla forces that harried the French supply lines. The guerrillas were particularly effective in the winter when the French had to disperse their armies to live off the land, and the mountain retreats of the irregulars became dangerous to all those who did not know their way. But in the summer the French would gather forces and attack, not only the guerrillas, but also all those they suspected of supporting them. Little quarter was given on either side.

To a soldier, the guerrilla conflict seemed a vicious war within a wider campaign with many of the fighters originally thieves and brigands or those escaping conscription. But to the Spanish, the guerrillas were at least holding their own against the French, which was more than their army was achieving. Their tactics forced the French to divert thousands of troops from the front line to protect their rear. Agustina was certainly still determined to join them. I discovered this when she asked if the blue silk dress belonged to her. When I told her it did, she asked if I would mind if she sold it. Apparently the dress maker had offered to buy it back and even a fraction of the princely sum it had cost me would get Agustina the horse, weapons and supplies she needed.

So ten days after we first met, Boney and I walked with Agustina to the northern edge of city to see her off. Even dressed in a man’s clothes she was a striking figure. She was confident that she could deal with any unwanted attention, but I was not sure that the knife she had hidden up her sleeve would be much use if she had more than one brigand to deal with.

‘Don’t worry,’ she told me. ‘I have been living with soldiers since I was fifteen. I know how to get men to do what I want.’ Given how she had tricked me into helping her break with the church I could not deny that, but she still looked very vulnerable as she rode away down the road. I thought I would never see her again but I was wrong, for she did know how to manage men. While I had saved her from the church, she saved me two years later from something far worse.

Once Agustina had disappeared beyond a bend in the road Boney and I turned back for the centre of Seville, for I had discovered that I had relatives in town to meet. The gathering of the regional juntas had included the Marquis of Astorga, head of the Junta of Granada and the man who, according to Cuesta, had married my cousin. The marquis had his own small palace in town and now that Agustina had gone I planned to appeal to my cousin’s hospitality, and move from my room in the Jewish Quarter to something a little grander. I was certainly in no rush to return to the British army, which according to the latest rumours was shadowing the French as the armies moved along both banks of the Tagus. Somewhere comfortable and many miles from the danger seemed just the place for Flashy.

The palace, when we found it, looked quite nondescript from the outside, just a solid wooden gate in a plain high wall. But I knew that these things were normally built around a central courtyard that could not be seen from the street. The gate was open and some men were unloading some crates from a cart. While there was a guard, he took no notice of me in my British uniform as I stepped inside with Boney in tow. Once in the courtyard I could see that, like all of the best buildings in Seville, the palace had been built in Moorish times. There was a fountain in the centre and an arcaded walkway around each of the three stories to join up the rooms and provide shade. A man who looked like a gardener approached us, but when I explained we were here to see the marquesa he just grinned like a village idiot and strolled off to what looked like a potting shed in the corner. Opposite the gate a broad staircase led the way up to what seemed the grandest floor where I guessed the main reception rooms would be. I decided to climb the stairs to find some major domo who could announce me to my cousin. We entered a vestibule which, with its high ceiling and cold tiled floor and walls, seemed refreshingly cool after the heat outside. Those Moors certainly knew how to build for the climate, but there was still no one to be seen inside. I did not want to roam around the house uninvited so we stepped into one of the reception rooms to wait for a servant to appear. I found a comfortable chair while Boney stretched himself out in the corner, laying his belly on a stretch of the cold marble floor not covered by ornate Arab rugs.

‘What are you doing in my house?’ The voice recalled me from a snooze, my last night with Agustina having been very draining. Opening my eyes I saw a dwarf in the middle of the room. He was clearly one of those favoured servants kept to amuse the marquis, for he was fitted out in a soldier’s uniform, a general’s from the frogging and braid. Half of his chest was covered in medals and glittering orders that would have been a magpie’s delight. He even had a little sword about the size of a bread knife. I laughed at his appearance which seemed to annoy him, as he puffed himself up with bulging little eyes like an outraged owl. The last dwarf I had seen was a three breasted female one in a travelling show back in London. We had paid a shilling each to view her, and she had been taller than the one in front of me. Hartington had paid an extra shilling to feel her tits and had claimed that the middle one was a false bladder.

‘Run along and find your mistress,’ I told him. ‘Give her my compliments and tell her that her cousin from England has come to visit.’ Instead of obeying my instruction the little fellow went red in the face and stamped his foot.

‘How dare you speak to me like that in my own house,’ he piped. ‘Get out at once.’

I sighed in exasperation. Finding dwarfs and fitting them out as generals might amuse the marquis, perhaps they pretended he was a general and gave him some soldiers to order about, but clearly this little chap had forgotten his station. Spoiling servants is all very well, but it doesn’t do to let them get above themselves. ‘Now look here, my lad,’ I told him sternly as I got up and walked towards him. ‘You go and find your mistress and be quick smart about it.’ I reached forward, grabbed him by the shoulder, turned him around and pushed him back towards the door. He wobbled forward two or three steps but he was still babbling indignantly. So to show him who was boss I helped him on his way by swinging my boot into his arse, which sent him sprawling. But instead of running off to get his mistress, the little squirt had the nerve to turn around and draw his little sword.

‘By the saints you will pay for that,’ he squeaked, while waving the blade threateningly at my kneecaps. I was just about to fend off the little pest with a nearby chair when I saw that Boney was taking charge of the situation. He had been resting near the door and the dwarf had not noticed the dog when he had walked in to challenge me. I had seen Boney sit up and stare curiously at our little visitor when he arrived. But now as the dwarf was advancing on me with his sword the great hound silently paced up behind him. I’ll swear there was a grin on his canine features as he approached. He bent his head down to be close the dwarf’s neck and issued a low and very menacing growl. I almost felt sorry for the pint sized generalissimo, for a wolfhound the size of a horse would be a terrifying prospect. He whirled round, gave a scream of fright and took two steps backwards before falling over a footstool. I stood over him with my boot trapping his little sword and Boney leaned down to sniff him.

‘I would get up if I were you,’ I told him grinning. ‘I have seen him catch and eat things bigger than you.’ He scrambled to his feet and with a venomous backwards glance hurtled out though the door without saying another word. ‘And don’t forget to tell your mistress that her cousin is here,’ I shouted after him.

I went back to lounge in my chair and Boney returned to a cool stretch of marble floor. I think we were both feeling well pleased with ourselves and confidently expected that my cousin would appear shortly. You can imagine our irritation when the dwarf reappeared, only this time he had two full sized soldiers with him, armed with muskets.

‘Shoot that dog and then throw that knave onto the streets,’ he shouted, now waving two handed a full sized sword that was the same length as him. The men looked like they were set to obey as well, one hefting his musket to his shoulder while Boney wisely took cover behind a settee.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I exclaimed in exasperation, as the little man had clearly taken leave of his senses. But their weapons were real and it would not do to be shot on the orders of the little squirt. I needed to take a firm hand, so I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my own pistol. Cocking it I pointed it at the dwarf. ‘If either of your men comes anywhere near me or my dog I will shoot your damn fool head off.’ The men stopped moving and the dwarf looked at me with narrowed eyes, but before he could react there was another voice from behind me.

‘What on earth is going on here?’ I turned my head and was so shocked I damn near pulled the trigger and shot the little bastard. A woman was coming through another doorway followed by a maid and the village idiot gardener, who had clearly gone to fetch her after all. While I had never seen the woman before, her face was one I knew almost as well as my own. My mother had died when I was ten, just before I was sent to school. Memories of her now were hazy but I had often stared at the portrait of her in my father’s study. The woman now in front of me was the living likeness of that portrait.

For a moment I could not speak at all, I just must have gaped at her in wonder. ‘I am your cousin,’ I eventually managed to blurt out.

‘My cousin?’ she queried. ‘I think I know most of my cousins, and I do not know you.’

‘Hah!’ shouted the dwarf triumphantly.

‘My mother was your Aunt Maria Luisa, she married an Englishman called Flashman, and I am Thomas Flashman. You look just like her portrait.’

Now it was her turn to be shocked. ‘By the saints, you
are
my cousin then. I never met Aunt Maria but I am named after her. Is she still alive?’

‘I’m sorry no. She died fifteen years ago…’

‘Never mind that,’ interrupted the dwarf. ‘This villain and his dog attacked me.’

‘Damn it, you little pipsqueak,’ I roared at him, furious that he dared intrude in his mistress’ conversation with me. ‘Hold your damn tongue or I’ll…’

‘Please, please,’ shouted the marquesa
,
walking between us and holding up her hands. Instead of giving the upstart the thrashing he richly deserved she spoke placatingly to him. ‘I am sure that Thomas did not mean to cause offence.’ As I goggled in astonishment she turned to me. ‘Thomas, perhaps you did not realise that this is my husband, the Marquis of Astorga.’

‘Your husband?’ I gasped. ‘But he is a damned dw…’

‘He is the Marquis of Astorga and leader of the Junta of Granada.’ My cousin cut me off with a rising voice to drown out any further insult I could deliver. She gave me a warning glare before adding, ‘I am sure you would not want to cause further offence to the marquis.’ For a second or two I could not believe it, and then I remembered Cuesta’s amusement when he had told me about my cousin. He had made a comment about the marquis not being too big for his boots and suddenly I knew it was true.

‘Well, ’pon my soul, no, of course I had no idea,’ I blustered. I mean, what do you say when you have just discovered that you have booted your marquis cousin by marriage up the arse in his own house and held a pistol on him. ‘I do truly apologise, sir,’ I added lamely, ‘on behalf of myself and my dog.’

The eyes of the marquis narrowed at the mention of Boney and he glanced round to where the hound sat watching proceedings from behind the settee. I got the distinct impression that the marquis was not the forgiving sort, but Maria swept forward and with her back to me she proposed to him that we must stay with them and join them for dinner. The initial reaction of the marquis to that suggestion was to resume his constipated owl posture, but I suspect that Maria also mouthed something to him that I could not see, for he suddenly deflated and gave her a cunning lustful look. God knows what she promised him – I never want to find out – but it worked, for that afternoon we were installed in very comfortable rooms in the palace and invited to dine.