“Lamb, what’s the matter?” came Bessie’s concerned voice.
To her chagrin, Lucinda realized that real tears were rolling down her cheeks.
“Nothing!” She quickly wiped the tears away. “I was just feeling a little—homesick, that’s all,” she improvised.
“Homesick!” exclaimed Bessie.
Fortunately there was an interruption. They heard a loud explosion, followed by a rattle of gunfire.
“The attack!” shouted Lucinda, and ran outside. And, indeed, she could make out, in the distance across the river, the trenches crammed with lines of red and blue, and great puffs of white smoke, or dust—it was hard to tell in the half-light—all along the base of the citadel.
“That’s it, pet!” shouted Bessie, hitching her skirts up to make running easier. “Come along, let’s go! Lieutenant Prynce will be needing us!”
40
THE ASSAULT
The English rapscallion, as King Louis called him, acquitted himself well that night. His objectives—an escarpment and a demi-lune at the foot of the citadel—were neatly captured from the Dutch in a daring full-frontal assault. By late that night, the situation was well in hand, new trenches were being dug up to the very walls of the fortress, and Monmouth and his braves were jubilant about a job well done.
The Dutch did not give up without a fight, however. At daybreak the duke was awakened with the news that the defenders had managed to spring one of their mines, killing fifty of his men. Within a couple of hours the demi-lune was back in Dutch hands.
At Monmouth’s command post, no one could agree on what to do next. Obviously, the demi-lune had to be retaken—it was either that, lose face, or, worse, be made a laughing-stock. The survivors of General Montbrun’s troop, including the English pike men and grenadiers, were trapped by enemy fire. The duke sent word to the king that he needed reinforcements—he had only the king’s own Royal Musketeers left in reserve—but his message was intercepted by the Duc d’Orléans, the king’s brother, who felt that enough had been done for the English upstart and conveniently forgot to pass on the request.
Thirty minutes went by with no response from the king, and the Dutch were merrily digging in. Monmouth was sulking on his field bed, which had been set up in the open air. “Look at those bastards!” exclaimed Sir Thomas, who was peering at the fort through Monmouth’s glass, “Just look at them! They’re throwing up earth left and right like so many moles! Soon it’ll be damned-near impossible to get at them!”
“Right!” said Monmouth, reluctantly pulling himself to his feet. The officers looked at him gratefully. “Right!” he said with a little more enthusiasm, holding out his elbows so that his equerry could buckle his breastplate under his armpits. “Gentlemen! The king is not in a mind to send us the reinforcements we need. But we shan’t let victory escape us. No, gentlemen! We shall do it ourselves. Arm yourselves! For England!”
“For England!” cheered the English cavalry officers and courtiers who formed Monmouth’s inner circle.
“Well now, Sir Thomas!” the duke prodded his most trusted adviser, who was picking his nose hesitantly. “What say you to my noble plan?”
“Most noble! Most noble!” Sir Thomas said. “Er—we’ll need covering fire, of course, my lord,” he prompted. “Perhaps d’Artagnan…”
“D’Artagnan!” the duke shouted. “Here, man, old fellow! Order your reserves. Be ready to cover us with your fire. You know what to do. Watch us retake that demi-lune!”
“Certainly, your Excellency,” said d’Artagnan with a grin. This English duke was turning out to be made of finer mettle than he’d thought. You did not often meet a lieutenant-general willing to lead the men out himself. Whistling, d’Artagnan strolled down to the trenches, calling his men.
“Are we ready, gentlemen?” the duke asked, setting his hat at a rakish angle.
“Ready!” the English band shouted, affecting as much nonchalant enthusiasm as they could muster.
They found d’Artagnan waiting for them at the narrow entrance to the third parallel. He bowed. “Just give me a moment, sir, to reorder the musketeers. The groin will hold no more than two abreast…”
“To hell with the groin!” shouted Monmouth. “Follow me!” Sword in hand, he leaped up the slippery bank of the trench and swung himself over the parapet. Without looking back to see if he was being followed, he sloshed across the open field. The English officers jostled one another in their desire to follow as close on his heels as possible; the surprised musketeers had no choice but to follow. The sound of Monmouth’s incongruously cheerful “Allons, camarades!” over the din made them press on.
Now they were within fifty paces of the demi-lune. The Dutch had thrown up a barricade blocking their path.
“Please, my lord, wait! Attendez!” It was d’Artagnan, puffing. It was not easy for him to catch up with the lithe young Englishman.
“Well, d’Artagnan? I haven’t all day,” the duke snapped.
“Let us retreat to the trenches, my lord. It is a trap. The enemy can pick us off one by one as we pass this place.”
“Oh, come now, d’Artagnan. Are you afraid? Must I,” said the duke severely, “show you Frenchmen what valor is? Forward!”
“No, wait, my lord!” shouted d’Artagnan. “Let me go first, in that case. I insist…”
He pushed past Monmouth and ran at the barricade, head first. A bullet happened to come traveling with some velocity from the opposite direction and hit a bull’s eye. D’Artagnan’s brains spattered the barricade, and his body, in its fall, knocked down a few of the stakes.
For a moment, Monmouth was stunned. Then he turned to the open-mouthed troops. “Follow me!” he shouted, and dashed forward through the narrow opening, stepping over d’Artagnan’s body. And follow him they did—although not without paying a heavy price for their obedience. At least half of their number fell to keep the old musketeer company, face-down in the mud.
After some very heavy hand-to-hand fighting, the survivors finally regained control of the demi-lune, and held it until reinforcements arrived. The French now had a firm foothold in the citadel, and even the defenders themselves could see that this meant the beginning of the end for the beleaguered fort. The troops under Monmouth’s command had suffered almost two thousand casualties, but, putting that aside, all agreed that the English king’s bastard son had done a perfectly outstanding job.
Outside the infirmary tent overflowing with wounded men, Lucinda looked around helplessly. She didn’t even know where to start. Numbly she started dabbing at a gushing wound with some lint dipped in Bessie’s famous ointment.
“Not that way! Here! Make room!” It was Lieutenant Prynce, pushing her out of the way. She stepped back hastily. Her eyes stung. She had made a fool of herself! Now he wouldn’t like her any more.
But he was oblivious, intent on applying a tourniquet to the injured man’s arm.
Someone grabbed her ankle. “Espèce d’ordure!” she heard, “Ordure, crapule, putain, putain!” and then, piteously, “Maman, maman!” She bent down to pry the bloody hand from her leg. The man had only half a face. The other half was a gory mess. An eye was hanging by a clotted string down his cheek. “I’m sorry,” she stammered, “I’ll just…” and fled, tripping over bodies on the ground and upsetting a bucket with something heavy and glistening in it—she hoped it wasn’t what she thought it might be, a human leg.
Shaking, she knelt down behind a chaplain who was administering last rites to two men at once. A woman in the next row—she thought she recognized one of the French sutlers—was trying to undo the buttons of a gurgling man’s coat. She was having a hard time of it, because the blood washing out of his throat made the buttons slippery, and she was cursing under her breath.
“Let me help—” Lucinda began.
The woman scowled at her. “Get away from me. Allez-vous-en! There’s plenty for everyone!”
“Oh, excuse me,” muttered Lucinda. She now noticed the woman had a bu
ndle of coats—fancy ones, with gold braid and ribbon—on the ground beside her and that there were three or four silver officers’ gorgets strung around her neck. She started backing away from her.
“Well, well! The baggage everyone’s looking for!” It was Captain John Churchill, nursing an injured hand. His pain made him extremely irritable. “What are you doing here?”
“I…I…” stammered Lucinda.
“Where’s your pander then?” he sneered.
“Pander!” she repeated.
“Your swain, my dear.”
“Is he…”
“I don’t know what’s become of him. I do know his men are looking for you, however.”
“Oh God!” Lucinda had been so busy that she had not given a thought to Henry for hours. He was wounded, or unconscious, or worse! She would never forgive herself…
She ran over to Bessie’s side. “Bess, I have to go. I must find Henry…”
Bessie waved her away. “Go, pet,” she said. The girl was just getting in the way at this point.
Lucinda raced up the slope toward the English enclave. She was choking on tears. Henry, Henry…She would never, never forgive herself!
But Henry was fine. He had received not so much as a scratch in the fighting. He was changing out of his mud-stained clothes when Cornet Stickling announced her.
“Ah!” he said. “She’s been found! Finally! Where have you been, baggage? I never expected you to be so elusive…” He signaled to the cornet, who bowed and slipped away.
“Oh, Henry,” she sobbed, running towards him with outstretched arms. “You’re unharmed! I was so afraid—I thought you might be dead…”
“I might have been,” he said, stepping back out of her reach and fastidiously raising his elbows into the air, “I had some narrow escapes, I can tell you. No, no, not now! Woman, your hands! I’ll kill you if you get any of that on my clean shirt.” She looked at her hands. They were striped with drying blood. “Come now, Lucinda, don’t pout. Sit there while I get dressed.”
Obediently she sat down in a corner. She wiped her hands on one of the blankets. Her heart was still pounding. Something was wrong. The tent had been tidied up and there were candles blazing everywhere, although it wasn’t quite dark yet. All of Henry’s plate was set out on a side table, heaped with fruit and delicacies. The decanter was full.
Henry was soon dressed, but took his time adjusting his periwig. Lucinda’s pride prevented her from going to him until he made amends for his coldness. So she just sat there for a while, ignored.
“Captain, sir, his Lordship the Duke of Monmouth…”
Monmouth pushed past the cornet into the tent. He smiled broadly. Henry smiled broadly. The duke’s cheeks seemed flushed. Henry’s seemed flushed too. For a moment the duke just stood there. Then he took two strides toward Henry. Together, the two men took up a lot of space. They were larger than life. They never took their blazing eyes off each other. They were oblivious of Lucinda in her corner.
Monmouth stretched out a hand to Henry, who clasped it in both of his, then, holding on, sank to his knees and bowed his head.
“My lord!” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “Never in my life have I witnessed such bravery, such leadership…”
“Ah, Beaupree,” the duke murmured, “Enough! On your feet! You know I could not have done it without the likes of you.”
Humbly, Henry got to his feet. “It was spectacular,” he said, shaking his head. “My lord—you have my undying loyalty.”
“I must confess that I am pleased, Beaupree. I am very pleased.” The duke flashed him another generous smile. “I wish I could do something to show you how very pleased I am. I pray that Fortune will reward me one day in a manner that will allow me to favor my most loyal followers, and I give you my word…”
“My lord!” A flush of delight spread over Henry’s face, and he bowed again, his face very close to his general’s shoulder. The intimacy was so intense that Lucinda felt a wave of panic.
She coughed.
Both men turned to stare at her. Their faces fell.
“To the business at hand, then,” said the duke stiffly. “I see the wench has been found.”
“Indeed,” agreed Henry. “There she is.”
“Come here, jade,” the duke ordered. He turned to Henry. “You have informed her of her duty?”
“Of course, my lord,” he said, avoiding Lucinda’s eyes.
“Well.” Monmouth raised an eyebrow. “I am afraid you will have to go with her, to apologize for the delay.” He undid two buttons of his tight coat before sitting down in Henry’s campaign chair. “But don’t be long.”
“What is my duty?” Lucinda whispered fiercely as Henry pulled her out of the tent. She didn’t care if the duke heard her and she betrayed Henry’s little lie. She was furious. She tried to wriggle out of his grasp.
“No you don’t!” he said.
“Ouch! Henry! Let me go!” she complained, frightened now. “Where are we going?” She was afraid she might already know the answer.
“I believe you know where we are going,” he said lightly.
“To Vauban? To Vauban? Then it’s true…?”
“Oh, Lucinda,” he said, and put his arm around her shoulder. With the other hand he did not let go of her wrist, however. “Do this for me, won’t you? And don’t make a fuss. It’s not so much to ask…”
“Not so much to ask!” she sobbed.
He stopped in the middle of the path, and turned to face her. He tried to coax a smile out of her. “Ah, pippin, please don’t take it so hard! We all have our duty. I have mine, and you have yours.”
She shook her arm to release his grip, but he did not let go. “Sleeping with Vauban is not my duty!”
“Well, you don’t have to sleep with him, my sweet,” he cajoled. “Just—do to him what you do to me sometimes. That will please him, and I’m sure he won’t keep you.”
“No! Never!”
“Oh, but you must.”
“I tell you no!”
He pulled her close to him. She wrenched her face around, away from him, accidentally biting her tongue. Her mouth was flooded with a metallic taste.
“Lucinda, my little filly,” came his voice in her ear. “You know that I would do anything for you. You know that, don’t you? Just do this little thing for me. You love me, don’t you? You do, I know you do, and I know you will do this for me. Won’t you!”
She stamped her foot on his boot.
He laughed. “I promise you, I’ll make it up to you.”
She tried to knee him in the groin, but he held her away, still laughing.
“Make it up to me!” Anger pinched her vocal cords so that the words came out as an infuriated squeak. “How? What exactly is this ‘promise’ I hear so much about?”
“How do you mean, vixen?”
“Are you saying you’ll marry me?”
That made him stop laughing.
“Ma-arry you!” he said slowly. “Marry you?”
He snorted, as if he could suddenly see the humor in it. “Well. Why not?”
He made it sound as if it were the most far-fetched thing in the world: a thing that had never occurred to him before.
Through tent walls she could see a shadow play of men drinking, men slapping each other on the back, large vague shadows and small cleanly defined shadows circling each other in a menacing dance. Suddenly she felt very weak, very small. Empty, worthless. She let him pull her along without a struggle.
“All right, I promise,” came a soothing, slightly exasperated voice from high above her. “I’ll do it, baggage, I’ll—I’ll marry you, if that’s what it takes.”
It was pitch-black when she stumbled out of Vauban’s tent. Most of the men had turned in for the night. She heard voices behind her, a group of soldiers heading for some leisure activity across the river. They were noisily boastful and heavy-footed. Lucinda slunk back into the shadows between two tents, and waited until they had passed. Sh
e had no right to be there as a woman, alone and unaccompanied.
She heard the defiant bells of Maastricht’s carillon coldly sounding the hour. Every noise made her start: the pop-pop of lone muskets answering each other, a horse whinnying dismally in the distance. A nightmare moon grimaced at her, its mouth horribly open. It had only half a face.
A light inside the infirmary tent made it glow like a beacon. She pushed her way through the frayed flaps of the low-hanging roof. There was calm here now, the chaos of the afternoon ordered and tamed. The dead had been carted away; the living were for the most part bandaged and neatly bedded. Bessie and John Prynce were seated by the brazier.
Her knees wobbled, and she clutched one of the poles. Her head throbbed with the sudden light, and she had to close her eyes.
“Pet!” Now Bessie was beside her. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?” Through a rainbow haze made by Bessie’s hair, she could see Lieutenant Prynce sauntering closer, looking concerned and unduly kind.
It was this undeserved kindness that made the tears come. She had a good cry into Bessie’s shoulder.
“What is it?” John hissed to Bessie.
“I don’t know, she’ll have to tell us,” said Bessie, helpless. “Come, now, pet, can’t you tell us what happened? Are you hurt?”
Lucinda waved a hand at John, but could not look at him directly. “You were right, sir, and I apologize for not believing you…” she managed at last.
The surgeon’s face went white. “Vauban…!” he said.
“What happened?” cried Bessie, “Tell us!”
“Nothing happened,” she said. “Nothing happened!” And she started laughing hysterically, through the tears.
When Lucinda and Henry reached Vauban’s tent, they were told he had stepped out for a moment. Henry hurriedly entrusted Lucinda to Vauban’s assistant, Jean Gonflé, with a message of apology for the delay.
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