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for his own good, and that it would have done them all no harm at all if the officers had slept in the snow. Briefly he showed interest when asking whether Hanley was Spanish. Although tall, Hanley’s already dark complexion had tanned strongly during his years living in Spain. If the man was disappointed by the confession that Hanley was in fact English, his demeanour suggested that by habit he both expected and embraced disappointment. The man left, crossing himself absentmindedly.
    ‘Another warm welcome,’ said Pringle sourly. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I am putting up with such inconveniences to free their country.’
    ‘The Spanish doubt that they need us. They made a French army surrender at Bailen before we won in Portugal. As far as they are concerned we’re turning up late to join in as they chase the last remnants over the Pyrenees. Anyway,’ he conceded, ‘they are none too fond of soldiers, even their own.’
    ‘And me so personable! And with this pretty red cockade.’ All of the British troops marching into Spain had been ordered to add a red Spanish cockade to the black one of the House of Hanover which all wore in their hats. Pringle poured some brandy into two pewter cups which formed part of his travelling canteen. ‘So what is the news?’
    ‘Oh, I forgot.’ Hanley rummaged in his valise and produced a folded and rather battered newspaper which he tossed to his friend. Pringle saw that it was The Times . ‘It was among the effects of a French staff officer. He rode into a village near Segovia and started ordering people about in an offhand way, so they killed him. Well, as I said, the Spanish aren’t too fond of soldiers. It’s from the start of November.’
    Pringle was impressed. ‘I would guess that this is the most recent English paper anywhere in the army.’ He frowned. ‘I suspect there is a moral there somewhere.’
    ‘Most of it is about Cintra. By the sound of it your fellow has been exercising himself:
    Here folly dash’d to earth the victor’s plume ,
    For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom .
    He must have sobered up for long enough to get angry.’ They had conflicting opinions of Lord Byron’s merits as a poet.
    ‘I don’t think Wellesley was to blame,’ ventured Pringle, scanning the pages as well as he could in the poor light. Sir Arthur Wellesley had won the Battle of Vimeiro, but before the day was out had been replaced by an older, more senior general, Sir Harry Burrard. The next day an even more exalted commander had arrived in the shape of Sir Hew Dalrymple. Neither had seen much to be gained by farther attacks on the enemy, and had welcomed a French deputation which had arrived under a flag of truce. Negotiation had led to an agreement to end the hostilities. General Junot’s French army was to be returned to France in British ships and was awarded all the honours of war, keeping their guns, colours and personal possessions, including a good deal of loot. Wellesley had signed the Convention of Cintra, but it was widely held that he had been ordered to do so by his seniors and did not deserve the blame associated with it.
    ‘All the Spaniards I have met think that it was a good settlement,’ said Hanley.
    ‘Well, they weren’t the ones who had been robbed and murdered by this particular group of Frenchmen. It got the campaign over quickly, I’ll allow, but you know as well as I do that the Portuguese were none too impressed. Maria gave me hell over it.’
    ‘I dare say her mood recovered in time.’
    ‘Oh, indeed yes,’ Pringle smiled at the memory. He thought for a moment. ‘She really is extremely good at what she does.’
    ‘I know.’
    For once Pringle was startled. ‘You do? So, it seems I cannot even trust my friends.’ There was no trace of any annoyance in his voice. ‘At least Bills is too pure of heart. However, she was talking of going to visit Truscott in the hospital. Be rough if after surviving the loss of his arm he succumbed to