4th August, early morning; All is not well

"It's Enrique," he replied, bewildered by this sudden apparent warmth. "I am certain she is, but unfortunately I cannot stay so long as to enjoy it. I have duties elsewhere. At the hospital." More being the pity.

~



"I was thinking," Bright said with deliberate slowness, "that somebody in this sad little group ought to find out what was going on, and considering that I'm the only one who can go outside anything like safely..."

Even with those two Riflemen around. Though God only knew where they'd disappeared to.

"You just went outside?  On your own?"

What a perfect idiot. "No. I caught a ride on a mule with Odysseus leading it."

"Well I thought the English soldiers had took you!" Charcot snapped.

"And how is that my problem?"

"You could've at least told us!"

Downstairs, Manuela hung her head and Doña Castillo clucked her tongue at the young officer.  "Drink your coffee at least.  You're going to the hospital?  Are you injured too, poor Señor Enrique?"

"That's enough! Both of you," Paol cut in sharply, then turned to Bright, his voice tight and over-controlled. "What did you find out?"

"Only lightly, Señora. I remained behind to look after my men," Henry replied with an admirable attempt at gallantry.

~



Bright rolled his eyes. "The Spanish are leaving. I saw 'em loading up their baggage carts. The whole lot are withdrawing."

"They ain't leaving any kind of a garrison?"

"Are the English leaving too?  The rest of 'em?  Is that where the two grasshoppers went?"

"I don't know. What does it matter if they are? The bulk of 'em are goin'." Bright shrugged. "I didn't ask after the British, but there weren't redcoats in any number out there at all."

Paol dropped his gaze, his eyes scanning blindly back and forth across the floor. If the Spanish were withdrawing -- completely withdrawing -- that changed everything. Without the regulars to reinforce their authority, whatever English soldiers remained would be on close to equal footing with the French prisoners, though that same absence meant there'd then be not even a veneer of order between the prisoners and any vengeful citizens. Not so equal then. Unless... Paol looked up suddenly. "What about prisoners? Were there any French prisoners out there? Being rounded up, like?"

Charcot's heart had a hot surge of dread.  "Oh merde."

The officer's face coloured, just noticeably. "Yes, Señora." He found himself suddenly keen to leave but was not willing to be rude.

~



"I don't know. There weren't any out that I could see." Though he hadn't been interested in finding out anything about his fellow prisoners.

The old woman watched to see the officer finish his coffee, and then she rose to lead him to the door.  "Don't forget!  Come as often as you like.  Say goodbye to the officer, Manuela."

The girl smiled shyly and uttered a quiet farewell.

"They must not be moving us, then. At least not the wounded," Paol said, more for Charcot's benefit than anything else. All that seemed to be certain was that some number of the Spanish were leaving. Everything else was still on the table.

"So the officer downstairs - has he come to guard us, or take us away, or is he looking for those green jackets, or for Bright?  Or maybe he's taking their place, and he's-"  He stopped abruptly and held up a hand.  Was that the sound of the front door?  "Listen!  He's leaving!  Or is someone else coming?  Look out the window!"

"I will try, Señora," Henry promised, though he was all too aware that the likelihood of this happening was very small. He sketched a partial bow to the two women before crossing back through the door into the already-strong morning sun.

~



"If they decide to, we'll know." Privately, Bright thought this unlikely but didn't bother to say so. Neither did he make any move to get up, never mind go near the window, when Charcot spoke up. If it was that British officer leaving, the last thing they needed was for the bugger to see Bright in the window.

He made a noise that could have been a snort. "Why don't you look instead?"

Charcot cursed him colorfully.

Ignoring both of them, Paol moved over to the window. The street below was empty except for a handful of Spanish soldiers, then a redcoated figure stepped into view. Paol watched him for a long moment and then stepped back from the window.
 
"He's gone," he said, sinking down on the edge of Charcot's bed. That didn't make any sense. Or maybe it did. Maybe he was going to fetch some more men. Or maybe the visit had nothing to do with Bright. He dropped his head into his hand. His face felt warm, but it was summer, in Spain; that was normal.

"So he's gone then. And we're not."

Still gripping his coffee cup, Charcot tucked his knees against his chest, his mind spinning.  "What's gonna happen now?"

Paol's shoulders sagged the barest bit, then he straightened up. "Nothing," he said, regarding Charcot carefully,  "Looks like we stay here for now."