Kit

by Marina Fiorato

  She walked past, then stopped and turned. On a sudden whim she twisted the gilded catch of the cage and the door swung open. ‘Go on,’ she said. The parrot gave a throaty chuckle and cocked its head at her, fixing her with eyes like black beads. It shifted its ugly clawed feet, but made no move to fly. She regarded it for a moment, then understood. ‘Not you too,’ she said. ‘Well; please yourself.’ And she shut the cage door again.

  Chapter 37

  For we were the lads who would give them hard clouts …

  ‘Arthur McBride’ (trad.)

  Superga hill. Superga hill. Superga hill.

  Kit repeated the direction to herself over and over, in time with Flint’s hoofbeats, like a litany.

  She had expected a slight incline, a little rise in the terrain, but when she and Flint finally reached it they found themselves toiling up a vast and looming mountain. Mare and rider were exhausted beyond measure, having already ridden for a night and a day. Flint had had no nourishment save some wayside grass and water, and Kit’s only sustenance had been periodic nips from Mezzanotte’s flask.

  Their climb was not made easier by a red river flowing down the green hill – hundreds upon thousands of cavalry and foot, in their red coats, pouring down the slope like a cataract, in retreat. They seemed in spirits, these men, swaggering and joking; some doffed their hats to her, some sang a catch, some whistled. She loved them, these soldiers, really loved them. She wanted to shout at them all, Turn back! But she had no authority – she must find Marlborough, had to find Marlborough.

  As she climbed, the view unfurled beneath her like a Turkey carpet and she realised her adventures had come full circle. She had begun this coil by rolling down a hill on Ormonde’s orders; now she climbed a hill against them. She kept her eyes high – the climb, the climb was all – she would not fall again.

  At the crown of the hill stood a marble mausoleum, eerily reminiscent of the one in Mantova where she had laid her counterfeit husband. She thought fleetingly of him. Had the French dug him up by now, and thrown him in a pauper’s grave? Or had they let him lie?

  At the little chapel she slid from Flint’s back, and rested her head for a moment on her sweating lathered neck. She breathed the sweet smell of hay and horse, and tied the mare to the wrought-iron gate of the tomb. There she read the names of long-dead Savoy princes, a roll call of skeleton emperors and bone kings. But beyond the white tombs was a collection of red tents, brave and warm and alive, their fabric walls moving with the wind, as rosy and animate as the tombs were pale and dead.

  Marlborough’s tents.

  Kit threw back her cloak so that the diamonds at her ears and throat caught the sun, pressed her lips together, pinched her cheeks and straightened her wig. The current Prince of Savoy was probably between his silken sheets in the white palace below, the palace where she’d celebrated his name day. If she failed today, he might soon be laid to rest here in this cold stone bed.

  Kit walked forward to the fluttering tents. Their pennants were blowing in an easterly, in the direction of the doomed city, pointing in warning. In the centre of the circle of red sat two men at chess. At first she did not recognise Marlborough, for he was jacketless, his red coat laid beside him on the grass. His opponent was in a like state of undress, in his shirtsleeves, his coat laid aside. He too was unfamiliar at first, but when he looked up she could see that it was Lord Mark Kerr, a commander she had seen at the castle at Rovereto, and again in the lines at Luzzara. Both men watched her approach, and, she noted with relief, both got to their feet. She must, even after the ride she had undertaken, still look like a lady, if not a countess. She did reverence to Marlborough first, then Lord Mark, but spoke as she curtsied, mindful of pressing time.

  ‘My Lord Marlborough, I have some vital intelligence for your ears. The French intend to take Turin by surprise, and use the city as their bastion to take the rest of the peninsula, and annex it to France.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I swear it, my lord. I have been at the court at Mantova, and had it from Maréchal Ferdinand Comte de Marsin himself.’

  ‘Turin?’ Marlborough frowned. ‘They would not dare brave the lion’s mouth. They have passed it by a thousand times – it is held by Savoy and always has been.’

  ‘Held securely?’ asked Kit pointedly. ‘Or by one regiment; the Scots Grey Dragoons?’

  Marlborough’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I told you. I have been at the court of the French.’

  ‘And you are now in their pay?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, sir. I am on the side of the Alliance, through and through. I urge you to fortify the city. The French could, even now, be riding into the valley.’ She repeated herself. She became more voluble, more insistent; she was losing their attention, and began to shout like a fishwife.

  Lord Mark came closer to her and sniffed. ‘She is a foolish drunken woman – I can smell brandy on her breath.’

  She took a step back – it was Mezzanotte’s brandy he’d smelled.

  ‘No,’ said Marlborough slowly. ‘She is a French comtesse. I saw you, did I not, at the palazzo yonder with Ormonde.’

  ‘The Duke of Ormonde?’ interjected Lord Mark, exchanging a significant glance with Marlborough.

  ‘Aye,’ said Marlborough grimly, and his demeanour changed. ‘What scheme is this, madam? Tell me the meaning of this falsehood, or I will have you clapped in chains, countess or no.’

  She looked about her desperately. She wished she had the purse he had given her to show him – the purse with his own arms stamped upon it; but she had given it to Bianca.

  In desperation she tore off her wig and took up Marlborough’s coat from the grass. She put it on, buttoned it and faced him, hitching the gown to show her soldier’s boots. Now, save the skirt, she was the same Kit who had faced him in Rovereto, when he had rewarded her.

  ‘I am no countess,’ she said. ‘I am Kit Kavanagh, of the Royal Scots Grey dragoons. At the castle of Rovereto you once gave me a commendation for bravery and a purse of five pistoles, for coming to the aid of Colonel Gossedge at Cremona.’ She went to the duke and took his hands, looking up into his face, appealing to him using both her soldier’s forthrightness and her feminine wiles. ‘You used to call me “the pretty dragoon”.’

  Marlborough looked at her for five dreadful heartbeats – then his face changed. ‘Lord Mark,’ he said, in a low voice that rang like a bell. ‘Call the officers. Fall in the trumpeters. Halt the men and bring them back.’

  ‘But my Lord—’

  ‘Do it, Kerr. For I would rather trust this lady than any man in my army. And for Christ’s sake, man, put on your jacket, there is a battle to fight.’

  Chapter 38

  And we have no desire to take your advance …

  ‘Arthur McBride’ (trad.)

  Kit learned that day what a true commander was.

  Marlborough had only to stand at the crown of the hill and before the trumpets had even sounded, the red tide that had flowed down the hill like lava congealed, halted and reversed, to surge back up the hill and surround its commander. Marlborough waited until all the company was crowded about him before he held his hand high for the trumpets to cease. He stood on a stone tor that marked the very summit of the hill. His height was already remarkable, but the stone he stood upon made him a giant among men, and he spread his arms in welcome like Christ about to make his Sermon on the Mount. But at the same time he looked more humble than usual. He had ordered Lord Mark to dress himself, but he had left off his own coat, and spoke to the men as one of them.

  ‘I have it on authority,’ he said, ‘that the French are even now marching upon Turin. Their retreat was a feint. They are returning in number – above forty thousand men will march on the city below. We will not let them take it. For if they take Turin, home of our dear friend and ally Prince Eugene, they have a stronghold on the edge of the Empire and will overrun the peninsula. And we will not let that happen.’ He
opened his arms again, to show his shirtsleeves. ‘You see, brothers,’ he said. ‘I have no concealed armour. I am equally exposed with you, and I require none to go where I will refuse to venture.’ Kit looked around at all the rapt faces – every soldier listened attentively, no one stirred. ‘Remember you fight for the liberties of all Europe, and the glory of your nation, which shall never suffer by my behaviour; and I hope that the character of a Briton is as dear to every one of you as it is to me.’

  Deafening cheers almost drowned the last of his words, and he was taken up by the redcoats nearest him and carried shoulder high. Tricorns were thrown high, songs and catches were sung, and Kit felt her heart swell – she wanted to cheer too – she wanted to be one of them. She learned then, for the first time, why the English Army was so devoted to Marlborough.

  The duke’s ensign approached and had to shout above the cacophony. ‘My Lord Duke, the prince is come.’

  Marlborough was set down; the trumpets sounded once more, the sergeants shouted. The merry band of revellers fell into lines and the lines into regiments and the army, calm, professional and deadly, formed before Kit’s eyes. What must she do now, in such a company? God willing, Ross would now be safe, for this army of thousands would descend to defend the city. Marlborough was due to meet his commanders in his tent; what would Kit Kavanagh do now? How could she serve? She looked down, out of countenance, not sure where to put herself. Marlborough swept past her on his way to his tent, his spurs striking sparks on the rocks underfoot. He stopped, turned. ‘Coming?’ he asked.

  Kit looked up. ‘Me?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t stand there gawping.’

  ‘The point is, surely, to wait.’ Eugene of Savoy was striding up and down the tent, his wig, his skin and his whole person given a scarlet hue by the sun leaching through the red fabric. ‘If De Marsin finds the city heavily defended, and the French vanguard is repelled at once by great numbers, they will retreat. What we want is for the French to think that Turin is theirs for the taking. Let Vendôme come from the west, and Orléans and De la Feuillade and Maréchal Marsin from the east, let them all come. Let them gather in the valley – all of them. Our divisions, and yours, will wait in the hills here at Superga and at the Po and fall upon them. They will be like rats in a trap.’

  Rats in a trap. Kit heard Ormonde’s phrase in Savoy’s mouth, like a death knell. The Jacobites. The English. Now the French.

  Marlborough tapped his nail on his teeth. For a time he did not answer. ‘I see the sense in what you say,’ he conceded. ‘But equally, if the French come at force, and charge through the gates, they may take the city before we can act. Only one of my regiments defends the city – the Royal Scots Greys, ringed about the walls.’

  Eugene too thought for a moment. ‘The Hessians are at Castiglione, close upon the city. Let us command the landgrave to march his men to Turin with all possible haste and stealth, to enter the city secretly, and in great number, but at the rearward to defend the gates from within.’

  ‘And outside the gates?’ asked Marlborough with some heat. ‘What of the dragoons in the valley, who defend the walls? I have never yet left a regiment of good men to die like lambs at Eastertide.’

  ‘You would prefer that the French retreat, intact, to try their chance again? Or do we finish this? We have been stuck in stalemate for long enough now. Time for the endgame.’

  Ormonde’s words again. Kit’s heart sank. She knew which way the wind was blowing.

  Marlborough shook his head. ‘I cannot condemn those men to certain death.’

  ‘And what of their commander? Captain …’

  ‘Ross. Captain Ross,’ said Marlborough. She loved the duke at that moment for knowing his men so well.

  ‘What would he say, if you gave him the choice and offered him such glory?’ pressed the prince.

  Marlborough’s eyes found Kit, over the heads of the officers. ‘I would have to say, knowing their number as I do, that any one of the Royal Scots Greys would face death with a glad heart, and consider it an honour.’

  Savoy nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let a message be sent to Captain Ross. He must defend the gates, and engage the French outriders as best he can before he is delivered. For my part, I will send a fast-rider to the Hessians. If the Duc de Vendôme is bringing his army from Garda they must be let pass. I will tell the landgrave that it is my pleasure that he come to the aid of the queen’s dragoons.’

  Marlborough inclined his head. ‘Very well.’ He nodded smartly and marched from the tent, followed by his officers. Kit hesitated a moment too long and missed her opportunity to leave under the cover of the English officers.

  She shrank back into the folds of the tent, and from the shadows watched Prince Eugene write an order, and seal the dispatch. He held the letter high, the sealing wax still congealing with an acrid smell, when a rider appeared at the tent flap. He collected the scroll with a brief bow and a click of the heels. ‘For the landgrave of the Hessians, at Castiglione,’ said Savoy, ‘with all possible speed.’

  Kit waited for Savoy to take up his pen once more, for the scratch of the quill, the plop of the wax, the hiss of the seal and the smell of the tallow. But there was nothing. She peered around the tent swag, past the Imperial officers, and saw Savoy sit back in his chair and tap his stubby fingers on the arms. The sun shone outside once more, turning him a demonic red again. His rabbit teeth held his lower lip, and his eyes were veiled. She had seen that expression before; when he had thrown Maréchal Villeroi’s aide-de-camp from the cathedral tower in Cremona.

  Savoy’s deputy, whom she recognised as Florian Von Habsburg, voiced her thoughts for her. ‘Shall I send for the second rider, Highness?’

  ‘No.’

  Von Habsburg looked puzzled. ‘Highness, forgive me, but I think that speed is of the essence.’

  ‘We will not be needing a second rider.’

  ‘But Highness …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You told Lord Marlborough … another rider would be sent. To warn the dragoons.’

  ‘Florian. If they look at all prepared the French will know they have been forewarned. We need to let this gambit play out.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘My city, Florian. My command.’ Savoy rose and swept from the pavilion.

  Kit forced herself to count ten rapid heartbeats before she too slipped from the tent. She walked as quickly as she could to Flint, who was cropping grass next to Savoy’s mausoleum. She vaulted on to the mare’s back as best she could in her riding skirts and turned Flint’s head towards Turin.

  Chapter 39

  All hazards and danger we barter on chance …

  ‘Arthur McBride’ (trad.)

  Kit passed scores of redcoats, some drilling, some taking their ease; some feeding their horses, some cleaning their muskets, some playing with their dice. They waited, in their practised, various fashions, for the bugle’s call. She galloped through the ranks, heedless of the catcalls and greetings. For her the trumpet had already sounded.

  In time she was beyond the red sea and taking the winding mountain roads down to the plain. There she passed carts and wagons and mules, carrying wine and grain and salt, the traffic on the corso carrying on as ever – the tradesmen to and from the city unaware of what was about to befall Turin. By some accident of geography she could no longer see the city and began to doubt her direction. She stopped by a sparkling cataract to give Flint a drink, and held her mouth under the stream. She dare not stop for long, for the urgency rose in her chest, filling her throat, choking her.

  She put a foot in the stirrup. Flint was in a lather, dancing and skittering, and Kit stooped to screw her right stirrup iron tighter. Just as she bent forward a sharp crack rent the sky above her and Flint jerked back her heavy head. Instinctively Kit kept low and spurred Flint forward; she remembered well the sound of a musket, and the report of the discharge bounced about the mountains. The French must be closer than she thought.

  The c
hance shot gave the exhausted pair the spur they needed for the next few miles. She must be in time; not just for Captain Ross but for all the men she’d fought beside. Morgan, who’d brought her a plate of pork to the hospital in Rovereto. Southcott, who’d taken her side against Sergeant Taylor when she’d rescued Bianca in the street. And not just them, but the dozens of other men she’d been privileged to call friends and brothers.

  Now the domes and spires of Turin reappeared, seemingly farther away than ever. She was now in the low hills above the plains, and could see the entire vista before her – the shining citadel, the darker walls encircling it, and something else too. She could see now red coats dotted about the walls at intervals, like drops of blood on a crown of thorns.

  She pulled Flint to a stop. She had already been fired on once – should she cross the river and approach the western gate? Or enter the Palatine gate directly from the exposed plain?

  Then her attention was captured by a sound – a sound that her body remembered before her mind did. The loose stirrup began to sing – a barely perceptible ringing timbre, sweet with threat. The metal was vibrating, in a steady regular rhythm. Suddenly she was back in Kavanagh’s alehouse, with Sean Kavanagh’s sword singing the same metallic song in the bracket above her head. The sword and the stirrup both sang of the coming of an army – thousands of boots striking the ground in time, marching nearer.

  She looked to the hills up to her right, and saw a dreadful sight. A skyline dark with soldiers then pouring and tumbling as the line descended at a rush, only to replaced by another rank and another.