02 - Keane's Challenge (30 page)

The next question was, how could they get inside?

‘That it, then, sir?’

‘What did I tell you?’

‘Sorry. How are we going to get in?’

‘Bold as brass. Shoulders back. That’s how we get in. Bluff and balls.’

Keane had Gilpin take the cart round to the rear of the headquarters, and sure enough there they found a service entrance, an archway in seven-foot-high walls enclosing a courtyard. The place was alive with servants, scrubbing, washing, cleaning and attending to a dozen other duties. As luck would have it, a fruit supplier had just made a delivery and was pushing his handcart away from the archway as they rolled up.

Keane jumped down and ran through the arch across to the man he had just seen take delivery. ‘Excuse me, señor.’

The man turned and Keane could see he was not a local. He was elegantly dressed in a green coat with gold trim and white breeches. ‘Yes. Can I help you?’ He spoke with a distinct French accent.

‘We have a delivery, your honour.’ It was always better to flatter them with an inflated title, thought Keane.

‘A delivery. Do we know about this?’

‘Not sure, your honour. Bit of a surprise, you might say.’

‘What is it you have?’

‘Wine. For the marshal. From Madrid.

‘From Madrid? How do you come from Madrid?’

‘The wine is a gift from King Joseph, the emperor’s own brother. We have travelled far, sir.’

‘Indeed you have. And you are… exactly?’

‘My name is Alfonso Jesus Maria Dominguez, wine merchant of Madrid. This is my assistant, Manuel Ibanez.’

While they had been talking, Gilpin had driven the cart through the archway and stopped beside Keane. The steward looked them both up and down and Keane kept his nerve as he walked round to the back of the cart. The steward had seen the boxes and the one which had been opened.

‘You have an open box here.’

‘Yes, sir. The guard at the gate.’

The steward reached in and picked out one of the bottles. He handled it gently and looked at it carefully, the label, the seal, with the eye of a man who knew what it was he was examining.

‘This is the good stuff. Very nice. The marshal is a lucky man. And not for the first time. You may proceed, Dominguez. Take it to the kitchens. The large door on the left of the courtyard. I will tell the marshal’s valet to expect you. Take one bottle and go alone.’

Keane remounted the cart and they drove on through the arch and stopped outside the kitchen door. He turned to Gilpin. ‘You’ll have to wait down here while I see him. Wish me luck.’

They entered the kitchen and unloaded the wine under the direction of another servant. As they finished, a French officer appeared at the doorway leading from the kitchens to the rest of the house. His moustache, plaited side whiskers and pigtail identified him as a hussar.

‘Which one of you is Dominguez?’

Keane walked over to him. ‘I am Alfonso Dominguez.’

‘You’re to come with me. And bring one of those bottles.’

Keane followed the officer into the house and along an empty corridor to a staircase. They ascended two floors and emerged into another corridor, hung with tapestries, at the end of which were two tall doors. The officer knocked and a voice from within called to enter.

Massena was standing with his back to them, gazing out of the window at the town below.

‘So tragic. Such destruction. So unnecessary.’ He turned and saw Keane. ‘Who’s this?’

The officer spoke. ‘This man has come from Madrid with wine. A gift from the emperor’s brother.’

‘Ah, yes. The wine merchant.’

Turning to Keane, the Marshal spoke in Spanish, fluent but with a southern French twang. ‘Show me what you have.’

Keane walked across to him. Massena was less imposing than he had expected. He was of medium height with a shock of greying dark brown hair and a tanned complexion. Most noticeably, his right eye was sightless and remained fixed in one position. He wore the uniform of a marshal of France, with its lavish gold embroidery and decorations and a scarlet sash.

Massena took the bottle from Keane and held it up close to his one good eye, reading the label. ‘This is very fine wine.’

‘Only the best for your honour, sir.’ Keane hoped that his own Spanish would pass with the Frenchman.

Massena lowered the bottle and stared at Keane, looking at him carefully. ‘Well, this is most welcome. Welcome indeed. It was a long way for you to travel, was it not?’

‘Your honour, I have other business here. It was in fact most timely.’

‘Other business?’

‘My brother lives here but we have heard nothing of him. He works as a servant. I am worried. I heard about the big explosion and we have seen the damage. It is terrible. Horrible.’

‘Yes, terrible. You say your brother is a servant. Who for?’

Keane looked down. ‘He was a servant for the British, sir.’

Massena raised an eyebrow. ‘Really, the British? And are you also a servant of the British, Dominguez?’

Keane froze. Had Massena seen through his disguise so easily? Could this be the end? Quickly he scanned the room for a means of escape but could see none. They were two storeys up and the windows were bolted. There was an armed hussar officer by the door and all that Keane had was a dagger in his boot. There was no hope. He blundered on. ‘Oh no, Your Majesty. I hate the British. That is my problem. Me and my brother, we have not spoken for a long time and now I fear I may not see him again.’

‘You hate the British?’

Keane nodded. ‘Oh yes, sir. They have ruined our country with this war. You are the future, sir. You, France, the Empire, that is the modern world. My brother is stuck in the old ways. In the Church and all the saints. I do not believe in this. I am a man of commerce. I buy, I sell. The world continues and money grows. That is the way we must be. That is the French way. The French can bring prosperity – there has to be pain with every revolution.’ He stopped and then thought he might as well say what was in his mind. ‘
Vive l’empereur
.’

Massena on hearing the words raised his hand in the air and repeated them. ‘
Vive l’empereur
. It is good to see someone so enlightened. I insist that you join me for a drink. Did you know my own father was a wine seller?’

‘No, sir, and thank you. What a great honour.’

Massena signalled to the hussar, who motioned to the valet
to bring glasses and a bottle. Keane noted that it was not the wine that he had brought, that was far too special, but one already in a carafe.

Playing his advantage, Keane went on. ‘It may amuse you to know, Your Highness, that this wine, this very vintage, is in fact the same wine that my brother had asked for the British governor here, and I know that the Duke of Wellington himself has drunk it.’

Massena laughed. ‘Wellington’s wine, eh? That’s good. That’s damned good. Here, have a glass with me, wine merchant.’

Again Keane could not help but wonder whether the marshal had seen through his disguise, but he put the thought aside.

The marshal seemed intrigued. Keane supposed that he might be wondering that a man should travel from Madrid with no escort, carrying wine that his servant might have taken, just to deliver it to Massena and with the purpose of finding a brother who might be dead. Perhaps, he thought, the story had touched him.

It seemed clear too that what amused him more than anything was the fact that Dominguez’s brother had worked for the English and the revelation that the Duke of Wellington himself had drunk the same wine. Suddenly a light came into the marshal’s eyes.

‘You say you hate the British. That you admire French ways and the way of the emperor?’

‘Oh yes, your honour. I am a Frenchman through and through.’

‘Then I have a proposition for you. Will you work for me?’

‘With pleasure. But how? What should I do? I know nothing of the court or of wars.’

‘No, not here. I need someone who can be my eyes and ears. I have need of a spy.’

Keane stifled a smile. ‘A spy? But I am no spy, sir.’

Massena looked hard at him. ‘You are a man. A businessman, you say. Well, I have a proposition. I will pay you to spy for me. You can get into Wellington’s camp with your wine, can you not?’

‘Perhaps, sir, but it was really my brother who—’

Massena cut him short. ‘No buts. You can do it, can’t you?’

‘Yes, sir… although, my business needs me.’

Massena laughed. ‘Your business? If you provide us with good information, my friend, we shall pay you handsomely. You will not lack funds. So. What do you know of the British?’

Keane was warming to his role. ‘Of course, I travel around. The guerrillas do not stop me. They know me. But they don’t know the real Alfonso Dominguez. I know where the British are going and what they are doing.’

‘Tell me.’

‘They are retreating all the way back.’

‘Which way? Which way are they going?’

‘They are going by the south, but the guerrillas say they are building great blocks to stop an army. They are planning for the guerrillas to ambush you on that road. The way to the south. They do not think you will come from the north. That road is too rocky. It’s not good.’

Massena smiled. It was as he had thought. The signals from the spy had been right. ‘Dominguez, have some more wine. You are most interesting company.’

He raised his glass. ‘To a bright future and to the Empire.’

Keane raised his glass. ‘The Empire.’

Massena spoke again. ‘Wellington is breaking the mills and burning crops. Is the town of Viseu big enough to supply an army?’

‘Quite big enough, sir, and the British have not cleared that way yet. My cousin who lives there says it is the only place not emptied by the British.’

Massena nodded. It was decided.

‘This has been most useful. I have enjoyed our chat. Why don’t you stay here for the night. Go to the kitchens and you will be given some food and can then enjoy the town. Cavalet here will give you something for your trouble. For carrying the wine and for the information you have given me. I will see you again in the morning, Dominguez. And we will talk more. I need information from the British and I believe that you are the man to provide me with it. You will be my spy.’

Keane rose and bowed low. Massena got up and walked with him to the door, which was opened by the hussar. ‘Until tomorrow, Dominguez. You have been most helpful.’

Keane nodded. ‘Thank you, your honour.’

He was about to leave, following the hussar, when Massena grabbed him by the shoulder and he felt the strength of the grip. The marshal spoke in a half-whisper, almost spitting the words. ‘Do what I ask of you, Dominguez, and I will make you a rich man. Betray me and I will cut out your heart before your own eyes.’

It was said with such icy coldness that Keane knew it was in deadly earnest.

Outside, in the corridor, the hussar officer opened his sabretache and taking out some coins gave them to Keane with a smile before going back into Massena’s rooms.

Keane opened his palm and counted. Sixteen silver livres. He whistled, as Dominguez might have done and walked away from the marshal’s quarters, elated and terrified. He was amazed at what he had achieved. He had spoken to Massena, the great
hero of Essling. He had even made a deal with him. But he had one more thing yet to do.

He found Gilpin in the kitchens and the two of them passed several hours in the town, avoiding the French patrols and sticking to the smaller side streets and darkest corners of the cantinas. When it was safe to do so, Keane briefed Gilpin on his interview with Massena and before long, had devised a plan.

The kitchen was much as they had left it that morning, save for a huge pot of rice and chicken cooking slowly on the range. Gilpin introduced Keane to the cook, Maria, a homely matron who, if she did recognize their fraudulent accents, was content or intrigued enough not to give them away.

They sat at the long kitchen table and were each presented with a huge plate of rice and chicken. A carafe of wine was placed on the table and the cook sat down beside them.

‘With the compliments of the marshal himself. He must think a lot of you.’

She went off to attend to her other pans and Gilpin smiled. ‘She’s all right when you get to know her. Not bad actually. Makes a good stew.’

‘I’m not after her for her stew, Manuel. Remember.’ He called across to the cook, ‘Hey, Maria. This is delicious. Give me the recipe.’

She came over, eyelids a-flutter, flattered by Keane’s attention. ‘Señor. It is very simple. Anyone can make it.’

‘Not like you, though. My man here tells me you have a special ingredient.’

‘Oh no, sir. Nothing special.’ She sat down with them. ‘You’re making fun of me. Both of you. And here I am rushed off my feet cooking for the marshal and his lady.’

‘Yes, you must be very busy. But what an honour. Still I’m sure you manage to get some time off.’

‘Oh yes, sir, sometimes.’

‘Manuel here was wondering when you might be free, weren’t you, Manuel?’

Gilpin tried to look bashful. Keane went on. ‘When does the marshal let you rest? Is he at you all the time?’

She blushed. ‘Oh no, sir. Not all the time. He takes his dinner at three o’clock and then he has a rest. If you can call it that, as his lady’s always with him. Or didn’t you know that? Then he’s on parade and then he comes back and has his supper.’

‘How long do you have off while he’s at his parade?’

‘Oh, he’s very punctual. As you might expect. He’s out on parade every night at six. It lasts for an hour exactly and then he drinks with his officers before retiring for supper at eight.’

‘Well, Manuel, there you are, your question is answered. Maria would love you to call on her between six and seven.’

Gilpin nodded and looked across at the reddening cook.

A bell tolled five times and Keane sprang up.

‘But look, what’s the time now? It’s almost five o’clock. We’re holding you back. We’ll see you later. After eight. Once the marshal’s finished. How would that be? We could have a nice evening. Four of us, perhaps. Have you any friends?’

She smiled at him. ‘I can find you a friend.’