Under guard in Lisbon

After a few moments of carefully ignoring Maturin in the hope that he would rest, Raoul opened his eyes. Over the doctor's body - not relaxed as in sleep, but clenched tight as a fist - he watched the sunlight on the deep white-painted wall of the window. Circles of light overlapped and dappled the stonework, drifting shadows of an unseen tree. The light and shade shifted and reformed, as Raoul tried to sort through the shifting events of the day. Maturin had moved from an accuser to... someone he worried about.

Raoul's eyes closed. This time not with intent.

The pain in his head was dulling, but the silence previously filled by des Sablières' voice had been replaced by a cacophony of bells ringing, waves pounding and hissing, almost frightening in its discord. "Is that your damned hour now?" Stephen knew it wasn't - not even close - but on hearing no reply he opened his eyes.

Raoul would have sworn he had not fallen asleep, but Maturin's words fell first into a train of thought that he could no longer remember - not a dream, but a sense of time passing. He opened his eyes to meet Maturin's. "An hour?" he said foggily, his mouth dry. "I - no, and it was at least an hour. Until you are able to move without fainting."

"I am sure that must be an hour," Stephen said, lying without shame, taking full advantage of the bleariness in des Sablières' voice. "Am I not even allowed an attempt?"

Time had passed. Had he slept for an hour? It could have been His mouth was dry, with a lingering taste of blood. And Maturin looked a lot more alert - more alert than Raoul felt.

"Just take it in easy stages," he capitulated. He stood up and held onto the chair for a moment.

Stephen saw des Sablières grip the chair and deep within his belly he grinned - escape was but moments away. He lifted his legs over the side of the bed, holding onto the wall in place of his crutch, and stood.

Immediately the seering pain in his head, a black curtain descending over his eyes, and an almost overwhelming dizziness, but he endured, and when he came to he was still standing. He turned a brilliant, wickedly triumphant smile on the captain.

Raoul considered sending for Mr Whiting, but the doctor was standing, one hand on the wall, admittedly, but then Raoul himself was still resting a hand on the chair. And Maturin had the excuse of an injured leg. He looked like a man who was enjoying an personal victory - a wicket taken, a ball struck cleanly, soaring beyond the fence, an enemy defeated.

Raoul saw the crutch propped in the corner by the door, and brought it back to him. His own dizziness was passing, though there was still an emptiness somewhere in his head, waiting for thought or activity to fill it.

"Try this first," he said. "I don't know where your shoes are." He remained close, in case this was just a temporary triumph.

"We shall find the black thief, and recover them!" Stephen looked at des Sablières, half guard evaded by a successful ruse, and half potential ally. He took the crutch and a step - again the haze, the dark and the pain, but still standing. "I shall look in on Thierry and Aucoin before we leave," he said, not quite managing to squash the tone of vindicated glee.

Maturin was determined to succeed, and it seemed as if he was right - he was recovering from the blow and the faintness. If he were going back to the patients, it would delay their departure, but at least ensure that Whiting could see him, and make the judgement that Raoul was unable to make.

He crossed over and poured a cup of water, and drank from it, letting the water clear his mouth and head, though neither seemed much improved by the first draught. "Would you like some, doctor," he offered.

He did want some water, but he did not know if he could trust himself to stand that long. Well, if he could not, then Whiting would be right. "Please, yes."

He looked at des Sablières, and even his will to be free of Belem could not entirely override his physician's soul. "Are you all right yourself, Capitaine? I see that your nose has stopped its bleeding, thank the Dear."

Raoul brought a cup over to the doctor, and said, with a yawn: "Eventually. But I am used to that by now." The cut on his neck had stopped bleeding earlier, but he must have reopened it as he slept. But it would stop again, if he left it alone. "I slept just now - not enough, but sufficient to make me slow. I am now becoming more sure that it was nothing like an hour, and you should not be off your bed." He looked at Maturin and smiled. "But if you can stand, then I suppose you are right. It is not for me to stop you."

"It is not indeed, Capitaine - I am glad to hear you come to your senses, however delayed you might be. Lift up your chin now, let me see..."

"It's only a scratch," said Raoul, lifting his chin and turning his head slightly. "It will stop again if no-one... Ow!"

Stephen idly prodded at the cut. "Yes, it will heal quite nicely, as long as you do not go worrying it."

"I was not worrying it."

"Well, make sure you do not," said Stephen with a sly little smile. "Of course, if you had been wearing a neckcloth, you would have been better protected - it would have given him an extra moment's thought. What is the state of France today, that her young officers go out without neckcloths?"

"Neckcloths? An unnecessary luxury. We are not pampered aristocrats," he smiled. "Cavalrymen do not bother with such fripperies. And unless we go back to using armour, then there is always somewhere for the determined to attack." He thought that Moreau had not initially intended to cut his throat - that had been a later decision. The eyes perhaps, vulnerable to that pointed shard. But he would have slit my throat with pleasure, even knowing what would happen to him.

He shook the thought away. Maturin seemed much better. "You do not feel faint yourself," he asked.

"You are merely lazy, monsieur - all the British soldiers and sailors I have seen wear neckers as they call them of some description. Even in armour though: the hamstring very, very popular..."

He did feel faint. "Did I not tell that mumping villain Whiting that I was fully recovered over an hour ago, and you as well?"

"That was before you - had a moment's weakness," Raoul retorted, and then noticed Maturin's face. "Sit down, Sir. A few more minutes will not matter!" He offered his arm. "Come, rest on the bed. It will pass."

Stephen swatted the offered arm away. "I must find my shoes. I must get back to Lisbon."

Raoul looked at him thoughtfully. "Lisbon will survive without you for another hour or two. The British Army does not require your presence immediately. But if it did, why should I help you? Indeed, I should hinder you, delay you. And, since you will collapse again if you do not rest now, and delay your recovery - I will not prevent you." He smiled, with a touch of mischief. "So find your shoes, Doctor Maturin. I shall wait for you to be carried back in."

Stephen snarled, took a defiant step and wobbled. It took a moment or two longer for the darkness to go, and on the next step he trembled. "Impudent ungrateful swine."

Raoul blinked. "I am grateful," he said softly. "But I cannot force you to rest." He saw Maturin tremble, and moved to him, touching his arm lightly. "What would you say to someone who was so reckless with their own health?"

"I would say nothing." Stephen grabbed des Sablières' arm, a pounding in his ears. "I would have him lashed into his hammock. But I am not reckless..."

Raoul caught him as he staggered, and supported him across to the bed. "Reckless, stubborn, enfuriating..." he murmured. "Shall I fetch Mr Whiting? He may know where the rope is... Just sit until you feel better."