The Iberian Flame

Chapter 28

The next morning, arrayed as befitted an audience with Don Francisco Solano, Marques del Socorro, royal governor of Cadiz, they waited on the august being.

Solano made an impressive figure, his uniform elaborate and extravagant, but his features were austere, unsmiling, and his elaborately pointed beard spoke of a Spain of glorious centuries past. He was polite but firm to Renzi. ‘Excelentisimo, I’m honoured beyond measure, but find it most irregular.’

Dolores translated faithfully, her hands together and head bowed in respect to them both. Don Pedro had been neatly ushered outside after the initial introductions.

‘Sir, I wished only to pay my respects in person to the Spanish Crown, which I hold in the highest regard.’

‘Nevertheless, is it not strange that a noble at your station finds it necessary to make pilgrimage at this precise time?’ Solano asked quietly. The level gaze was too calm and intelligent to be comfortable.

‘Alas, sir, I return to one who lies mortally ill, he who entrusted me with the charge. I pray I’m in time to tell of its accomplishing.’

‘This is an age of tumult and rivalry. Nations struggle and contend. I wish you well for the future, Conde.’

Renzi took a breath. He was being dismissed – it was now or never.

‘Thank you. I return to an England equally pressed by a disorderly world. But as a grandee of that country I find myself with command of the ear of the highest. If there is something you feel might be accomplished by my intercession, then do be open with me, sir.’

‘You will wish to talk of a conjoined front against the French.’

Renzi fought down his elation. ‘I’m sanguine this is not impossible,’ he allowed neutrally.

Solano made a dismissive gesture.

‘Sir?’

‘The French are here, you are in your island fortress. Who then shall we offend?’ There was no faulting the logic.

‘But-’

‘Besides which, as you will grant, this requires a cessation in the state of war that exists between us.’

Renzi bowed without comment.

‘And a declaration of hostilities by Spain against the French, both of which are unthinkable.’

‘Sir, I cannot see-’

‘For the simple reason that it is His Majesty alone who can set seal to such. And he is at the moment in Bayonne, guest of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, not free to act as he chooses.’

A gate had just slammed resoundingly shut.

The man, whatever his convictions, was moderate and reasonable. Yet his hands were securely tied and there was nothing he could do except carry out the orders of his royal master, who, very shortly, would be Joseph, the brother of Bonaparte.

Renzi felt a deep sympathy for what this honourable and rational man was facing. ‘I understand, sir. And wish you well for your own future.’

Solano saw him to the door.

The evening was drawing in. As the warm breeze died, the streets and passageways started to fill with noisy, shouting streams of humanity, some jostling rudely, others with bottles in their hands.

Pedro pushed to the front and drew his rapier. ‘Out of my way, you pox-faced villains!’ he bellowed, challenging to left and right.

The crowd drew back but its mood darkened and ugly shouts pierced the hubbub.

Pedro scornfully stood his ground. ‘Any who wants to be skewered on my fine Toledo steel, come to me, mi pequeno cordero!’

Renzi noted, with more than a little alarm, that not only were they massing in numbers but many carried weapons – bludgeons, kitchen knives, rusty swords.

‘Who’s your French friend, then?’ a fat, sly-looking shopkeeper cat-called.

Pedro wheeled on him. ‘Watch your tongue, oaf, or I’ll cut it out and feed it to the dogs!’

The cry was taken up, ‘Frances, frances, frances!’

One closer yelled, ‘Let’s scrag the bastards!’

The crowd closed in.

Renzi faced them with a furious glare. ‘?Guerra al cuchillo! Mueran los Franceses traidores!’ he blazed.

Coming as it did from an unquestionable well-born, those nearest fell back, astonished, then delighted.

Standing defiantly with his arms folded, Renzi glared at them until, as quickly as it had come, the dangerous mood of the mob ebbed and was replaced by joyful rejoinders as each caballero strove to outdo another in violent and colourful curses on the French.

As they hurried on, Pedro sheathed his rapier and, with a suspicious glance at Renzi, thrust through to their residence.

Inside, he rounded on Renzi. ‘So you know Spanish, Englishman. What are you, a spy?’

Renzi smiled and looked helplessly at Dolores.

‘He wants to know if you are a spy. Are you?’

‘A spy? I think not. “?Guerra al cuchillo!” I heard day and night every damned hour from the crowds outside when locked indoors in Madrid. How can I not remember the words? Pray tell me, what does it mean?’

She looked at him, hesitating, thoughtful. Then said gaily, ‘It means, “War to the knife – death to the French traitors!” so, you see, it was the right thing to say!’

The realisation of how close he’d come to being exposed shook Renzi. Until now he’d been safe: the crackling passport document he kept next to his breast his sure protection, proof of his innocence on a certified pilgrimage. It protected not just him but Dolores and others who were giving him shelter as a displaced pilgrim.

But it also specified rules of conduct and one was that he would leave Spain the way he’d come – in a cartel ship from the port of Cartagena.

To him it would be far preferable to take a British man-o’-war back to England but if it was thought he was communicating with the enemy offshore it could be for one purpose only: to spy for opportunities while Spain was suffering her present travails.

That left a journey through a dismembered corpse of a country across all southern Spain to Cartagena, with French troops ransacking it an abominable prospect.

Goaded by news arriving from Madrid of betrayals and executions a visceral hatred was building for the French. There would be more scenes of barbarity, like those he’d seen in the capital, when Murat’s forces had fanned out to the further provinces.