Kit

by Marina Fiorato

  ‘Did you?’

  The captain shifted in his chair. ‘No.’

  ‘So you spoke of weighty matters?’

  ‘Yes. She told me she had lost her husband.’

  ‘So she elicited your sympathy.’

  ‘I suppose she did, yes.’

  ‘Did she ask you, at any point, about military strategy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And if she did not ask, what did you tell?’

  A silence.

  ‘Captain. Did you say anything to the accused about the strategy of the Grand Alliance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you talk of military matters at all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Kit sat a little straighter, a chill travelling down her spine. The Elector’s questions had taken a dangerous turn, but not only for her; she now feared for Ross. She prayed, now, that he would lie – but she knew he would not – it was not in his nature, any more than you could ask a bird to swim or a fish to fly.

  ‘I expressed my discontent with certain elements of the Alliance command.’

  ‘Which particulars?’

  Captain Ross cleared his throat, and looked about him at the gathered uniforms. ‘I expressed my … disquiet that we were being asked to make repeated sorties to besieged cities, incurring vast Alliance losses, only to lose the land gained the very next day. I also strongly deprecated the vast expense of the prince’s ball, when that very week I had been told that we could not purchase new flints for our muskets, as the army was out of funds. I lost a good man because of it.’ A murmur of agreement ebbed and flowed around the court from the redcoats. ‘We also spoke of a man of mine who had disappeared before Mantova, leaving me his sword.’

  ‘Deserted?’

  ‘I suppose you could call it that.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  Kit’s heart warmed at this single syllable of denial. He thought that there was still some honour, then, in Kit Walsh.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. We spoke of love.’

  ‘Did you.’

  ‘Not the love of a man and a woman – that is, we spoke of such things a little; but mostly we treated on the love between soldiers, of men of honour. The love that means you will defend a fellow of your regiment to your last breath, and put yourself in harm’s way every day for one of your colour.’

  Kit watched the faces about him, sober, serious, entranced, and patently on his side. She saw then that Ross had the qualities of Marlborough – men would follow him anywhere, just as she had.

  ‘And how did the “countess” react to your opinions about the army?’

  ‘She was sympathetic to my views.’

  ‘Do you think she may have felt, from the opinions that you expressed, that she had found an ally? That you might be induced to change sides?’

  ‘I would refute any such suggestion with my dying breath,’ said Ross, with some heat.

  ‘But you accept that expressing such views about your superiors is insubordination.’

  Ross sat a little straighter. ‘I have followed every order given me to the letter, whatever my private feelings.’ And Kit remembered, when he had visited her the night before her flogging. I have never wanted to disobey an order until this one. ‘I can only account for such a slip by saying that I had drunk overmuch of the prince’s wine; the wine that was bought in place of a score of matchlocks for the dragoon’s muskets. And I’ll wager that I am not the first man to have his tongue loosened by a beautiful woman.’ Kit hugged the word ‘beautiful’ to her, to keep her warm.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the Elector drily. ‘And tell me, Captain, how did you take your leave of the countess?’

  ‘I expressed my resolution to stay alive, and she promised to do likewise.’

  ‘Did that strike you as odd?’

  Ross drew his dark brows together. ‘In what sense?’

  ‘Well, you are a serving soldier; you live your life on the battlefield. She is a countess, her life is lived in salons and theatres. Did her saying so not give you the notion that perhaps she had a more dangerous task at hand than to take tea and attend the play?’

  Captain Ross shook his head. ‘It never crossed my mind.’

  ‘Did you form the impression, from that leave-taking, that you would meet each other again?’

  ‘I must say that I did.’

  ‘Hoped?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you did see her again, did you not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Captain Ross, would you please tell the court about the second time you met the accused.’

  Ross shifted in his chair. ‘It was in very different circumstances. It was at the Palatine gate at the city of Turin, at the commencement of the French siege. The dragoons were defending the gates alone, and had repelled the outriders, incurring some loss of life. Before the greater part of the French forces could fall upon us, my Lord of Marlborough descended from the hills and took their rearguard, drawing the French fire and attack. The forces turned upon him, and we were able to withdraw through the gates and secure the city, along with the Hessian forces who had entered the city from the rear.’

  ‘But you were on the battlefield when the accused met you?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Why were you there, at great danger to your person? Your place, surely, was within the walls of the city with what remained of your men. I put it to you, Captain, that you were waiting at the gate for the countess – you knew she would be there because you had arranged a rendezvous.’

  ‘No!’ Kit and Ross exclaimed the word together, caught each other’s eye, and uncomfortably looked away. ‘No,’ Ross went on, moderating his tone with a visible effort. ‘I had gone out again to turn the bodies and look for survivors.’

  ‘You did not wish to leave such an office to the seekers, who are paid to carry out this grim task?’

  ‘No. They are my men, until their last breath.’

  The Elector stroked his long nose. ‘A manifestation, no doubt, of that brotherly love of which you spoke.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Again, a murmur of approval rippled about the court. They love him, she thought. They hate me, but they love him. They will not let him be taken in irons.

  ‘And then you met the accused.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was she riding or on foot?’

  ‘She was on foot. I saw no horse.’

  ‘So it might be reasonable to assume that she had arrived with the French cohorts?’

  ‘I always find assumptions to be dangerous.’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘She might, I suppose.’

  ‘And how did she greet you?’

  For the first time, he dropped his blue gaze. ‘She embraced me.’

  There was a sensation about the court.

  ‘How exactly?’

  ‘She …’ He shifted again, sighed. ‘She kissed me on the lips.’

  The men cheered, with as much approval as they had disapproved of Ormonde.

  The Elector quelled his court with a look. ‘A very familiar greeting, surely, for someone whom you had met but once before? Or were you better acquainted than you own?’

  Ross’s face went suddenly still. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I ask the questions, Captain Ross,’ said the Elector, all courtesy gone. ‘What happened after she greeted you in this way?’

  ‘I told her a battlefield was no place for a woman, and led her to safety.’

  ‘You led her through the gate.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Kit went cold – if she could sense the danger, could not Ross?

  ‘And how did you gain ingress?’ asked the Elector grimly.

  ‘I spoke the password.’

  ‘Which was?’

  Ross looked about him. ‘It cannot matter now. It was the dragoon’s motto – Nemo me impune lacessit – No one touches me with impunity.’

  The Elector cl
asped his hands together with great care and placed them on the lectern. He spoke clearly and distinctly. ‘Captain Ross. Let me be absolutely clear. You met a woman you believed to be a French countess, on a battlefield in the middle of a French attack. She embraced you, and in return you led her through the city gates?’

  There was silence in the chamber. When Ross spoke, he spoke low. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Captain Ross,’ said the Elector. ‘I put it to you that you sold Turin to the French for the price of a kiss, and if Brigadier Panton had not had the presence of mind to arrest this woman, she would have opened the gates that night to a stealth attack from French reinforcements. By dawn they would have taken the city and every dragoon and Hessian would have been dead in their beds.’

  Ross looked ashen.

  ‘At worst, you were this woman’s accomplice. At best, you were her dupe. In either case, the consequences for you will be dire.’ He gestured to his sentries. ‘Put him in irons.’

  Kit stood. ‘No.’

  ‘Fraulein …’

  ‘No! I must be heard.’

  ‘And shall in time.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the Elector testily. ‘Let us hear you. What signals had you planned to bring the French forces to Turin once the city was sleeping? What torches would you light in the windows, what pennants would you fly from the battlements? What blades had you sharpened for the throats of the unwitting sentries at the postern?’

  ‘I made no such plans!’

  ‘You bewitched this foolish captain into giving you the password.’

  ‘I knew it already!’ protested Kit.

  ‘Do not try to protect your amour – it does you little credit.’

  ‘I am no amour of hers,’ protested Ross.

  ‘Come, come, man! She bewitched you – why else would you take her through the gates with you?’

  ‘Was I to leave her on the battlefield?’

  ‘Why not?’ cried the Elector. ‘She was an enemy and an alien. Why take such a person through the gates?’

  ‘Because you do not leave a man behind!’ It was a shout.

  There was total silence in the court. Precisely, carefully, the Elector steepled his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. He spoke softly and dangerously. ‘But Captain,’ he said. ‘We do not speak of a man. The comtesse was not one of your dragoons, to whom you are so devoted, of whom you spoke so eloquently in terms of brotherly love. So I ask you again; why did you take her though the gates of Turin?’

  Ross pushed the balls of his palms into his eyes. ‘I do not know,’ he said, low voiced, despairing. ‘I do not know why I took her through the gates.’

  ‘I do,’ said Kit into the silence, gentle and clear. She stood up tall and straight; straight as a soldier on parade. ‘He let me in because he knows me.’

  Slowly, slowly, Ross took his hands away from his eyes, and looked up at her.

  ‘That is the court’s very contention,’ said the Elector, exasperated. ‘Are you admitting, then, that he plotted with you?’

  ‘No, not that. He aided an old friend – I have known him for a full year.’

  A gasp whispered around the assembly.

  ‘Explain yourself. This plot between you has been a device of long standing?’

  ‘No,’ said Kit. ‘He was and is the most loyal of the queen’s soldiers.’ She looked Captain Ross in the eyes. ‘And so, once, was I.’

  She slid the matted wig from her and shook out her red hair so it fell about her face. She spoke to him in her strong Dublin brogue, breathy and low, just as she’d done when she had been his dragoon. ‘Don’t you know me, Captain Ross? I am the brother that you lost. And that is my father’s blade that you wear. I am Sergeant Kit Walsh.’

  He looked at her, the colour draining from his face, his eyes burning blue.

  ‘Fraulein Kavanagh, what are you saying?’

  ‘I am saying,’ said Kit clearly and loudly, ‘that I am as loyal to the Grand Alliance as any man here. I fought for a year as a dragoon in the Royal Scots Greys.’

  There was another gasp about the room, and a rising tide of chatter. She stared defiantly at Ormonde – he gazed at her from beneath his hooded lids, his face curiously immobile. One man in the place, then, believed her.

  ‘Fraulein Kavanagh,’ bellowed the Elector over the commotion, ‘I must remind you where you are. This is the Imperial court, held under the aegis of Prince Eugene of Savoy. And before that, this place was a house of God. You have placed your hand upon the Bible and sworn to tell the truth in his name. It is true, you are in dire straits, but your dishonesties have taken us to the realms of fantasy.’

  He might as well not have spoken. She fixed her eyes upon Ross. She spoke to the captain directly.

  ‘Do you remember now? I fought alongside you at the Abbey of San Columbano, where the French fought in monks’ clothing. I cut the warning bell from the rope and you gave me a chalice. I buried the babes with you in the valley below. I froze with you in the mountains of the Adige, and we slept cheek by jowl.’ Rising tears tightened her throat. ‘You told me what we were fighting for. You drew a boot in the mud and told me about the countries of Europe. You told me everywhere has a horizon, and you had to ride for it before the enemy. Then I took a musket ball in the hip at Luzzara. I was decorated by Marlborough himself, given five pistoles by his own hand.’ Ross seemed to be in a waking dream, he did not respond at all. Kit turned to the Elector in appeal. ‘Marlborough – Marlborough knows me. I rode straight from the Palazzo Borromeo to warn him of the French attack. Marlborough ordered a fast-rider to warn the dragoons.’ She felt it would not be tactful, in this company, to tell of the Prince of Savoy’s plan to leave the dragoons to be taken by surprise. ‘I took it upon myself to be Marlborough’s fast-rider. I rode to warn the dragoons,’ her voice cracked at last, ‘for they are my regiment.’ She looked at Ross, who was still and pale, his eyes as blank as a statue’s. ‘I was doing my commanders’ bidding, as I always have. My loyalty to the Grand Alliance is beyond question. Marlborough saw me, talked with me on Superga hill, he will vouch for me if the captain will not.’ She could not keep the reproach from her voice.

  The Elector tapped his fingers on his lectern, impatiently. ‘The Duke of Marlborough,’ he said in carefully measured tones, ‘is currently mobilising his troops for the Low Countries. Here the battle may be over, but the war is yet to be won, and is waged on many fronts.’

  ‘Now the battle is over?’ echoed Kit, in a dream – repeating without understanding; Ormonde’s parrot.

  ‘Yes, over,’ said the Elector with relish. ‘Your compatriots have withdrawn from the peninsula, returned to France and left you behind.’

  She blinked as she digested this. So the stalemate had been broken, the chess pieces returned to the box for now. But they were to be taken out again, and dusted off, and repositioned on the board for another game elsewhere.

  ‘I see this is news to you. They have abandoned their tool. It would behove you now to confess, then the court might be merciful and grant you a quick death.’ Only then did she understand the true seriousness of her situation. She saw Ross, even in his stupor, flinch at the word ‘death’ and turned back to him in a final desperate plea. ‘At Cremona …’ she paused, took a breath, ‘at Cremona, when you took a musket ball of your own, I carried you beneath the aqueduct. Do you remember now? I sang to you then a certain song …’ Because she could never separate words from music, and because the rhymes had been marching through her head all night, she sang into the silent courtroom. Every limb was stilled, every tongue silenced, even the snow fell noiselessly outside, loath to break the spell. Her voice rang around the old stones, as the monks’ voices must have in days gone. Her voice, sweet as a bell’s chime, singing the secular little tune, for that moment as glorious and godly as any plainsong:

  Oh me and my cousin, one Arthur McBride

  As we went a walkin’ down by the seaside

  Now mark what followed a
nd what did betide

  It being on Christmas morning …

  As she sang Ross stood, as if he had woken from his dream, his eyes holding hers. It was working. She sang on, joyfully, giving the simple little ditty her all. Ross’s skin was as grey as a spectre’s. His mouth was working, and she ceased her song to hear him. No sound came, until he mumbled out; ‘Honoured Judge, may I be excused for a time?’

  The Elector nodded, and Ross rose and descended from the stand, not once looking at Kit.

  ‘But Captain …’

  Ross stopped but did not turn.

  ‘Hold yourself in readiness,’ said the Elector. ‘You will have charges of your own to answer.’

  Ross did not reply, but, back straight as a ramrod, walked from the room.

  Kit swallowed cold bile, a chill stone of disappointment sitting in her stomach, sickening her. How could he not know her? She could not be so changed. She was still Kit under the skin; she had given Ross proof enough, God knew, of their acquaintance – she had told him things that no other living soul would know. Granted, other dragoons might have told her of the battle in the abbey or the bundling at night, but at Cremona they had been alone, and no other man alive had heard her sing ‘Arthur McBride’.

  She swallowed back tears. What chance had she now? She had revealed herself at last, and for what? Ross had not come to her rescue. At least Ormonde had acknowledged their acquaintance, for all his lies; it had been Ross who had not.

  When he was gone, the Elector turned to her.

  ‘Now, let us get to the bottom of this fantasy. Are you actually suggesting that you were a soldier in the queen’s army?’

  Kit was suddenly deathly tired. There seemed little point in persisting with this examination. ‘Yes, Honoured Judge. For over a year and four campaigns.’

  ‘Disguised as a man.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Now the Elector rubbed his weary eyes with the pads of his fingers. ‘I must own that your story seems unbelievable. Have you anyone who can corroborate your story?’

  Her eyes stung. The very man that could have done it had just walked out of the door.

  ‘How did you assume this new identity?’

  ‘I enlisted in Dublin, and was issued a uniform.’