Chapter 2: Julieta y Jacqueline

“Thank you for rescuing me yesterday, Julieta,” I say when it seems safe to talk to her without getting my throat slit. “That sergeant would have probably killed me if you hadn’t intervened.”

“I should be thanking you,” she replies. “The French must have captured my contact and tortured him into betraying me. But you foiled the trap they had set for me. I doubt I would be alive now if you hadn’t drawn the sergeant away from me. Anyway, if half the stories about your adventures are true, then I believe you may have got the better of him on your own. But tell me. How come a pirate wanted by the English is helping their army? And how come you are here with me and not on your ship?”

“Ah! So you’ve heard about my adventures,” I reply. “Due to unforeseen events, I’m no longer a member of the Zafiro‘s crew. And providing I don’t return to my career at sea, the English admiralty has agreed to charge me with lesser crimes than piracy if I help them win this war.”

“You’ve made a poor deal there,” muses Julieta. “I think the English are hoping the French will end your career permanently and save them the embarrassment of explaining before a judge how a slip of a girl got the better of the English navy. Besides, how can you be sure they will keep their side of the bargain?”

“Hmm. You could be right. But half the stories about me are just that ... stories. Anyway, how did you get to hear about them?”

“I didn’t have a choice. I’ve twice been arrested because some over zealous official has mistaken me for you. The last time I was only freed after I proved that I didn’t have a tattoo of a cat just above my pussy.”

I rejoin Mateo at our agreed meeting place, and endure a few tense moments while Julieta decides whether or not to trust Mateo. Fortunately she doesn’t reach for her knife, which I take to be a good sign. It is getting dark, which means we must either leave Madrid soon, or hide until morning. By now the French garrison must have been alerted to the death of their soldiers, so leaving Madrid in the morning could be problematic. Consequently we slip out of the city straight away and go to where we have hidden our horses. Fortunately we had the foresight to bring a third horse in the expectation Julieta will be with us when we leave.

We ride north into the night, stopping in some woods for a few hours to rest. We resume our journey before dawn and once it is daylight we stop at a small town well away from the main north road leading out of Madrid. Fortunately there’s no sign of a French garrison in the town but Mateo leaves us for a while to check for rumours about French troops in the area. Our plan is to wait here for a few days until any search for us has been called off. Julieta and I find an inn busy serving breakfast to several groups of men. The conversation in the room stops the second Julieta and I enter, and a dozen pairs of unfriendly eyes turn in our direction. A serving girl comes running over to us.

“This room is closed for a private meeting. Please come this way,” she says, as she bustles us through a side door. We can hear the conversation resume as soon as we are out of sight.

We are taken to a small room with only four tables, each set in an alcove with curtains to provide privacy. It is the sort of setting for intimate dining, be it between two lovers or a clandestine business meeting.

“Do you require breakfast?” asks the serving girl once Julieta and I are seated.

“Yes please, a double helping for me,” I reply, realising I haven’t eaten more than a few biscuits since breakfast yesterday. “What about you, Julieta?”

Julieta gives me a disdainful look. Clearly it is not considered ladylike in these parts to have two helpings of breakfast. But Julieta is torn between propriety and hunger. Hunger wins. She nods, not quite bringing herself to answer verbally.

“You’re strangers ‘round here,” says the big innkeeper, who has now left the men busy gorging themselves in the next room. “You got money?”

I pull out my small money bag and jingle it in front of him. In reality most of it is Portuguese coin with a few English and French copper coins as well. Not much, but enough to buy two breakfasts in Portugal ... but will it in Spain?

The innkeeper isn’t satisfied with just a view of the bag. He wants to see the coins, and he isn’t happy with what he sees. He looks to Julieta to see if she can offer anything better. She gives a winsome smile but says that she has no money on her.

“Perhaps you have not heard of the famous singing and dancing duo Julieta y Jacqueline,” says Julieta once it becomes clear the innkeeper can’t be bought with a pretty smile. “For the cost of two breakfasts ... double portions ... my sister and I shall sing and dance in your tavern tonight. We shall even go round the town this afternoon and announce our performance.”

The innkeeper is a bit hesitant at first, but when Julieta unfastens her blouse and reveals her tits, the innkeeper is sold on the idea. He runs his hands over Julieta’s tits before nodding to the serving girl. The girl scurries off to bring us breakfast.

“No tricks now, Jacqueline, nor you, Julieta. I expect you to keep your word or you’ll regret it,” says the innkeeper as he returns to the other room.

“That was well done, Julieta,” I say. “How well can you sing and dance? We’ll have to practise a routine after breakfast.”

“Oh, I can sing a few hymns and dance a bit. The waltz, sarabande ... that sort of thing. I can also play the guitar. Will that do?”

I try not to let my disappointment show. I fear our audience here will demand something more lively than a few pious hymns and a gentle waltz. But first things first, breakfast is arriving.

I’m mopping up the remnants of my breakfast with my last piece of bread when Julieta repeats her earlier question.

“Why were you in Madrid looking for me?”

“I was asked by Sir Arthur Wellesley to get you out of Madrid and make sure you reach safety. It appears that he likes to look after his spies, particularly ones who give him valuable information which help him win battles. Roliça. Vimeiro. Talavera.”

“I can look after myself,” replies Julieta as though she resents the offer of a rescue. “I only help the English because they are my country’s enemy’s enemy. The sweet and adorable Jules Legrand was my ticket to France; and with luck, into the presence of Napoleon Bonaparte himself. And then I could kill the dictator. But Jules is dead ... killed by one of his own countrymen. I have sworn a blood oath not to rest until Spain is free of the French invaders, and the torture and death of my father, mother and brother are avenged.”

Well, there’s nothing like having a mission in life, even if it is likely to make it a short one. I sense there is more to the story of her family’s death bottled up inside her which is driving her to the point of recklessness. But now is not the time to probe more deeply.

“What do you intend to do now that your Jules is dead?” I ask.

“Actually, I’ve no idea.”

“Well I’ve nothing planned at the moment. I’ve got you out of Madrid, so my mission is complete. Mateo can arrange for Sir Arthur Wellesley to be informed. I’ve no desire to place myself back into the hands of the English. Perhaps France might be a good destination. But we’ve no money and not much in the way of belongings. Perhaps we can earn enough singing and dancing to keep us going until something turns up.”

And so the soon-to-be-famous partnership of Julieta y Jacqueline is formed. Our first performance goes better than I expected. We manage to borrow a guitar, so I do a few dances and sing a few songs to Julieta’s music. I suspect most of the audience don’t understand the English words, but a catchy tune goes down well in any language. Julieta is the surprise hit though, singing a handful of patriotic ballads that find the right spot with our audience.

We repeat our routine at the same inn for a few nights before several of the men in the audience encourage us to take our act on a tour of the nearby towns and villages. Barely six weeks after we started, word of our act has spread across the entire region. As soon as we have enough money we purchase our own instruments and we each buy a flamenco dress; tight fitting, bright colours and lots of ruffles below the knee. My flamenco dancing may not be the best in the world, but there are few in the audience who don’t applaud Jacqueline de Belleville dancing with a rose in her mouth.

For the next few weeks we move from town to town, gradually heading towards the northern coast of Spain. Our audiences get bigger and more patriotic in their fervour. At first I begin to worry the French will put an end to our act and march us both off to jail. But from what Mateo tells me the whole region is alight with rebellion, and the small French garrisons rarely venture outside of their hastily prepared defences. For the moment we are relatively safe, although Mateo still keeps a watchful eye out for French soldiers.

It is the patriotic songs that seem to draw the strongest reaction from our audiences, and I learn a few myself to help Julieta out. Soon cries of “Viva Julieta, Viva Jacqueline” are regularly heard as we sing and dance. To my surprise, before long I start hearing the cry at other times as well. It is as though it has become a rallying cry for the people of region.