There was a discernible road leading down to the plain and they followed it until they reached a fork. The sergeant started along the route that led them towards the very heart of the blood-sodden plain. Mary choked back a cry of dismay. It was unthinkable that there could be anyone alive in that hell, yet even from here she could here men groaning, see movement amongst the carcases.
‘No, not that way!’ Lady Sarah’s urgent cry brought them all to a halt.
Looking back, Mary saw that the dog was running to and fro along the other road, the one leading away from the battlefield. She said nothing while the men debated which way to go, but in the end Lady Sarah had her way and they took the less bloody road. The dog bounded ahead of them and in the distance Mary could see a building, some sort of barn. The ground on either side of them was green, although patches of flattened grass and telltale bloodstains showed there had been fighting here. It was only as they approached the building that Mary saw the bodies piled against its outer walls.
‘Oh, dear heaven, they are using this as a charnel house!’
The dog was whining and scratching at the barn doors.
‘Justin is in there,’ cried Sarah. ‘I know he is.’
‘We shall see.’
‘Careful, miss,’ cried Sergeant Hollins, but Mary had already dismounted.
Leaving Sarah with the horses, she strode towards the barn. The dog had pushed his way in between the rickety doors and she heard him bark.
‘Well he’s found something,’ exclaimed the sergeant. ‘Dawkins, Cooper, you two stay with Lady Sarah while we has a look.’
Mary swallowed. She had come this far, she would know the truth, however painful. Steeling herself, she reached out and pulled open one of the doors. The heat and stench billowed out to meet her, making her retch. Quickly she turned away while she tied the scented handkerchief over her mouth and nose. It helped, a little.
The sergeant and two of the Rogues pushed the barn doors wide. The sight that met their eyes made Mary recoil and even the men were cursing softly under their breath. There were bodies everywhere, scattered over the floor and piled carelessly on top of one another against the back wall. Desolation swept through her. Nothing moved. If Randall was here, he was dead. The dog was sitting just inside the entrance, staring into one dark corner behind the door, his tongue lolling out as he panted noisily. Mary stepped closer, peering at a small patch of grey amongst the shadows. She gave a cry.
‘Randall!’
The dark uniform was encrusted with dirt and almost black in the gloom, but the jacket was undone and it was the white of his shirt that she had seen. It wasn’t until she fell on her knees beside him that she saw the bloodstain on his chest. As her eyes grew more accustomed to the shadows she saw the bloody gash on his head. It grew even darker as the three artillerymen ran up, adding their shadows to the gloom.
‘My Gawd, he’s dead!’ cried one of them.
‘Well, you two fetch those poles to make the litter,’ growled the sergeant. ‘Dead or no, we’re taking the colonel back to Brussels.’
Mary stared at the motionless figure stretched out on the floor and her eyes filled with tears. He couldn’t be dead. Not this way. Not without saying goodbye. She reached out and touched his fingers. They did not move, but they were pliant. Trembling, she stripped off her gloves and took his hand again. It was warm.
Snatching the handkerchief from her face, Mary wiped her cheeks and moved closer, placing her fingers on the skin of his neck. She held her breath, hardly daring to believe that she could feel the faint beat of a pulse.
‘He’s alive,’ she said, her voice not quite steady. ‘He lives.’
‘No.’ Sergeant Hollins gave a low whistle. ‘Well, bless me!’
The two artillerymen who had gone to fetch the poles, rope and blankets to form the makeshift stretcher returned in time to hear the news and crowded round her.
‘And he’s still got that old sword at his side,’ muttered one of them. ‘Always said it was lucky.’
The sergeant stepped up, saying tersely, ‘It won’t be lucky if he stays in this hellhole, Gunner Stubbs. Let’s get him out of here—’
‘No.’ Mary stopped him. ‘We must not move him yet, Sergeant. First I need to see just how badly he is hurt.’ She had heard Bertrand say often that carelessly manhandling a patient could make injuries much worse. ‘Stand back a little, if you please. I need as much light as possible.’
She forgot the stench and the corpses around her as she began to examine Randall’s inert form. She was no expert, but in her years as a teacher she had dealt with any number of accidents and she had learned a great deal more in the last couple of days. She could find no broken bones. One sleeve was ripped, but there was no more than a graze on his arm and the gash on his leg was no longer bleeding. Of more concern were the wounds on his chest and temple. Mary used the clean water from the flask she had brought with her to damp a cloth and wipe away the blood from his head. The cut was not large, but it had bled profusely and the skin around it was badly bruised.
‘Not a sword cut, that,’ opined the sergeant, watching her work. ‘P’raps he bashed his head when he fell.’
‘Very likely,’ she said.
It would need to be bandaged, but first she had to turn her attention to the most worrying sign of injury. With trembling fingers she unfastened his shirt. The blood was still oozing from small neat hole in his chest.
‘He has been shot,’ she said, trying to keep the panic from her tone. She folded one of the cloths she had brought with her into a pad and held it over the hole. ‘Help me to lift him, Sergeant Hollins. Carefully, now.’
After a few moments she said, ‘I c-cannot see that the ball has come out at the back. It must be still in him.’
Gunner Stubbs stepped closer. ‘Can you take it out, miss?’
In other circumstances the soldier’s faith in her ability would have made her smile. Sadly, she shook her head.
‘No. I will bandage his wounds, then we must get him back to Brussels.’
‘Are we going to carry him all the way back?’
She shook her head. ‘Not exactly, Sergeant. I thought we might lash the front of the poles into the stirrups of the quietest horse. Then we will only need two of you to hold the other ends. It is important that we move Colonel Randall as carefully as possible.’
‘It’ll have to be your horse then, miss,’ replied Gunner Brent. ‘None of they cavalry horses would bear having anything behind ’em.’
‘So be it.’ Mary rose and shook out her skirts. ‘Fixing the poles might be more difficult to a lady’s saddle, but we shall manage. Let us get to it.’
She prayed it would work. It took a little time to fix the poles to Marron and lift Randall on to the makeshift litter. It was only when they were preparing to leave that Mary realised Lady Sarah was missing.
Sergeant Hollins scratched his head. ‘Must’ve taken off while we was busy in the barn.’
‘Dawkins and Cooper’s gone, too, miss,’ remarked Gunner Brent.
The sergeant shook his head when he saw Mary’s horrified look.
‘I wouldn’t vouch for all the Rogues, but those two wouldn’t do her no harm, miss, especially knowing she’s the colonel’s sister.’
‘She was looking pretty queer last time I saw her,’ offered Gunner Stubbs. ‘P’raps she was feeling so ill she wanted to go home.’
‘That could be it,’ said Mary doubtfully. She looked around. There was no sign of the three riders, nor any indication which way they had gone.
Sergeant Hollins batted away a fly.
‘Dog’s gone with ’em,’ he remarked.
Mary gave a little sigh of exasperation.
‘Well, we cannot waste time looking for her. Lord Randall must be conveyed back to Brussels as quickly as possib
le and I shall need you all to help me.’
The little party set off. It was slow work, for they could only go at walking pace and Mary was anxious that they avoid jarring Randall’s battered body. She was desperately worried about the wound to his chest. She said nothing to the others, but she was fearful that if the ball had entered some vital organ all their efforts might yet be in vain.
She walked beside the litter, occasionally wiping Randall’s face and forcing a little water between his parched lips. Occasionally her eyes went to the sword still strapped to his side. He had found it. He must know now she had not taken it. It was a small consolation and seemed trivial compared to the task of getting Randall back to Brussels alive. He showed no signs of consciousness and she kept putting her hand to his neck to reassure herself that the faint pulse was still there.
* * *
It was dark by the time they reached Brussels. The sergeant ordered Gunner Stubbs to run ahead so that when they arrived at the Rue Ducale, Robbins was ready for them and helped to carry the seemingly lifeless body upstairs to the bedchamber.
‘Lieutenant Foster is on his way,’ said the manservant, regarding his master with worried eyes.
The sergeant touched Mary’s arm.
‘You’ll stay and nurse him?’
She glanced at Robbins, wondering if he would object to her presence, but she read only worry and consternation in his face.
‘It would help to have another pair of hands, Miss Endacott.’
‘So you’ll stay?’ Sergeant Hollins said again. ‘You’ve been nursing other soldiers, you’ll know what to do.’
Their confidence in her was touching. She only hoped it was not misplaced.
‘I will stay, Sergeant. Perhaps you will take Marron back to the schoolhouse, and ask my maid to pack a bag for me and send it here? Tell her to pack my grey gown; it is the most suitable for nursing.’ It was also extremely plain. Not the gown any mistress would wear. There must be no misunderstanding of her role here. Mary was bone-weary, but she summoned up a smile for the men who were crowded together near the door. ‘Thank you, gentlemen, you have been magnificent. You may be sure your colonel shall know of your efforts, when he comes round.’
She would not admit the possibility that Justin might not live, even to herself. The men looked pleased if a little uncomfortable to be addressed as gentlemen. They shuffled out and soon it was only Robbins and Mary left in the room. For a while they stood in silence, staring at Randall.
‘I will not leave him,’ said Mary. ‘Not until he is out of danger. One way or another.’
‘No, ma’am.’ Robbins coughed. ‘I believe there is a small room next door that is not in use. I will ask the landlady to prepare a bed for you.’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘I will do it now,’ he continued. ‘And I shall bring water and a nightshirt for his lordship.’
When he had gone Mary felt very alone. The silence pressed in on her, the fears she had refused to acknowledge throughout the day now mocked her and she could not keep back her tears. She fell to her knees beside the bed.
‘Oh, Randall, don’t die,’ she whispered, clutching at the bedcovers. ‘Don’t leave me. Even if I never see you again I could not bear for you to die.’
Her words disappeared into the silence. No one responded, there was no comfort to be had from Randall’s breathing, so shallow and quiet that it was hard to believe he was still alive.
* * *
When Robbins came back Mary’s momentary weakness had passed. She was on her feet, her calm demeanour restored, and she helped Robbins to undress Randall. They worked steadily by candlelight, cutting away the tattered uniform and washing the blood and grime from his body. Mary gently cleaned and bandaged the wounds on his head and leg as Bertrand had shown her, but the ominous little hole in his chest she left for the brigade surgeon.
* * *
Lieutenant Foster arrived an hour later. He was looking pale and drawn, dark shadows beneath his eyes hinting at a lack of sleep. He frowned when he saw Mary standing by the bed.
‘Miss Endacott, is it not?’ His cold disapproving manner told Mary he knew that she was Randall’s mistress. Had been his mistress, she corrected herself. ‘I do not think we need detain you any longer. Robbins and I will look after his lordship.’
Mary bridled as his dismissive tone.
‘Since I fetched Lord Randall from the battlefield I consider I have a right to be here, Lieutenant.’
‘But this is no place for you.’
She lifted her chin and glared at him. Let him try and dislodge her!
‘If I might say so, sir...’ Robbins gave a deprecating cough ‘...Miss Endacott knows a bit about nursing, Lieutenant Foster. I could do with her assistance, having no one else here to help me.’
After a brief inward struggle the surgeon shrugged.
‘Very well. Perhaps, Miss Endacott, you will bring those candles a little closer and I will see what I can do.’
* * *
‘The wound to his head is not serious, neither is the cut to his thigh.’ The surgeon washed his hands, his examination of Lord Randall finished. ‘I have bled him and bound him up, but apart from that there is very little I can do. The earl has a musket ball lodged in his chest. It does not appear to have touched any of the vital organs, but it is very close. However, he has survived this long and there is no reason why he should not make a good recovery.’
‘You are not going to remove it?’
‘Good heavens, no. One slip of the knife and I should kill him for sure. No. It is best we leave it to God. I know of cases where men have gone on for years with a bullet in them. Young Lord March, for example. Took a ball in the chest at Orthès two years ago and lived to fight in this engagement. He is very well, save for a tendency to pass out if there is a sudden drop in temperature.
‘No, leave well alone is my advice. The first forty-eight hours are the most dangerous. Lord Randall must be kept as still as possible. You will also need to be vigilant. If he shows any signs of fever, call me and I will bleed him again. I do not foresee any difficulties, however. The colonel is very strong; he has a good chance of survival.’
‘I do not want him to have a good chance,’ said Mary, trying to stay calm, ‘I want him to have the best.’
‘Of course you do, madam, and if you follow my advice I think you will find that Lord Randall will pull through. I have some experience of these matters, you know.’
His comfortable tone set Mary’s teeth on edge and she almost expected him to pat her on the head before he left the room.
* * *
Mary and Robbins shared the night-time vigil of sitting with Randall. He did not wake, but Mary was encouraged when, towards dawn, he became restless. Rather than lift him she dipped a sponge into water and held it against his lips. His eyelids flickered but did not open fully and after a few minutes he sank back into unconsciousness again. Mary resumed her seat by the bed, reaching out to take his hand and hold it between her own. It was a tiny comfort.
There was no future for them together, she knew that now. She could never forget his lack of trust or the hateful things he had said to her. She had thought of little else since that horrid ball, when her world had fallen apart. How long ago was it? She glanced at the window, where the grey dawn was lightening the sky. It must be Tuesday. Five days that seemed like a lifetime. She had lived in a twilight world of unhappiness, grieving and anger over Randall’s unjust tirade, and at the same time feeling agonisingly fearful for his safety. Now he was here, wounded but alive, and she was at his side, nursing him. She would stay as long as he needed her, then she would leave him and begin to make a new life for herself. A life alone.
* * *
Randall was conscious, but he was lying at the bottom of a deep, black pit. It was warm and comfort
able, as long as he did not move. Everything was quiet. He could remember the heat and noise of the battle, the thunderous roar, the shouts, screams, but it must be over now. The comfortable blackness lifted a little. He became aware that his body ached, his head was throbbing and there was the tightness of a bandage on his thigh. His ribs, too, were tightly bound so that he could not take a deep breath.
He lay very still, eyes closed. He was no longer on the battlefield. He must be in bed, and a town, because he could hear the faint ring and clatter of horses and wagons in the street. He tried opening his eyes and recognised his lodgings in the Rue Ducale. Someone was moving quietly about the room, but it was not Robbins, it was a woman. She had her back to him and all he could see was the dull grey gown. A nun, perhaps? No, her head was uncovered. He recognised that dark hair, it was strained back into a tidy knot but he had seen it falling in glossy waves over her shoulders.
Mary. That was not right. He had sent her away. They had argued. No. He had been angry. She had said nothing, just looked at him, her eyes full of pain. His brain was sluggish; he struggled to make sense of the thoughts and memories that were flooding in. He had accused her of taking the Latymor sword, but she had not done so. It had been Gideon. And Gideon was dead.
There had been no time to mourn in the midst of battle, but now the memory of his brother’s death cut through Randall like a knife and he shifted in the bed, as if trying to evade its sting.
That small movement made Mary turn to him. Her face was pale and anxious. He wanted to say something, to drive the shadows from her eyes, but he could not speak.
‘I am helping Robbins to nurse you,’ she said quickly. ‘There are so many wounded men and Lieutenant Foster can spare no one.’
A Lady for Lord Randall Page 21
