Kit (19 page)

At the walls Savoy made a flapping motion with his hand, sank into the icy water, as low as he could, and held up two white fingers. Two guards were on the gate – just two. He nodded at Ross, who stepped forward silently with O’Connell. He raised his axe and cut down one French guard, splitting his head like a turnip, while O’Connell dispatched the other. Kit looked away. University man. Killer.

Ross gave a long low whistle and the dragoons emerged, dripping, their cloaks shining black, to mass by the wall. As Kit reached him Ross took a case knife from the Frenchman’s body, drew it over the back of his hand, till a thin black line sprang forth, folded the knife and put it in his breeches. ‘Why did you do that?’

‘An old army saying. A blade that cuts you once can never harm you again.’

She was shaken, hearing her father’s words like that, but there was no time to think; one man struck a tinder and Savoy examined the wall. Kit craned to see; the taper moved around the great bricks under a paler stone arch. Below the keystone was chalked a crude double-headed eagle, the cognisance of the Empire. It was a sign.

Axes and picks were lifted from dripping cloaks and cowls and sleeves. Eugene of Savoy held a hand high:
Wait
. And then the bells chimed again and the vanguard applied their peasant’s weapons to the edges of the block, precisely, on each bell stroke. By the twelfth chime the block was punched though to the other side of the wall, leaving a hole the size of a man.

Savoy held two fingers high again, and Ross – must he always be first? thought Kit – clambered through with O’Connell hard on his heels. Kit held her breath, but Ross’s beckoning arm appeared though the cavity. ‘Clear.’

One by one the dragoons clambered through the hole left by the stone. At her turn Kit straightened up to find herself in a small deserted square with a well in the middle. Dawn was breaking and the sky turned a pearl grey – she could see the streets blurred with mist, a single black dog trotting from right to left. She followed Ross’s beckoning hand. Savoy spoke in an undertone and Ross relayed his orders: ‘Spread out in ones and twos – we are to disappear about the town. When you hear the trumpet’ – Mr Van Dedan flashed the gold bell of his instrument from underneath his cloak – ‘we gather and form by the cathedral – you can see the tower yonder.’

Kit slipped like a shadow round the corner into a pretty marketplace. Stallholders were already abroad, and Kit loitered by the well with Ross and O’Connell, instinctively staying by her captain. She watched the market produce arrive in box and barrel and cart, tomatoes and fish and bottles of wine being ranked on wooden trestles. Above the sea of chatter, one voice stood out.

The speaker was huge and broad, with a bald head, beefy forearms and pink flesh mottled and shiny like brawn. He was pointing out purchases from the stalls, picking up fruits and vegetables and turning them over, sniffing and squeezing them. There was a fellow with him in a blue uniform, with a sabre swinging from his belt, and carrying a basket of wicker. The big bald fellow handed the produce to his man, who stowed it in the basket. No money changed hands, and the stallholders handed over their wares resentfully. But the bald man did not notice. He was looking at the cloaked men dotted about the square in twos and threes and fours. Kit followed his gaze: they looked wrong; their stance overly casual, their conversations counterfeit, their demeanour watchful. Kit stole closer to the bald man, and strained to hear what he was saying. ‘French,’ breathed Ross in her ear. ‘I can make out some, but not all.’

Kit listened hard, and heard the patois of the Haute-Vienne, her mother’s region. ‘He’s the cook of one Lieutenant-General Crenan,’ she whispered. ‘He has seen the men gathered about the square. He goes to warn his master, and he is dispatching his guard to warn the Maréchal Villeroi.’

‘O’Connell,’ Ross ordered. ‘Follow the cook. He does not reach his master, do you understand me?’ O’Connell nodded and set off after the cook. ‘Kit, with me.’

Kit followed Ross as they threaded though the stalls in the wake of the hurrying French private. She tugged at Ross’s sleeve. ‘Let us take him down now, before he gives us the slip.’

‘No,’ he hissed. ‘He will lead us to Villeroi.’

The Frenchman’s blue coat disappeared round a corner into a stone alley. The private was running now, scattering his produce as he went. A fish, an orange, a loaf. Kit and Ross followed on silent feet till they came to a small square with a large civic building with decorative windows. The blue coat disappeared through the grand doors, and Ross thrust out an arm. ‘Wait,’ he said, and pulled Kit into the deep shadow of the arch. ‘It won’t be long.’ And he was right – the same man came out of the door, followed by a tall gentleman in a velvet coat. The coat was disarranged, the gentleman’s hair was unpowdered, his sword unbuckled. He was fumbling with the gilt buttons on his coat with one hand and his other hand held, foolishly, a quill, the tip of the thing slick with ink and the fingers stained with black.

‘Villeroi,’ breathed Ross.

Kit watched the French commander hurry past. ‘Shall we fetch the others?’

Ross considered. Commander and aide-de-camp hurried across a square. The captain waited until they reached the alley before he replied. ‘No,’ said Ross. ‘It’s two against two. Let’s go.’

He took out his case knife, sprinted forth and in a moment had his blade at the maréchal’s neck, while Kit held her dagger at the throat of the private. Man and master were forced to the paving, in the chill shadow of the alley, their knees cracking on the cold stone, stone the rising sun had not yet reached.

Maréchal Villeroi held his hands high in surrender. He noted the flash of red wool beneath Ross’s cloak. ‘Imperial forces.’ He sighed. ‘Very well.’ He turned his head, the silver blade pressing into the loose folds of his neck, screwing his eyes around to Ross. ‘English? German?’

‘The former. And proud of it.’

‘Then you have no loyalty to the Emperor.’

‘On the contrary. My queen is his ally; that is enough to assure my loyalty.’

‘I am the Maréchal de Villeroi.’

‘That I know, monsieur. And that is why you are under arrest.’

‘
Ecoutez
.’ The maréchal’s voice was reasonable. ‘There is no one in this alley but you and your man and me and mine. What harm can there be in letting me go? You are a likely officer, I dare say – what would you say to a thousand pistoles, and a regiment, and the finest recompenses King Louis of France can offer?’

Kit looked at Ross over the blond head of the aide-de-camp, one hand across the man’s body, the other clamped around his throat. His hair smelled of candle grease. She watched Ross. Ten thousand pistoles was a lot of money.

‘I would say that your timing is unfortunate,’ said the captain coolly. ‘I have not served the Emperor for a sevenight yet, so it feels a little early to be betraying him.’ The knife bit deeper into Villeroi’s throat and the skin puckered like gooseflesh. ‘Now, I’ll trouble you to be on your feet – I must take you to the Prince of Savoy.’

The maréchal staggered upright. ‘You and I are not done,’ he said to Ross. ‘There will be a reckoning.’

Ross, arrogant with triumph, laughed and put his knee to the maréchal’s back. Kit followed with her captive and they hurried through the narrow way in the direction of the market. At the mouth of the alley Ross stopped abruptly, pulling the maréchal back. Ahead of them was a regiment of French troops, drawn up in their blue battle array. ‘Not a word,’ hissed Ross in Villeroi’s ear, but the maréchal, spying one of his officers on parade, shouted, ‘D’Entragues!
Attention!
’ Ross bundled him down the alley, almost lifting the maréchal so his feet scrabbled impotently on the ground. He swung left to the cathedral, to meet, waiting on the stone stairs, the Prince of Savoy and his guard of Imperial troops. ‘Sire, the French are readying themselves!’ Ross’s words tumbled out. ‘We are pursued by a regiment of French troops we surprised on parade. We must sound the muster.’

Savoy nodded to Van Dedan, who raised his instrument to his lips. The prince then bundled Villeroi into the cathedral, calling to Kit over his shoulder. ‘You,’ he commanded, ‘bring the maréchal’s man.’ Having no option, she followed Savoy into the dark. The trumpeter blasted the muster and from all corners the dragoons came running, gathering on the square like crows, drawing their swords and axes as they came. The French came running too, and as the heavy door closed on Kit she saw blue meet red with a clash of steel.

She climbed the great tower to the sounds of battle outside. There was no artillery, and the men fought sword to sword. At the head of the wooden stair she pushed her prisoner ahead of her into the blinding daylight. From the dizzying height of the tower she could look down past the gargoyles’ stone features to see a fight in every street. She strained to see Ross but could not make him out – she spotted Sergeant Taylor, though, for he had lost his hat, and his hair, as red as her own, caught the sun. She watched him dispatch one French soldier after another – his fighting style as blunt as his manner – and had to admit that he was a fierce fighter. And from this height she could see too that, although the dragoons had breached the walls of Cremona, they had not reached inside the citadel – across the wide span of a bridge was a further city within a city, a close-walled barbican of a castle with sturdy sloping talus walls.

She expected the battle to be short and sharp, but it seemed as if they were holed up for hours, this strange little quartet, on the parapet. A prince, a maréchal, an aide-de-camp and a soldier who was a maid in man’s attire. After a time Villeroi and Savoy began to talk, in the careful courteous French of Paris, the birthplace of both. Kit, loosening her grip on the aide-de-camp, marvelled. Here were two men having a civilised conversation, while their respective forces battled in the square below. Kit knew that Savoy would say nothing about his deputy De Vaudémont and his forces at the Po gate, and she wondered what Villeroi had to conceal in his turn.

‘Your defence is so obstinate that you will give the whole town time to wake,’ said Savoy dryly.

‘That, Prince, is the idea,’ countered Villeroi. The
maréchal
seemed as comfortable as if he was in a Paris salon, but Savoy’s urbane mask had begun to slip and Kit could hear him rage, under his breath. ‘Where is he, where is he?’ And Kit knew it was De Vaudémont he meant.

Just then there was an enormous explosion that rent the air and shivered the bell tower. Savoy rushed to the parapet, but Villeroi stayed where he was, his back to the leads. ‘We have blown the bridge,’ he said. ‘Your forces cannot now reach the citadel.’

A cloud of stone dust and gunpowder rose to the south – where there had once been a bridge there were a few crumbled piles in the blue-grey river. The barbican was cut off from the rest of the town.

Savoy beat his fist on the balustrade. ‘The action of a coward!’

Villeroi folded his arms. ‘Is it more cowardly than creeping into a town to murder soldiers in their beds?’

Savoy paced, pounding one fist into his other hand. ‘
Sang du
Christe
,’ he said. ‘I can hear Marlborough laughing from here.’

Footsteps sounded on the stair, and the four of them fell silent. What colour of soldier could be coming – blue to liberate Villeroi, or red to imprison him? It was red. It was Ross. ‘Highness,’ he said, breathing heavily, ‘the French have blown the bridge. What are your orders?’

Savoy held his lower lip in his rabbit teeth for an instant. Then, low voiced, hardly audible, he growled, ‘Retreat.’

Then, before she could react, he grabbed Kit’s prisoner and threw him from the tower. ‘No!’ Kit cried, and ran to the balustrade. Down below the aide-de-camp was splayed out like a spider, his blond crown broken, the battle raging around him regardless. As she watched, a figure in a red coat stepped over the body and entered the fray. He fought fiercely, but with no elegance, his sword held out to the full extent of his reach, turning from side to side at the waist, almost as if he were scything a field of hay. Such a strategy could be suicide but no one could get near him. His brown curls were the same, his shoulders like a pair of barn doors in the plain red coat of a foot soldier.

Richard.

Heedless of protocol, Kit dashed to the little doorway and clattered down the stairs, her sword striking sparks from the stones, the musket which had a hundred marks upon its stock knocking against her collarbone. Her footsteps boomed as she ran across the marble pavings of the cathedral.

Outside all was confusion. Both the French and the English sounded the retreat; the forces had parted and scattered. At least, she thought in her mad dash, Richard would not die before she found him; both forces were focused on their flight. She ran to the spot where she had seen him, but he was gone. She saw red uniforms scattered in all directions, but headed for the river – did he have sapper mates to rejoin? She ran until the dust road ran out. A jagged edge jutted over the riverbank and led nowhere – she was at the fallen bridge. A hand caught the scruff of her neck. It was O’Connell, bleeding from a cut in his black brows. ‘There’s nowhere to go, Walsh,’ he said. ‘We’re ordered back to the aqueduct.’

There was nothing to do but run – the cathedral, the parade ground, the marketplace, all flashed past, until they reached the little square with the well. The dragoons ran for their bolthole in the west wall, only to find it blocked. Colonel Gossedge’s gouty girth had trapped him as he attempted to climb through. He was unconscious, his cocked hat knocked to the paving, blood leaking from his eyes and ears. ‘Back,’ shouted Hall. ‘He’s bunged like a cork in a bottle.’

More dragoons crowded behind ‘The way is blocked,’ said Southcott. ‘Push him through.’ Two men applied themselves to the task, but the corpulent colonel would not budge. Kit looked up at the pocked wall and the crenellations high above. ‘Give me a leg up,’ she said. Hall cupped his hands, and she placed her foot in them, clinging to the old stones, climbing until she reached the stones set in the top of the wall. Pulling herself up on to the top of the wall, she slid and scrambled down the other side, and found herself outside the city once more. She pulled at the colonel’s shiny boots till he came out of the breach, and the dragoons streamed through – led by Captain Ross. Just as she was about to follow, something made her turn to look at the colonel, in his once-white breeches and his once-red coat. Without his hat and his eyeglass he was just a man, a fat man of middle years. And he still breathed.