Kit (18 page)

‘Yes. From Salamanca,’ Marlborough growled sulkily.

Savoy smiled a little. ‘Where all this coil began. You play often?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well?’

‘Tolerably.’ Modesty sat awkwardly on the duke.

‘Tell me,’ said Savoy, walking to the box. ‘When you play, do you send all your pawns out in a line and expose your king? Or do you move just so many as to send forth your flanking pieces to infiltrate your enemy lines; a bishop perhaps, or a knight?’ He picked a piece out with his little fingers – a white knight. Kit suddenly felt a chill of premonition. The little ivory horsehead gleamed in the firelight. ‘My dear Marlborough. I thank you and your excellent queen for coming to our aid. But this is an Imperial manoeuvre.’

Marlborough crashed his fist on the map. ‘
You
asked for us to come – your master the Emperor
begged
our queen for alliance. And now we are all amassed, surely you have a plan to use us?’

‘Certainly. I am merely concerned with logistics – logistics can have an army on their knees quicker than the fiercest enemy.’

‘I am well aware of that,’ countered Marlborough testily. ‘At Venlo, at Roermond, at Stevensweert …’

‘I too,’ cut in Savoy. ‘Remember I – how did you put it? – “buggered the Turks”. All your campaigns have been on flatlands. You are in the mountains now.’

‘Then why the devil bring us here?’ exploded Marlborough.

‘My dear duke,’ said Savoy quietly, ‘they have no idea how many we are. They will not venture here; the ways are too hard. We are a vast force, we have sneaked round to their rearguard, and we are hidden. But your advantage is
me
. I know these hills, this is
my
country.’

Marlborough snorted. ‘You were raised in Versailles at the queen’s tit.’

‘Indeed,’ said Eugene of Savoy calmly. ‘So I know Louis very well. We were once as brothers. He will not make his move yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because winter is here. Cremona is a citadel, just like Mantova. They will sit there all winter, safe and warm, and we may besiege them all we may. They will blow the bridges, pull up the drawbridges.’

‘Then why did you bring us here? Why now?’

‘Because they will not expect it. And I like to do the unexpected.’ Savoy walked to the map. ‘If we show our hand in an all-out assault, we may be driven back to the mountains. And if we have to winter in the mountains we will all starve by Candlemas. Our horses will be eating leaves, our men will be eating horses. We will retake the lowlands in time, but we need to weaken the French
first
.’ The prince delicately placed the white knight on the map next to the black king at Cremona. ‘I would suggest that we leave the lion’s share of the troops here. We send the cavalry, your dragoons and mine, down to Cremona. We will enter the city by stealth, through the aqueduct. I already have some of your sappers working there.’ Kit held her breath. Was Richard among them? ‘We surprise the French in their beds. We take Villeroi prisoner.’ Savoy knocked over the black king. ‘Without their commander, all will be confusion. Then we mobilise. Lorraine-Vaudémont can bring my company of foot through the Po gate, and you cut off the retreating French force at Luzzara. Then you may fire all the cannon, drum all the drums and draw all the swords that you want.’

The two eyed each other. Then Marlborough began to smile. He banged the Prince of Savoy between his shoulder blades. ‘It might just work. Damn me, you little Frog. It might just.’

The two generals talked long into the night, until Kit’s eyes began to droop. Ross, as the commander of the dragoons, was ever at the duke’s elbow. She did not understand a half, even one quarter, of what was said. But she understood one thing – she had underestimated the Prince of Savoy. He was a formidable strategist. But she was also sensible of what his proposals meant. As the hours passed, the spilt red wine slowly soaked through the map, obliterating Cremona with an ugly red stain.

And bade them take that as fair warning …

‘Arthur McBride’ (trad.)

The morning after the muster at the castle, Kit went to see Bianca for the last time.

The maid showed her though to the salon, but left at once and closed the door behind her. Even then Kit did not take warning and, instead of receiving a heartfelt goodbye, she found herself receiving a proposal of marriage.

Kit looked down at the beautiful girl, in her expensive clothes and her expensive salon, and cursed the impulse that had led to her visit this house a week ago. A woman loved a man dressed in women’s clothes. It would have been a ludicrous enough plot in a play.

She took Bianca’s smooth white hands in her rough ones. ‘I thank you for the honour you do me,’ she said carefully. ‘But I cannot raise your hopes, for there are certain … obstacles which would make our match impossible.’

‘Surely love can surmount them?’

‘And what of your father?’ Kit said. ‘I could not expect a rich butcher to give your hand to a foot soldier; you spoke once, yourself, of the objections to such an alliance.’

Bianca freed her hands, only to clasp Kit’s more ardently. ‘Then we will run together.’

Kit shook her head. ‘How could I deprive your father of his daughter, and deprive you of a fortune? Think, Bianca. You would be stripped of all the comforts of life, exposed to hardships, and gain in return only the reputation of a woman who follows camp.’ Kit’s mother had been just such a creature – had left her country and her family to follow Sean Kavanagh – yes, she had loved him, but she had twined around him like a vine around an oak, and when he had been felled, could not stand up without him. She had rued the life she had chosen, and longed for the one she had left behind in Poitiers, as the daughter of a French enameller, with the finest house in town, a queue of suitors and every comfort a wealthy young heiress could enjoy. Comfits and puppies and golden harpsichords were things she could happily eschew for a living lover, but things to be mourned and lacked for a dead husband. Yes, Kit could have waxed quite lyrical on the subject.

‘Such a reputation would mean nothing to me,’ insisted Bianca. ‘Let them call me a camp-follower and worse. Words cannot injure me.’

‘Yet last week you would not even wear my coat, for fear of what people might say. Are you saying now that words are nothing?’

‘All such things could be borne, so long as I am with you.’

‘No.’ Kit took the girl by the shoulders. ‘If a likely fellow presents himself, and there is love in the case, pledge yourself to another with my blessing. I must take my leave – we are to muster at the market for your prince.’ At least this was the truth. Kit bowed to Bianca, who cast herself on a sofa, weeping, and let herself out of the parlour door.

Signor Castellano was waiting in the atrium. Kit bowed respectfully and made for the front door, but Bianca’s father beckoned her. The fingers were chubby for a slim man, the flesh stretched and mottled – they resembled raw sausages.

Signor Castellano’s own room was as male as Bianca’s was female – crammed like a cabinet of curiosities with many objects – knives of all kinds, stuffed animals, wooden globes and books crammed into shelves. Some of them were upside down – Signor Castellano was no reader whatever his collection claimed. He crossed the room and took a bottle and two crystal glasses, pouring a slick of amber liquid into each. He handed a glass to Kit. ‘I give you the Prince of Savoy.’

Kit raised her own. ‘The Duke of Marlborough.’

‘So.’ Signor Castellano walked to his window to look at his mountains. ‘Off to Cremona, eh?’

‘That’s it, sir.’

‘I imagine I will not be seeing you at my door again.’

Kit looked up sharply, but Signor Castellano still faced the window, and his powdered pigtail told her nothing. ‘No, sir.’

‘You know,’ said Bianca’s father, still addressing the view, ‘there are pigs in those mountains. You can’t see them from here, but they are there. They go high, oh, thousands of feet up. They can climb anything. People hunt them, have for centuries. And it’s worth it. They’re very tasty. Not fat, quite lean, but the meat … well, you’ve never had anything like it.’

He turned. ‘You’ve got to follow them for days sometimes to get hold of them; but you always find them in the end if you know how to track them. And I do know how to track them.’ He crossed the room and took hold of the upper part of Kit’s arm in a butcher’s pinch. ‘Not much meat on you, signor, but by God, I’d find some.’

Kit shook her head slightly. ‘Sir, I assure you, in respect of your good daughter, you have …’

‘Shhh.’ He raised one of the sausage fingers. ‘I find specifics vulgar. I’m sure you take my meaning.’

Kit set down her glass carefully. ‘I do, sir.’

‘Then I drink your very good health.’ Signor Castellano drained his glass, his eye bright with murder.

‘And yours, sir.’ Kit did not touch her glass. Signor Castellano turned back to the mountains where the pigs lived and Kit stole from the house, dismissed.

She was so upset by the little interview that she did not see Sergeant Taylor in the street, lurking beyond the frescoed corner.

And we scarce gave them time for to draw their own blades …

‘Arthur McBride’ (trad.)

Padre Alessandro Mattei was expecting the knock on his door that evening.

His benefice, a few miles distant from the city of Cremona, afforded him an unusual stipend – an old palazzo, dating from the time of Dante. But the palazzo itself was commonplace compared to what was beneath it. For the wine cellars, damp, cross-ribbed vaults which flooded year round with a foot of jade-green water, led to one end of a subterranean Roman aqueduct.

The dragoons had been riding for three days to find this place, in the company of Eugene of Savoy, and an English colonel wide of girth and loud of voice named Gossedge, whose primary function in the absence of Marlborough was to agree with every word the Prince of Savoy uttered.

The Scots Greys arrived at the palazzo some time after sunset. There was a large orchard in which to tie the horses, and as Kit left Flint munching windfalls, she could see Cremona in the distance. Walls, spires and crenellations – it looked impregnable, and yet, according to their new commander, there was a way in.

Prince Eugene of Savoy knocked at the padre’s door himself with the handle of his Imperial sword, and murmured the password. The oak door opened, and the dragoons, shrouded in black hooded cloaks, streamed through. The cloaks were voluminous enough to conceal some strange weapons – not swords and muskets, but axes and picks. The priest conducted them silently down a spiral stone stair to his vault. They sloshed through the ankle-deep water, past the vast oak barrels and to an old stone archway, much older than the house. Each man took a firebrand, dipped it in a pitch barrel and lit it from the man before. Kit took a light from O’Connell and followed the Prince of Savoy into the dark.

The pitch made a bitter black smoke and the torches threw saffron lights on to the ancient stone. As the dragoons sloshed through the shallow water, Kit remembered Ross’s tales of the Netherlands: ‘our boots were never dry’. This expedition was different. This time they were heading into battle – not a skirmish with a handful of counterfeit monks, but a planned, expected strategy, the siege of a city. And so they had Atticus Lambe with them, black clad as was fitting for a harbinger of injury and death. There were other surgeons in their company – Mr Wilson, Mr Laurence, Mr Sea – but it was Mr Lambe who had been given the care of the Scots Greys and Mr Lambe who claimed Ross’s company at every moment along the road.

Lambe and Ross had much in common – they had been at the same school, they had been up at Oxford, and then their lives had diverged to take in military and medical training. So they had much to say to one another and none of it included Kit. She kept company instead with Southcott, Hall, O’Connell and the others. She had not seen Ross since Rovereto Castle, and to be with him now, in such a confined space, put her out of countenance.

‘The sappers have cleared the way ahead,’ he whispered to her, ‘and reconnoitred the exit. The aqueduct comes out at the western gate of Cremona; little used and lightly guarded. It is walled up, so we must break through. The sappers have helped there too.’

‘Who were the sappers?’ Kit asked.

‘A road gang from Ireland,’ he replied, ‘some of Tichborne’s men.’

Kit’s heart thudded painfully. ‘And where are they now?’

‘Posted inside the city, posing as townsfolk. They’ve been going inside for days, in ones and twos, dressed as priests or peasants; so there will be certain of our men inside, but to take a regiment through that way would have taken a month … Wait.’ He held up a gloved hand. A whisper came down from command, the dragoons stopped. Silent, they listened; far above and far away a great bell tolled. ‘Eleven of the clock,’ said Ross, low voiced. ‘We have an hour to breach the wall.’

The dragoons picked up their pace, and at length the tunnel came out into the dark blue night, the stars. Another command came down; the torches were to be doused, and Kit duly extinguished hers in the icy foot of water, with a reptilian hiss.

They trod the ancient Roman arches, the aqueduct stretching out before them like a ribbon of silver, Roman constellations above. The swan, the lyre, the horse, the giant; stars her father had taught her to read, stars Roman fathers had named for their own children. Before and behind her hundreds of men marched, their breath rising to the stars. The bells rang once, again, a third time. The city loomed black out of the blue night, sleeping, but with a few pinpricks of light here and there, a dragon with his eyes half open.

Ahead she could see Eugene of Savoy, striding ahead, his shorn scalp in the moonlight – he had left off his wig tonight, and his hood. Not for him the comfort of a fireside; he was to be the first in attack, and he waded through the icy water like the rest of them. He too must be feeling that his toes were not his, that his calves burned. She forgave him, almost, for the chilblains of the mountain.