Waiting to enter Óbidos

Crushed apple and cheese was the last thing Padstowe wanted - he'd rather move straight onto the meat - and to delay he looked up at the child questioningly. He did not remember her from before.

"Who is this?"

Stephen nodded. "Very well, Marta, thank you for telling me." He looked at the face Sharpe had indicated earlier - a young, clear one emerged from the general blur when he squinted. "Rifleman Perkins? If we are to stay here for a few hours longer, we will move him to the bed upstairs."

He looked back to Padstowe. "Drink the apple, now. She is a child in the village here, the daughter of the apothecary. Her name is Marta."

He smiled at Marta, seeming as the child looked very unsettled by all that was going on.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, my dear," he said in Portuguese.

He looked warily at the apple again.

"Can I not have something else?"

Alarmed at the address, Marta hid behind the man in green and began to cry. "I not - touch sir, no! I am sad, sir, sad for the arm of sir, and... sleep!" Her limited English failed her, and she ran inside, shamefaced.

Padstowe blinked, somewhat amazed at the girl's reaction.

"What did I say?"

"I do not know. I suspect you scared her. She prodded you in the shoulder while you were sleeping, and, understandably, I grant, you roared at her. I hope she will return soon though - she is a kind creature, and helpful."

He then glared at Padstowe. "And no, you must eat the apple. After that, you will eat the cheese until we can get some meat." He turned to Perkins. "We will move him soon. First, can you find me some stew - thick, with lumps of meat in it?" Stephen handed him a coin from the paper roll. "They cannot ask for more than this."

Padstowe pulled a face, yet had no choice but to submit as the cold, slimey substance was poured down his throat. He nearly gagged, doing his best to swallow it down and grimacing as he did so. Why it had to be this he did not know. He now felt sicker than ever...

Sharpe saw Perkins' eyes widen and hid a grin. Of course they wouldn't ask for more than that... that was enough money to provide all here with three square meals for the next two days.

"Go on, Perkins. And mind you bring the doctor his change back,"

Perkins swallowed, flushed red, saluted (probably to be on the safe side with so many others about) and left.

"Just have a bit, Jon, and we'll see about getting you summat proper to eat soon," he said, coaxingly. He was not good with sick people, and this had gone beyond being a simple injury as far as Sharpe could see.

"Good. Eat another. If you do not show improvement, I will ask for another mugful to be made up - it is more effective concentrated." Stephen handed him the plate of cheese and apples. "Rifleman Perkins is finding you some meat stew now. Once you have had that, we will move you up to the bed, and then you will sleep until Lieutenant Sharpe wants us to leave." He looked at his patient sharply. "Are you feeling any better?"

Padstowe really was not, and blanched at the threat thedoctor made of another mugful of the stuff.

"Apple disagrees with me, sir," he said weakly.

"Well, your coherency is returning, thank the Dear." He checked the bandage, still speaking. "Dry; the operation did work then... Do not throw it up, if you can bear it - apple works well in cases of desanguination. We are lucky to have some, thanks to Marta." He took pity on the captain. "Very well, you can leave the other, for the moment. Can you eat the cheese?"

"I will try, sir," the captain said humbly. Anything to get out of that second cup!

[OOC: Night everybody. Hope you all sleep well... when you do, whatever times zone you're in. *hugs*]

The apothecary had returned from giving directions to Perkins ("The widow Martins, across from the tailor") and offered the sugar to Stephen. "Will these men carry him inside, now? And will you, Senhor, return inside? You too must rest, must rest."

Stephen nodded, and put the plate down within an arm's reach of Padstowe. Now that the crisis, as he perceived it, was over, he was once again feeling the effects of his own injuries. "Eat this, and if you cannot stay awake until Rifleman Perkins returns, I will wake you." He looked over Padstowe and smiled at Sharpe. "All is well, Lieutenant, do not worry. He will soon start to feel better, with the food and sleep."

He looked up to the apothecary, who had just returned. "I thank you, sir; it is most kind of you to assist us. I am fine myself - I have rested plenty this afternoon - we will move him inside shortly."

[OOC: *is giggling like mad at Padstowe suddenly calling Stephen 'sir'* Good night! See you soon! ]

(OOC: Well, I'm for bed... see you tomorrow, hopefully!)

[OOC: Goodnight! See you tomorrow! ]

There was a clamour of activity downstairs, as someone came bursting into the house. Calderón hurriedly shut the bedchamber door and crossed to the window that overlooked the front of the house, fearing that they'd been discovered. It was growing dark but there was still light enough to see. What he observed was not what he'd feared, though worrying in its own respect. What was that lot doing?

He wanted to go down and see firsthand what was happening, but he could not leave the room. He'd promised to guard the papers and that took priority over all else. With luck, they would be ready to leave the village and begin the journey to Lisbon soon. To delay increased the chances of discovery and capture. Grimacing, the scout turned away from the window and padded back across the room. He was too impatient to sit.

A child entered the room, not noticing him as she wiped her nose on her sleeve and fussed over the bedclothes.

The door gave a slight creak as it was pushed open and Calderón started, reaching for his knife out of sheer reflex.

"¿Quién es?" He demanded in Spanish as he turned sharply around, keeping the short-bladed knife concealed in his sleeve. Whoever dared to come in this particular room had better have a good reason for it.

She gave a startled squeak at the sound of his voice and dropped the bloodstained linens. She had not seen him before.

He quirked an eyebrow just slightly when the girl jumped and dropped the bed-sheet. She was vaguely familiar but, by virtue of her being in the bedchamber, he was disinclined to view her as a friendly face. At least for the moment.

"What do you do here?" He asked, this time in Portuguese. Suspicion such as his might seem excessive but it helped keep him alive.

She blinked at the strange man, startled by his unexpected appearance, or apparition, in the padre's house, but he was after all only the most recent in a group of many strangers on a strange day.

"I am cleaning the bed clothes. The wounded man is going to sleep here. The man with the shoulder wound." And recovering her composure, "Why, what do you do here?"

Calderón felt himself frown. The red-coat was being brought upstairs to sleep? What the devil... they were supposed to be getting ready to travel. This was insane, madness! Staying one day was risk enough, never mind two!

"I wish to remain out of sight of those men below," he answered carefully, striving to keep his temper from overtaking his good sense. Esteban would not have agreed to this, he was sure. It was too dangerous. "The small one, el médico, where has he gone?"

"He is downstairs. He is hurt and sick too," she added defensively, but as defense against what, she did not know. She had a proprietary feeling towards these men, her patients as it were. And sick too - she must hurry to clean the basin.

Well of course Esteban was hurt and sick. A muscle in his jaw twinged. This wasn't good. If he had not promised to guard the papers, he would be outside in an instant, making his protests known. Esteban knew that remaining here was to give the French more time to close the distance and lay traps to ensare them. What was he thinking?

"Yes, yes fine," he said curtly, glancing down at the girl. Whatever tasks she wished to complete, she was free to carry on with them.