Waiting to enter Óbidos

Stephen raised an eyebrow - he heard what Calderón had not included in his answer. "And yourself?"

"I will go to Lisbon, but not over the same roads you will take." A slight, knowing grin quirked the corner of his mouth. "Besides, there will be travelling peddlars, rather like myself, sharing the road with you. I should not be very greatly missed."

He frowned. "You will not be travelling with us? When will you leave us?"

Calderón shook his head. "I will not travel directly with you, no; I may depart here in your company but we'll part ways a mile or two along. In this part of the country, it is risk enough for red-coats to be seen. As I have said, however, there will be peddlars on the road with you. We tend to move about in packs, you know."

"I honestly have no idea," said Padstowe. "But thinking of earlier discussion on the subject I think it unlikely. Calderón is never very comfortable with the company of soldiers."

"I do not worry about a lack of peddlars, José. Why the sudden change of plan?" Stephen was worried, but he knew the ways of an intelligence agent - there may be pressures acting on Calderón of which he did not know.

It did seem rather sudden, now he thought on it a little more. Esteban's mention of French artillery being on the move had gotten him thinking, however. He knew a fair number of men - and women - who pursued the armies in much the same manner as he, though their reasons for it were far simpler than his own. They might know better what the disposition of the French army was and he would learn from them, later. For the present, he needed to ensure the group of British returned well to Lisbon before embarking on any other errands.

"Not quite so sudden, my friend," was his answer. "I'm still going to Lisbon, but for safety's sake it will not be in close company. It is not something to worry over-much about." At least not for Calderón. He knew Esteban would worry regardless.

Stephen was confused. It was sudden enough - there had been mention of Mafra, at some point... He shook his head, his memory grey and shifting. Perhaps there were more sequelae than he had admitted to himself. "You will be safe though, though, on your route? Though you will probably be safer on your own, as a local, if I am honest."

He'd gotten his friend confused, which hadn't been his intention. Of course, the man's injured state couldn't help matters any. Calderón shrugged and replied "As safe as ever. I'd be more concerned with how well you will bear travelling by horse, with your head in the poor state it is."

Stephen glared. He had always been an impatient patient, and Calderón and Padstowe kept insisting on not answering his questions. "I will bear it fine - I have travelled in a far worse state than this. Will you keep evading my questions like this?"

He couldn't help a grin. "I have not evaded at all, but have answered honestly. No route is truly safe, especially not with the French roaming about largely as they please."

"But you will not be taking any unnecessary risks? You will not be reckless?" Stephen felt a brief glimmer of shame at his hypocrisy, but not enough to stop him looking quizzically at Calderón.

What an interesting question to ask, especially of him. "Of course not, Esteban," Calderón answered. "No more reckless than you might be."

Stephen scrutinised Calderón's face for any sign of hidden meaning in that statement, but the scout's face was too blank for him to justify asking for a clarification. Stephen knew that he was sometimes... unconcerned, to save him from using some unkinder word of his secret self, the uncaring, hopeless self that would manifest itself in times of danger, which prompted him to scale great heights and provoke duels and disregard his own life, but he felt relieved that it was something Calderón did not appear to have noticed.

Besides, Calderón was cautious if nothing else - 'paranoid' might be the word - he was projecting in his haze of thoughts. "Of course, José. I am glad of it."

Sharpe wasn't sure whether that would help or hinder his hint of an idea. He thought Calderón would probably be better off traveling by himself. As a local, he would not excite any curiosity from the French or anyone else. Unlike his party.

"What would you say to the idea that we travel with you in uniform, as escort to Wellington's chief medical officer, who has only just arrived in Portugal?" he asked slowly, teasing his idea into a more substantial form. If they couldn't throw the French off their scent by traveling secretively, then hiding them in plain sight might be better. After all, if the French were looking for anyone, they were looking for three civilians.

Padstowe chuckled to himself. Sharpe by name...

"Considering that the doctor's official status to the army is to assist the Surgeon-General," he said, smiling at Sharpe. "That would be a rather excellent explanation; a very excellent one, since when they go to check it they shall find it to be true."

Now to work out how to hide the papers...

"Would you be able to fit all those papers into your saddle bags, if you and Doctor Maturin divide them up between you?" he asked slowly. Somehow, he thought that suggesting they divvy them up between everyone in the party would sink like a rock, although that would make them less obtrusive and easier to carry.

"The day grows warmer," Calderón said. He rose from his chair and nodded toward the bed. "It would do well to rest your head before the time comes to depart from here. I will take my own respite later," he added, anticipating the inevitable comment from his friend.

"Very well - I will try for an hour or so." Even if he didn't sleep, just to lie down in a darkened room would do his head good, he suspected, for the pain had only worsened - he could try telling beads to stave off melancholy thoughts. "But I also want to talk to Padstowe about these papers, and to try walking a little on this leg." He pointed his finger at Calderón. "And don't think I won't be checking on you, to make sure you do rest! Captain Padstowe must as well - that is absolutely vital, in his condition. If you see him, would you tell him to eat and sleep? He can take the bed - I will be fine in a chair."

"We could do," Padstowe said carefully. "Though on that point I should consult with the doctor, seeming as he may have other designs for those..."

He trailed of as he yawned, then downed the last of his tea. It was grower lighter by the minute, yet he felt no more awake than he had done since arriving this morning.

Calderón inclined his head. "I'll send for him, in a while. I will be close outside the door as well and the padre is downstairs. Should you require anything..."

Stephen smiled then, genuinely. "I require everyone else to stop their fussing and look after themselves!"

Sharpe noticed the yawn. "Beg pardon for keepin' you up," he said. "But would you like to get your head down? There's plenty of room in here if you don't want to go back up there, an' I'll make sure you ain't disturbed till it's time to go."

Padstowe glared at Sharpe, somewhat like a small child that was rebelling against its nursemaid.

Sharpe looked apologetic, but only slightly. "If you don't get much sleep, you won't be fit to travel anywhere. An' you might be a Captain while I'm only a Lieutenant, but until you're rested properly, I'm in command. And I'll make it an order." He smiled, to lessen the severity of his words. "You can court-martial me later, when we're back in Lisbon, if you want, but I ain't backin' down."