The Summer Fields

  The Barkers joined Elen and the doctor a few days earlier when it became clear a decisive battle with the French was imminent. Mr Barker looked exhausted when he arrived. Sarah told Elen he had done all he could with last month’s casualties. The lucky ones were heading back through Franconia and home, on to England. The cadaver pits at Hellenstein had been limed and covered over. The uniforms of the dead that escaped the scavengers, had been handed to new recruits. She wonders how it feels to pull on a scarlet justacorps stiff with another man’s blood. Does it fill you with rage and determination to destroy your enemy, or does it remind you of your own mortality? She nursed a young lad through dysentery a few weeks ago. He had been so proud to wear the scarlet. She hopes he is wearing it still. She wants to think about Mordiford, but she dare not. Instead she thinks of Ned and she is afraid.

  As the allied armies converge on the marshy plains around the River Danube, she can no longer depend on distance to separate her from her nemesis. Any one of these pale, determined faces, looking up at the cart as they pass, could be his. She dreads seeing him, but a worse fear troubles her. The chances of Ned dying during the battle are high. It is common knowledge that the Franco–Bavarian army far outnumber Marlborough’s allies. Will God punish her for failing to find forgiveness in her heart and wishing her nemesis meets his end today?

  The route leads them through a forest, the smell of pine resin is strong under the canopy of branches, but corrupted by the tang of sulphur from the gunpowder carried by the fusiliers. Thoughts of Mordiford push into her mind and the old habit of hope rises before she catches it, before she can remind herself that whatever passed between them was nothing more than a temporary closeness triggered by circumstance. He has probably made his fiancée his wife by now. Yes, he would marry before leaving to fight. But, oh, the thought scrapes such a hollow in her.

  The cart leaves the shelter of the trees just as the sun breaks the horizon. She gasps at the immensity of the view. The early morning shadows spread over the gentle slopes of farmland that dip down towards a shallow valley.

  The valley heaves with a multitude of soldiers as if a legion of poppies has sprung up to fill the fields, the sun flashing on swords and bayonets. As the cart nears the melee, she sees a chaplain beside a makeshift altar built from a pile of drums. Hundreds of soldiers stand before him, their heads bent, their hats in their hands. She imagines the French also praying for victory and wonders how God will decide.

  Chapter 9

  ‘There are barns along the Donauwörth road,’ Mr Barker says. ‘We’ll set up there for the time being.’ Some obscure hesitation, a momentary concern perhaps, makes the surgeon frown. He looks across at Elen in a more personal manner, giving her a thin smile. Has he sensed her anxiety or is he covering his own?

  They leave the plains behind. After ten minutes Elen sees a road ahead, full of soldiers marching towards the gathering army.

  ‘Hey, you there – Captain,’ Mr Barker calls out to one of the officers. ‘Lend me a handful of your men to get me unloaded.’

  ‘And let them pray they do not set eyes on my darling Mr Barker for the rest of the day,’ Sarah says under her breath to Elen.

  Mr Barker steers the ponies along the wall of a large barn and into a rough courtyard surrounded by farm buildings. There is a small farmhouse on the opposite side, its door open, the blank windows staring blindly ahead. The family must have fled, taking their animals with them to safety. The cart stops outside the wide entrance to the barn.

  ‘Shimmy along to the back and start handing down,’ Sarah says, lowering herself to the ground, sending up an eddy of dust. Elen struggles over the luggage to the back of the cart. The soldiers lean their muskets up against the wall and stand, waiting for her to tell them what to do. There is no teasing or banter, just a strange, brooding tension as they ferry the supplies and bags into the barn.

  When everything is unloaded, Elen follows them into the building. Among the rakes, besom brooms and baskets scattered near the entrance, she sees a doll, whittled from a piece of wood, dressed in rough calico, lying face down in the dust. She stoops to pick it up, turning it in her hands. The eyes stare back at her. It’s an unworldly thing, like a mandrake root. She shivers but cannot drop it back into the dirt. Instead she sits it on a beam, turning its face to the wall.

  Mr Barker is giving instructions. The soldiers are carrying hurdles and planks. He tells her to find the well and take some men, fill as many buckets and tubs as they can with water and bring them back to the barn.

  When she returns, he has set up tables, row upon row of them. A message has been sent. The orderly sergeant will be here soon and they are expecting Prussian surgeons to arrive shortly. Mr Barker tells her to scrub the boards down, clear them of dirt and bird droppings. Elen breaks open the bales, scatters the hay thick on the floor underneath the tables. ‘A slippery lake of blood on these stone slabs will be perilous,’ Mr Barker says cheerfully as she works. Activity has renewed the surgeon’s good humour.

  ‘Leave some pails empty, soldier,’ he calls out. ‘We shall have need of them when limbs begin to fly. Private, go and ask the captain if I can send you with a message to Dr Argyll so that he knows where we are when the battle begins. I will need him here. And any of you with nothing to do, start digging. I need a pit to rival that of Hellenstein. Dig deep to make sure those ruddy Bavarians take nothing from you should you meet your maker today. Miss Griffiths, take one of the bandage poles outside and find a place where it can be displayed. The wounded will need to know we are here.’

  * * *

  Elen is battling to free the largest pole from the heap of luggage when the orderly sergeant arrives with his unit. He’s a startling-looking man with a long and curled moustache. A veteran she imagines for she has never seen such a fine set of whiskers on a fellow’s face. She takes him to the entrance of the barn and points out Mr Barker.

  The great space is peaceful, a small crew of soldiers fiddling with things here and there, spinning out their time in this oasis of calm before rejoining their marching comrades. Dust motes rise towards the ceiling in the shafts of early sunlight, scything down from gaps in the walls. It reminds her of the lofty nave of a church, the tables set out row upon row like pews, waiting.

  She drags a barrel across the courtyard and onto the road, propping the bandage pole inside it at an angle. It is strangely quiet now that the infantry has passed. The early morning air is still fresh, but looking up at the pale blue sky, she knows the day will swelter once the sun is high.

  Most of the mist has burned away. Up the road, a cloud of dust is rising, a dark haze where before there were thin wraiths of fog. The sound of drumming reaches her ears. Over the horizon come the bobbing tricorn hats of a regiment of dragoon guards. She steps further back onto the verge to let them pass. The horses are fresh, the colour of the men’s uniforms rich despite the dust, their hang-swords jingling in tune with the snaffles in the horses’ mouths, and the steady drum of hooves. The ground beneath her feet vibrates as they pass, the sensation rising and filling her chest with a sizzling exhilaration; an expectation, a joy. She feels her eyes fill with tears. The horses toss their heads. They nicker and whinny, eager for a gallop, hungry for the charge. The excitement overwhelms her. If one dragoon says, take my place, ride with the cavalry into battle, she will spring into the saddle and thunder down towards the French.

  The passing soldiers catch her mood and tip their hats as they pass. She feels a swell of passion and comradeship. One of the riders abruptly opens his rein, turning his horse so sharply towards the verge that the animal behind is forced to veer. Someone shouts in protest. The dragoon has slipped down from his horse, the body of the animal screening him.

  A gloved hand soothes the horse’s nose, a voice talks to the animal. She cannot catch the words. The reins drop and the horse ambles over to the wall where the grass grows long and lush. Only then does the rider step around the back of his mount and into view, pulling his hat from his he
ad and clasping it to his chest.

  Her eyes travel up the tall frame, across the broad chest and scarlet justacorps. She sees the deep cuff of his sleeve, green against the red. The level light of the rising sun streams across his cheeks, rough and pitted with white scars. It touches the tips of his eyelashes. His eyes blind her with the purest blue.

  Mordiford stands before her.

  Chapter 10

  The weapons hanging around Mordiford’s body give him a noble and savage look, yet his expression is so pleading, so tender, she wants to comfort him as she did when he lay racked with pox.

  As she moves towards him, a whoop goes up from the passing dragoons. He does not heed them. He grasps her by the hand, wordlessly leads her into the yard, away from the eyes of his comrades and into the shadow of the wall.

  His hat falls from his hand. He strips his gauntlets off with his teeth and drops them to the ground. He takes her other hand, drawing her closer. His palms are warm and roughened. As he raises her hand, she smells leather. He dips his head, his eyes holding hers all the while, and presses her fingers to his lips.

  Recovering some of his equilibrium, he takes a step back. ‘Miss Griffiths,’ he says, his voice full of wonder.

  Elen cannot find her voice, cannot speak. He gazes at her. His fellow dragoons clatter past in the lane. His eye momentarily flicks towards them but he does not move. He cannot release his hold of her. His face shows an agony of indecision.

  ‘Is the good doctor here with you?’ he says finally.

  She’s breathing too hard to speak, her heart crashing in her chest. She finds her voice. ‘He’s with the duke at present,’ she says. ‘We’ve sent word for him to join us before the battle begins.’

  Mordiford looks towards his men, his weight already shifting to join them. ‘When did you arrive?’

  ‘I have marched with the army from The Hague.’

  ‘The Hague? I joined the march at Ladenburg.’

  ‘I never saw you.’

  ‘I arrived along with thousands of Danes and Prussians. Were you there also?’

  ‘Yes, we were…’

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’

  ‘Did you fight at Schellenberg?’ she says.

  ‘Yes. I rode in Wood’s Brigade. You were there?’

  ‘No. I was at Schwabach, nursing camp fever.’

  He gazes at her, his lips move as if about to speak. He looks away in frustration, ‘God’s teeth!’ he says. ‘This is an intolerable moment to find you. I cannot believe the injustice.’

  Guns boom out across the plains, so loud she darts towards his protection. He envelops her with an arm.

  ‘The French have finally woken,’ he says. ‘They are firing salvoes to recall their foragers. Now the mist has risen, the duke’s trick is discovered. I must get to my position.’

  ‘Must you ride today?’ As the words spring from her lips, she instantly regrets them.

  ‘Yes, dear Miss Griffiths. Of course I must ride today.’ His eyes scan her face. She does not need to tell him her fears. ‘The duke is a great general,’ he says. ‘He will lead us to victory before the day is through. Our luck will hold.’

  She cannot let him tempt fate, she opens her mouth to contradict him but he rushes on, ‘See how today has begun. In this great teeming mass of soldiers, I ride down the very road where you stand. Fortune smiles on us, I know it. We will beat the French today and I will come back for you.’

  But if you don’t, she wants to cry. If you don’t I cannot live.

  ‘Take your hands off that girl,’ a voice bellows.

  Sarah is thundering across the yard towards them, brandishing a hand scythe. In some surprise, Mordiford swings round and Elen rushes forward to intercept her. ‘No,’ she shouts. ‘Stop, Sarah. This is not the man.’

  Sarah slows as she approaches but the look on her face is savage with suspicion. ‘Not the man? Does every soldier in the English army have designs on you?’

  ‘No, of course they do not. This is Viscount Mordiford. If the doctor were here, he would reassure you that I am in no danger. In fact, he helped me to escape from Harley when first he attacked me in Wales.’

  ‘Ned Harley?’ Mordiford says. ‘Is that fiend here?’

  Another thunderous salvo fires in the distance. As the rumbles die away, the trumpets and drums of both armies start up.

  ‘Ha!’ Mordiford says, ‘The armies have begun to challenge one another.’

  ‘The battle has begun?’

  ‘No. Just the drummers and the pipers. But quickly – Harley, tell me about Harley.’

  ‘He is here, somewhere,’ she says desperately. ‘He was pressed into service for vagrancy, but the story of his reappearance is long. There’s no time to tell it now.’

  She knows that their exchange is beginning to convince Sarah when, by way of an apology for her hasty intervention, she says to Elen, ‘The doctor told me to watch out for you, to keep you safe.’

  ‘I know,’ Elen says, reaching out and grasping her friend by the arm. ‘I am grateful, truly grateful for your protection.’

  Elen nods at Mordiford. He comes forward and offers Sarah his hand.

  ‘Captain Mordiford, at your service, madam,’ he says with a respectful bow of his head.

  ‘Mrs Barker,’ she replies, giving him a haughty look, but allowing the scythe to settle at her side.

  ‘I am honoured to make the acquaintance of any friend and champion of Miss Griffiths,’ he says. ‘Many months ago, she nursed me through a ferocious attack of the pox and I am much indebted to her. Without her, I doubt I would have survived to fight this day.’

  ‘Then I pray you survive today also, although I cannot say the same for Private Harley.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Mordiford says, ‘perhaps that is the justice that awaits him… but so does my unit. I must say fare you well for the moment and hasten to rejoin them. When the victory is won, I will return and perhaps break bread with you, Mrs Barker, if you would permit me.’

  Sarah lingers. Elen widens her eyes at her, beseeching her to walk away. The surgeon’s wife nods and turns. Mordiford snatches his hat and gloves from the ground.

  His eyes search Elen’s face as if he wants to imprint her image deep in his mind. With a look of utter despair, he takes a step towards the road, his eyes never once leaving her. Five minutes, no more, is all she has had of him. He has been in her imaginings so often that his physicality is breathtaking. Within moments he will be swept away from her, gathered up into that vast river of jangling kit and scarlet coats, but in this moment she can still wonder at a single dark hair caught in the rough wool of his justacorps, the sweet run of skin at his throat, the warmth of his gaze. With one final look of desperation, he mounts his horse and spins the gelding round.

  ‘Until this evening,’ he says, cramming his tricorn onto his head and squeezing his legs against the animal’s flanks. He canters off down the verge that breasts the road, his head and shoulders slumped as if the effort of tearing himself away has drained him entirely.

  Chapter 11

  Elen watches until Mordiford disappears. As she makes her way back through the yard, her legs feel weak and her head begins to swim.

  ‘Elen,’ Sarah calls, coming back across the yard. ‘Whatever’s the matter now? You’re as white as sun-bleached bone.’

  ‘I’m feeling a little faint,’ she says, grasping onto Sarah’s arm for she has lost confidence in her own legs.

  ‘Come and sit you down for a minute.’ Sarah says, bustling around and moving a bench into the shade. ‘There you are,’ she says, rummaging through her pockets. She holds a bottle of smelling salts under Elen’s nose and, as the ammonia catches her, Elen snatches a breath and pushes the bottle away. The dizziness passes.

  Sarah peers into her face, her expression inquisitive. ‘Am I to understand that you had a previous understanding with that soldier?’ she says.

  ‘I wasn’t sure of it until this moment.’

  ‘Not sure? I would haz
ard a guess that you’ve been sure of it for many months.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She feels her lids begin to sting. ‘It appears we have wandered across the Continent this way and that, just missing each other.’

  ‘And now you have come together, you feel a great rush.’

  ‘Why would God bring him down this road if He didn’t mean us to be together?’

  ‘Ah, together, you say. Did you not tell me he was a viscount? Perhaps it was the Devil who sent him this way.’ Elen gives her friend a sharp look of warning. ‘The meeting of two forces of nature is not always a good thing,’ Sarah says, softening her tone.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘It certainly will not be today.’

  ‘The allies will win.’

  ‘There will be a victory, but no one will win.’

  ‘And you mean to warn me?’

  ‘Have a care, Elen.’

  Elen tries to stop her tears but they spring from her eyes and pour down her cheeks in a hot stream. ‘Oh, Sarah. What if he should die the very day I discover he returns my affections?’

  ‘You poor little pigsney,’ Sarah says, pulling her into a hug. It is not the soft embrace of her mother. Sarah is too robust, the smell of her sweat too lusty to comfort in that way, but Elen rests her head on her friend’s shoulder and sobs until her temples ache.

  When her tears subside and she draws away, she sees that Sarah is weeping too. Sarah dashes the tears away with a laugh and says, ‘I should have warned you, I cannot let a person weep without coming along for the keening.’

  Sarah pulls out a large napkin and blows her nose noisily before offering the damp, warm rag to Elen. ‘There now, there is nothing like an acute lament to set the world to rights again.’