Waiting to enter Óbidos

She wiped her eyes (which were still a bit tearful) and sullenly cleared the room as quickly as she could. A last glance at the unnerving stranger and she rushed away. Someone else could return the clean basin.

The apothecary was moving off, muttering at Stephen's stubbornness - so that is where Marta had learnt it - while the physician watched Padstowe eat the cheese like a hawk. He was feeling the delay keenly, a dark, heavy weight in his stomach, for he knew that Prideaux's clerk would by now have had time to alert more than the Óbidos town-guard, but he could not move Padstowe until he was even a little recovered, not considering those long minutes of non-response.

The girl hastily cleaned up the room and was gone. Calderón regretted his brusque tone but there was no making amends for it now. Sighing in a much-put-upon way, the scout glanced again out the window. The green-jackets were still down there and so were the others. His irritation was not forgotten and, setting his jaw, he decided to go down and make his misgivings public.

Calderón gathered up the papers and wrapped them carefully in the ruin that was Esteban's shirt. He tucked the bundle into his own shirt - the bagginess of the garment would help conceal it - and went downstairs. This senseless dallying was going to be explained.

Hearing an increase in volume of the murmurings of Sharpe's men, Stephen looked up from his patient to see Calderón striding towards him, with a face like thunder. The green-jackets moved aside as he strode towards the group around the recumbent Pasdtowe, glaring at the scout in his wake.

"¿Cuándo van a ir ustedes?" His first question, spoken in a sharp, annoyed tone, was more rhetorical than not. By the state of the group around Esteban and the red-coat, no true preparations for leaving had been made. Dios mio this mission had turned into a wild mess.

Roundly ignoring the green-jackets, Calderón strove to moderate his voice and temper. He did not want a loud disagreement if he could avoid one. "We cannot linger here," he said in a lower voice, but still in Spanish. With villagers close by, he didn't dare to use Portuguese; likewise for English, as the green-jackets were near as well. "They will have gotten the word about Prideaux and his papers by now. Search patrols will be all over the country."


Translation: ¿Cuándo van a ir ustedes? - When are you-all going to go?

"I know that, José, but when we woke the captain he did not respond coherently for several minutes. He must have some food, and even an hour's rest will do him good." Stephen felt the same concern as Calderón, and so responded patiently, despite his splitting headache.

He looked down at the red-coat, though the growing darkness effectively hid any tell-tale sign of illness. Calderón could understand the need for eat but certainly it was not so difficult to give a man food?

"Hasn't he had all day to rest?" Honestly, it was all so simple, at least to him. It wasn't easy to sleep while injured, he knew that, but a full day without rest was unfathomable. "Certainly he can eat while he rides, yes?"

"The loss of blood means that his circulation is weak, thus the lack of coherent response - oh, Captain Padstowe, there is a thought - please give me your hand -", pinching the nail again, "a little over three seconds, already a sign of recovery", and back into Castilian, "it is better for him to have an hour's sleep here than to faint a mile down the road and require two."

As much as he disliked to admit it just then, Esteban had a point. Calderón was still displeased and wished, for himself, to be travelling. He had seen to it that word went out amongst the wandering peddlars that a group of British soldiers would be out on the road heading towards Lisbon, which meant there would be peasants and peddlars alike watching out for them. There was no better protection for a small group than a band of peddlars hoping to buy, barter, or steal whatever piece of kit they could.

The delay in leaving, of course, meant that they could miss those groups and the unwitting escort they would provide. Calderón felt a sigh bubble up but swallowed it. He despised the notion of travelling with these green-jackets during the day, but waiting until the next night was unacceptable. "Dawn," he said reluctantly. "If not now, then dawn."

"If it were up to me, it would be before even then. I will discuss this with Lieutenant Sharpe, and ask the captain how he is feeling after some stew and an hour's sleep - the papers! You didn't leave the papers?"

"Of course not." What a ridiculous question. He knew these papers were worth more than his life, why would he leave them lying carelessly about, unguarded?

Stephen nodded - he heard the irritation in Calderón's voice at the question, but with the pain in his leg and his head, the panic after the episode with Padstowe, and the constant worry of the French and the papers, he could not bring himself to care overmuch.

Esteban's wordless nod did not do much to put him at ease. The entire lot of them seemed content to wait until the red-coat was fit to move, but Calderón was not. The French could stir up the entire country-side if it suited them and he knew they would not look kindly upon this village for helping conceal British soldiers.

He would have to take a chance. Calderón glanced at the green-jackets, considering their usefulness. Their uniforms were not the typical British rig but could still attract unwanted attention. If he were to go ahead of them, he could escape notice more easily. The scout fingered the hilt of his sheathed knife, frowning thoughtfully. It had been awhile since he had been to Lisbon but if his memory served, there was a company of dragoons quartered a couple of miles outside of the city. As long as he could reach them, he would be safe.

"I think, perhaps, it may be best if we part company here rather than farther along the road," he began, carefully choosing his words. "The French are more likely to take an interest in a band of British soldiers than a lone peasant. Even at night." The hint in his tone was subtle and he hoped Esteban would catch on.


OOC - I had another idea. A better one, I hope...

Stephen stared at Calderón for a long moment and then he pulled himself to his feet. "Over here." Calderón helped him limp to a few yards away from the rest of the men. "And the British soldiers? Or the Portuguese? I know what you are offering, José, and I thank you, but they will still be safer with more, even if they are British soliders, than one man alone. If anything were to happen to you, arrested for trespass or some minor charge, the whole operation would be for naught. Even if we are captured, there is more chance of at least one man getting away with the papers - for every man travelling with them, that is another chance to see them safely to Lisbon."

Really. He could travel this country blindfolded, what was there to worry over? Good luck to the French capturing him. Shrugging, Calderón scratched at the stubble on his chin. They were Esteban's papers, not his, so whatever he chose was final. The risk was not half as serious to him as it clearly was to Esteban. So be it.

"As you wish," he said. "Here, I ought to leave your old shirt." So saying, he untucked the bottom tail of his shirt and pulled the tattered linen in which was wrapped the papers. "You should keep closer watch on your belongings, you know."

"They will go directly to Wellesley, and I will happily admit that I know very little of your duties, but he will not expect you with these. I wish to sort them before we give them to him also - there are some things in here that even Wellesley should not see. Thank you, though, my friend, for offering."

He accepted the papers, holding them close to his bare chest. "I was too busy watching Prideaux to worry about the shirt, José." He stopped; he realised that they had never told Calderón precisely what had happened in the study.

"Ah." Considering how the study had looked when he'd come dashing up the stairs, it was little wonder. Calderón found it difficult to be troubled by a Frenchman's death, even one as important as Prideaux, and so was just as content to know the man had died. Details often got one into trouble.

"Wellesley will be expecting you, naturally." He inclined his head, just slightly. "There will be a guard of dragoons to guide you into Lisbon, once you reach the city. The Scots Greys I think. They'll see you right."

Stephen bowed his head in return. Now that it was coming to it, he felt reluctant for his friend to leave. He chalked the feeling down to his head wound, and reprimanded himself for his weakness. The sooner Calderón left now, the safer he would be. "Thank you for everything you have done for us, mi amigo. I will light a candle that I see you safe in Lisbon."

Now that he was about to shake off his idleness, he felt his humour returning a little. "I believe I shall see you long before you know," Calderón said. "But time will lay all plain, yes? Be kind to those who appear on the road with you, for they will be your friends."

And he would be amongst them, if hidden. He did not look toward the green-jackets as he turned and padded away. It was better that they should not see him go. The darkness, at least, helped with that.

Stephen smiled. "Very well; I will be glad of it. Que no hayan novedades." He watched as Calderón disappeared into the darkness, and then hobbled back to sit with Padstowe, dropping to the ground with a soft sigh.

[OOC: Re: calling Stephen 'sir'. He'd call him Your Majesty if he thought it might placate Stephen enough to get him to stop being so forcefully doctorish!]

More coherent Padstowe might be, but he still was at a loss as to what was happening, and half-hearing Calderón's protests and farewells he was even more at a loss.

"Esteban," he said, dropping back into Castillian. "Would you kindly tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Calderón will leave us here. He will be safer on his own, but I believe he intends to shadow us along the way. He says that we should be kind the peddlers, if they travel along with us, and dragoons will be waiting for us outside of Lisbon - the Scot's Greys." He looked up as Perkins hurried over to them with a steaming bowl in his hand. "That was quick; thank you." He carefully handed the bowl to Padstowe.

It seemed to be some kind of stew, though what meat it was he could not rightly tell by looking at it. Could be beef. Or goat. Or horse. Padstowe looked back up to the doctor.

"Do you have a spoon?"

Stephen looked amused. English sensibilities, even in this situation. "I am afraid that I do not, though I have a lancet you could use to spear the meat, if it is too hot for your fingers, and then you could drink the broth." He offered the captain the lancet. "Oh, a moment." He wiped it with the cloth of the clean shirt Marta had given him, and then held it out with a smile.

Padstowe stared at the offered lancet and blinked. Only a few hours beforehand that thing had been inside his body, covered in his own blood, and no matter how much the doctor wiped it he could not bring himself to use it. Thankfully he was saved that moment by Perkins, who had rooted through his pack and brougt out a spoon.

"You can use mine, sir."

Padstowe smiled gratefully at the boy.

"Thank you, Perkins."

Before scooping up a lump of meat, blowing on it to cool it before putting in his mouth and chewing consideringly. He was in luck; it was beef.