The Summer Fields

  He whispers, ‘I should have taken you myself, in that bower. I could have been Zeus to your Leda.’

  The words trigger a vile emotion in her and her body stiffens.

  ‘How often I have dwelt on the sight of you tethered there,’ he says. ‘Writhing against your bonds, your petticoats sliding up your legs, soft and white in the candlelight. Why, an inch or two higher and your sweet commodity would have broken cover. Oh, thoughts of coursing after that little black hare have brought me temporary relief many a night.’

  Her shame washes over her, as fresh and bitter as the night it happened. She writhes against his grip and hisses, ‘Stop it. Let me go.’

  He grasps the back of her neck, his fingers knitting into her hair and turning her head. He brings his lips towards her mouth but she twists; sharp white pain at the roots of her hair and the wet kiss clamps onto her cheek, disgusting her.

  Abruptly he plucks her away, holding her at arms’ length. ‘Why so cold?’ he says, tipping his head to one side in mock enquiry. ‘I recall the last time I pressed my lips to yours, you seemed to desire your ruin more than study to avoid it.’

  She bucks and squirms. She wants to wipe away the spittle of his kiss. She squints down at the hand on her shoulder, wonders if she can reach his fingers with her teeth, snap at his knuckle, feel the skin crunch against the bone.

  He smiles. It is not a smile, it is the snarl of a dog before it takes a bite to the face.

  ‘None of those fine men would have enjoyed the conquest of a maid once she had been covered by a servant. The same still holds true. I will have you now, then you will know how it feels to fall from grace, to have all your prospects of a productive life and future snatched away from you. While Mordiford rides with the horse to burn Munich, I am here and I intend a glorious spoliation of you.’

  A great rage builds inside her but she cannot break away from him. He pushes her back and her legs fold, dropping her onto the sofa, his body falling with her, pinioning her beneath him.

  ‘I will yell for the guards no matter if it should wake the duke,’ she says, pitching beneath him.

  ‘And I shall say you sent for me to come to you this very evening. I will have my revenge. You will be shamed one way or another.’

  Chapter 7

  ‘Harley!’ It is the doctor’s voice. ‘What the deuce are you doing here?’

  Ned springs off her. Elen struggles to sit, pulling her skirts down, and straightening her cap. The doctor stands by the desk, a lantern in his hand, staring. She can see his brow furrowing. Surely he cannot believe she was willingly tumbling around on the sofa with Ned Harley? Ned strides up to the doctor, pushing a shock of hair back from his face.

  ‘Why, doctor,’ he says. ‘How delightful to see you again.’ The light from the doctor’s lantern illuminates Ned’s face. He is thinner, greyer. ‘I came by to offer you my congratulations,’ Ned hurries on, backing towards the exit as he speaks. ‘I understand the duke acted on my recommendation and you have been elevated to chief physician to His Grace.’

  The doctor is confused, angry, his lips compressed to a thin line. ‘Stay where you are,’ he says, glaring at Ned.

  Ned gives a light laugh of surprise. ‘Your manner has certainly changed somewhat since last we spoke, doctor.’ The doctor moves towards him, keeping his voice low.

  ‘That is because I know about your despicable conduct,’ he says. Elen feels a wave of relief that his faith in her has not been shaken. She shadows the doctor as he closes in on Ned.

  ‘Do you, indeed?’ Ned looks at Elen. She stares back at him, a trace of victory narrowing her eyes. ‘How very indiscreet of you, Miss Griffiths. You astonish me. I would have thought your modesty alone would have prevented you recounting details of that night to the good doctor here.’

  Oh, he is too clever, she thinks, he is going to make fools of both of us. She bitterly regrets her look of triumph.

  ‘Keep your voice down, man,’ Dr Argyll says. ‘You will wake the duke.’ The doctor flicks a hand towards Elen to bring her to his side.

  ‘Did she also tell you, how eagerly she rushed unchaperoned to the ice house for our rendezvous?’ Ned says to the doctor. ‘Or the delight in her eyes when she saw the pretty bed I had created for our liaison?’

  Elen cannot defend herself against this accusation without a lie. Is there doubt in the doctor’s eyes beneath that frown? She wants to cry out: ‘I did not know what type of man he was. Does my naivety lessen his crime?’

  The doctor sniffs angrily and pushes Ned towards the exit. He calls through the canvas in a quiet, insistent voice, ‘Guard. I need you in here. Now.’

  One of the privates dips under the flap, his hang-sword ringing on his musket. He looks at each of them in turn, his eyes finally falling on Elen and sliding down to where her chest rises and falls.

  ‘Place this man under arrest,’ Dr Argyll says.

  ‘Now, doctor. Whatever can you mean?’ Ned says, but the guard has taken a step towards him, his musket raised.

  She feels a momentary flash of satisfaction but Ned rests his hand on the mouth of the musket, guiding it away from his face. ‘A moment, Private,’ he says. ‘There has been a misunderstanding here. The doctor is not an officer. He has no right to give you an order.’

  ‘Then I make a request,’ Dr Argyll says, his voice clipped and sarcastic. ‘Send the other guard to fetch the sergeant and let him give you the order.’

  The soldier looks from one man to the other, his youthful face slack with indecision.

  ‘Come now, Private,’ Ned says in a jocular tone. ‘The good doctor here has misread the situation – not surprisingly, he is a civilian after all.’ Ned gives the private a conspiratorial smile.

  There is a bond between the two soldiers. In an instant, Elen knows which man the private is going to trust.

  ‘I believe for a moment he mistook me for a French spy,’ Ned says. The guard’s expression softens, there is amusement in his face and he lets the muzzle of the musket sink.

  Ned’s animal cunning has not deserted him. He has honed his skills with his misfortunes. He pats the soldier on the arm, steps forward, moving the friendly hand onto the boy’s shoulder.

  ‘The fact is,’ he goes on, ‘I know both these good people from years ago. We are all from the same village back home, are we not, doctor?’

  The doctor purses his lips. His mute agreement scoops another handful of sand from beneath her feet. Ned leans in towards the soldier and says, affecting a loud whisper for all to hear, ‘I came by to speak to Miss Griffiths – and who can blame me?’

  The young man sniggers and nods. She wants to speak, she wants to defend herself, but Ned is too plausible. A vehement denial will make her seem guiltier.

  ‘Do not listen to him, soldier,’ Dr Argyll says. ‘I have every reason to believe this man is a scoundrel.’ But the doctor has already lost too much ground with the guard. Although Ned has never met the soldier before this evening, they share a bond that over-rules any seniority the doctor may have.

  ‘It matters not what you believe,’ Ned says. ‘I will trouble you no longer. I was about to leave anyway.’

  Releasing his comradely hold on his fellow soldier, he bows, with great insincerity and charm, to Elen and the doctor. He then turns to the soldier and says, ‘Best of luck to you when we meet the French.’

  ‘And to you, sir.’ Then Ned is gone.

  * * *

  ‘You fool,’ the doctor says to the private, but compared to Ned’s measured certainty, he sounds agitated and weak.

  The soldier runs his eyes down Elen’s body then turns to the doctor and raises a sullen eyebrow. ‘Tell the sergeant about it in the morning, if you want,’ he says and with that, he leaves the tent.

  Outside he says something to the other guard and the two of them cackle. What horrid stories are they weaving? Elen is certain it is her they mock, but the doctor, who has stalked off towards the back of the tent, turns sharply at the sound.


  ‘That man should be disciplined also,’ he says, wagging his finger towards the entrance. He takes a few more paces up and down, tapping his hands, one upon the other, behind his back, before making a detour round to the crewel-work hanging, lifting it and peering into the duke’s chamber. Then he makes another circuit of the tent. ‘Yes,’ he mutters, ‘a most unpleasant incident.’

  Elen does not doubt he refers to his own humiliation. As an afterthought he swings back in her direction, approaching her almost crabwise, and drops his voice. ‘Thank goodness you are all right too, Miss Griffiths.’

  ‘I would not claim to be all right.’

  He looks at her with an expression more of irritation than sympathy. ‘Did he hurt you?’

  ‘He did not but I am sure I was only saved by your timely intervention.’ The doctor resumes his pacing. ‘I am not safe here, sir,’ she says in a stage whisper. The doctor sighs and comes back to her again.

  ‘I am afraid that puts us in a bit of a bind. We cannot possibly leave until the duke is back to full health. Even then, I cannot expect to be released from his service. To be honest, I hope I am not.’

  ‘If that is the way you feel, sir, I can no longer stay as your aide.’ The doctor glares at her. ‘I must return to Hellenstein where I can seek the protection of Mr Barker and his wife.’

  ‘Oh, come now, Miss Griffiths. Are you not overstating the situation? You cannot abandon me now. Look at how far you have come. You, a dairymaid who until a year ago had nursed only your siblings. Yet here you are, tending the Commander-in-Chief of the allied armies. The victory of England could be in your very hands.’

  ‘That is little comfort to me,’ she says. ‘I am in constant danger as long as Ned Harley is in this camp.’

  Dr Argyll ponders the problem for a few moments then says, ‘I will keep watch with you for the rest of the night and speak to the sergeant in the morning. I am sure Harley will be disciplined.’

  ‘He will not. He is too cunning. You saw what happened with the guard.’

  ‘I know, that was unfortunate. I was wrong-footed, momentarily distracted. I will solve everything in the morning, I assure you. You can count on me.’

  The doctor finds himself a comfortable couch at the back of the tent. Elen returns to her chair near the duke’s chamber.

  Ned’s appearance has stirred up a silt of anxiety, muddying the purity of hope that had sustained her since she left England. On the long march south, she felt Mordiford with her, in her. When she looked at the sky she imagined Mordiford watching the same clouds passing overhead. When the days lengthened and the moon rose, she felt certain that Mordiford gazed up at it too.

  As more and more soldiers joined the march, she was convinced that his eyes were searching the crowds of camp followers, as she searched for his face amongst the English officers gathered outside a tavern or resting in their encampments at the end of the day. Ned’s taunts have spoiled her dreams. Mordiford has been on the Continent for months, but he did not search for her. And why should he? The doctor was so easily convinced that she was not wholly innocent. Mordiford knows she is not. She thought his lack of censure was proof of his affection. Now it seems more likely it was proof of his disinterest. She grieves the loss of hope and reflects that those past months, filled with longing, were the best and only part of her imagined understanding with Mordiford.

  * * *

  At dawn, the duke emerges from sleep refreshed and amazed, resplendent in his wig, his uniform immaculate on his tall, handsome frame. Elen watches from the shadows as he proclaims himself miraculously cured.

  ‘I have to tell you, Argyll, that my relief is so great, I am almost moved to welcome my suffering of the past few days as it shines such a brilliant light on my return to health. I simply cannot believe it. If we lived in a less enlightened age, I would suspect you of alchemy and witchcraft. You are indeed a magician.’

  Elen listens to the doctor batting aside the praise with false modesty and busies herself packing the apothecary box. As she works, Prince Eugene of Savoy-Carignano is announced. The contrast of this short, ugly man in his plain clothes next to the duke, flashing bright in scarlet and gold, is striking, and yet the two commanders greet one another with genuine affection.

  She supposes her presence here will one day set her apart. People will ask, what is the Duke of Marlborough really like? Will she say he is a great leader, or that he is a man like any other, brought low by headaches? She closes the doors of the box and locks it, eager to quit the duke’s tent and insist the doctor speaks to the sergeant; however, before they are dismissed, the duke makes a particular point of including her in his entreaty to stay close by. In the future she will perhaps say that the duke had great charm despite his high station.

  * * *

  Sergeant Hacker listens sympathetically to Dr Argyll’s request to have Ned Harley disciplined, but says, ‘The duke is famously soft. He is too kind-hearted to chide a servant let alone mete out justice on a fellow who has apparently shown little more than zeal in the pursuit of love.’

  The doctor nods his understanding and looks at Elen with resignation, which infuriates her. ‘That is not the case, sir,’ she says to the sergeant, but she can tell he has reached his own conclusions.

  ‘It hardly matters,’ Sergeant Hacker says. ‘We are breaking camp later today. It seems the French are on the move. Private Harley’s unit has been despatched to hold the pontoon bridges over the Danube. So, you see, you cannot be troubled by him again.’ The doctor begins to walk away, but she will not let the matter drop.

  ‘If we travel with the duke, we will catch them up,’ she says to the sergeant.

  ‘The duke intends marching to Donauwörth. You will be thirty leagues away from Private Harley. You should be able to sleep easy in your bed.’ The sergeant smiles benignly. ‘Now, you need to break camp. We must be on the road before midday.’

  ‘There, Miss Griffiths,’ says Dr Argyll, ‘you have nothing to worry about.’

  But she does not, cannot, agree. Ned’s appearance has so alarmed her, his presence so shamed her, she is gripped with foreboding.

  ‘He will find me again,’ she says. ‘As long as he is at liberty, I am in danger.’

  ‘He is one man in tens of thousands, Miss Griffiths,’ the doctor says, his patience clearly waning. ‘Far greater events are unfolding around us. Make haste now. We must march north with the duke.’

  All around them the soldiers are dismantling their bivouacs, the cooks are loading up the ox carts and the foragers are organising the provisions they have plundered.

  ‘Do you not feel excitement in the air?’ the doctor says. ‘The Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene are close to achieving the battle they both desire.’ He clasps her heartily by the shoulders and gives her a little shake. ‘England is about to turn the tide of fortune against the armies of Louis XIV and we are to be a part of it.’

  Chapter 8

  August 1704

  Blindheim, Bavaria

  ‘Elen. Wake up! Marlborough’s army is on the move. Get your things and hurry.’

  Elen rolls onto her back. Sarah looms over her. In the darkness of the tent, her face glows as white as the moon.

  ‘I didn’t hear the drum,’ Elen says. She feels disorientated, reprimanded. She struggles to sit up, rubs her fists into her eyes.

  ‘No drum this morning.’

  No, there is no reprimand in Sarah’s voice, just urgency and maybe a touch of excitement.

  ‘What time is it?’ Elen asks.

  ‘Early. The sun is not yet up. Mr Barker is outside with a tumbrel to load our things on to. The doctor has already gone ahead with the duke’s party. We’ll wait for you outside.’

  The air in the tent is oppressive, some of yesterday’s heat still lingering underneath the canvas. Elen pulls her dress over her chemise and pins her hair up underneath her cap. Her fingers tremble. There is a pressure pushing up inside her; the echo of a memory back in her childhood, whispers in the dark
morning and torches flaring. She could taste fear, but it wasn’t her own. The screams of the cottage pig brought her to the window once, only once. Never again did she want to see the mud black with blood, her father slashing and cutting at the animal like a man possessed. So when the weather cooled the following year, and she heard the whispers again filling the morning air, she held her sisters tightly, and pressed the bedding to her ears. Today, she cannot turn away from the window, and hide her eyes or block her ears. Today the fear is her own.

  She steps out into the field where they are bivouacked. A mist has risen during the night from the marshy land around them. Above it, the spectral shapes of soldiers flow like a great river, pouring west across the countryside. She can taste their fear, rising like sweat into the air. Few speak, but now and then she hears whispers, the sound of an officer nearby giving an order in a hushed voice. The soldiers’ kits clink as they march, the noise layering away into the distance until it sounds like the babble of water over rocks. She scans the landscape from horizon to horizon and sees nothing but columns of men misted in early morning twilight, thousands and thousands of them, pouring across the fields of Bavaria.

  Mr Barker sits on top of a cart piled high with stretchers and poles thick with bandages, their harlequin patterns of red, brown and dirty white visible in the half-light. He too seems hypnotised by the sight of hordes of men, moving silently towards the French.

  ‘Mr Barker,’ his wife says in a church whisper. ‘Stop your gawping and give me a hand up.’ The surgeon comes to his senses and hauls his wife onto the makeshift seat of canvas bags. ‘Come on, Elen, there’s room for a skinny one.’

  Elen clambers up, grabbing hold of the edge of the cart. Once she is secure, Mr Barker clicks his tongue at the ponies and they move off, joining the columns of silent men trudging along the dark paths.

  Elen does not speak, and unusually, the Barkers are also silent. The surgeon stares ahead, deep in thought and Sarah, her arm linked through her husband’s, watches the soldiers as one by one the cart overtakes them. Elen wonders if, like her, Sarah is thinking how many of them will live to see another dawn.