Kit doffed her hat. ‘Signorina Castellano?’
The maid shook her tidy head. ‘No soldato.’
Kit frowned.
The maid said, brokenly, ‘No soldier. Lady say. Father say.’
A tall shadow loomed behind the little maid, and barked something at her. She stood aside and an imposing man filled the door. Wealth was powdered into his hair and embroidered into his waistcoat. Kit recognised the man she’d met three nights before, a more impressive figure without his nightcap and gown. He looked Kit up and down. ‘How may I help you?’ he said in accented English, with a courtesy that belied his hard tone.
Kit cleared her throat nervously. ‘Sir, forgive me. I am the dragoon who had the honour of assisting your daughter three nights past. I came to see how she does.’
‘She does very well,’ he said shortly. ‘I thank you now, as I did then, for your assistance. That should be enough.’
‘Is she … may I see her?’
The chilly features thawed slightly. The man stood aside and gave a short order to the maid, who led Kit into a little parlour.
The silken walls were hung with portraits; too many portraits of people with long expensive faces. The light was multiplied by faceted mirrors, and fine carpets softened her tread. There was so much to look at that Kit did not, at first, see anyone else in the room. But Bianca was there, a circle of embroidery on her lap, looking from an expensively glazed window on a peerless mountain vista smeared and spoiled by rain. She turned her lovely head and jumped up with a little cry.
‘I have been hoping you would come! I have been wanting to thank you.’
The maid settled herself discreetly in the corner, pulled out some lace tatting from her pocket and began to work with great concentration on a little snowy cap.
Kit was the cheapest thing in the room, in her coarse woollens and brassy buttons and faded lace. She sat as she had seen Ross sit – even in nature, even on a fallen stump, he sat with one foot forward and one crooked to the knee with his forearm resting upon it, easy and elegant.
‘I have been walking abroad with my maid to find you,’ announced Bianca.
A recklessness had replaced the timidity with which she had crept home at Kit’s side.
‘That I would not advise,’ replied Kit. ‘And I am not surprised at your lack of success, for I think it reasonable to say that any place the regiment might be, a respectable woman would not.’
‘So my father says. But I wanted to find you.’
Kit frowned. ‘Your maid,’ she lowered her voice, glancing at the servant in the corner, ‘she said no soldiers.’
‘Yes.’ Bianca looked down at her abandoned embroidery. ‘My father is inclined to protect me.’
‘Of course. But it was the maid told me: “Lady say.”’
There was a silence. Bianca looked down at her lap. ‘There is one particular red coat I wish to keep from my door.’
Kit breathed out. ‘Sergeant Taylor.’
‘Yes. He has been … visiting. He offers me marriage.’
Kit sat forward, all her attempts at elegance abandoned, her hands clasped before her on her knees. ‘You mean … he has been paying his addresses to you? After how he treated you three nights past?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you cannot tell your father—’
‘Oh, my father would kill him,’ Bianca interrupted, sharp as a knife. ‘My father was a butcher. He acts the fine gentleman, but we are trade. Everything you see in this room has been bought, not inherited.’ She stood and wandered the room as if taking an inventory. ‘These portraits are not of my blood. This chandelier is newly shipped from Venice, these mirrors too, for two beef steers. These silk drapes come from Bergamo, swapped for six sides of mutton, carpets from Turkey exchanged for forty hams. My English lessons were salaried in sausage. It is all paid for with flesh and blood, for we have no lineage. Our family tree is populated by pigs and cows and sheep.’
She sat down again. ‘My father grew up with knives. He grew up as a peasant, slitting pigs on the hillside. He has forty butchers working for him day and night; but he would do Sergeant Taylor himself. He’d be split and trussed in a quarter of the bells.’ There was relish in Bianca’s voice; the butcher’s daughter.
‘And you don’t want that?’
‘Oh, I do. I would love to see his blood run for what he did to me. But his disgrace goes hand in hand with mine. My father cannot know what passed between us in the alley.’
‘Is that why he caused your maid to sit with us?’
‘Concetta? She is here for me. I ask for her to be with me always. My reputation must be beyond reproach.’
Kit sat back, tingling. When she wed Richard, she’d been an heiress too; but Maura’s easily quashed objections had been nothing to the rules that governed this Trentino miss. The Castellanos were trying to build a bloodline from nothing, from this one piece of luck in their heritage, this freakishly beautiful girl. Their line was not even so established as Kit’s; the Kavanaghs could boast the earls of Leinster in their family, but Bianca’s father was a cut-throat turned count. ‘So, you could not be a soldier’s wife.’
‘It is not in my stars, for my father will arrange something to my family’s greater advantage. He would never settle for a sergeant, but an officer of very high rank would not settle for me.’ She looked up coquettishly with her strange and beautiful purple eyes.
There was a short intense silence that Kit could not quite define. Then Bianca spoke again. ‘And you? What do you wish for?’
Kit considered for a moment. It was so much of her habit to dissemble that the truth came hard. ‘I am looking for someone.’
‘Who?’
Habit returned. ‘My brother.’
‘He is here also?’
‘Yes. I have followed him all the way from Ireland. He had a month’s start on me. But the company has divided all over this region; my brother may be anywhere. It seems a hopeless quest at present.’
A door opened somewhere along the passage. With a glance at her maid, Bianca said hurriedly, ‘My father comes. But visit me again tomorrow; in the morning he is from home at his bloody business.’
Kit stood. ‘For what purpose?’
‘My father supplies the army with their rations of meat. Your regiment will be marching on his blood pudding, his white sausage, his capriolo. He knows where all the men are placed, for he feeds them all. He comes!’
The gilded handle turned, the door opened. Signor Castellano seemed to fill the spacious room. ‘Sir. For the service you rendered my daughter I thank you and will always be grateful. But I believe now it is time for you to go.’ Kit bowed to him, and to his daughter. Bianca took her hand briefly, pressed it. Come again, the pressure said.
Kit walked home clasping her arms against the rain, warm with friendship and hope. She had missed the society of women. Her mother she had never mourned since she left the farm without looking back, but she often missed Maura’s wisdom and regard, and had enjoyed, today, the balm of female company.
The next day she returned to the house, and the next, and the next. Each day Bianca thought of a new way to bring her back – a promised map of the hills which she would get drawn tomorrow – she would talk to her father’s carter tomorrow – Kit could reach Cremona on the meat truck and be back by the dragoons’ curfew. Tomorrow; always tomorrow. Eighty-six days without Richard. Eighty-seven. One day she had to refuse to return the next day; the dragoons had been told that they would at last meet the fabled duke at the castle above Rovereto. ‘I know,’ said Bianca calmly, ‘my father has already sent his best cuts to the castle. All the regiments will muster there.’
There was a silence. Kit looked from the casement at the mountains, beautiful and peaceful for now. ‘Signorina Bianca. What do you think of the war?’
‘I don’t know.’ Bianca smiled a little. ‘My father says that war is not the concern of women.’
Now Kit smiled. ‘Sometimes it can be.’ Then she urge
d, ‘Think. Use your mind. Your opinion matters. You, and all the citizens of Rovereto, have to live with the war. You are now a garrison town, and must expect battle daily.’
Bianca shook her head, at a loss. ‘I suppose … I place my trust in our Prince Eugene. I know that he will protect us – that you will all protect us.’ She stood to take her leave of Kit. ‘Not tomorrow, then. But perhaps the day after?’
Kit felt a pang of envy this time as she left. Just for a fleeting moment, just as she had once stood in Kavanagh’s bar and longed for adventure, she considered how comfortable it must be not to worry about such things, war and borders and living and dying and the crushing responsibility of keeping safe the daughters of butchers and bakers and chandlers. What ease to hide behind pearls and curls and corsets and petticoats, safe and protected by men …
Chapter 13
Now mark what followed and what did betide …
‘Arthur McBride’ (trad.)
Immaculate in his uniform, Captain Ross was king of the market square.
Kit was jolted by his appearance. His hair had been trimmed and tamed, his uniform dressed and his boots polished – he was magnificent. But it was only right that they were distanced, she told herself – she might this very day be reunited with her husband, and the insuperable chasm of rank made it easier to be parted from her captain.
Besides, Ross had with him a constant companion. The field surgeon Atticus Lambe was even now at his elbow – he wore the colour sash of the dragoons but his suit of clothes was charcoal grey; he was armed but lightly, and the weak sun burnished his hay-coloured hair, for he wore no hat. Lambe talked in an undertone to Ross, smiling rarely, the small pince-nez on his nose flashing two bright circles as he became animated. But the sun shone on the rest of them too, and Kit was glad to be with her regiment once again, lined up and pristine and primed for action. Her heart gladdened to see Flint, who had been at livery in the town for the last week. Southcott, O’Connell, Hall and the rest, who had spent the week in jug-bitten, dishevelled mayhem, had become smart, erect and dangerous cavalrymen again. She’d even missed the odious Taylor, shouting at them with spittle-flecked fury about their buckles and lacings, with his familiar refrain – ‘We wouldn’t have stood for it in the Duke of Marlborough’s household.’ She blocked her ears and fixed her eyes on the castle, solid and crenellated and packed with promise. Far above loomed the snow-capped peaks, mountain eagles wheeling blackly above their tops. Kit breathed in the cool sharp air and thought how good it was to be a dragoon. For today she would see Richard again. Ninety days. Three whole months. ‘All the regiments will muster,’ Bianca had said. All.
It was a pleasant ride from the marketplace to the castle, up a vertiginous, well-paved hill and over a high bridge with the sluggish winter waters of the River Leno rolling below.
Under the gatehouse, an ensign checked Ross and his number against a list. And they were through to the vast courtyard, with four crenellated bastions at each corner and a great round barbican at the river drop. The place was crammed with perhaps a thousand company of foot in their brave red coats, and hundreds of cavalry. The place smelled of men and horse and buzzed with anticipation.
Kit lined up with the rest, positioning herself carefully behind Southcott’s bulk, and out of Taylor’s eye, but with a good vantage to watch what was to pass. She searched the white-blobbed faces of the company of foot – looking for Richard’s features, heart beating fast. She would know him at once; but would he recognise her? She could not, for the moment, see him, so she turned her attention to a cohort of Imperial soldiers lining before the doorway of the castle, the black Habsburg eagle on their standard. They wore polished black breastplates and black helmets with bronze facings, and stood in neat ranks, facing front, with their halberds perfectly in line, eyes glittering beneath their helmets.
Kit was so taken by their appearance that she did not at once register the man in their very centre. He sat on a white horse with grey points, as still as a statue. Swamped by a tightly curled grey wig which fell to the saddle, he wore a bronze velvet coat worked delicately with gold filigree at the collar and skirt, and a polished black breastplate chased with bronze curlicues and clasps. A sword, worked with gold at the haft, hung at his scabbard. His eyes were deep set and pleasing but he had what Aunt Maura would call a nose that would spoil a face. His appearance was not unattractive but he seemed rather weak and timid, and his two protruding front teeth put Kit in mind of the coneys she used to snare for the pot. He looked like a man more likely to turn and run than stay and fight. Yet this must be the famed general Prince Eugene of Savoy, victor of untold campaigns. The man who had ordered his forces to gather in the mountain, the man who had given her frostbite, and had driven her into Ross’s arms for warmth. She looked away and again began to scrutinise every white face above every red coat, looking for the much-loved features of Private Richard Walsh.
The wait for Marlborough seemed interminable. The snow began to fall, fine as gossamer, as if even the clouds grew impatient. The greys shifted their weight patiently, and the dragoons began to murmur among themselves.
‘He was once a lowly page for the Duke of York.’
‘He’s the richest man in England.’
‘He shared the old king’s mistress.’
‘Had to jump out of the window once with his cock in his hand.’
‘Frog king Louis himself commended his courage.’
‘Spent a month in the Tower for treason.’
‘And set a crown on William’s head.’
Then, a fanfare cracked the freezing air, and a harbinger rode through the gates and stopped right in the middle of the courtyard. He blew his horn once more and cried, ‘Stand to attention for the Prince of Mindelheim, Prince of Mellenburg, Master-General of the Ordnance and Commander-in-Chief of Her Majesty’s Forces – John Churchill, First Duke of Marlborough.’
The company of foot stood straight as spears. Ross swept his blue eye over his dragoons. This was their commander who came, and they would show him and these foreigners British quality.
Into the courtyard galloped a figure on an ink-black mare. He turned the horse in a circle, and rode her about the front lines of the regiments, clasping hands, chucking cheeks, straightening partisans and hats that he had knocked askew. Despite their orders to be at attention, the troops broke rank and clustered about him, and their sergeants said not a word in protest. One fellow shouted for three cheers for the Duke of Marlborough, and the noise was deafening – a thousand tricorns met the snow in the air and fell back down with it, and there in the centre of it all was the duke. He too was of middle years but could not have presented a greater contrast to the rabbit prince. His face was florid and handsome, his shoulder-length grey wig as bouncy and buoyant as he. He was beaming, and it was as if the sun had come out.
Kit flung her hat in the air with the rest and cheered until her voice was hoarse. She was carried away with pride, pride that he was their commander, pride at the figure he cut next to Savoy. She felt trust, too. Here was a man who would take them into battle but get them out alive and victorious. His titles were like music to her, as were those other, unspoken titles that followed those heralded like the ripples of a stone in a pool. Philanderer. Traitor. Kingmaker. They only added to Marlborough’s overwhelming glamour.
Kit looked across to the Prince of Savoy. His rabbity face was impassive, and his troops did not move a single muscle between them. He dug his spurred heels almost imperceptibly into his horse’s flanks, the statue came alive and he walked his horse to Marlborough’s, until the grey and the black mare were nose to nose. Marlborough, as though he were at his club, thrust out his hand, smiling. ‘John.’
Eugene of Savoy raised one pale plucked eyebrow. ‘Principe Eugenio di Savoia-Carignano.’ The prince put out a limp hand, and shook Marlborough’s lion’s paw with the tips of his fingers. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance at last.’ The prince’s voice was thin and reedy and his protruding te
eth gave him a slight lisp. To Kit’s surprise he spoke English with a French accent. He sounded just like her mother. It made her, instantly, wary of him.
‘Charmed, charmed,’ boomed Marlborough.
‘I congratulate you wholeheartedly on your expedient strategy against the Hollanders.’ Prince Eugene inclined his head a fraction.
‘And I hear you buggered the Turks,’ said Marlborough, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Now let’s deal with these Frogs. After you.’
Marlborough waited for Savoy to dismount first, then the two commanders walked into the castle together. A gilded Imperial marshal rode smoothly over to Ross. ‘His Grace commands that you attend upon him to represent the king’s dragoons. Bring a second and follow me.’
Taylor preened, sure he would be chosen for an audience with his old master. But Ross’s blue gaze swept over him and settled on Kit. ‘Mr Walsh,’ he said, ‘your education continues.’
Taylor’s colour mounted furiously, his lips disappeared in a pinched white line. The dragoons held their collective breath, and even Mr Lambe shook his head. His pince-nez slipped from his nose to the ground. Kit dismounted, retrieved the glasses and returned them to their owner with a bow. The surgeon took them; his white hands, long fingers jointed like a spider, were cold. ‘I thank you,’ he said, his tones as chill as his flesh. Kit bobbed her head and followed Ross.
They entered the warmth of a great hall, with a roaring fire at one end and a minstrel’s gallery at the other stuffed with heralds jostling for position.
There was a great banqueting table in the middle of the hall, loaded with meats and wine – flesh and blood for the officers, the finest cuts that Signor Castellano the master butcher could offer, the very meats which had bought Bianca’s lineage and education.
‘Bring my maps.’ The duke clicked his fingers impatiently and a man rushed to his elbow with an armful of scrolls. Marlborough swept the plates from the table, the lace of his sleeve catching the goblets and sending them crashing to the floor. He rolled the map across the great board, and secured its stubborn corners with four heavy dishes.
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