stickler, he never smiled, he cuffed the men about the head and face, and Kit became used to his blows if she rested her musket on the wrong shoulder or turned her mare’s head the wrong way. Taylor seemed to have chosen Kit as his particular target, perhaps because she was the youngest of the recruits. Or perhaps because, alone among the men, she shared the same striking red hair as Taylor; but where Kit was slim and lithe, Taylor was a barrel of a man, square and ugly in appearance and manner. Kit soon learned to avoid – as much as she could – his evil little eye.
Ross worked hard to ensure that each man caught up with the lessons that had gone before, until they were a perfectly drilled troop numbering over a hundred. The muscles Kit had discovered aboard ship grew and hardened, and she was glad of the new, more generous coat. She had always been good with a sword, and now she was a decent shot and had learned the little ways of her gun – that it kicked like a mule, that the hammer always stuck after reload, that the shot veered to the left, that she must ram four times not three – and if she could remember all these things she might just stay alive. By the day they were ready to ride, she was ready to fight.
On the dawn of their seventh day Ross addressed them all in the courtyard. ‘No man of mine shall be ignorant of his orders,’ he declared. They were to ride to a place in the mountains called Rovereto, many leagues away, to join Captain Tichborne’s company of foot and the other English forces, and begin their campaign. Kit’s heart beat painfully beneath her blue facings. Richard was with Tichborne’s company. Day seventy without you – I’m coming, my love.
Sun up and orders given, Ross instructed them to see the quartermaster for their rations. Kit staggered under the weight of the panniers she was given, stuffed with pemmican and biscuits and tobacco, and could barely lift them to drape them across the now obedient Flint’s neck. On the command the troop rode forth on the grey horses that gave the regiment its name.
Chapter 7
I neither will take it from spalpeen or brat …
‘Arthur McBride’ (trad.)
Over the next days and weeks Kit snatched tantalising glances of the country she’d come to save. As she carved each notch on her musket stock, seventy-two days without Richard, seventy-three , she felt as if she had ridden right into that green and insubstantial fresco she had glimpsed on the palace wall. Here was some rural fantasy, which lived only in the mind of a long-dead painter, all lands and none.
She would hear distant bells and turn to see, over the tops of plane trees, the gilded domes of infidel cathedrals. Down a sunlit lane she would see the golden pediments of huge stone villas, and between two hills she would see the silvered slice of a many-towered monastery. She was always on the outside, and knew in her heart that some great beauty was being hidden from her. All these citadels seemed impossibly far away, like the places she’d heard about in Maura’s tales; Mag Mell or Tir nan Og. Kingdoms whose doors were closed to the common traveller, whose golden keys were to be sought for years or bartered for with all you had. And the peaks she could see on the horizon, rocky teeth that held, somewhere in their stony maw, Richard, trapped like Jonah, were the faraway mountains from the stories, mountains that couldn’t be reached however long you journeyed, always on the other side of forests stuffed full of enchantments, or boiling rivers that could not be forded but must be gone around.
It seemed that Captain Ross was acquainted with these rules of folklore, for the dragoons’ route was always circuitous, and their progress as discreet as a hundred horse could be. Cities and towns were avoided and Kit began to understand that they might not be welcome here in this country they had come to liberate. They were never billeted on any of the towns or hamlets, but camped in the
Ross worked hard to ensure that each man caught up with the lessons that had gone before, until they were a perfectly drilled troop numbering over a hundred. The muscles Kit had discovered aboard ship grew and hardened, and she was glad of the new, more generous coat. She had always been good with a sword, and now she was a decent shot and had learned the little ways of her gun – that it kicked like a mule, that the hammer always stuck after reload, that the shot veered to the left, that she must ram four times not three – and if she could remember all these things she might just stay alive. By the day they were ready to ride, she was ready to fight.
On the dawn of their seventh day Ross addressed them all in the courtyard. ‘No man of mine shall be ignorant of his orders,’ he declared. They were to ride to a place in the mountains called Rovereto, many leagues away, to join Captain Tichborne’s company of foot and the other English forces, and begin their campaign. Kit’s heart beat painfully beneath her blue facings. Richard was with Tichborne’s company. Day seventy without you – I’m coming, my love.
Sun up and orders given, Ross instructed them to see the quartermaster for their rations. Kit staggered under the weight of the panniers she was given, stuffed with pemmican and biscuits and tobacco, and could barely lift them to drape them across the now obedient Flint’s neck. On the command the troop rode forth on the grey horses that gave the regiment its name.
Chapter 7
I neither will take it from spalpeen or brat …
‘Arthur McBride’ (trad.)
Over the next days and weeks Kit snatched tantalising glances of the country she’d come to save. As she carved each notch on her musket stock, seventy-two days without Richard, seventy-three , she felt as if she had ridden right into that green and insubstantial fresco she had glimpsed on the palace wall. Here was some rural fantasy, which lived only in the mind of a long-dead painter, all lands and none.
She would hear distant bells and turn to see, over the tops of plane trees, the gilded domes of infidel cathedrals. Down a sunlit lane she would see the golden pediments of huge stone villas, and between two hills she would see the silvered slice of a many-towered monastery. She was always on the outside, and knew in her heart that some great beauty was being hidden from her. All these citadels seemed impossibly far away, like the places she’d heard about in Maura’s tales; Mag Mell or Tir nan Og. Kingdoms whose doors were closed to the common traveller, whose golden keys were to be sought for years or bartered for with all you had. And the peaks she could see on the horizon, rocky teeth that held, somewhere in their stony maw, Richard, trapped like Jonah, were the faraway mountains from the stories, mountains that couldn’t be reached however long you journeyed, always on the other side of forests stuffed full of enchantments, or boiling rivers that could not be forded but must be gone around.
It seemed that Captain Ross was acquainted with these rules of folklore, for the dragoons’ route was always circuitous, and their progress as discreet as a hundred horse could be. Cities and towns were avoided and Kit began to understand that they might not be welcome here in this country they had come to liberate. They were never billeted on any of the towns or hamlets, but camped in the
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