countryside, in bosky dells or woodland caves. She would hear foreign names passed down from her commanders, as the days and nights strung together along their path, collecting a string of cities: Parma, Guastalla, Mantova. All seemed peaceful, green and tranquil, the sun always shone, there was no boom of cannon or cries of combat. Kit was reminded of the soldiers’ tales of trooping up and down the sodden Low Countries without ever engaging with the enemy. She found it hard to believe in the war, hard to be afraid.
She began to believe in the place called Mantova. The dragoons had been told that they could expect a bed that night for they would be welcomed through the gates, at last, of that great city, and indeed, they emerged from a dark and twisted forest to see a calm jade lake, with a distant palace set upon it like a diadem. But there was something amiss – black smoke rose from the towers in plumes. Captain Ross raised one gloved hand to halt them. ‘Back,’ he hissed, ‘back under tree cover.’ He wheeled his horse around; his mare reared and turned. ‘The French have beaten us here.’
There was nothing to do but wait for dark. The dragoons dismounted, tethered their horses and settled in the wildwood. There was to be no talking so many slept; but Kit sat, heart thudding, under twisted black branches as the light died and the mosquitoes came out to feast. What was happening in the city? Across the lake and by some trick of the water she could hear muffled cries, the crackle of a blaze and the screams of falling timber. From the blasted windows of the castle she could see fiery figures falling, to break the surface of the lake. Flint, who had become fond of her mistress, nibbled her shoulder consolingly, but Kit stared fixedly ahead. The French had forced entry to Mantova, had rammed and battered and blown the gates in.
At nightfall, when the sky above Mantova had become a saffron glow, and the castle watched them with fiery eyes, Ross and his deputies quietly gave the orders to mount. Silently the horsemen filed from the undergrowth. Kit’s moon was there again, shining as if nothing was amiss, and as they walked the greys around the frill of the lake Kit looked down to the water and caught what she thought was a reflection in the corner of her eye, a brave red coat and a white blob for a face. She turned her head and looked more closely. What she saw there made her throw her leg over the pommel and slide to the ground. She waded into the shallows and dragged at the body, impossibly heavy and waterlogged. The effort made her fall back and sit heavily on the shingle. A tall shadow fell over them, and Ross’s voice spoke above her. ‘Mount your horse, Walsh,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘He’s long gone.’ For a moment she could not move. She sat on the hard, wet stones of the foreshore, breathing heavily, looking at the white, water-softened flesh, the open eyes translucent as the pebbles, the sodden uniform so like her own. ‘Walsh,’ said Ross, with an edge to his voice. ‘I order you. Would you endanger us all?’
As they rode on, Kit saw many more bodies – some half in, half out of the water, some in a grisly swirl of blood, some missing limbs or eyes. She forced herself to turn away, to breathe in the night, and to look towards Richard’s mountains and the jagged line of moonlit silver dawn that described their peaks.
She thought about those bodies all night, and the first man, the man she’d held. She’d recognised him. They’d been on The Truth and Daylight together, vomited from the storm, pissed down the heads, eaten the same maggoty biscuits. And because he’d not caught the eye of the Marshal de Pisare, because he’d marched a week ahead, he’d met the French and his death. He was chaff, as she was wheat. Kit thanked the Virgin – not Mary mother of God, but the wooden Virgin of Genova – that Richard was farther in and farther up and in the mountains.
As they progressed into
She began to believe in the place called Mantova. The dragoons had been told that they could expect a bed that night for they would be welcomed through the gates, at last, of that great city, and indeed, they emerged from a dark and twisted forest to see a calm jade lake, with a distant palace set upon it like a diadem. But there was something amiss – black smoke rose from the towers in plumes. Captain Ross raised one gloved hand to halt them. ‘Back,’ he hissed, ‘back under tree cover.’ He wheeled his horse around; his mare reared and turned. ‘The French have beaten us here.’
There was nothing to do but wait for dark. The dragoons dismounted, tethered their horses and settled in the wildwood. There was to be no talking so many slept; but Kit sat, heart thudding, under twisted black branches as the light died and the mosquitoes came out to feast. What was happening in the city? Across the lake and by some trick of the water she could hear muffled cries, the crackle of a blaze and the screams of falling timber. From the blasted windows of the castle she could see fiery figures falling, to break the surface of the lake. Flint, who had become fond of her mistress, nibbled her shoulder consolingly, but Kit stared fixedly ahead. The French had forced entry to Mantova, had rammed and battered and blown the gates in.
At nightfall, when the sky above Mantova had become a saffron glow, and the castle watched them with fiery eyes, Ross and his deputies quietly gave the orders to mount. Silently the horsemen filed from the undergrowth. Kit’s moon was there again, shining as if nothing was amiss, and as they walked the greys around the frill of the lake Kit looked down to the water and caught what she thought was a reflection in the corner of her eye, a brave red coat and a white blob for a face. She turned her head and looked more closely. What she saw there made her throw her leg over the pommel and slide to the ground. She waded into the shallows and dragged at the body, impossibly heavy and waterlogged. The effort made her fall back and sit heavily on the shingle. A tall shadow fell over them, and Ross’s voice spoke above her. ‘Mount your horse, Walsh,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘He’s long gone.’ For a moment she could not move. She sat on the hard, wet stones of the foreshore, breathing heavily, looking at the white, water-softened flesh, the open eyes translucent as the pebbles, the sodden uniform so like her own. ‘Walsh,’ said Ross, with an edge to his voice. ‘I order you. Would you endanger us all?’
As they rode on, Kit saw many more bodies – some half in, half out of the water, some in a grisly swirl of blood, some missing limbs or eyes. She forced herself to turn away, to breathe in the night, and to look towards Richard’s mountains and the jagged line of moonlit silver dawn that described their peaks.
She thought about those bodies all night, and the first man, the man she’d held. She’d recognised him. They’d been on The Truth and Daylight together, vomited from the storm, pissed down the heads, eaten the same maggoty biscuits. And because he’d not caught the eye of the Marshal de Pisare, because he’d marched a week ahead, he’d met the French and his death. He was chaff, as she was wheat. Kit thanked the Virgin – not Mary mother of God, but the wooden Virgin of Genova – that Richard was farther in and farther up and in the mountains.
As they progressed into
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