by Wilbur Smith
Gratefully Michael swallowed the pills.
Of course, sir. They took off at dawn. Who is his wingman? Mr Banner, sir. A new chum, Michael brooded unhappily. Lord Andrew will be all right, don't you worry, sir. Yes, of course, he will, and what is this?
Michael roused himself.
Keys to Lord Killigerran's motor-cycle, sir. He says as you are to give the count his salaams, whatever those may be, sir, and his tender admiration to the young lady Biggs - the aspirins had worked a miracle, Michael felt suddenly light and carefree and gay. His wounds no longer pulled and his head no longer ached. Biggs, he repeated, you could lay out my number ones and give the brass buckles a lick and the boots a bit of a shine? Biggs grinned at him fondly. Going calling, are we, sir? hat we are, Biggs, that we are.
Centaine woke in darkness and listened to the guns. They terrified her. She knew she would never become accustomed to that bestial, insensate storm that so impersonally dealt death and unspeakable injury, and she remembered the months of late summer the previous year when, for a brief period, the German batteries had been within range of the chateau. That was when they had abandoned the upper levels of the great house and moved below stairs. By then the servants had long since fled all except Anna, of course, and the tiny cell that Centaine now occupied had belonged to one of the maids.
Their whole way of life had changed dramatically since the stormwaves of war had swept over them. Though they had never kept the same grand style as some of the other leading families of the province, there had always been dinners and house-parties and twenty servants to sustain them, but now their existence was almost as simple as had been that of their servants before the war.
Centaine threw off her forebodings with her bedclothes, and ran down the narrow stoneflagged corridor on bare feet. In the kitchen Anna was at the stove, already feeding it with split oak.
I was on my way to you with a jug of cold water, she said gruffly, and Centaine hugged her and kissed her until she smiled, and then went to warm herself in front of the stove.
Anna poured boiling water into the copper basin on the oar and then added cold. Come along, mademoiselle"
she ordered.
Oh, Anna, do I have to? Move! Reluctantly Centaine lifted the nightdress over her head, and shivered as the cold raised a fine rash of goosepimples on her forearms and over her small rounded buttocks.
Hurry. She stepped into the basin and Anna knelt beside her and dunked a flannel. Her movements were methodical and businesslike as she soaped down Centaine's body, starting at the shoulders and working to the fingertips of each arm, but she could not conceal the love and pride that softened her ugly red face.
The child was delightfully formed, though perhaps her breasts and bottom were a little too small, Anna hoped to plump them out with a good starchy diet, once that was freely obtainable again. Her skin was a smooth, buttery colour, where the sun had not touched it, though where it had been exposed, it tended to take on a dark bronze sheen that Anna found most unsightly.
You must wear your gloves and long sleeves this summer, she scolded. Brown is so ugly Do hurry up, Anna. Centaine hugged her soapy breasts and shivered, and Anna lifted her arms one at a time and scrubbed the dense bushes of dark curly hair under them.
The suds ran in long lacy lines down her lean flanks where the rack of her ribs showed through.
Don't be so rough, Centaine wailed. And Anna examined her limbs critically: they were straight and long, though much too strong for a lady, all that riding and running and walking. Anna shook her head.
Oh, what now? Centaine demanded.
You are as hard as a boy, your belly is too muscular for having babies. Anna ran the flannel down her body. Ouch! Stay still, you don't want to smell like a goat, do you? Anna, don't you just love blue eyes? Anna grunted, knowing instinctively where the discussion was headed.
What colour eyes would a baby have, if its mother's eyes were brown and its father's a lovely shimmering blue? Anna slapped her bottom with the flannel. That is enough of that. Your father will not like that kind of talk. Centaine did not take the threat seriously, she went on dreamily. Airmen are so brave, don't you think, Anna?
They must be the bravest men in the world. She became brisk. Hurry, Anna, I'll be late to count my chickens. She sprang from the basin, scattering water drops on the flagged floor, while Anna wrapped her in a towel that she had heated in front of the stove. Anna, it's almost light outside.
You come back here immediately after, Anna ordered. We have a lot of work to do today. Your father has reduced us to starvation level with his misplaced generosity."We had to offer a meal to those gallant young airmen. Centaine pulled on her clothes and sat on the stool to hook up her riding boots. Don't go mooning off into the woods- Oh, hush, Anna. Centaine jumped up and went clattering down the stairs. You come straight back! Anna yelled after her.
Nuage heard her coming and whickered softly. Cen tame flung both arms around his neck and kissed his velvety grey muzzle.
Bonjour my darling. She had stolen two cubes of sugar from under Anna's nose and now Nuage salivated over her hand as she fed them to him. She wiped her palm on his neck and then when she turned to lift down the saddle from its rack, he bumped her in the small of the back, demanding more.
Outside it was dark and cold, and she urged the stallion into a canter, revelling in the icy flow of air across her face, her nose and ears turning bright pink and her eyes beginning to stream tears. At the crest of the hillock, she reined Nuage to a standstill and looked into the soft gunmetal sheen of dawn, watching the sky above the long horizon turn to the colour of ripe oranges. Behind her the false dawn caused by the harsh, intermittent glow of the artillery barrage flickered against the heavens, but steadfastly she turned her back to it and waited for the planes to come.
She heard the distant beat of their engines, even over the sound of the guns, and then they came snarling into the yellow dawn, as fierce and swift and beautiful as falcons, so that, as always, she felt her pulse race, and she rose high in the saddle to greet them.
The lead machine was the green one with its tiger stripes of victory, the mad Scotsman. She lifted both hands high above her head.
Go with God, and come back safely! she shouted her blessing, and saw the flash of white teeth under the ridiculous tartan tam o shanter, and the green machine waggled its wings and then it was past, climbing away into the sinister sombre clouds that hung above the German lines.
She watched them go, the other aircraft closing up around the green leader into their fighting formation, and she was overwhelmed with a vast sadness, a terrible sense of inadequacy.
Why couldn't I be a man! she cried aloud. Oh, why couldn't I be going with you! But already they were out of sight, and she turned Nuage down the hill.
They will all die, she thought. All the young and strong and beautiful young men, and we will be left only with the old and maimed and ugly. And the sound of the distant guns counterpointed her fears. I wish, oh, how I wish, she said aloud, and the stallion flicked his ears back to listen to her, but she did not go on, for she did not know what it was she wished for. She knew only that there was a void within her that ached to be filled, a vast wanting for she did not know what, and a terrible sorrow for all the world. She turned Nuage loose to graze in the small field behind the chateau and carried his saddle back on her shoulder.
Her father was sitting at the kitchen table and she kissed him casually. His eyepatch gave him a rakish air despite that fact that his other eye was bloodshot; his face was a baggy and wrinkled as a bloodhound's and he smelled of garlic and stale red wine.
As usual, he and Anna were bickering in a companionable fashion, and as Centaine sat opposite him cupping the big round coffee bowl in her hands, she wondered suddenly if Anna and her father mated together, and immediately after she wondered why the notion had never occurred to her before.
As a country girl, the processes of procreation were no mystery to her. Despite Anna's ori
ginal protests, she was always there to assist when mares from the surrounding district were brought to visit Nuage. She was the only one who could manage the big white stallion once he smelt the mare, and calm him sufficiently to enable him to perform his business without injuring himself or the object of his affections.
By a process of logic, she had reached the conclusion that man and woman must work on similar principles.
When she had questioned Anna, she had at first threatened to report Centaine to her papa and wash her mouth out with lye soap. Patiently Centaine had persisted until at last Anna had in a hoarse whisper confirmed her suspicions, and glanced across the kitchen at the comte with a look on her face that Centaine had never seen before, and at the time could not fathom, but which now made logical sense.
Watching them argue and laugh together, it all fell into place, the occasions when after a nightmare she had gone to Anna's room for comfort and found her bed empty, the puzzling presence of one of Anna's petticoats under her father's bed when she was sweeping out his bedroom.
Only last week Anna had come out of the cellar after helping the comte clean out the improvised animal stalls with straw sticking both to the back of her skirts and to the bun of greying hair on the top of her head.
The discovery seemed somehow to increase Centaine's desolation and her feeling of emptiness. She felt truly alone now, isolated and without purpose, empty and aching.
I'm going out. She sprang up from the kitchen table.
Oh no. Anna barred her way. We have got to get some food into this house, since your father has given away all we possess, and, mademoiselle, you are going to help me! Centaine had to escape from them, to be alone, to come to terms with this terrible new desolation of her spirit.
Nimbly she ducked under Anna's outstretched arm and flung open the kitchen door.
On the threshold stood the most beautiful person she had ever seen in all her life.
He was dressed in glossy boots and immaculate riding breeches of a lighter tan colour than his khaki uniform jacket. His narrow waist was belted in lustrous leather and burnished brass, his Sam Browne crossed his chest and emphasized his wide shoulders. On his left breast were the RFC wings and a row of coloured ribbons, on his epaulettes sparkled the badges of his rank, and his cap had been carefully crushed in the manner affected by veteran fighter pilots and set at a jaunty angle over his impossibly blue eyes.
Centaine fell back a pace and stared up at him, for he towered over her like a young god, and she became aware of a sensation that was entirely new to her. Her stomach seemed to turn to jelly, hot jelly, heavy as molten lead that spread downwards through her lower body until it seemed that her legs could no longer support the weight of it. At the same time she had great difficulty breathing.
Mademoiselle de Thiry. This vision of martial splendour spoke and touched the peak of his cap in salute. The voice was familiar, and she recognized the eyes, those cerulean blue eyes, and the man's left arm was supported by a narrow leather strap Michel, her voice was unsteady and she corrected herself. Captain Courtney, and then she changed languages, Mijnheer Courtney? The young god smiled at her, and it did not seem possible that this was the same man, tousled, bloodied and muddied, swaddled in ill-fitting charred rags, trembling and shaking and pathetic, that she had helped load in a stupor of pain and weakness and inebriation into the sidecar of the motor-cycle the previous afternoon.
When he smiled at her, Centaine felt the world lurch beneath her feet. When it steadied, she realized that it had altered its orbit and was on a new track amongst the stars. Nothing would ever be the same again.
Entrez, monsieur. She fell back, and as he stepped over the threshold, the comte rose from the table and hurried to meet him.
How goes it with you, captain? He took Michael's hand. Your wounds? They are much better. A little cognac would help them, the comte suggested and looked at his daughter slyly. Michael's stomach quailed at the suggestion and he shook his head vehemently.
No, said Centaine firmly, and turned to Anna. We must see to the captain's dressing. Protesting only mildly, Michael was led to the stool in front of the stove and Anna unbuckled his belt, while Centaine stood behind him and eased his jacket off his shoulders.
Anna unwrapped the dressings and grunted with approval.
Hot water, child, she ordered.
Carefully they washed and dried his burns, and then smeared them with fresh ointment and rebandaged them with clean linen strips.
They are healing beautifully, Anna nodded, while Centaine helped him into his shirt.
She had not realized how smooth a man's skin could be, there down his flanks and across his back. His dark hair curled on to the nape of his neck, and he was so thin that each knuckle of his spine stood out as cleanly as beads on a rosary, with two ridges of lean muscle running down each side of it.
She came round to button the front of his shirt.
You are very gentle, he said softly, and she dared not look into his eyes, lest she betray herself in front of Anna.
His chest hair was thick and crisp and springy as she brushed it almost unintentionally with her fingertips, and the nipples of his flat hard chest were dusky-pink and tiny, yet they hardened and thrust out under her gaze, a phenomenon which both amazed and enchanted her. She had never dreamed that happened to men also.
Come, Centaine, Anna chided her, and she started as she realized that she had been staring at his body.
I came to thank you, Michael said. I didn't mean to make work for you. It is no trouble. Centaine still dared not look into his eyes. Without your help I might have burned to death."No! Centaine said with unnecessary emphasis. The idea of death and this marvelous creature was totally unacceptable to her.
Now she looked at his face again at last, and it seemed that the summer sky showed through chinks in his skull so blue were his eyes.
Centaine, there is much work to do. Anna's tone was sharper still.
Let me help you, Michael cut in eagerly. I have been grounded, I am not allowed to fly. Anna looked dubious, but the Comte shrugged. Another pair of hands, we could use. A small repayment, Michael insisted.
Your fine uniform. Anna was looking for excuses, and she glanced down at his glossy boots.
We have rubber boots and overalls, Centaine cut in swiftly, and Anna threw up her hands in capitulation.
Centaine thought that even the blue serge deNim, or denim as it was colloquially known, and black rubber boots looked elegant on Michael's tall lean body as he descended to help the Comte muck out the animal stalls in the cellars.
Centaine and Anna spent the rest of the morning in the vegetable gardens, preparing the soil for the spring sowing.
Every time Centaine went down to the cellars on the flimsiest of excuses, she paused beside wherever Michael was working under the Comte's direction, and the two of them made halting and self-conscious conversation until Anna came down the staircase.
Where is that child now! Centaine! What on earth are you doing? As if she did not know.
All four of them ate lunch in the kitchen, omelettes flavoured with onions and truffles, cheese and brown bread, and a bottle of red wine over which Centaine relented, but not enough to hand over the cellar keys to her father. She fetched it herself.
The wine softened the mood, even Anna took a glass of it and allowed Centaine to do the same, and the talk became easy and unrestrained, punctuated with bursts of laughter.
Now, captain, the Comte turned to Michael at last with a calculating glitter in his single eye - you and your family, what do you do in Africa?
Farmers, Michael replied.
Tenant farmers? the Comte probed cautiously. No, no -'Michael laughed.
We farm our own lands. Landowners? The Comte's tone changed, for, as all the world knew, land was the only true form of wealth. What size are your family estates? Well- Michael looked embarrassed quite large.
You see, it is mostly held in a family company, my father and my uncle-'Your u
ncle, the general? the Comte prompted. Yes, my Uncle Sean-'A hundred hectares? the Comte insisted.
A little more. Michael squirmed on the bench and fiddled with his bread roll.
Two hundred? The Comte looked so expectant that Michael could not evade him longer.
Altogether, if you take the plantations and the cattle ranches, and some land we own in the north, it's about forty thousand hectares. Forty thousand? The comte stared at him, and then repeated the question in English so there could be no misunderstanding. Forty thousand? Michael nodded uncomfortably. It was only recently that he had begun to feel a little self-conscious about the extent of his family's worldly possessions.
Forty thousand hectares! The comte breathed reverently, and then, and, of course, you have many brothers? Michael shook his head. No, unfortunately I am an only son. Ha! said the comte with transparent relief. Do not feel too badly about that! I And patted his arm in a paternal gestur The comte shot a glance at his daughter, and for the first time recognized the expression on her face as she looked at the airman.
Quite right too, he thought comfortably. Forty thousand hectares, and an only son! His daughter was a Frenchwoman, and knew the value of a sou. and a franc, sacrg bleu, she knew it better than he did himself. He smiled lovingly across the table at her. A child in many ways, but a shrewd young Frenchwoman in others. Since the comte's factor had fled to Paris, leaving the accounts and books of the estate in chaos, it had been Centaine who had taken over the purse-strings. The comte had never bothered much with money anyway, for him land would always remain the only true wealth, but his daughter was the clever one. She even counted the bottles in the cellar and the hams on the smoke-rack. He took a mouthful of red wine and mused happily to himself.
There would be so few eligible young men left after this slaughter, this charnel-house ... and forty thousand hectares!
Cherie, he said. If the captain were to take the shotgun and get us a few fat pigeon, and you were to fill a basket with truffles, you might still find some, what a dinner we could have this evening! Centaine clapped her hands with delight, but Anna glared at him in red-faced indignation across the table.