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‘Alex! That cannot all be from that cut—where else are you hurt?’
‘I’m not. It was the other man.’
Hebe opened her mouth, then shut it rapidly. The man had been a Frenchman, an enemy. If Alex had let him go, then he would have raised a hue and cry after them and they would both be dead.
She took the shirt gingerly and shook it out. ‘Give me the knife.’ With care she managed to cut a long, clean strip off from the back. ‘Take that shirt off.’ Alex shrugged it off with a resigned expression, which turned into one of comical apprehension as Hebe cut off another piece of cloth, soaked it liberally in the strong spirit and applied it to the cut.
‘Damn it, woman, that hurts!’
‘Please do not use that language sir,’ Hebe said calmly, bandaging up the cut with a firm hand, giving herself no opportunity to think about the feel of his skin under her fingers, or of how closely they touched as she reached around him to catch the end of the bandage. ‘There, you can put your shirt on again.’
‘Thank you.’ He eyed her balefully. ‘You are a very managing young lady. I had no idea.’
‘No such thing,’ she retorted cheerfully. ‘Your welfare is essential to my survival; naturally I must take care of you.’
Major Beresford did not rise to the provocation, merely checking inside the hut to make sure they had left nothing, then tossing Hebe up into the saddle. ‘If you wrap the blanket around you like this, and pull it over your head like so, you will not look out of place from a distance. I must steal you some clothes as soon as possible.’
‘And another mule?’ she asked as they set off along the beach.
‘Not unless I find one away from a settlement. A valuable animal gone missing is likely to result in a search party, whereas a petticoat here and a shawl there might go unnoticed for a while.’
The long day passed without more than half a dozen alarms as they gave the town of Argelès a wide berth. From time to time they saw riders on the horizon, or passed men working in the fields who raised curious heads to stare at the strangers. Alex called greetings in the local patois, or waved a hand, and no one seemed unduly curious.
He left her with the mule hidden in a grove on the outskirts of the village of Sorède, and returned after an hour with a loaf of bread, some cheese, a pair of poorly made small leather shoes and a petticoat, all wrapped up in a worn woollen shawl.
Hebe, who had been trying to keep herself from worrying while he was gone by staring at the tumbled mass of mountains ahead of them, emerged from behind the bush where she had scrambled into the petticoat and asked, ‘Where are we spending the night?’
Alex nodded towards the apparently impenetrable wall in front of them. ‘Up there.’
Hebe gasped. ‘But we can’t get over there! Surely we will go around the coast road?’
‘Ideal if you want to get caught,’ he responded briefly. ‘Another five miles by a mule track will take us into the foothills: I have a hut there I use. Tomorrow we can start to climb.’
Now they were clear of habitation he unslung the gun, checked it and began to walk with it held in one hand, the mule’s halter rope in the other. The apparently casual walk he had been using all day changed and he began to walk briskly with long, swinging strides. After a while he began to jog, then dropped back into the walk again. The mule trotted obediently after him on its neat hooves.
They crested a rise and he stopped to check the area, glancing up at Hebe. ‘Are you all right? That isn’t much of a saddle.’
His voice sounded a little strained. Hebe wondered if he was breathless and, more to make him stay standing there than for any other reason, said, ‘I have never seen soldiers march like that.’
‘Learned it from the Rifles,’ he said. ‘Looks sloppy, covers the ground like nothing else.’
No, he wasn’t breathless, but his voice was rough and, as Hebe leaned forward from the saddle, she thought his face looked pale in the evening light. ‘Alex, are you feeling all right? Is it that knife wound?’
He began to walk again. ‘I’m perfectly all right.’
They continued in silence for another half-hour, the narrow track becoming steadily steeper, the light ebbing. Alex paused again at a sharp bend, listening, and Hebe suddenly leaned forward and laid her palm on his forehead. ‘You are burning up! Alex, you have a fever.’
‘It is nothing.’ Now she could hear the rasp in his breathing plainly. Surely it could not be that wound already?
Hebe began to swing her leg over the saddle. ‘Let me walk, you ride.’
‘No.’ He jerked the bridle, forcing her to sit back. ‘It is a marsh fever. It comes back occasionally if I become very cold or wet. If I march I’ll stay focused on what I’m doing, the rhythm keeps me going. Once I get on that damn mule I’ll start getting sleepy, and you don’t know the way.’
Hebe forced herself to keep quiet. She had to trust him to do what was best. Surely Alex didn’t have the sort of stiff-necked pride that would force him to walk on if that was not the best thing in the circumstances? But Hebe’s resolution to keep quiet was soon stretched to the limit.
Chapter Eleven
The climb seemed endless. The slope was too steep now to jog any more, but Alex did not stop. He was not keeping to the Riflemen’s easy-going slouch, but increasingly marching like a disciplined trooper. Hebe could only suppose it was his way of keeping going, banishing all thought in the hypnotic task of putting one foot in front of the other.
