A Lady for Lord Randall

by Sarah Mallory

  The Rogues began to cheer and Randall’s deafened ears picked up the thud of a drumbeat, soft and steady. He looked back. To the rear of his men a thin, straggling line of infantry was coming up the rise towards him. They marched past the squares and the guns, across the road and proceeded steadily down the slope towards the enemy. The gunfire from the far hill continued, taking down a few men, but soon the guns fell silent and that ragged line continued to advance. What was left of the squares on either side of Randall’s troop dissolved into lines and followed, their weapons at the ready.

  ‘By God we’ve done it,’ said a voice at his shoulder.

  ‘Aye, Major Flint. We’ve done it. But at what cost?’ Randall saw a stray saddle horse trotting by and shouted to a passing sergeant to catch him.

  ‘Heavy, but we expected that,’ returned Flint gruffly. ‘They say Bartlett’s wounded, but it doesn’t sound serious.’

  ‘The tomcat’s used up another of his lives, has he?’ said Randall. He saw the momentary gleam in Flint’s eyes, surprise that his colonel should know the major’s nickname, but he made it his business to know everything about his men.

  That’s why the losses were so painful.

  He said shortly, ‘Clear up here, Major.’

  The sergeant ran up with the horse and Randall mounted stiffly. He would be bruised later from his fall. And just when did he get that gash on his leg? His pantaloons were ripped open along the thigh and there was dried blood mixed with the mud and grime on the skin, but it was no longer bleeding so he could afford to ignore it for a while. He nodded to Flint.

  ‘Tell the men well done.’

  ‘They’d rather hear it from you, sir.’

  ‘I’ll do that when I return.’ He wheeled the horse about and trotted off.

  With most of the firing ended the smoke began to disperse and as it did so Randall’s head started to clear. A last glance at his troop had shown him the devastation they had suffered. The men were exhausted; those that had survived the battle were lying against the gun carriages, too tired to move. He doubted they had sufficient horses to draw away all the guns. He would deal with that later, if Flint had not already done so by the time he returned. Good man, Flint. Got things done. He’d be a good choice to take over the Rogues, he’d make a success of it. Or anything else he put his mind to, come to think of it. Wouldn’t do to tell him so, though. Prickly devil, his half-brother.

  * * *

  Randall galloped away from the carnage of the main battlefield in the direction of the building he had spotted earlier. A small group of soldiers was coming towards him and he drew rein. Their dark green jackets proclaimed them riflemen.

  ‘You are coming from the barn yonder?’ he said, nodding towards the dilapidated stone structure behind them.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The leading rifleman raised his hand. It was a lacklustre salute, but they looked as exhausted as Randall felt and he was in no mood for formality. ‘It was full of Frenchies. Still is,’ he added. ‘But now they’re dead Frenchies.’

  Randall nodded. That was all he wanted to know. He’d had visions of that thin line of infantry being picked off by the French tirailleurs if they passed close to the barn as they swept up the remnants of the enemy. With that worry out of the way he could return to his men. He rubbed a hand across his eyes. Not yet. A raging thirst had come over him and he realised he had not taken a drink all day. His borrowed horse had no water bottle hanging from the saddle. Randall looked towards the stone building. He could see now that there was a small orchard behind it and a line of lush green growth and reeds snaked past, suggesting a stream. He kicked the horse on. He’d take a drink then get back to his men. The silence of the barn did not worry him, nor the knowledge that it was filled with dead Frenchmen.

  He had no intention of going any closer than necessary. There was indeed a small stream, little more than a trickle running between the high reeds, but it would suffice. He dismounted and dropped to his knees to slake his thirst. The water was sweet and cold and he splashed his face with it. All day the smoke of the battle had hung over the land like a grey raincloud, but now it was lifting and he could see that it was going to be a fine evening. Sitting back on his heels, he unbuttoned his jacket to allow the breeze to cool him. He might even make it back to Brussels tonight. It would be late, but perhaps not too late to call on Mary. He needed to make his peace with her. He could not rest until he had done so.

  Randall glanced up at the blue sky. Would she see him? Would she forgive him? He closed his eyes. If he was in her place he would not do so. Dear heaven, how could he have been so mistaken? He should have known he could trust her. He had always considered himself a good judge of men, but this woman had wrong-footed him from the start. If she’d listen, give him another chance...

  He was preparing to rise when movement caught his eye. There was someone near the barn. Cautiously he raised his head. It was a child, a French drummer boy. How he had come there was a mystery, but he was heading for the barn doors. Randall could imagine the gory scene inside. No child should see that.

  He jumped up and ran forward, shouting to the boy to stop. He did so, but only for a moment. When he saw an English officer running towards him he took to his heels and dashed away. Randall wanted to give chase, but exhaustion had caught up with him. His legs buckled and he stumbled and collapsed on to the ground just in front of the barn. When he looked up again the boy had disappeared. He gave an inward shrug. The lad should be all right. The Allied army was victorious and therefore in good spirits, which made them magnanimous, most of them. He could only hope someone would look after the boy.

  He stood up. His legs were still unsteady and he put his hand on one of the doors. As he did so something glinted in the reeds, very close to where his horse was grazing peacefully. Randall swung round. His hand went to his sword as a loud retort echoed and he felt a sudden hammer blow to his ribs.

  ‘What the—?’

  A French tirailleur rose up from the reeds. So not all the sharpshooters were dead. Randall saw the fellow grab the horse and swing himself into the saddle. Damned impudence! He became aware of a pain in his chest and slid a hand inside his open jacket. There was no mistaking the warm stickiness on his fingers. He glanced down to see the stain blooming on his white shirt.

  Wine red. The colour of the sash on Mary’s dress.

  ‘Mary.’ He swayed, uttering her name as the blackness closed around him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Looking after the wounded left Mary little time for her own troubles, but throughout the day Jacques came in with conflicting reports of how the battle was going. Thankfully those soldiers who were able to speak were confident that Wellington would win the day and their optimism more than countered her manservant’s gloomy predictions. Bertrand stayed until late in the afternoon, doing what he could for the injured men and when he left he promised to send word if he heard anything of the battle. Mary settled down to a lonely dinner. She forbade Jacques to go out again, saying that whether the news was good or bad they would hear it soon enough and besides there was nothing they could do about it.

  * * *

  Dawn was breaking when she was roused by the sound of someone banging on the front door. Dressing quickly she found Bertrand in the hall. He came across and briefly touched her hand.

  ‘The French are beaten, Mary. Brussels is safe.’

  She closed her eyes for a moment, uttering up a thankful prayer.

  ‘But we need to use your classrooms now,’ he continued urgently. ‘I have a wagon outside, full of men with injuries the most serious.’

  ‘Of course.’ She hurried across to the door and threw it open. ‘I had Jacques clear the schoolrooms yesterday, just in case.’ She stood beside him as dishevelled soldiers in filthy uniforms carried in the wounded. She smiled down at each man and uttered a few soft words of greeting.
Not by the flicker of an eye would she betray her dismay at their battered and bloodied appearance.

  ‘Are there many more?’ she asked quietly, when the last man had been taken in.

  ‘Too many. They fill the streets, but they are the lucky ones. Hundreds, non, thousands are still on the battlefield. Every hour they remain untended lessens their chances of survival.’

  ‘Have—have you heard how the artillery fared?’

  Bertrand would know that she was really asking about Lord Randall, but she could not help herself.

  ‘Alas, non. I have no news for you.’

  She nodded, pressing her lips together. There was nothing she could do. If they had not quarrelled Randall might have sent her a note, telling her he was safe. Or asked one of his officers to inform her, if it was bad news. Now she could expect nothing from him.

  ‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘Let us get to work and make these poor men comfortable.’

  * * *

  ‘Mademoiselle, there are soldiers at the door, asking for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Jacques. Tell them I shall be with them in a moment.’ Mary finished tying the bandage around what was left of one man’s arm and hurried to the hall.

  She expected to find more orderlies there with another wagon full of hideously wounded men. Instead she saw five soldiers gathered outside the door. Their blue uniforms were torn and muddy, but she recognised them as artillerymen. Her heart racing, Mary hurried forward, but before she could utter any of the questions bubbling to her lips, one of the men spoke.

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Endacott, but we was wondering, if, well, if Lord Randall was here?’

  She stopped. ‘Lord Randall? Why should he be here?’

  The men shifted awkwardly and glanced at one another.

  ‘What Sergeant Hollins means, miss, is that we can’t find ’im,’ said a soldier with a badly tied and grubby bandage wrapped around his head. ‘He rode off yesterday once the Frenchies were beat and we was expectin’ to find ’im back here in Brussels, but there ain’t no sign of ’im.’

  ‘Oh, good heavens!’

  Mary swayed, putting a hand against the doorpost to steady herself.

  ‘Oxton’s right, miss,’ affirmed the sergeant. ‘We’ve tried all the ’ospitals, even the military one at Mont Saint Jean, but he ain’t there, and we thought, like, since you and the colonel was friends, he might’ve come here. And to be honest, we don’t know where else to look for ’im.’

  She closed her eyes for a moment. They did not know that she and Randall were no longer friends and they had brought her the news she had feared, that he was missing. When she opened her eyes again she found the men were regarding her hopefully.

  ‘I am very sorry,’ she said. ‘He is not here.’

  ‘Then he must still be on the battlefield,’ replied Sergeant Hollins, ‘but I’m dam—I’m dashed if I knows where.’

  ‘Then you must find him, there is not a moment to lose,’ she replied, recalling Bertrand’s words that morning. If only the doctor was here, she would beg him to go with them, but he had returned to the main hospital an hour since. Her eyes went again to the ragged binding wrapped around the head of one trooper. ‘Wait! I shall come with you. If Lord Randall is wounded you may need me. I have been helping Dr Lebbeke here and at least I know how to dress a wound now. ‘

  The men looked at one another.

  ‘It ain’t that we don’t want you to come, ma’am, but we ain’t got a mount for you and there’s not a spare horse to be found in Brussels. They’ve all been commandeered by the mayor. Or the army.’ The sergeant pointed his thumb at the horses standing in the street. ‘We, um, commandeered these ourselves this mornin’. French cavalry ’orses they are, a real handful and no lady’s saddle, either.’

  For the first time that day a genuine smile tugged at her mouth. ‘Do not worry about that, I have a horse of my own hidden away. Jacques, bring these men some refreshments while I get changed. And saddle Marron!’

  Mary scrambled into her riding gown, trying not to think of the last time she had worn it, riding out with Randall. She could not afford to be sentimental. She must concentrate on what might be needed to save Randall, if he was still alive. Once dressed she raced downstairs and filled a saddlebag with the things she thought might be needed to tend a wounded man. At last she was ready and she went out to join the men waiting at the gate. Jacques was there, holding Marron, and she gave him one last instruction. He ran inside, returning a few minutes later with blankets and two long poles.

  ‘We have no wagon to bring Lord Randall back to Brussels,’ she told the astonished artillerymen. ‘You must take these so we can make a litter.’

  The men exchanged looks, then with a shrug, two of them took the blankets and strapped them behind their saddles while two more took a pole each and tucked it under one arm. Dirty and unkempt as they were, they reminded her of a couple of jousting knights. She thought how much Randall would appreciate that image of his Rogues. She bit hard on her lip to stop the tears welling up: if she ever had the chance to tell him.

  Mary was about to mount Marron when she heard a series of loud barks. A large shaggy black dog was racing towards her, followed by a lady on a white horse. Mary’s spirits fluttered. Perhaps Lady Sarah had news of Randall? After all she had the company mascot with her. The animal made straight for the Rogues, frolicking and jumping around them as if they were long-lost friends, but Mary’s hopes that Randall might be safe were soon dashed when she observed Sarah’s dishevelled appearance. Her hair was disordered and her pale blue riding habit was caked in mud, as if she had been rolling on the ground.

  ‘What has happened?’ cried Lady Sarah wildly, ‘Is it Justin? I know he is alive, but where is he?’

  Mary took a moment to compose herself so that she could speak calmly and explain the little she knew to Randall’s sister. Sarah’s conviction that Randall was not dead was heartening, but totally without foundation, as was her assertion that Fate had brought her and the dog to the Rue Haute in time to accompany them. Mary shook her head.

  ‘I think you would be better returning to Antwerp,’ she said. ‘You are in no fit state to come with us.’

  ‘I have been looking for Gideon and I will not, cannot, give up my search,’ replied Lady Sarah, clearly trying hard not to cry. ‘I cannot go back until I know what has happened to my brothers.’

  Despite her own worries, Mary recognised that Sarah was distraught, but if Randall was alive he would not thank her for allowing his sister to visit the battlefield. She was about to say as much when she noticed that the men were looking considerably more cheerful.

  ‘Dog’s got a good nose, ma’am,’ said the sergeant, scratching the animal’s shaggy head. ‘He’ll find the colonel for us, I’m sure.’

  Mary took another glance at Sarah’s determined face. If she argued they would waste more time, so she gave in with as good a grace as she could muster. When she was mounted she brought her chestnut hack alongside Sarah’s showy mount.

  ‘Here.’ She held out a large pocket handkerchief. ‘Take this. I have drenched it in scent; we may need it when we get to the battlefield. I have a house full of soldiers with the most appalling wounds, and sometimes the smell is—’ She broke off, just the thought of it turning her stomach. ‘Luckily I have prepared more than one.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Lady Sarah gave her a tremulous smile and Mary realised how hard and practical she must appear to a society miss like Lady Sarah Latymor. Perhaps she was, but she feared they would both need nerves of iron to get through the coming ordeal.

  * * *

  The road to Waterloo was teeming. Carts and wagons jostled for space with crowds of ragged soldiers. Nearing the battlefield they saw signs of freshly dug graves and soon they reached the bloody killing fields themselves. She held the scented handkerch
ief to her nose as soon as the now-familiar smells of death and decay rose up. After the past few days Mary thought she was inured to the sounds of men screaming in agony and the sight of their bloodied, lacerated bodies, but nothing could have prepared her for the hellish landscape around her. There was nothing but devastation wherever she looked. What she had not bargained for was the sound of gunfire. She looked a question at the sergeant, who replied through gritted teeth.

  ‘They’re shooting the wounded, ma’am. Those that ain’t got no chance of surviving. Putting them out o’ their misery.’

  Dear heaven, don’t let Randall be amongst them.

  Forcing her mind to the task of finding him, Mary said briskly, ‘We should start where you last saw the colonel.’

  They took her to the ridge and clattered along the raised road. Mutilated bodies and broken wagons lined the way, and when they reached the spot where the artillery had been stationed the signs of carnage were everywhere, muddied corpses of horses and men lay where they had fallen. She glanced behind. Lady Sarah was looking very pale and Mary felt a quick stab of sympathy for her desperate appearance. She had not asked, but she hoped Sarah had suffered nothing worse than a muddied habit while she had been riding alone, looking for her brothers. One of the Rogues was riding with her now and the shaggy dog was loping along beside her horse so Mary turned back, concentrating on keeping her own fear and nausea under control. The sergeant stopped and turned to the gunner riding beside him.

  ‘You saw him last, Brent,’ he barked. ‘Tell the lady.’

  ‘He went off just after the duke had passed by,’ said Brent. ‘Followed the infantry down there, he did.’

  ‘Then that is what we shall do,’ declared Mary.

  Turning her horse from the road, she made her way towards the plain spread below them. She imagined it had once been a rich green, or perhaps golden with corn. Now it was nothing more than a vast and muddy expanse, littered with the dead. Mary forced herself to look at the horror surrounding them, searching for Randall. The recent rain had softened the ground and now it was saturated with blood and it sucked noisily at the horses’ hoofs. In the distance people were walking amongst the corpses. Looters, possibly. She was suddenly very thankful for her ragged escort.