Chivalrous Captain, Rebel Mistress (4 page)

Gabe struck Allan on the arm and pointed to where French lancers approached from the side. ‘This cannot be good.’

‘Sound the retreat!’ Wellington’s order carried all the way to Allan and Gabe’s ears.

The bugler played the staccato rhythm that signalled an order to retreat, but it was too late. The cavalry were too far away to hear and too caught up in the excitement of routing the French infantry.

Allan and Gabe watched in horror as those gallant men were cut down by the lancers, whose fresh steeds outmatched the British cavalry’s blown ones.

‘Perhaps I spoke too soon of victory.’ Gabe’s voice turned low. He rode off to prepare his men for whatever came next.

Allan asked several other soldiers if they had seen Tranville. No one could confirm his death or his survival. He found the officer who had assumed Picton’s command.

‘I have messengers aplenty, Landon,’ the man said. ‘Make yourself useful wherever you see fit.’

Allan glanced towards Hougoumont, now being pounded by cannon fire. Dare he go there? See to the safety of one foolish woman over the needs of the many? He frowned. Cannon fire made Hougoumont even more dangerous, but perhaps if she stayed put as he’d asked she’d stay safe.

The cannon were also firing upon the infantry, and Wellington ordered them to move back behind the ridge and to lie down. Allan spied a whole regiment of Belgian troops deserting the field.

The cowards. Could they not see? The battle was far from over. Victory was still possible. The British had already captured thousands of French soldiers and were marching them toward Brussels.

Allan turned back again to Hougoumont, still being battered relentlessly.

Heading to the château became instantly impossible. A shout passed quickly through the ranks. ‘Form square! Form square!’

A battalion of men stood two to four ranks deep, forming the shape of a square and presenting bayonets. Cavalry horses would not charge into bayonets, so, as long as the square did not break in panic, cavalry were powerless against them.

Allan rode to the crest of the ridge to see what prompted the order. Masses of French soldiers rode towards him, their horses shoulder to shoulder, advancing at a steadily increasing pace.

What was Napoleon thinking? There was no infantry marching in support of the cavalry. This was insanity.

But it was very real. The French advance was so massive, it shook the ground like thunder. The vision of a thousand horses and men was as awe inspiring as it was foolish. Allan stood rapt at the sight. He almost waited too late to gallop to the nearest square.

The square opened like a hinged door to allow him inside.

Another officer rode up to him. ‘Captain Landon, good to see you in one piece.’

It was Lieutenant Vernon, whom he’d first met that ill-fated day at Badajoz. Vernon had been a mere ensign then. He had also been in the fighting at Quatre Bras two days ago. Gabe and Allan had run into him afterwards.

‘Same to you, Vernon,’ Allan said.

The roar of the French cavalry grew louder and shouts of
‘Vive l’Empereur!’
reached their ears. A moment later the
plumes of the Cuirassier helmets became visible at the crest of the ridge.

‘Prepare to receive cavalry,’ the British officers shouted.

Horses and riders poured over the crest, some slipping in the mud or falling into the ditch below, but countless numbers of them galloped straight for the squares. The men in the front line crouched with bayonets thrust forwards; the back line stood ready to fire a volley.

All depended upon the men remaining steady in the face of the massed charge.

Allan rode to one side of the square. ‘Steady, men,’ he told them. ‘They cannot break you. Steady.’

The riders might have been willing to ride into the square, but the horses balked at the sight of the bayonets pointed towards them. They turned and galloped past, the men on their backs only able to fire a single pistol shot each.

The British infantry raked them with a barrage of musket fire, and the British cannon fire was unceasing. Smoke was everywhere, and through it the cries of wounded men.

Finally the cavalry retreated, but it was a short respite. They reformed and attacked again.

The squares held.

After the second attack, Allan left the square to ride to the ridge to reconnoitre. His attention riveted not on the French cavalry regrouping, but on Hougoumont.

The château at Hougoumont was on fire, the château he’d forbidden Miss Pallant to leave.

He immediately urged his horse into full gallop, risking interception from the French. He was hell-bent on reaching Hougoumont, praying he had not forced Miss Pallant into a nightmare from which she could not escape.

The gate did not open to him, even though there were only a few Frenchmen firing at the men on the walls.

‘How can I get in?’ he called as soon as he was close enough.

One of the soldiers pointed to another entrance, well protected by muskets.

He rode into heat and smoke. The barn was afire as well as the château and some soldiers had run in to pull the horses to safety. One of the animals broke free and ran back into the fire.

Allan tied his horse to a post and went to the door of the château, sure that during the rigours of battle the
boy
he’d brought there would have been forgotten. He prayed the fire had not yet consumed the hallway.

As he reached the door, he almost collided with someone dragging a man out. Someone dressed in boy’s clothes.

‘Miss Pallant!’ he cried, forgetting her disguise.

She glanced at him as she struggled to get the man, too injured and weak to walk, out of the door, away from the fire. ‘Help me, Captain.’

He took one of the man’s arms and pulled him outside to the middle of the courtyard. As soon as she let go of the man, she started for the château’s entrance again.

He caught her arm. ‘What are you doing?’

She wrenched it away. ‘There are more men in there.’ She dashed inside again.

Allan followed her straight into an inferno. She ran to a corner and pulled a man by the collar of his coat, sliding him across the hall. Allan glanced up. The fire swirled above them and pieces of ceiling fell, one narrowly missing her. She paid no heed. Allan hurried through and found another man trying to crawl away from the flames. He flung the man over his shoulder and helped pull Miss Pallant’s soldier at the same time. ‘Hurry!’ he cried. ‘Now!’

They made it out of the door just as the ceiling collapsed.

‘No!’ She turned and tried to rush back in.

Still holding the wounded man, he caught her arm. ‘You cannot go in there.’ He gripped her hard. ‘Now get the man you have saved to the courtyard.’

She nodded and pulled her charge away from the burning building, while the agonised screams of the trapped men pierced Allan’s very soul. As soon as he lowered his injured soldier to the ground near the other men she had saved, Miss Pallant ran towards the château again. He tore after her, catching her around the waist before she charged into the inferno.

She struggled. ‘There are men in there. Can’t you hear them?’

He held her tight, his mouth by her ear. ‘I hear them, but there is nothing we can do to save them.’

She twisted around and buried her face into his chest, only to pull away again. ‘The little boy! The drummer boy! Is he still in there?’

One of the men on the ground answered her, ‘He escaped, lad. I saw him. He’s unharmed.’

Allan pulled her back into his arms and she collapsed against him.

‘How many did you pull out of there?’ he asked her.

‘Only seven.’ Her voice cracked.

Seven men? How had she mustered the strength? The courage? ‘Those seven men are alive because of you.’

She shook her head. ‘It was not enough. There are more.’

‘They are gone.’ He backed her away from the château where the flames were so close and hot that he feared they would combust like the château’s walls. ‘Come take some water.’

The well was busy with men drawing water to fight the fire and Allan had to wait to draw water to drink. She cupped her hands and scooped water from the well’s bucket. Allan drank as well. One of the soldiers held out his shako and Allan filled it, passing it around to the rescued men. Allan’s horse, tethered nearby, pulled at its reins, its eyes white with fear.

While the fire raged the French infantry attacked Hougoumont again. Colonel MacDonnell shouted orders to the men
at the walls to keep firing. He and his officers moved through the area alert for weaknesses, ordering them reinforced.

Allan sat Miss Pallant on the ground, forcing her to rest. He lowered himself beside her.

‘Will it never end?’ she whispered, echoing Allan’s own thoughts. As the sounds of the siege surrounded them, she glanced at him as if noticing him for the first time. ‘Why are you here, Captain? You said you would come when it was over.’

He rubbed his face. ‘No one had need of me. General Picton is dead and Tranville, too, most likely—’

Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘Tranville!’

‘General Lord Tranville. My superior officer.’ What did she know of Tranville?

‘Surely he did not return to the army?’ Her voice rose.

‘Are you acquainted with him?’

She pressed her hand against her forehead. ‘He is my late aunt’s husband. And my guardian.’

‘Your guardian!’

‘I—I have had no direct contact with him since my aunt died.’ She averted her gaze. ‘I never imagined he would return to the army, not since he inherited his title.’

Tranville had become a baron before the Allies left Spain. Both he and his son Edwin returned to England then and did not rejoin the regiment until Napoleon escaped from Elba a few months ago.

She bowed her head. ‘He is dead?’

Allan put his hand on hers in sympathy. ‘It appears so. Several of his men saw him struck down. No one has seen him since.’

She paused before speaking. ‘You must know my cousin Edwin. Is—is he still alive?’

Of course Edwin was alive, safely hiding out of harm’s way. ‘I suspect he is. I’ve not heard otherwise.’

She put on a brave face, but clearly she was battling her
emotions. ‘Well. I have rested enough. I must see if the wounded need attending.’ She rose.

Allan rose with her and gripped her arm. ‘No. It has become too dangerous for you here.’

The buildings still burned, but the Coldstream Guards, the Nassauers and the others had again set the French into retreat. How many more times could the French be repelled, though?

‘I’m getting you out now.’ Allan’s duty was clear to him now. The army did not immediately need him, but this woman, the ward of his superior officer, did.

‘But the wounded—’ she protested.

‘You’ve saved them. You have done enough.’ Besides, he did not know how much more she could stand. She looked as if she might keel over from exhaustion at any moment.

She allowed him to lead her away. Allan took her to his horse, still skittish from the fire around them.

He lifted her on to the horse’s back and called to one of the soldiers. ‘Which way out?’

The man pointed. ‘The south gate.’

At the gate Allan mounted behind her and spoke to the soldier who opened it for them. ‘Tell MacDonnell I am taking the boy out of here now.’

Once through the gate Allan headed towards the Allied line, determined to at least get her beyond where the fighting would take place. The smoke from Hougoumont obscured his vision, thinning a bit as they proceeded through the orchard.

Suddenly pain shot through his shoulder, followed by the crack of rifle fire. He jerked back and his shako flew from his head. It was all he could do to stay in the saddle.

He pushed Miss Pallant down on the neck of his horse and covered her with his body. ‘Snipers! Stay down.’ He hung on with all his strength. ‘I am hit.’

M
arian felt the captain’s weight upon her back and sensed his sudden unsteadiness. The horse fled the orchard and galloped across a field towards a ridge where a line of cannons stood. Just as they came near the cannons fired, each with a spew of flames and white smoke and a deafening boom.

The horse made a high-pitched squeal and galloped even faster, away from the sound and the smoke, plunging into a field of tall rye grass, its shoots whipping against their arms and legs.

‘Captain!’ Marian worried over his wounds.

‘Hold on.’ Pain filled his voice. ‘Cannot stop her.’

‘Are you much hurt?’ she yelled.

He did not answer at first. ‘Yes,’ he finally said.

Marian closed her eyes and pressed her face against the horse’s neck, praying the captain had not received a fatal shot.

The horse found a dry, narrow path through the field and raced down its winding length, following its twists and turns until Marian had no idea how they would find their way out. The explosions of the cannon faded into some vague
direction behind them until finally the horse slowed to an exhausted walk.

‘We’re safe, at least,’ the captain said, sitting up again.

She turned to look at him. Blood stained the left side of his chest and he swayed in the saddle.

‘You need tending,’ she cried.

‘First place we find.’ His words were laboured.

They wandered aimlessly through farm fields that seemed to have no end. The sounds of the battle grew even fainter.

Finally Marian spied a thin column of smoke. She pointed to it. ‘Look, Captain.’

It led to a small hut and barn, at the moment looking as grand as a fine country estate.

Marian called out, ‘Hello? Help us!’

No one responded.

She tried saying it in French.
‘Au secours.’

Nothing but the distant sounds of the battle.

She turned around. Captain Landon swayed in the saddle. ‘I must see to your wounds, Captain. We must stop here.’

The door to the hut opened and a little girl, no more than four years old, peered out.

‘There is someone here!’ Marian dismounted and carefully approached the little girl, who watched her with curiosity as she reached the door.

‘Where are your parents?’ she asked the child.

The little girl popped a thumb in her mouth and returned a blank stare.

Marian tried French, but the child’s expression did not change. Thumb still in her mouth, the little girl rattled off some words, pointing towards a dirt road that led away from the hut.

It was not a language Marian understood. Flemish, most likely.

‘This isn’t going to be easy,’ she muttered. ‘We each of us cannot make ourselves understood.’ She crouched to the child’s level. ‘Your mama? Mama?’

‘Mama!’ The child smiled and pointed to the road, chattering again.

Marian turned from the doorway to Captain Landon. ‘Her mother cannot be far or I think she’d be in distress. She’s not at all worried.’ Perhaps her mother had merely gone to the fields for a moment. ‘We need to stay. At least long enough for me to look at you.’

Allan winced. ‘I agree.’

He started to dismount on his own, nearly losing his balance. Marian ran to him, ready to catch him if he fell, but he held on to the horse for support.

He made a weak gesture to the barn. ‘In there. Won’t see us right away. Just in case.’

‘Just in case what?’

His brows knit. ‘In case French soldiers come by.’

The sounds of battle had disappeared completely, but they did not know which side would be the victor.

He led the horse into the barn.

It was larger than the hut, with three stalls. In one a milk cow contentedly chewed her cud. The other stalls had no animals, but were piled with fresh-smelling hay. A shared trough was filled with clean-looking water. The captain’s horse went immediately to the water and drank.

Holding on to the walls, the captain made his way to one of the empty stalls. He lowered himself on to the soft hay, his back leaning against the wood that separated this stall from the other, and groaned in pain.

‘I need more light if I am to see your wound.’ The sun was low in the sky and the barn was too dark for her to examine him. She glanced around and found an oil lantern. ‘I can light it from the fireplace in the hut. I’ll be right back.’

The little girl had stepped outside the hut, her thumb back in her mouth. Marian gestured with the lantern and the child chattered at her some more, but Marian could only smile and nod at her as she walked inside.

The hut was nothing more than one big room with a dirt
floor, a table and chairs and a big fireplace with a small fire smouldering beneath a big iron pot. Curtains hid where the beds must be. Marian found a taper by the fireplace and used it to light the lantern.

Back in the barn, Marian hung the lantern on a nearby peg and knelt beside the captain. He was wet with blood. ‘We must remove your coat.’

He nodded, pulling off his shoulder belt and trying to work his buttons.

‘I’ll do that.’ Marian unbuttoned his coat.

He leaned forwards and she pulled off the sleeve from his right arm first. There was as much blood soaking the back of his coat as the front. He uttered a pained sound as she pulled the sleeve off of his left arm. ‘I am sorry,’ she whispered.

She reached for his shirt but he stopped her. ‘Not proper.’

Proper? She nearly laughed. ‘Do not be tiresome, Captain.’ She quickly took his shirt off too.

The wound, a hole in his shoulder the size of a gold sovereign, still oozed blood, and there was a corresponding one in his back that was only slightly smaller.

‘The ball passed through you,’ she said in relief. She would not have relished attempting to remove a ball from a man’s flesh. ‘I need a cloth to clean it.’

‘In my pocket.’

There was a clean handkerchief in the right pocket. She dipped it in the water trough and used it to clean the wound.

Even as she worked Marian could not fail to notice his broad shoulders and the sculpted contours of his chest. Beneath her hand his muscles were firm. She and Domina had admired his appearance in uniform what seemed an age ago when they’d first glimpsed him in the Parc.
You should see him naked, Domina,
she said silently to herself.

Marian had stuffed rolls of bandage in her pockets before the fire. She pulled them out and wrapped his wound.

‘Where did you learn to tend wounds?’ he asked.

She smiled. ‘At Hougoumont.’

He looked shocked. ‘At Hougoumont?’

‘It was all I could do.’ The sounds and smell and heat of the fires at Hougoumont returned. Tears stung her eyes as she again heard the cries of men trapped inside.

She forced herself to stop thinking of it. ‘I really have been a gently bred young lady.’ At least since leaving India, she had been. In India she remembered running free.

She tied off the bandages. ‘How does that feel, Captain?’

‘Good.’ His voice was tight.

She made a face. ‘I know it hurts like the devil.’

His lips twitched into a smile that vanished into a spasm of pain. ‘We should be on our way.’ He tried to stand, but swayed and fell against the stall. ‘Ahhhh!’ he cried.

She jumped to her feet and caught him before he slipped to the ground. ‘You cannot ride.’

His face was very pale. ‘Must get you to Brussels.’

‘Or die trying? I won’t have it!’ She pointed to his horse, now munching hay, coat damp with sweat and muscles trembling. ‘Your horse is exhausted and you have lost a great deal of blood.’

Captain Landon tried to pull out of her supporting arm to go towards his horse. ‘She needs tending. Rubbing down.’

She held him tight. ‘You sit. I will look after your horse.’

He frowned. ‘You cannot—’

‘I can indeed. I know how to tend a horse.’ This was a complete falsehood, of course, but he would not know she never paid much attention to horses except to ride them.

With her help, he sat down again and she found a horse blanket clean enough to wrap around him. A further search located a piece of sackcloth that she used to wipe off the horse’s sweaty coat. She removed the horse’s saddle and carried it and the saddlebags over to the captain.

His eyes seemed to have trouble focusing on her. ‘Is there some water?’

Water. She could suddenly smell it from the trough, and
became aware of her own thirst. Surely there must be somewhere to get water without sharing it with the animals. ‘I’ll find some.’

There was a noise at the doorway. The little girl was watching them.

Marian gestured to her, pointing to the water and making a motion like a pump.
‘L’eau?’

The child popped her thumb into her mouth again and stared.

Marian rubbed her brow. ‘I wish I knew how to say
water
.’

‘Water?’
The child blinked.

‘Yes, yes.’ Marian nodded. ‘Water.’

The little girl led her to a pump behind the hut. Marian filled a nearby bucket and cupped her hands, drinking her fill. The child left her, but soon returned with a tin cup and handed it to her.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

The girl smiled.
‘Dank u. Dank u. Dank u.’

Marian carried the bucket and cup to the barn. The captain opened his eyes when she came near.

‘Water.’ She smiled, lifting the bucket to show him. She set it down and filled the cup for him.

His hand shook as he lifted the cup to his lips, but he swallowed eagerly. Afterwards he rested against the stall again.

And looked worse by the minute.

‘When Valour is rested, we’ll start out again.’ Even his voice was weaker. ‘Valour?’

‘Valour.’ He swallowed. ‘My horse.’

She laughed. ‘But she was not valorous! She bolted away from the cannons.’

He rose to the horse’s defence. ‘The fire frightened her. She’s used to cannon.’

Then it must have been the flash of flame from the cannonade that had set the horse on her terrified gallop.

And brought them to this place.

She sat next to him, suddenly weary herself.

He seemed to be having difficulty keeping his eyes open. ‘The cannon stopped. It is over.’ He took a breath. ‘I wonder who won.’

‘We shall learn that tomorrow.’ Marian tried to infuse her voice with a confidence she did not feel. Back in England one day had always seemed much like the last, but here, who knew what tomorrow would bring?

The captain coughed and cried out with the pain it created. It frightened Marian how pale he looked and how much it hurt him to simply take a breath. Soon his eyes closed and his breathing relaxed.

Let him sleep, she told herself, even though she felt very alone without his company. Memories of the day flooded her mind. The face of the dying soldier. The fire.

Eventually even those images could not keep her eyes from becoming very heavy. She’d just begun to doze when she heard voices outside. The parents returning?

She shot to her feet and peeked out of the door.

A man and a woman in peasant garb led a heavily laden mule. The little girl ran out to meet them. She pointed towards the barn.

Marian stepped outside. The man and woman both dropped their chins in surprise. She supposed she looked a fright, black with soot, clothing torn and stained with the captain’s blood and the blood of other men she’d tended. She was dressed as a boy, she must recall. They would think her a boy.

‘Bonjour,’
she began and tried explaining her presence in French.

Their blank stares matched their little daughter’s.

She sighed.
‘Anglais?’

They shook their heads.

There was no reason to expect peasants to speak anything but their own language. What use would they have for French
or English? At least Marian knew one word of Flemish now.
Water.
She almost laughed.

Her gaze drifted to the mule. She expected to see it carrying hay or harvested crops or something, but its cargo was nothing so mundane. The mule was burdened with French cavalry helmets and bundles of red cloth.

Loot from the battlefield. Marian felt the blood drain from her face. They had been stripping the dead.

Bile rose into her throat, but she swallowed it back and gestured for them to follow her into the barn.

She pointed to Captain Landon. ‘English,’ she said. ‘Injured.’ Maybe they would understand something if she happened upon another word their languages had in common. ‘Help us.’ She fished in the pocket of her pantaloons and found a Belgian coin. She handed it to the man, who turned it over in his hand and nodded with approval.

He and his wife went outside and engaged in a lively discussion, which Marian hoped did not include a plan to kill them in their sleep. People who could strip the dead might be capable of anything. As a precaution she went through the captain’s things and found his pistol. Hoping it was loaded and primed, she stuck it in her pocket.

Finally the man stepped back in. He nodded and gestured about the stall. She understood. They were to remain in the barn.

‘Food?’ she asked.

His brows knit.

‘Nourriture,’
she tried, making as if she were eating. ‘Bread.’

He grinned and nodded.
‘Brood.’

‘Yes. Yes.
Brood.
’

He gestured for her to wait.

She sank down next to the captain. ‘We will have bread anyway.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘At least I hope
brood
is bread.’

The captain opened his eyes briefly, but closed them again.
He needed sleep, she was certain, but it made her feel very alone.

First the mule was unloaded and returned to the barn, then the wife brought Marian bread and another blanket. After eating, Marian piled as much straw as possible beneath her and Captain Landon. She pulled off his boots and extinguished the lantern. Lying down next to him, she covered them both with a blanket. With the pistol at her side, she finally fell into an exhausted sleep.

Pain. Searing pain. A throbbing that pulsated up his neck and down the length of his arm.