Perhaps it was the war, perhaps it was the fact that Queenie Charles had been kicking him in the balls with an army boot for the better part of five minutes, or perhaps it was the strain of being walked around the rococo suite on the end of a silk scarf that had been fashioned into a dog’s leash, but whatever the cause, he had aged by a decade since he’d shed his uniform.
“Daddy.” Queenie pouted his most beautiful pout and danced his fingers through the general’s white hair. If his real daddy had been a general perhaps he wouldn’t be here at all, but Alfred Charles was a clerk, a nobody, so his son was a manure-shoveling groom. “Your Queenie is not a happy little thing.”
“Yes, my lady, what is it?”
“Look at my hands.” He held them out, showing off his pale, smooth palms and elegant fingers, the nails almost pristine but not quite. “I’m not made to shovel shit, am I? It occurs to me that I’m made for chateau life!”
“My elegant Dotty-Dolly, my lovely girl.” The general clasped Queenie’s hands and pressed them to his mouth. He winced slightly as he shifted on the pillows. “You have claws, too.”
“They are not half so sharp as Captain Thorne’s temper.” His pout grew more dramatic. “He has been very cruel to me, Daddy, because I wanted to stay true to you. I know he has been spreading the most nasty rumors about me, you cannot believe anything he tells you!”
“A report has come across my desk from Thorne, about certain…” Bowes-Fitzgerald cleared his throat. “I don’t have to read it, Dotty-Dolly. Would you like Daddy to tear it up for candle-spills?”
“And perhaps just a little, tiny signature from my daddy might move me into the chateau? I’d be so much happier polishing an officer’s cap badge than shoveling up muck in a nasty old yard.” Queenie leaned down to kiss the general’s forehead, breathing in the scent of cigar smoke. “And might I have a little room to call my own? I talk so loudly in my sleep, and I say all sorts of silly things!”
Bowes-Fitzgerald’s mouth became a tight, bloodless line. “Well, we can’t have that, can we, what? A transfer for my dear Dotty-Dolly… That can be arranged…oh yes—into the chateau you shall go, my darling!”
“My adorable, darling daddy!” Queenie snuggled to the general and took a drag on his cigarette. Into the chateau indeed, one more step away from the trenches, one more step toward England.
Chapter Fourteen
As the weeks passed by and the birthday of the king became a happy memory, the new châtelaine of Chateau de Desgravier settled happily into his role. Queenie performed the light duties that were required of him, polishing the occasional boot, pouring the occasional bottle of wine and delivering the occasional message but, all in all, being the general’s little dolly was far preferable to being Edmund Marsh’s favorite girl.
He still treated Marsh to the odd liaison, of course, for Daddy didn’t provide cigarettes or bottles of booze and was a rare sight indeed at the chateau. Captain Marsh, however, was a permanent fixture, and Queenie could see that he was adored.
Queenie could see many things from his position at the top of the domestic tree. He saw the midnight escapes of Captain Thorne, noticed how much longer his dusk swims had become, understood why there was sometimes an excess of straw on the rugs of the captain’s room, almost as though a groom had thrown down his dirty clothes there. From Wilf came reports of Thorne’s regular meetings with Jacky, of Jacky’s absence from the attic at dusk, of the smell of a certain exotic scent about the stables.
Then there was the new mattress and the news that Jacky, that little rustic piglet, was making his sty in what had been Queenie’s bed. It was no longer contained in its improvised boudoir of tapestry and chinoiserie, of course, but it was still the finest bed in a poor selection. News of an intrigue was hardly worth wasting one’s excitement on, but this—this went too far for Trooper Charles, and he burned with it. Burned with the thought that the yokel might win the peacock when he, the prettiest boy in the regiment, had never been afforded so much as a second glance.
Tonight, though, there would be no secret liaisons for anyone, because tonight the officers were dining together and Queenie was enjoying an evening of leisure. His appointed task had been to lay the table and once that was done it was a glass of port, a cigarette or two and a wander down to the yard to see Wilf, just like old times.
Now he and Wilf were perched on the paddock fence watching the few horses that still grazed there as night rolled in. Someone would be down for them soon, but for now the pasture was theirs and the two young men watched the animals lazily chew the grass, the groom and the gentleman’s gentleman each smoking what was left of their cigarettes.
“So yeah, I reckon they were at it this afternoon, if you can believe that.” Wilfred exhaled, smoke curling from his nostrils. “Thorney had his pansy walk up the avenue with him. He didn’t ride off, no, he made a big show, waving his bloody whip about, shouting, ‘You’ll walk my horse for me, Trooper! Take the reins!’ And Jacky’s all simpering and fluttering his eyes at him, Yes, Captain Thorne, sir, no, Captain Thorne, sir, three bags full, sir. I had to take the barrow out about ten minutes after. And you know there’s that summerhouse? Or whatever it is. Posh shed, up the drive? No one ever uses it. Well—I only spotted Apollo tethered to a tree near it, didn’t I? And the door was half-open. I didn’t see in, mind—I was too far away, and I’m not sure as I’d like to see, quite frankly. But I hid. Jacky came out first, whistling some folksy-sounding tune. Two minutes later, large as life, Thorney appears, and he’s only combing his bloody hair!”
Wilfred tipped back his head and emitted a raucous guffaw.
“My God!” Yet even as Queenie brayed a laugh, he wondered how that thick, dark hair would feel beneath his fingers. Not oily and thinning like Marsh’s, he was sure, Marsh with his filthy stained pillowcases and the flakes on his collar. “Thorne had him up at the big house on Sunday afternoon after service. He was carrying on about this and that, making a great old hoohah, and marched him off into the office.”
Queenie sucked in his slender cheeks and leaned a little closer. “Obviously, one had a little bob down to the keyhole and what do you think? He’d covered it. Now, why would a chap cover a keyhole if a chap had nothing to hide?”
“After church? Bloody hell! Bet he had Jacky on his knees at prayer before his captain, eh? God, if Thorne came at me with his fairy cock, I’d bite the damned thing off.”
“You’d never get a new mattress that way, Wilfie!”
Wilfred appeared to think that this was the funniest joke that had ever been told, and nearly fell backward off the fence.
“Evening, fellows.”
The gate creaked open to admit Trooper Bryn Pritchard. His red hair caught the evening light, glowing like amber. He held his hand up to his eyes, like a visor against the sinking sun, and peered across the paddock for his captain’s horse.
Wilfred was still laughing. “Did someone order carrots, Trooper Charles?”
“One has no need of leeks either, boy-o.” Queenie howled with laughter. “Trooper Bryny, little Bryn-Bryn, what would you do if Captain Thorne waved his cock at you after church?”
“Come on, lads, what’s all this talk? I’m only here to fetch Owain.” Bryn locked the gate again. He walked a few paces and, as if he almost hoped his tormentors wouldn’t hear, said, “And you can cut it out with the carrots, and the leeks—I’ve heard it all before, thank you very much. I didn’t laugh then, either.”
“What would you do—” It took Wilfred a few attempts because he was already laughing at his own joke. “What would you do…if Captain Thorne made you crawl across the stable yard with a daffodil up your arse?”
“What the hell is the matter with you two?” Bryn shook his head. He almost walked away, but then he returned, pointing his finger at Wilfred. “Do I laugh at you because you’re a Cockney, do I? Short-arsed Cockney with half a brain cell in his skull? Do I laugh at Quentin because he calls himself Queenie and acts like a girl? I blood
y well don’t, and I’m bloody sick of you two. What the hell you find so funny about Wales, I’ll never know. We’ve got a big red dragon on our flag, and one day it’ll burn both your arses off!”
“You come here closer and say that.” Wilfred swung himself off the fence with the controlled power of an orangutan shifting from a tree branch. “You come here, Taffy Pritchard, and you fucking well say that!”
Queenie clapped his hands as Bryn took awkward steps back and forth in the dusty paddock, Wilfred squaring up to him with his fists raised, teeth bared like a bulldog.
“Go on, Wilfie, give him a proper good going over!” Queenie clapped again and sat forward on the fence, his eyes growing wider. If he acted like a girl, it was a very special sort of a girl—a girl who took no nonsense from Welsh peasants.
“Come ’ere.” Wilfred’s voice was a growl, born of brawls on the Wapping docks. He curled his finger toward Bryn.
“Now, come on, Wilfred—let’s just shake hands, eh?” Bryn extended his square hand to him. “We’ll not beat the Hun if we’re at each other’s throats, will we?”
The gesture of peace was lost on Wilfred. Bryn’s gentlemanly, vulnerable pose left him open to his aggressor. Within a couple of steps, Wilfred swung his arm forward and punched Bryn so hard that he almost toppled backward. He staggered, holding his hand to his nose, blood fountaining from his face. Dazed, he looked up, beyond the two bullies on the fence.
“Bryn!”
It was Jack.
He vaulted the fence in one leap and ran to his friend, producing a handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it to Bryn’s face.
“What the hell’s going on, Bryn? Were these two—?”
Wilfred, having drawn blood, was not satisfied. He beckoned to Jack with hands like flippers.
“You want some and all, do you, pansy boy?”
“I’m not talking to you, Wilf—me and Bryn will actually do some work and bring the horses in, and we’ll leave you two to have your mothers’ meeting.”
Wilfred swung his arm again just as Jack turned to walk away. It caught Jack at the nape of the neck and he fell forward. Bryn couldn’t catch him, still surprised from his own blow, and Jack landed face down on the ground.
“Fairy faggot, bet you’re used to biting the ground, aren’t you?” Wilfred took a short run-up and gave Jack a hard kick between the legs.
Jack groaned and rolled over onto his back, trying to rub at his nape where the first blow had fallen. Wilfred went in for another kick between Jack’s legs and Jack could only shout silently in his pain.
“Leave off him, Wilf, you shit!”
Bryn tried to grasp at Wilfred but the little bruiser was too nimble on his feet to catch, even if sprays of Bryn’s blood spattered over Wilfred’s shirt. Queenie, stately and proper as a princess at her toilette, slipped down from the fence and stooped to gather up a long, fallen branch that lay beneath the overhanging trees. As he approached Bryn from behind he drew the thick branch back and whipped it hard across the Welshman’s knees, sending him crashing to the ground with a cry of pain. Then he strolled to where Jack was prone on the ground and watched him as a cat might watch an injured mouse, his head cocked neatly to one side.
“There’s one queen in the castle.” Queenie drew back the heavy branch and thrashed it down against Jack’s stomach with each subsequent word. “And. His. Name. Is. Queenie. Charles.”
He punctuated the statement by slamming his foot into Jack’s ribs and, just to drive the point on, spat a thick wad of tobacco-colored spittle into his face. Then he went down on one knee and whispered, “I’ll piss on more than your bed if I see you in my castle again, Jacky-boy.”
As he rose to his feet once more he called, “Wilf, old chap, do you want to give him a bit of a kicking? Don’t break anything, though, we don’t want him sent home before the Hun have had a shot!”
Wilfred laughed and got straight to it, kicking Jack as if it was great sport, just a Sunday afternoon football kick-about with his mates back home. Jack groaned at each kick, trying to roll away from Wilfred’s feet. But he couldn’t get away.
Bryn crawled across the paddock toward them, the blood no longer flowing, red clots drying on his face.
“Why are you doing this?”
Queenie stood back, chewing thoughtfully on one of his nails, his other hand loose in his pocket. He toyed idly with the penknife he found there, his gaze fixed unblinking on Jack, the man who Captain Thorne had taken to bed. The man who he hated more than any German. He wondered now what Jack had seen, conjuring images of the captain wearing only the red silk robe that hung on his door. Or would he wear his cap with it, set at an angle that was just the wrong side of rakish? Had he seen that stern, handsome man lounging in that opulent bed, firelight dancing on his skin, dark eyes blinking, imploring?
How did one see any of that when one was being sucked by Edmund Marsh and fucked by General Bowes-Fitzgerald?
How did one snare the prince, when one had netted the ugly sister and Baron Hardup?
He pulled the knife from his pocket, a flick of his thumbnail releasing the blade. Bryn, his lungs filling with air, bellowed at a volume that would have put many officers’ parade ground barks to shame.
“Jesus Christ! Jack! Quentin’s got a bloody knife!”
But Wilfred’s kicks still thudded home and Jack couldn’t move away.
And Queenie had a choice. An eye might be lost accidentally during a bit of silly play-boxing in the paddock, mightn’t it? All these branches and— But then Jacky would never see the trenches, and he knew from his regular patrols of the officers’ quarters that the day was coming, that some of their chaps would be headed to the front sooner rather than later.
‘Got to get the numbers up,’ Daddy had sighed. ‘Keep the boys on their toes.’
Still he stood there, the blade in his hand, weighing up his choices of taking an eye and sending a man to the trenches and all the terrors they held, but the peacock wouldn’t, couldn’t love a cripple, could he? And his boy would be sent away and—
A pistol shot split the birdsong and Queenie was suddenly back in the paddock, the blade flipped back into the handle and in his pocket in a second. He turned toward the sound and watched Captain Thorne—who else?—running toward the fence, his gun still drawn. His gloved hand closed on the wooden rail and he hauled himself up and over into the paddock, his face white with rage.
No. Queenie smiled inwardly. With horror. The horror of a man who has just found his lover bleeding on the ground. The horror of a man who knows his general will do nothing.
“Oh, shit—oh, shit!” All the strength had gone from Wilfred’s stocky legs. His knees buckled as he raised his hands in a sign of surrender. “Just a josh, Captain, between the boys, eh—eh, Jack, my mate Jacky?”
Wilfred gave Jack a thumbs-up. Bryn was trying to help Jack to his feet, but he shivered for breath and couldn’t stand.
Bryn shot Wilfred a look that could curdle milk from two miles away.
“Just a joke, sir. Just the lads, eh, messing about. That’s right, me and my mates, Shroppy Jack and Taffy Bryn.” Wilfred finally managed a salute.
“A bit of horseplay, as General B.F. might say.” Queenie gave a leisurely salute, though his heart was hammering. “No harm meant, though I can see now that Wilf did get a bit carried away! It was only meant as—”
“Get to your quarters, the pair of you.” Thorne’s quiet, seething delivery of that particular line threw even Queenie, who had been waiting for an explosion. There was a moment of silence before the artillery landed when Captain Thorne bellowed with enough volume to clear the birds from the trees, “Quarters, now! I’ll make sure you’re both shipped as far forward as I can bloody get you without sending you into the Kaiser’s lavatory with a bayonet up your arse!”
Queenie did salute then, for the first time feeling the unfamiliar shiver of doubt in his belly. He turned and began to stroll away, refusing to wonder what would happen if his general
didn’t save his Queenie, if this time he really had crossed some sort of unseen line. At the gate he threw down the branch. Only then did he realize that Wilfred was following.
Chapter Fifteen
Jack was aware only of the arms that were around him. They didn’t belong to his Robert, but to a lad, who smelled of carbolic soap.
“Bryn… Bryn…”
He clutched his friend and heard him say, “Captain Thorne, he’s in a bad way, sir. I got a punch, and then Jack got worse for helping a pal. I tried to stop them, of course I did, but…”
“What about you, Trooper Pritchard?” Thorne was looking at Jack as he spoke, his hands hovering above his body as though afraid to touch him for fear of doing any more injury. “Are you walking wounded?”
“I’m a bit dazed, sir… The bleeding’s stopped. I’ll shove my head under the pump and I’ll be right as rain again, I don’t doubt.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort.” He finally looked at Bryn. “Get up to the chateau and tell the doctor we’re on our way. Have him look you over while you’re up there and tell him you have Captain Thorne’s permission to have a glass of the good brandy.”
“Thank you, sir!”
Bryn nodded to Captain Thorne and whispered, “Jack, will you let go of me now—Captain Thorne’s here.”
Jack released his friend and Bryn hopped to his feet and gave a salute. Then he bent down to Jack again, holding out the handkerchief he’d been given.
“Ah, Jack, pal, I got blood on your hanky. Sorry…”
Jack reached up for it, regardless of the blood, and squeezed it into his palm.
The Captain and the Cavalry Trooper Page 15