Lucinda jumped down from the carriage and knelt by the woman’s cowering form. She began shaking her. “Madame!” she urged her. “Madame! You can’t stay here! Get up! Levez-vous! Levez-vous donc!”
“Not so rough, pet!” said Bessie, who had climbed out of the carriage behind Lucinda. “She doesn’t understand what you are saying, she’s half dead, poor thing. Let’s just lift her into the carriage. Here! Armand!” She gesticulated at the coachman. “Help! Ici! Come!”
Assisted by the reluctant Armand, they managed to drag the sick woman into the carriage.
“Look at her!” clucked Bessie, “She’s as weak as a kitten. Give her a little breathing room. Help me untie her bundle, lamb.”
“Bessie, look!” gasped Lucinda. The bundle tied to the woman’s hip, in a sling, had given a little cry. Lucinda carefully peeled away the cloth, revealing a tiny curly head.
“A baby!” exclaimed Bessie. “Oh, my, what a precious little thing!”
“It’s all right. Nous ne vous voulons pas de mal, we won’t hurt you,” Lucinda soothed the woman, who was struggling to grab the baby out of Bessie’s arms. Her eyes were bloodshot and wild. The red-rimmed lower lids seemed turned inside out.
“Here. There’s your baby. There. Isn’t that better?” They looked on tenderly as the exhausted mother clutched the child to her chest.
“Je vous en prie, mesdames!” came Armand’s voice through the window, “Please! On ne peut pas rester ici, voyons! We’ll lose our place, de dieu…”
“Oh, Armand,” chided Lucinda, “Don’t fret! Ne faites pas cette tête! We’re going, we’re going!” She jumped down from the carriage, and slapped one of the horses on the rump. “Alley-hop!” To Bessie, she shouted, “I’ll walk alongside, there’s no room for all four of us in there.”
That night, for the first time, Lucinda had a sense of belonging. The carriage was now surrounded by some of the very women who had given Lucinda the cold shoulder before. It seemed almost as if they were glad of this opportunity to break the ice. They expressed concern for the sick Zéfine (for that was her name), and nodded appreciatively as Lucinda translated Bessie’s diagnosis of their colleague’s condition.
“Tell them we’ll have her ride in our carriage until she is stronger,” Bessie said. “A body has to rest after giving birth, that’s all there is to it. She was simply spent. The fever will pass.”
“Bess, they’re asking, aren’t you going to bleed her?” translated Lucinda.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Bessie firmly.
“But, they say, how can you expect her to get better if you don’t rid her of the bad blood?”
“Tell them to trust me,” Bessie sighed.
Lucinda turned back to her new friends, and suggested they leave the patient in Bessie’s capable hands.
“If you need anything, Bessie, just wave. We’re going to sit over there, by the campfire,” she announced happily.
The French army marched brazenly into the heart of the Spanish Netherlands. No one, said Louis, could accuse him of being the first to break the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle. Had not the Spanish governor done so, when in December he had ridden to the assistance of the Prince of Orange at the siege of Charleroi?
Following the river Schelde, the army soon came upon the city of Ghent, which girded itself for an attack. But the army did not slow down, and the citizens of Ghent breathed a sigh of relief as Louis marched his men on toward Brussels. Brussels anxiously mobilized its troops.
But Louis did not stop at Brussels either (except to taste the local sturgeon, which he pronounced superb), nor did he continue north, as expected, toward Breda. Instead, the army swept suddenly east, and before the Dutch realized what was happening, the French were encamped outside Maastricht, the well-defended fortress Louis had passed by the previous year as not worth the effort.
This time, he decided, it was indeed worth the effort. In fact, it was the perfect target—this southernmost outpost of that annoying little republic calling itself the United Provinces of the Netherlands. He sent Marshalls Turenne and Condé east, up the Rhine, to hold off the Austrians and the Swedes. Maastricht was to be the king’s own triumph, a prize he refused, for once, to share with the generals who tended to hog the glory for themselves. Maastricht would be a feather—nay, a magnificent ostrich plume—in his cap, and it was just the sort of place where a siege could be staged as théâtre, with the court and the ladies watching their Louis play the role of conquering hero.
As soon as the surrounding countryside was swept clear of enemy troops, the French court duly arrived and established itself in the neighboring village of Kerkum, overlooking the encamped army, which was already at work digging trenches and building earthworks.
The common camp followers were allotted a field behind the encampment of the Duc d’Orléans, on the far side of the River Meuse. A temporary bridge was to be hauled into place to link the two banks; in the meantime, people were ferried across in boats.
Bessie had just finished giving directions to the soldier who had come to help her put up the tent when Lucinda came bounding in.
“Lamb! What in the world have you done to yourself!” Bessie exclaimed in horror.
“What, Bess? Don’t you like it? Don’t I look pretty?”
“Pretty! Lord! You look like a…”
“Oh Bess, stop it. You don’t know anything about it. It’s what the ladies of the court wear.”
“I don’t care how those French trollops dress! I will not have you looking like that! I won’t have it! Take that indecent thing off at once! Where did you get that…that get-up?”
“Blanchette lent it to me. And the petticoat is Trude’s. I think it’s very nice of them. I like it!” Lucinda twirled around, at a safe distance from Bessie.
“And what is that on your face? Oh, lamb, you don’t need paint! And that patch—really, it makes you…”
“I do need it! I have a pimple on my chin, that’s why I have the patch. So that it won’t show.”
“Do you really think an ugly black patch looks better than a little blemish? Pet!”
“Please, Bess! I want to look special, for Henry!”
“Special? You look special, all right, lamb, but it’s not…”
“Madam?” It was the helpful soldier, who had stuck his head around the tent flap. “Must be going now. My lady requested that I escort her to the officers’ camp…”
“Coming!” exclaimed Lucinda, and tripped out after him, while all Bessie could do was slap her palms against her cheeks and shake her head from side to side.
Lucinda was back in the tent within an hour. Her eyes were red. Tears had left streaks in the thick white powder on her cheeks. She had ripped the patch off her chin, and the pimple had begun to bleed.
“He sent me away!” she wailed at the tut-tutting Bessie. “He said I must wait until he sends for me! That I have no business coming to his tent unless he sends for me!”
“Oh, but lamb…” Bessie began.
“You were right!” she sobbed, “He didn’t like the way I looked. He was angry. He hated it. He hates me!”
“Now, now,” Bessie crooned, rubbing her shoulder blades, “Calm down, pet, there’s a dear. Don’t cry. Just a lovers’ tiff. You’ll both have forgotten all about it tomorrow.”
But Lucinda wasn’t sure she would ever forget the coldness in Henry’s eyes, the way he had barred the entrance to his tent, and the shadow of someone else moving about inside.
35
AMENDS
The second meeting between John Prynce and Bessie was more amicable than the first.
“Mistress—Goose?” inquired the surgeon, as he stepped into her tent.
“May I help you?” said she, equally polite. She recognized him: he was the unpleasant man who’d mistaken the two of them for a whore and bawd when they had first arrived. But she took in the hesitant tone of voice and the hat clasped courteously to the chest.
“Yes indeed,” he said. He looke
d around the claustrophobic tent. To his disappointment, the younger woman wasn’t there. He bowed. “John Prynce, chirurgeon to the Royal English, ma’am.”
“Well now!” said Bessie. He had a fine look about him, this Mr. Prynce, she decided: weather-tanned skin under an indifferent peruke, but gentle, attentive, youthful eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “Uh—”
“Yes?” said Bess.
“Well, it has come to my attention, ma’am, that…”
“One moment please, sir.” Bessie held her hand up commandingly, and leaned forward, addressing someone behind her visitor’s back. “Gunner Donnelly! Come in, dear!” To Prynce, she said, “Pray excuse me, sir. This will not take long.”
“Of course!” muttered John, stepping back to make way for the interloper. It was one of Bessie’s patients, a Yorkshire artilleryman.
He watched in silence as she deftly cut away a bandage and examined the wound, dabbed at it with something, and bound it up again. “There!” she beamed. “Soon you’ll be right as rain, hale as hail, hearty as a hurricane.”
The gunner stammered his thanks, and, standing up, bumped his head on a kettle hanging from the tent pole. Some spoons and other utensils hanging next to the swinging kettle clanged like a chorus of protesting bells. “Now then, look after yourself!” she clucked, ushering him out, “We can’t keep binding you up, can we, we’ll be running out of linen at this rate!”
They were alone again, and Bessie turned to her visitor. “Now, sir,” she said formally, “how may I help you?”
“What did you use?” John countered her question with another.
“Use?”
“Just now. To dress the wound.”
“Oh, just a little vinegar. And an egg.”
“A chicken egg?”
“Any egg will do. Duck, goose, robin. The white only. It helps to close the wound, you see.”
“I see.”
“You can save the yolk for a pudding.”
“Indeed.”
“It’s much kinder than burning,” she said defensively.
“Madam, I am no advocate of cauterization,” he said.
“Of course I am not a physician,” Bessie admitted.
“So I understand.”
“But I’ll have naught to do with witchcraft, either.”
“I did not…”
She squared her shoulders. “All my remedies are simple common sense, sir, cures I have found to work well. There’s no magic in it at all.”
“Of course not, I never…”
“I just find it simpler, sometimes, to act mysterious and let them think what they will.”
“I see.” He smiled. “You delude your patients into believing their cure comes from a higher authority.”
Her hands went up to her throat in alarm. “Please—sir,” she faltered, “I swear to you I mean no harm. I…”
“Harm! My dear lady, I did not come here to accuse you. Black magic, witchcraft, it’s all nonsense, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Oh,” said Bessie uncertainly.
“Of course. Please believe me. No, madam, I am here merely to satisfy the curiosity your fame has roused in me.”
“My fame?” asked Bessie.
“Yes indeed, ma’am. There are those who take great delight in informing me of your achievements. They say you cured Maréchal Poltron and some others of the fever, and I saw for myself that you did such an excellent job on the Welshman with the cannonball-wound that there was no need to amputate…”
“Sir!” exclaimed Bessie modestly. “It was the Lord’s will, He…”
“I came here in person,” John continued, “to extend my sincerest compliments. And to…” His gaze started wandering again, as if the pitch of the tent’s roof and the spiders scurrying back and forth on the oilcloth were of the greatest interest, “…to say how much I regret my erstwhile gross error regarding yourself and the other lady.”
“Oh, that!” exclaimed Bessie generously. “That was nothing, really. Please think nothing of it, sir!”
“No, no, I wish to make amends.”
“It really is not necessary.”
“To yourself and, well, the other lady.”
Bessie could not help dimpling with pleasure. She laid a hand on the surgeon’s arm. “Please, sir, consider it done.”
“Well, all right, but…”
“I assure you.”
Reluctantly he backed toward the tent flap. There he hesitated again.
“Not to worry, I will tell her of your visit and your sentiment.”
“Excellent,” he said, and bowed. Then turned and strode back toward the river.
“Up! Come on, madam,” barked Henry, “Out! That’s enough, out you go, up and away.”
Lucinda sat up and looked around, her face creased with lingering sleep, her hair disheveled. The tent was dark. “But it isn’t even morning yet!” she complained.
“That is so,” said Henry, grunting as he squeezed himself into his breeches. “But it is not too early for the king. He has announced his intent to inspect the siege works every morning. At daybreak. And my Lord Monmouth at his side, of course. It won’t do not to be there.”
“But,” said Lucinda, rolling off the field bed and hurriedly dressing herself, “you said if there was a chance to see the king, you would let me come. Please? You promised!”
“Certainly not.”
“But you did, you promised!”
“Did I?”
“Remember? I swore I wouldn’t run over here unless I was sent for, and in return you promised that you…”
“I may have done,” he said, holding out his arms for her to pin his ribbons on his sleeve. “But not the trenches.”
“A promise is a promise! And besides, I know the ladies of the court are permitted to come and look. Didn’t you hear that Mme de Fripon and that other lady, Countess Tabeauparler, went yesterday, and were almost fired upon?”
“That is exactly why women should not be allowed. They attract too much attention.”
“I won’t attract attention! I’m sensible enough not to wave a parasol about! And I’m not afraid, as long as I am with you.”
“All right then,” he said, to shut her up. “But just this once!”
“Just this once, Henry,” she promised happily, untangling her shawl. She congratulated herself on her wiles, her ability to sway him. Everything was fine between them again, as Bessie had predicted. There had been four nighttime encounters in a row, and the captain had been appreciative.
Henry glanced at her. “But Gad, you are a sorry sight, wench,” he sighed. “You can’t come with me looking like that.”
“Just give me a moment,” she said, and, without bothering with a comb or mirror, pulled the matted hair back into a coil at the nape of her neck, stuffing it into a net she withdrew from her pocket. “That better?” she asked, sticking some hairpins into the pile.
Henry could not suppress a grin. The woolly strands escaping all about her head gave her a wanton look. The others would have no doubt about what Henry had been up to. He patted her on the rump.
“Out, out you go, then,” he said, indulgently holding the tent flap open for her.
Sébastien de Vauban, King Louis’ master tactician, the engineer upon whose expertise the entire siege hinged, was pacing nervously up and down inside the first parallel—the main trench closest to the French camp, which was to serve as supply avenue to the trenches zigzagging toward the citadel proper. Maastricht’s fortifications presented a formidable challenge to the besieging force: five hornworks, a moat, and a great number of demi-lunes protecting the city walls. The fortress was manned by six thousand enemy troops.
Vauban’s sappers—the men who did most of the digging—were drawn up in formation in anticipation of the king’s arrival. They had been waiting for an hour and a half, and there was still no sign of His Majesty. Anxiously Vauban made some quick calculations in his head, altering some numbers and modifying the schedule f
or completion he was to present to the king. Every minute spent waiting was a minute wasted. He wadded his hands into fists, but discreetly, and smiled at the generals who had formed a circle around him.
“Vauban! My man!” It was the English duke—Monmouth, the English king’s bastard son, the one Louis had put in command of the important Brussels Gate. A command of that size was usually reserved for more experienced favorites. Vauban hoped the king knew what he was doing. He bowed low—he had but a vague notion of this foreigner’s position in the court hierarchy, but Vauban, lowly engineer that he was, found it safer to bow to any officer in this troop. Never had he seen a campaign with so many courtiers, such fops, such minets, such beribboned dukes and counts and princes! The place was swarming with them. It would be a miracle, a true miracle, if he managed to get the job done with so many amateurs getting in the way, countermanding orders, making nuisances of themselves. And they even brought their womenfolk! Yesterday a gaggle of court ladies had shown up in the trenches, causing a near-riot among his men. As luck would have it, the Dutch defenders had chosen that moment to show some mettle, and a couple of cannonballs had come harmlessly whizzing overhead. The ladies had not seen the need to prolong their adventure any longer, and had withdrawn all a-twitter over their narrow escape. What put Vauban in mind of this now was a very attractive young piece hovering in the background, behind the foreigners.
“Monsieur,” he said, bowing his head to listen respectfully to the duke’s questions about the width and positioning of the trenches in the area of the western glacis. He could not help stealing another glance at the little wench, however. She was not one of your court ladies, he could tell: she was not weighed down with the jewels and powders and wigs that made the others look like stuffed dolls. This one was more to his liking, a pretty, fresh little person, the kind a man could relate to.
Before he could answer the English duke’s questions, however, there was a commotion: the king had finally arrived! Vauban scuttled back to his post, and spent the next twenty minutes mopping his brow, obsequiously defending his plans from a multi-pronged attack indiscriminately leveled at him by the top generals, whose incessant jockeying for position threatened to sabotage Vauban’s entire operation.
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