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say so, senhor,” the servant repeated, wondering why the English officer

called him Horatio when his name was Luis, but he thought it was probably better not to ask.

Luis had been a barber in Lisbon where he had sometimes cut the hair of men from the British

embassy and it had been those men who had recommended him as a reliable servant to

Christopher who paid him good wages in real gold, English gold, and if the English were mad

and got names wrong they still made the best coinage in the world, which meant that Colonel

Christopher could call Luis whatever he wanted so long as he went on paying him thick

guineas embossed with the figure of Saint George slaying the dragon.
    Christopher was looking for any sign of a French pursuit, but his telescope was small, old

and had a scratched lens and he could see very little better with it than without it. He was

meaning to buy another, but he never had the opportunity. He collapsed the glass, put it

in his saddle pouch and took out a fresh toothpick that he thrust between his teeth.

“Onwards,” he said brusquely, and he led the servant through the wood, across the hill’s crest

and down to a large farmhouse. It was plain that Christopher knew the route well for he did not

hesitate on the way, nor was he apprehensive as he curbed his horse beside the farm gate.

“Stables are in there,” he told Luis, pointing to an archway, “kitchen is beyond the blue

door and the folks here are expecting us. We’ll spend the night here.”
    “Not at Vila Real de Zedes, senhor?” Luis asked. “I heard you say we would look for Miss

Savage?”
    “Your English is getting too good if it lets you eavesdrop,” Christopher said sourly.

“Tomorrow, Luis; we shall look for Miss Savage tomorrow.” Christopher slid out of the

saddle and threw the reins to Luis. “Cool the horses, unsaddle them, find me something to

eat and bring it to my room. One of the servants will let you know where I am.”
    Luis walked the two horses to cool them down, then stabled, watered and fed them.

Afterward he went to the kitchen where a cook and two maids showed no surprise at his

arrival. Luis had become accustomed to being taken to some remote village or house where

his master was known, but he had never been to this farmhouse before. He would have felt

happier if Christopher had retreated across the river, but the farm was well hidden in the

hills and it was possible the French would never come here. The servants told Luis that the

house and lands belonged to a Lisbon merchant who had instructed them to do all they could

to accommodate Colonel Christopher’s wishes. “He’s been here often then?” Luis asked.
    The cook giggled. “He used to come with his woman.”
    That explained why Luis had not been brought here before and he wondered who the woman

was. “He wants food now,” Luis said. “What woman?”
    “The pretty widow,” the cook said, then sighed. “But we have not seen her in a month. A

pity. He should have married her.” She had a chickpea soup on the stove and she ladled some

into a bowl, cut some cold mutton and put it on a tray with the soup, red wine and a small loaf

of newly baked bread. “Tell the Colonel the meal will be ready for his guest this

afternoon.”
    His guest?” Luis asked, bemused.
    “One guest for dinner, he told us. Now hurry! Don’t let that soup get cold. You go up the

stairs and turn right.”
    Luis carried the tray upstairs. It was a fine house, well built and handsome, with some

ancient paintings on the walls. He found the door to his master’s bedroom ajar and

Christopher must have heard the footsteps for he called out that Luis should come in without

knocking. “Put the food by the window,” he ordered.
    Christopher had changed his clothes and now, instead of wearing the black breeches, black

boots and red tailcoat of an English officer, he was in sky-blue breeches that had black