Brothers in Arms (31 page)

Steel and Slaughter had not gone four hundred yards when they found Major Maclean and his men hurrying towards them. Steel shouted to them across the din, ‘What’s up, sir? Are the French behind us?’

Maclean, seeing who it was, pulled up, confused. ‘No, Captain. I mean yes. Rather, I was told that they might have gone round to the north and thought to take a look.’

Steel smiled: ‘I’ve just come from there, sir, and I can tell you there’s no Frenchies up there. None whatsoever.’

‘All the same, perhaps I’ll just make certain for myself.’

Maclean began to advance. Steel said nothing but just stared at him. Then he placed his hand upon the pommel of his sword and Maclean knew instantly what was in his mind. Steel spoke again, more deliberately.

‘I swear to you, sir, there are no French to the north. And you have nothing to fear … When I left her, Lady Henrietta was quite well. Should we not return, d’you think, to the fight?’

Maclean looked at him and knew that he was beaten. Steel was right, of course. It was their duty to fight and beat the French, whatever affairs of the heart lay unanswered. For an instant he was filled with admiration for his lover’s husband, and then, almost at once, he felt belittled. He knew that it was true after all what they said about this man, that he was the very epitome of honour, a true soldier who placed his duty to his men above all else. There was only one possible course of action.

Maclean nodded at Steel. ‘We should go back, Captain Steel. Of course, we must. Come. With me. Let us give the French a bloody nose they’ll not forget, and let us pray that Marlborough comes in time to save us all.’ He paused. ‘But should we not, d’you think, send a man to check? It would be prudent.’

Steel replied, ‘Of course, sir.’ He turned to Slaughter. ‘Sar’nt, take two men and check the north of the town again. Then report back to me, at the double.’

Slaughter saluted and the three of them doubled off back up the street. Steel turned to Maclean: ‘Now, Major. Shall we go? It would not do to give the Duke all the glory.’

Simpson ran as if his very life depended on it. There was only one thought in his mind: he must at all costs prevent Steel from encountering Major Maclean. Williams had sent his mind into a spin. The major, it seemed, had left the fight muttering that he had an urgent matter to attend to, a matter of a lady’s safety. Simpson had no doubt as to his destination. What if Steel was still with his wife when Maclean arrived? He could not bear to see Steel killed by Maclean, and if it went the other way then surely Steel would face a court martial. Fate was cruel, but Malbec would have to wait.

He rounded a street corer and at last found himself outside the inn. The street was curiously empty. Simpson pushed at the door and entered. The drinkers were quieter now and there were fewer of them than there had been. He walked across to the staircase and went up, taking two at a time, to the first floor, dreading what he might find. The door at the end of the corridor was shut, and Simpson opened it. Inside, Lady Henrietta Steel was talking to her maid while a red-coated Grenadier stood by.

Simpson sighed with relief. ‘Oh, thank God.’

‘Captain Simpson? What a pleasant surprise. Are you come to guard me too? How very gallant.’

Simpson shook his head. ‘No, my lady, I am come merely to warn you. Both your husband and Major Maclean are on their way here. They must not meet.’ She began to protest her innocence, but Simpson put up his hand. ‘My lady, please. I know all. Such after all was until recently my business. Might I suggest that you come with me and avoid any confrontation?’

‘I am afraid, Captain, that you are in part too late. My husband, Captain Steel, has already paid me a visit. He is aware of my situation. Not so, however, Major Maclean who must it seems arrive forthwith. So, you see, your fears are quite unfounded. I am quite safe.’

At that moment the room shook to the sound of a single gunshot and the Grenadier, who during their conversation had been gazing lustily at Marie, fell dead to the floor, a hole through his temple, his brains spattered over the wall behind. The maid stared for a second, then passed out in a faint. Simpson and Henrietta looked in the direction of the door and saw through the drifting powder-smoke the smiling face of Claude Malbec.

The Frenchman spoke: ‘Captain Simpson, at last we meet. I am honoured to make your acquaintance, although I suspect that ours will be an all-too-fleeting friendship.’

Simpson smiled and noticed that in his left hand Malbec held a second pistol, the pair of the one with which he had killed the Grenadier. It was trained directly at his head.

‘Major Malbec. And I had thought you lost. You have simply no idea how hard I have been trying to find you. You do me a favour, sir. I am much in your debt.’

Malbec shook his head. ‘How I love your English bravado. No matter how long I know the English, I shall never understand them. At heart, though, they are still a nation of heartless sons of whores.’

‘Come come, Major. You allow your emotions to run away with you, sir. You should take care with your insults. After all, there is a lady present.’

‘You seem to forget, Captain Simpson, that I hold the only pistol and that it is currently pointing at your head.’

For the first time Henrietta spoke. ‘And you seem to forget, sir, that you have only one bullet and there are two of us.’

Malbec laughed. ‘How brave! I’m sorry to mock you, madame, but I hardly think you are a threat to me. After I dispatch the captain here I may merely slit your throat with my sword.’

Simpson said with a smile, ‘Ah, what exquisite irony! To suffer the same fate as your own dear lady.’

‘What? What are you talking about?’

Simpson reached into his pocket and Malbec cocked the trigger of the pistol.

‘No, no, Major, do not worry. I have no hidden weapons. Merely this.’ Slowly, gauging Malbec’s reaction, he brought out the emerald pendant.

Malbec gasped and very nearly dropped the pistol. Gazing at the pendant his hand trembled, and Henrietta saw her only chance. With a single swift movement she raised her hand and threw its contents, a pot of white foundation powder, straight into Malbec’s face. Half blinded, the Frenchman screamed and instinctively pulled the trigger. The shot hit Henrietta in the chest and penetrated her heart, killing her instantly. Her body slumped to the floor. Malbec dropped the pistol and rubbed at his eyes, and as he did so Simpson thrust with his sword and cut the major on his forearm, drawing blood in a long line. Malbec groaned, but, managing now to see sufficiently to draw his own weapon, quickly parried Simpson’s next and potentially lethal thrust to his groin and riposted to his adversary’s thigh. The Englishman recoiled with an oath as a trickle of blood began to flow down his breeches. Looking up, he could see the hate in Malbec’s eyes now, and in that second he knew that, as Steel had said, his swordsmanship could easily be outmatched. His only chance was in pitting wit against brute force. He came
en garde
and the two men circled each other in the small room.

Simpson took the initiative. ‘Major, come come. Shall we not settle this like gentlemen? Shall we allow ourselves a little more air?’

Malbec shrugged. ‘Why not? It makes no difference to me where you die, as long as I can make your death long and exquisitely painful.’

Simpson shivered and gradually, as if by mutual agreement, the two men edged out of the door and along the corridor until they stood at the top of the staircase. The tavern was deserted now, cleared by the shot from Malbec’s pistol.

‘Does this suit you better, Captain? Is this a good enough place to die?’

Simpson lunged. It was a competent enough move, but the French officer parried it easily, before riposting with a deep lunge. The spy stepped back and brought up his blade in what he had hoped would be a neat counterattack, but Malbec had anticipated him and extended his arm so that Simpson simply walked onto the blade, embedding it deep in his side. He gasped, wide-eyed, as Malbec withdrew it.

‘Don’t worry, Captain. That was not a lethal thrust. Nor is this.’

Before Simpson had a chance to recover, Malbec was on him again, this time aiming for his head. He cut him across the left eye, cutting into the retina and blinding it. Simpson screamed and, clasping his left hand to the bloody wound, slashed at the Frenchman. But Malbec stepped back and manoeuvred neatly, without making a hit, deciding where to make the next cut.

He’s playing with me,
thought Simpson. The pain was beginning to kick in now.
He’s killing me inch by bloody inch.
Summoning all his strength, he lunged again, but Malbec easily tipped his blade away with the lightest of touches and, extending his boot, kicked him hard in the groin so that with a yell Simpson fell backwards and went tumbling down the staircase. Malbec stood at the top for a few moments, looking down at him. Simpson could not move. He knew that something bad had happened to his leg during the fall and, quite apart from the excruciating pain in his eye and that in his side, that something was very wrong.

Malbec began to descend the staircase, taking his time, smiling and swishing his blade from side to side as he went. ‘You sad little man. Did you really think you could win against me? You think I am heartbroken about the Marquise? Well, I will tell you, I have no love left in me for that. You British killed all the love in me years ago. I’m sad for her, yes. She was a good woman. But not for me. And what was it for? Because we killed your little popsy? Was that why? Revenge? I know all about revenge, Captain. Let me show you how nicely it can be taken.’

Simpson thrashed about on the floor, but try as he might he could not move his legs. He made a supreme effort and raised his sword towards Malbec. The Frenchman roared with laughter and walked a few paces more until he was standing directly over Simpson. He brought the tip of his blade down until it rested at Simpson’s throat and said nothing, but looked down into his enemy’s eyes. It seemed to Simpson that the gaze lasted forever, and that was Malbec’s intention, although it was not as long as he would have liked. Suddenly his attention was distracted by a noise from outside the inn: gunfire, closer and in greater quantity than previously. Sensing that the battle was reaching its climax, he gazed down at Simpson.

‘Oh dear. Our time is over, Captain. Unless, of course, you’d care to beg.’

Simpson shook his head and made another pathetic attempt to hit Malbec with his blade. The Frenchman kicked the sword aside and was distracted again by the sound of gunfire, closer now. He shook his head, shrugged and smiled, and then slowly leant down on his own weapon which was still poised over Simpson’s throat until he felt its tip pierce flesh and bone and embed itself in the floor of the inn. Then, equally slowly, he drew out the blade and, wiping it against the dead man’s breeches, slipped it back into his scabbard and made for the door.

The southern barricade of Leffinghe was a butcher’s block of dead and dying flesh. The bodies of French, British, Danes and Prussians lay draped across its top and sides, and above their lifeless forms the battle raged on. The noise was deafening, but by now, after three long hours, it seemed to those involved to be as natural as birdsong. Standing on a broken upturned chair, keeping his balance with his left hand, Steel thrust again with his sword and, parrying the bayonet of a French grenadier, struck home. The man fell back with a look of astonishment, clutching desperately at his stomach, while to his right another of his comrades was struck down by a cut from Hansam’s sword.

The lieutenant recovered his weapon and spoke to Steel without turning, coming to the ready for the next attacker: ‘Hot work, Jack. Where the devil is the Duke? Any longer and we’ll all be dead.’

‘He’ll come, Henry, just as soon as he can. Have patience. Just kill the buggers.’

It seemed that they were faced by an endless white tide of French infantry. As quickly as they managed to cut one man down another would spring up in his place. It was clear that the French must prevail by sheer force of numbers if Marlborough did not come soon. Steel lunged up with his sword and dealt another French infantryman a fatal blow through the chin.

Slaughter was at his side now. Momentarily without an enemy directly to his front, Steel turned to him. ‘Jacob. All well?’

The sergeant looked at him and did not move, and Steel saw a look in his eyes that he had not often seen, but was able to recognize: fear mixed with unaccountable grief.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m truly sorry.’

‘My wife?’

‘Sir. And Mister Simpson, sir. I’m sorry.’

Steel staggered from the barricade and took a few moments to recover his bearing. ‘How?’

‘Shot, sir, and Macdonald with her. Clean, sir. She can’t have known about it. Mister Simpson’s a bit of a mess, though. All carved up, he is. Killed in cold blood, by the look of it. Killed slow, sir.’