A Prospect of Vengeance

losing the American colonies was no great loss — no one minds losing them. But losing Bordeaux, where the wine comes from — that really was the most rotten luck. Because it's much too good for the French, he says.' She giggled again.

'And he said all that to a French couple and an American couple we met at the Parador at Ciudad Rodrigo — honestly, I thought Mummy was going to kill him . . . But that was later on. Because from Chastillon we came over the Pass of Roncesvalles — where Roland was killed . . . that was super . . . And then down the other side, to a lovely old Parador, in a medieval hospital — that was so he could show us the battlefield at Najera, where the English longbowmen dummy2

wiped out that Spanish-and-French army in five minutes —

like machine-gunners, Father said — wow!'

Suddenly, Jenny understood: this poor child had been holidaying for nearly a fortnight now, with her overwhelming father and disapproving mother, between whom she hadn't got a word in edgeways. But now she'd met a sympathetic English-speaking stranger, so the floodgates of pent-up speech had burst, just as they had done with the Spanish waiters.

'But this isn't a medieval battlefield surely, Miss Audley?' Ian intruded suddenly with the same silly question which he had put to her.

'Oh no — ' Cathy Audley fielded the statement almost joyfully. 'But we did the medieval battles the first week, you see — and Mummy's having a week in Paris, for shopping, on the way back — ' the grin twisted. ' — and so am I ... Father's going back to work and we are going shopping, Mummy and I!'

So 'Mummy' wasn't so stupid, thought Jenny: Audley himself paid for his idiosyncrasies — and quite properly, too!

'The middle week's the Peninsular War,' Cathy Audley concentrated on Ian. 'We've just come from Ciudad Rodrigo: another super old Parador . . . except Father hated the food there — ' She cocked her head at him suddenly, almost shyly, yet unchildlike. 'Are you staying at the Salamanca Parador, Mr — Mr Robinson?'

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Ian nodded, matching her shyness. 'We just checked in this morning, Miss Audley.' Then he blinked. 'The Peninsular War?'

'Yes.' Nod. 'We stormed Ciudad Rodrigo in 1812. And my father ... he wanted to see where 'Black Bob' Crauford was killed — and where they buried him in the ditch there ... I mean, he used to flog them, and hang them, but they loved him, my father says . . . He's a great admirer of General Crauford.' Cathy Audley nodded seriously. 'He wanted me to see Badajoz too, where our army did a lot of raping-and-pillaging. But Mummy said we didn't have enough time for that.'

'Why the Peninsular War?' Ian, when a 'why ' eluded him, was as persistent as any child, regardless of raping and pillaging.

'Oh, not the whole of the war.' The child accepted his curiosity as quite natural. 'It went on for years and years, you know. But my father is only interested in 1812. And really he's only interested in here, because Salamanca is our special battlefield, Mr Robinson: my father has been talking about coming here for ages and ages.' She blushed slightly. This is a sort of reward for my A-levels — ' The blush combined with a grin ' — this . . . and Paris.'

A-level exam results were a blow below the belt: she had waited herself for them, through endless days a dozen years ago, to find out whether she had been accepted by the dummy2

university of her choice, and it had been Philly who had been there, waiting for her at the last, as she'd scraped through by the skin of her teeth, with champagne ready for congratulation or commiseration! Philly, oh Philly — damn them all!

'So . . . you passed then?' Now it was her turn to grit her teeth and concentrate on the matter in hand, all sweetness and light, (it had been mid-August then, a month ago now; so, to travel safely from Parador to Parador, Audley must have booked ahead, planning this holiday-reward; so that meant he hadn't prudently removed himself from the country, to avoid awkward questions after Philly's body had been found — ? Or had it been just luck, and not just confidence in his clever daughter?)

'What's so special about Salamanca, Miss Audley?' Ian, having decided to be involved, was even more single- minded in seeking answers to questions which were bugging him —

quite oblivious of the child's awkward modesty about her results (straight bloody A-grades, with distinctions in the special papers, the clever little beast? But she mustn't let her sour grapes betray her smile!).

'Oh yes!' The child seized on the question eagerly again: it saved her from immodesty, for a guess; but also (if she was normal) she properly preferred men to women now, for another guess. 'My great-great-great-grandfather was killed here, you see. In 1812, at Salamanca, Mr — ' she floundered dummy2

momentarily.

''Ian',' Jenny supplied the Christian name tartly. 'He answers to 'Ian', Cathy. But . . . your great-great . . .

grandfather was killed . . . here?'

'Oh?' The child blinked at her for another moment. But then her years increased again as she measured Jenny up, and took in her slightly battered condition to even up the reckoning. And then turned back to Ian coolly. 'Not actually here, I mean.' She smiled at Ian and then swung on her heel and pointed away past the rocky headland of the Greater Arapile towards the distant ridge behind it, on which a long line of scrubby trees marked the skyline. 'That's where the British cavalry charged. And my great-great-great-grandfather was in the charge: he charged right through two whole French divisions . . . before he was killed, right at the end. So this is our special family battlefield, do you see?'

Wow! thought Jenny: Ian had wanted an answer to his 'why'