Land of Hope and Glory

by Geoffrey Wilson

  Jack gave a few half-hearted shouts – it would have looked strange if he hadn’t joined in. He felt a flicker in his stomach when he considered what he had to do. He cheered more loudly, trying to drown out his racing thoughts.

  After a few minutes, Sir Gawain raised his hand and the sound dampened.

  ‘You’ve all heard about the great victory at Brighthelm. The Ghost has shown us what we can do when we join together to fight these invaders, these heathens who’ve taken our lands from us.

  ‘Their main army is marching on the city, as you know. Within three days they’ll be here. They want to take our city from us, and our King. They want to put us back in chains. But we will not let them.’

  Sir Gawain gestured to the Sikhs who stood in two rows behind and to the side of him.

  ‘These men have come from India to fight with us. They have sworn to destroy our mutual enemy. Once we win, we will embolden others to rise up, here in Europe and even in the New Colonies across the Atlantic. Everyone is watching us.

  ‘Less than three days, my crusaders. It will be our chance to free ourselves from them for ever. We will not let them take our city. We will stand here, shoulder to shoulder, and we will defeat them.

  ‘Do not lose heart. Victory is within our grasp. And years from now, free English men and women will look back and praise our bravery to the heavens.’

  The crowd gave a wild cheer that punched the sky. Everyone was roaring, shrieking, embracing each other, some even weeping. Chants of ‘God’s will in England’ surged and receded.

  Charles slapped Jack on the back. ‘We’ll do it. We’ll beat them.’

  Jack nodded and gave a brief smile. They all believed, the people about him. They all truly believed they could defeat the Rajthanans.

  But they were deluded.

  He felt distant from them, as though he were in exile in his own country.

  And he felt distant from Elizabeth. She stood on the other side of a divide he couldn’t cross.

  For a moment he wished the rebels really could win, that somehow they could find a way—

  But he stopped himself. What was he thinking? The rebels could never win.

  Was this what it had been like for Elizabeth – listening to some stirring words and then toppling over into the madness?

  It could easily happen. But he wouldn’t give in to it. He had to stay fixed on reality not dreams. He had to stay fixed on saving his daughter.

  Jack slipped down a side street. It was dark, and in his black, hooded cloak he was hidden in the shadows. Ahead, the way opened on to a wider road, where he paused. It was close to midnight, but there was still a handful of people about. Lanterns hung from each building and light, laughter and singing spilt out from the open windows of a tavern.

  He waited until the road was empty, then swept down it, keeping to the darkness, cowl low over his face. Two men stumbled out of the tavern, clinging to each other and talking loudly. Jack moved to the other side of the street and the men staggered on without even noticing him.

  He took the next turn to the right, as he’d been told. It hadn’t taken him long to find out where William was billeted – the whole city was alive with stories of the Ghost. The street ahead was narrower, with few lamps along it.

  He’d gone only a few paces when he heard footsteps ahead. A figure carrying a lantern came round the corner. Jack turned into an alleyway, moving quickly, but not, he hoped, suspiciously quickly. He slid into the shadows.

  The sound of the boots came closer. Jack wasn’t sure whether he’d been seen. The figure with the lantern appeared at the end of the alley. It was a man in the uniform of the city guards – a nightwatchman.

  Jack held his breath and pressed himself deeper into a doorway. There was no curfew, but anyone out late could attract attention.

  The watchman stopped for a second, scratched his backside, spat, and then walked on.

  Jack waited a few minutes and then went back to the street. No one. Silence, save for the sound of the tavern off to the left.

  He pressed on down the street and soon the building he’d been looking for loomed on a corner. It was just as it had been described to him – a four-storey stone house with a gryphon carved in bas-relief above the double doors.

  He shot past the entrance and into a gloomy alleyway that ran along the side of the building. Pausing in the shadow, he stared at the side of the doorway. There were no guards, but he had no doubt the doors would be locked – and even if they weren’t, he couldn’t just walk in. He would be recognised in no time.

  He looked up the wall and saw windows in the storeys above, although there were none at ground level. He might be able to climb up, but the shutters were all closed and it would be hard to get them open from the outside.

  Leaning back against the wall, he felt his heart thudding through his whole body. He shut his eyes for a second. What to do? He had to get into the building somehow. Elizabeth was depending on him.

  For a moment he was running through the dark forest again, following his daughter’s cries, unable to find her, slapping his way through branches, stumbling on the uneven ground . . .

  He opened his eyes and tried to still his mind. He had to concentrate.

  The sound of voices drifted from over a wall further down the alley. He peered into the shadows, but saw nothing other than the thin passage curving away out of sight. The voices became louder – two men talking.

  He edged down the alleyway and stopped beside the wall. The voices were clear for a moment, but before he could catch what they were saying the men walked away, their boots scraping on stone.

  He glanced around again. Seeing no one, he jumped up, getting his fingers over the top of the wall. Giving a slight grunt, he hauled himself to the top and hung there with his feet still dangling on the alley side.

  Below him was a courtyard that backed on to the house where William was supposedly billeted. On this side of the building, every floor had windows, some with the shutters open and breathing soft light into the darkness. Two men were walking inside through a door.

  He waited until the men had disappeared, then pulled himself up until he was sitting astride the wall. His chest was tight and painful. He paused, waiting until he got his breath back.

  What should his next move be? He could easily get into the house – he only had to drop down to the courtyard and run through the half-open door. But what would he do then? It would be better to be cautious, scout out the building a little more first.

  He lifted his leg, swung down to the ground and stumbled back into the shadows. After waiting a few seconds, he stole around the side of the yard and sneaked up to the wall of the house, pressing himself against the stone. Candlelight spilt out of the door. If anyone walked through that door now, they would be able to see him. He had to move fast.

  He crept over to the nearest window. The shutters were open, but little light filtered out. He peered inside. The room was dark, lit only by lines of radiance around the edges of a closed door. After his eyes adjusted, he saw the chamber was empty, save for two rows of unoccupied sleeping mats and a few rucksacks.

  He slipped past the window, came to the door, glanced through the opening and saw a hallway with stairs leading up at the far end. Three lit candles stood on a table about halfway along. The hall was empty, although he could hear voices nearby.

  Scurrying past the door, he came up to the second window, which had one shutter open. Voices drifted from inside – several men talking. He strained to hear, making out snatches of a conversation about an army campaign in Macedonia. The men seemed to be reminiscing about past exploits.

  He crouched and scuttled across to the other side of the window and the open shutter, careful to stay below the line of the windowsill. His breath shortened as he inched his head around the side of the window.

  He needed only a second to take in the scene. Seven men in army uniform were sitting about a table. One of them was William, carving absently at the wooden tablet
op with a knife.

  Jack slipped back into the darkness. Pain jabbed him in the chest. William was so close to him – but what now? He fought to think clearly.

  Once the night was out there would be just seven days before Elizabeth was executed. And he’d been told it would take two days to get to Poole from London on horseback – and even then only if he rode through the nights. Worse still, the Rajthanans were due in a few days’ time and once they attacked everything would be out of his control.

  Was he going to kill William? Capture him and hand him over to the Rajthanans?

  Could he bring himself to do that?

  He was in a worse position now than when he’d been hunting William in Dorsetshire. Back then at least he’d only had to find William – Sengar and the French would be doing the rest – but here in London it was all down to him.

  He remembered all those times he and William had prepared to go into battle. He remembered standing in the trench at Ragusa, waiting in that terrible silence after the guns had stopped, waiting for the horns to sound the attack.

  He should be fighting with William, not against him.

  Maybe he could go to William and beg for his help?

  No, there was no chance of that. William would never leave the city now with the Rajthanans approaching. Would he even want to help Jack after everything that had happened? And anyway, the English could never hope to raise an army large enough to march on Poole – the Rajthanans were too strong.

  There was a creak and a scrape as the door opened. Jack lurched back from the window. A man stumbled out into the semi-dark.

  Jack’s mouth went dry. He eased himself into the corner where the house met the courtyard wall.

  The man walked unsteadily away from the building, humming tunelessly to himself. He put his arms out before him, as if he were finding it difficult to balance. He seemed drunk.

  He staggered in a diagonal away from the house, heading towards the wall where Jack was hiding. As the man drew closer, Jack made out his features in the dim light. It was Harold – the long-haired man, one of William’s rebels. The last time Jack had seen him he’d had his arm in a sling, but this was gone now.

  Jack tried to stay as still as possible. Harold reached the wall, put out one hand and leant against the stone. Although Jack was hidden in the shadows, Harold would only have to turn his head to see him. Jack’s hand tensed around the knife. What would Harold do if he saw him? In Dorsetshire he’d wanted to kill him.

  There was a sound like rolling marbles and Jack realised Harold was urinating. Jack’s hand eased slightly, but he still held the knife handle. A long time seemed to pass, but perhaps it was less than twenty seconds. Harold stood up straight again and looked back the way he’d come. But he didn’t move. He just stood there, swaying, as if lost in thought. Jack willed Harold to move on. Why was he still standing there?

  Finally, Harold belched and meandered back to the house. Soon he disappeared inside.

  Jack breathed out. His heart was beating quickly and pain crackled in his chest. That had been too close. He would have to be more careful next time. If he was going to get William back to Poole, he needed to plan things carefully. And right now he could do nothing while William was sitting with his own men.

  He stole around the edge of the courtyard and reached the wall opposite. Tonight he’d done as much as he could. Now he needed to think through what his next move should be.

  He made his way back across London to his billet. A soldier guarding the gate admitted him with a nod and he went through the dark, arched passage and into the courtyard. The yard was silent. He could just make out the men sleeping beneath the canopies around the edges.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  He was startled by the voice in the darkness. To his left he saw a faint red glow. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the outline of a hookah with a man sitting cross-legged beside it.

  ‘It’s me,’ came the voice, and this time he recognised it – Charles.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Jack walked over. He spoke quietly, not wanting to wake the others.

  ‘Can’t sleep.’ Charles’s voice sounded flat.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  Charles moved in the darkness, but didn’t say anything.

  Jack lifted a pipe and inhaled. The coals at the top of the hookah glowed brighter and Charles’s face appeared for a moment – a red spirit – before vanishing again.

  ‘You’re out late,’ Charles said.

  ‘Met an old friend. From the army.’

  ‘I found out about my regiment – the 12th.’

  ‘They’re here, then?’

  Charles paused. ‘No. Didn’t make it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They were sent to south Hampshire after I left them. They were in the fighting. Rajthanans smashed them to pieces.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Don’t know. There were heavy losses. All the rest ran off. Who knows where they are now?’

  ‘Ah . . .’

  ‘End of the regiment. It’s all gone. All the men, the officers, the standard. Finished.’

  ‘That’s evil news. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Suppose that’s war.’

  ‘It is.’

  There was nothing more to say.

  They continued puffing into the night, the aromatic smoke swirling between them like silent words.

  Jack glanced at Charles as they stood looking down from the city walls. Charles had been quiet all morning. The news about his regiment must have hit him hard. He was young. Probably the first time he’d had friends killed.

  But Jack had his own worries. He’d agreed to come to the wall when Charles and Saleem had invited him, but he didn’t plan on staying long. He had to get over to William’s billet, had to find a way to get to his friend.

  The wall stretched away from them in both directions, dipping and rising with the gentle curve of the land. Half a mile to the east lay the point where the dark stone changed to a lighter grey, the beginning of the so-called ‘New Wall’ built some 300 years ago by the Moors. The entire London wall had been extended, repaired and rebuilt many times and now the strength of the fortifications varied greatly. Jack had seen parts of the wall that looked ancient, the battlements worn and crumbling. But other sections were formidable, ten feet thick and at least fifty feet high.

  At regular intervals, square, round and octagonal towers rose from the ramparts, and here and there guns had been set up, pointing out at the plains.

  The four bastions that formed the fortress-like Moor Gate stood nearby. Looking down, Jack could see a column of people streaming out of the opening. They were mostly women, children and the elderly. The Rajthanans were two day’s march away and Sir Gawain had advised all those who weren’t going to fight to leave the city. Men waved goodbye to their wives, children and parents. People hugged, held hands, began to part, embraced again. A crowd had gathered on both sides of the road to watch the column amble away. People carried as much as they could on carts or on their backs – chairs, tables, wardrobes, rolled-up rugs, chickens, geese.

  A quarter of a mile from the walls, the road split into a series of stone causeways that led across the marshes. A pair of villages lay in the distance, and beyond them heavily wooded hills. Away to the west, the city had expanded beyond the walls, and houses, cottages and churches trickled off into the fields.

  There were shouts below. Five men had stopped a young man driving a cart. Even from up on the wall Jack could make out the cries.

  ‘Coward! He’s leaving the city!’

  ‘Stay and fight!’

  ‘Traitor!’

  The man in the cart waved his arms about, as if shooing away flies. The crowd became agitated and more people gathered around. The man picked up what looked from a distance like a cudgel and the mob reacted quickly. The man was dragged from the cart and across the ground. Men swarmed around him like wild dogs, kicking and shouting.

  Guards rushed out
from the gate and forced back the crowd. The man clambered to his feet and limped over to the cart. The guards kept the mob at bay until he’d trundled away.

  ‘Coward.’ Charles spat on the walkway, then walked off and clattered down the steps.

  ‘Charles.’ Saleem went to follow.

  But Jack held his arm. ‘Leave him.’

  They watched as Charles crossed the street on the inner side of the wall and disappeared into the bustling city.

  ‘He told me about his regiment,’ Saleem said.

  Jack nodded. He looked back at the line of people leaving the gate. He thought of Charles’s mother, of how he’d promised to protect her son.

  ‘You sure this is your fight?’ he asked Saleem abruptly. He surprised himself saying it.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know. You’re . . . not a Christian.’

  Saleem looked at the ground and his eyes widened and moistened.

  Jack cleared his throat. ‘I just meant, you don’t have to be here. No one expects you to.’

  ‘I want to be here,’ Saleem said quietly. ‘I know what people say about me, but I’m going to prove them wrong.’

  Jack clenched his fist. Saleem was irritating him again. The lad was a fool and knew nothing about what he was getting into. And yet, at the same time Jack’s throat felt swollen and his face prickled. Saleem had spoken bravely – he was a true patriot.

  Jack patted Saleem on the shoulder, his voice cracking slightly as he said, ‘Good lad.’

  Jack sat beside the window, slightly to the side and partially hidden by the open shutter. He was on the third floor and had a clear view across to the building where William was billeted.

  He’d been watching all afternoon. He’d seen Harold come and go several times and other people had left regularly. But so far there’d been no sign of William.

  One day had passed since he’d watched the crowds leaving from the Moor Gate. That meant there were just six days left. Four if he considered the ride back to Poole. And all he could do was watch and wait.