Under guard in Lisbon

"No, no," said Stephen, putting his head between his knees as he sat on the bed. "I shall sit." He was furious, furious at himself, and feeling humiliated. One damn knock to the head.

I was right, Raoul thought. I meant it as a joke, but it is true. This man is the enemy of my country. I should hate him. I should do anything to stop him. But he could not summon up hatred for the man sitting shaking with his head between his knees. Only concern.

He brought the water over, and stood holding it, until Maturin wanted it.

"Sorry. I am sorry." Stephen felt miserable, drained of his earlier defiance and even mischievousness. "You do not need to stay, you should go to your men - I will not move for an hour." He looked up and gave a pitiful smile. "A real hour. You do not need to wait. But it... it was appreciated, Capitaine."

"Drink." Raoul proffered the cup. "And lie down."

He looked down at the doctor. He would not want to be watched as he tried to gather his strength. So Raoul patted his shoulder and turned away. He would sit outside, alert in case he was needed.

"Thank you." He sipped the water, swallowed, and then put the cup on the floor. He lifted his right leg onto the bed and lay down, pulling the left up as des Sablières went to the door. "Go and look after your men, Capitaine. I will stay put."

"I shall. And you will rest." Raoul closed the door behind him. The guard watched him, with residual suspicion.

Stephen lay back in the bed, confused. There was the Capitaine des Sablières, sent to capture or kill him, and retrieve Prideaux's papers. There was the Bonapartist des Sablières, stupid and blindly loyal. There was the coward des Sablières who had stood back and let two innocent men be tortured and murdered.

There was the anguished boy des Sablières who had talked to him because he felt there was no where else he could turn. There was the Frenchman des Sablières who could kill him with a word, and who sometimes looked as though he might want to. There was the young man des Sablières, idealistic, noble and honourable, who was only just beginning to learn that duty was not always compatible with honour.

Then there was the des Sablières who cared about nothing more than the well-being of his men. There was the des Sablières who Stephen had not wanted to see die. And there was Raoul des Sablières, who was looking after him as kindly as Killick or Bonden or even Jack might.

He turned onto his side, his head aching.

Raoul folded the piece of paper and tucked it away. "I shall see that it is sent, Aucoin. It will probably reach them long before any news of our capture. They will simply be glad to know that you are safe." He had written a letter for Aucoin to his parents, in Troyes. It had been a simple letter - Aucoin's parents, like himself, were unable to read, but would take the letter to someone who could - Aucoin thought they would be interested to learn he had been wounded, but would not otherwise concern themselves with how it had happened. They had borne the enlistment of their sons with stoicism, and would not expect to see or hear from them again until the war was ended. Corbeille, who had been raised in Toulon by a woman he called his grandmother, had grinned at his Captain's offer. "Who cares, but David and you? The old woman died ten years ago - god rest her soul. And every other soul."

And Thierry - Thierry had never mentioned family or any life before he had joined the Hussars.

Stephen watched the shadows growing long on the ceiling, the walls warming, and his unease increased, even when he forced the question of des Sablières out of his head. He knew that the Medical Corps will already have begun their march, but Hogan would not yet leave for a few hours yet, sorting out the final arrangements in Headquarters. He would still be able to reach him in time, ad discuss their options. He wondered where Padstowe was - where he had been the night before, more relevantly. If the papers were not safe...

He tossed onto his side, the feeling of confinement directly increasing with his worry. An hour must have passed - he would get up and find Whiting.

Whiting finished bandaging the gunner's leg and left instructions with the orderly for him to be taken to a ward. Broken limbs, stabbings and ordinary assaults - there had been more than usual, and although only the most serious were brought out to the hospital at Belem, the surgeon thought he would be glad when the last of the army left Lisbon. Then they could start preparing for their real task of treating battle injuries, not those from riot and drunken brawling.

Maturin - he should look on Maturin. The physician had finally settled, after a period of fractiousness that might be due to the blow on the head, or might be normal behaviour. He opened the door to the room quietly, in case the doctor was sleeping.

Stephen looked over when he heard the door open, and sat up. "Mr Whiting; good afternoon," he said carefully. He had not seen the surgeon since he had seen fit to steal his shoes from him, and Stephen had in a momentary lapse cast one or two aspersions on the man's fitness to practice medicine, his care of his patients, and his need for control. As well as on his intelligence, personality and physical appearance.

Whiting felt almost hopeful. At least the greeting had been polite, not phrased in terms of abuse which he had attributed them to mental confusion resulting from the concussion. Had that not been the case, and if he had been a man of violence, he might have demanded satisfaction.

"Dr Maturin, how are you feeling?"

"Much better, sir, I thank you - I believe I may be able to attempt walking without great risk of syncope." He spoke meekly, fidgeting as little as he could.

Whiting smiled in acceptance of Maturin's more amenable attitude. "Let me look at you." Colour was much better and if his eyes could not be termed bright, they met his with no trace of confusion, just a touch of impatience, held back by will-power.

"Then you shall attempt it - but I recommend that you do not leave here until you are sure. I understand that there is a mule you can borrow from our guard company. Or rather, that there will be one available fairly soon. It is used to bring provisions to the Tower. So, you may see how you feel with a little walk - perhaps you would care to sit in the courtyard - we allow walking patients to go there, before they are discharged."

"I will ride back to Lisbon as soon as your mule is available, and I thank you for the loan of it. I will, if it is permitted, pay a final visit to my French Captain's men - they are now your patients, of course, but I feel a lingering responsibility and even affection for them." He smiled diffidently. "If I might ask that my shoes be returned to me?"

Whiting nodded. "Of course - you must feel free to offer any advice. I would welcome it. And your shoes," he smiled with some embarrassment, "I will bring them back to you at once. I regretted the necessity..."

He left and returned almost immediately carrying a pair of shoes. "Here you are. Now, would you like me to help you..."

"No, I am quite sure you were right," Stephen lied through gritted teeth. "Just a moment to slip them on - ah, thank you." He stood up, and gave a wobbly smile. "Where are they? I have not been outside the room since I was brought in." Not for lack of trying, he thought. "I do not know where we are placed within the Torre."

Whiting chuckled. "They are just a few steps away - these smaller rooms are along the outside wall, while your French patients are in one of the inner rooms - although the walls are so thick that security is not an issue here." He led Maturin back into the corridor. "We use the smaller ones where privacy or isolation is desirable. Or for officers, if we are not over-busy." Some closed doors, and another standing open on an empty room. "Here you are."

"Thank you, sir, I am most obliged," Stephen said, with a genuine smile. He stepped through into the wardroom, and was pleased to see Aucoin, Corbeille, des Sablières and Thierry, still asleep but looking well, considering the morning's operation

Raoul had been enjoying one of Corbeille's long elaborate stories, this one about the sergeant from one of the other troops and a cow that refused to be milked, when the door opened. The doctor came in, looking much happier than when he had last seen him. Corbeille finished "and he won't even look at a cheese!" and Raoul was still chuckling as he greeted Maturin. "You see, doctor, all it needed was some peace and quiet."

"Well, I am glad that you got it then, Capitaine," Stephen said with a mischievous grin. "Good afternoon, Corbeille, Aucoin - I hope you are well?"

Aucoin nodded shyly. He was very well, he was sorry for all the fuss, and was pleased to see that the doctor was recovered. He then blushed and lapsed into silence.

"You have nothing to apologise for, Aucoin." Stephen slowly made his way over to the boy. "Let me see your head, my dear, bend forward into the light - a nasty looking bruise, upon my word. Any confusion at all? Any light-headedness?"

Aucoin tried to squint up at the doctor. "Confusion? Well, it was a bit of a shock - I mean, I didn't expect it, he was ... But not confused, not like that. I felt giddy, just at first, but that was the surprise, like I said. And the bump. That hurts."

Stephen patted Aucoin's shoulder, touched by the boy's innocent shock at Moreau's betrayal. "Of course not. The bump will hurt for a little while, but there is no great damage, thank God. Just do not go knocking it again!" He smiled. "Would you mind if I perched on the end of your bed for a moment, Aucoin?"