A Shred of Honour by David Donachie Page A

was no need to kill him.’
    ‘Safest way, I reckon,’ Tully replied. There was no passion in his voice, nor emotion in his pig-like eyes.
    ‘Come with me. Hollick, keep that man still.’
    There wasn’t much to search. The place consisted of no more than a front parlour and a cramped backroom that doubled as a bedroom-cum-kitchen. The girl, more of a child really, was lying with her back to them curled in a ball, her naked body showing even in the grim light the marks where she’d been beaten and assaulted. Markham bent down and touched her, producing a fearful shudder which ran right through her body, accompanied by awhimpered plea to be left alone. Turning to the soldier, he saw a look in his eyes that, ranging over the slim, bruised body, spoke volumes about what touched his emotions.
    ‘Out, Tully!’ snapped Markham. ‘Help Hollick get something round that fellow to restrain him.’
    ‘What you got in mind for her?’ Tully asked, his voice rasping and low.
    ‘Protection, man,’ Markham replied, reaching for a threadbare blanket. ‘And something to cover her shame.’
    ‘She’s only a Frenchie, sir. I thought we was here to fight them.’
    Markham stood up and faced Tully. ‘The men, soldier. Not the women, and certainly not a young girl. Do as I say and get out!’
    He was again faced with that look, the attitude of a man contemplating disobedience. If Tully thought himself a dissembler he was wrong. Markham could see, in his eyes, all the thoughts that flickered through his mind. The bloodstained bayonet was still in his hand. The man who stood between him and a chance to assuage his lust would be so easy to kill. Better still, the people to blame were to hand, one with his throat already cut. There was an air of desperation about him. Weeks at sea, without even the sight of a woman, had made him very dangerous indeed.
    ‘Out,’ said Markham softly. ‘There’ll be a whorehouse in Toulon for what you’re after.’
    Tully blinked and Markham didn’t, and that was what made the difference. He took a pace backwards. ‘There’s a mule around somewhere. Find it, we’ll need it to carry the water back.’
    ‘Sir,’ said Tully softly, before spinning on his heel and striding out. As he bent to reassure the girl that she was now safe, he heard him say something to Hollick. The walls made it indistinct, but it sounded remarkably like ‘all officers are the same, right selfish bastards’. The girl’s dark brown eyes, responding to the soft words spoken inher native tongue, fixed on his face. Whatever she saw there turned her whimpers to sobs, and tears streamed down the smooth olive skin of her face. Markham covered her with the blanket, and left.
    Hollick was standing in the same place, the man still splayed on his back across the table. He opened a shutter, filling the room with light. There were flagons everywhere , some empty, others half full, and their prisoner was no longer an indistinct shape, but a formed human being. Black-haired, carefully curled, with a thin moustache , he had a narrow face with sharp features, and the kind of hooked nose that hinted at Arab or Levantine blood. His thin red lips were parted, with a fine line of dried saliva where they’d joined. He was breathing deeply , eyes shut tight, as if trying to draw moisture into his dry mouth.
    The quality of his garments became even more apparent in the light; high quality linen, fine cambric waistcoat, good, if dusty boots and breeches so tight they were like a second skin. Markham saw a green silk coat and sword belt across a chair which he assumed to belong to his prisoner. In the inside pocket of the coat he found several official-looking letters, all addressed to a Pierre-Michel Fouquert. He was about to read the first one when Tully came back from his search for the donkey, his boots ringing on the flagstoned floor.
    ‘There’s a poor sod out the back lashed to the fencing with his balls cut