Carnal Pleasures

by Blaise Kilgallen

  If looks could kill, Griff knew there would be a pistol puncturing his chest and buckets of blood pouring from a hole in it from the way Agina’s eyes flashed fire.

  “This is quite impossible!” she blustered, squinting at him in sheer frustration and anger. “You’re lying. You must be.”

  He shook his head. “I explained to Dulcie about her upcoming birthday and the terms of her father’s will.”

  “You did what?” The countess was forced to suck in a gasp, her eyebrows reaching toward her hairline. Her usually smooth forehead deepened into an angry scowl. “You two will not make a May game of me! I knew you were up to some mischief, Spencer. Wait and see if I don’t overset this monstrous calamity.”

  “Forget it, madam. Dulcie knows everything she needs to know to give you your comeuppance. As for me, I’m happy to be released from your greedy clutches. I merely came back to collect my things. Unless, of course, you plan to sell them to the rag pickers as you once threatened.” He chuckled wickedly, enjoying each moment of their current discussion. “Oh! And one thing more, countess, I need to borrow Bravo, the earl’s favorite mount—the one I’ve been using to get about Town. You can list him as charitable gift in the war.”

  Agina swiftly reached out and picked up a Dresden porcelain figurine resting on a small table near her. Rarely did she lose sight of her goals, but this…this disturbing news was just too much. She flung the piece of chinaware at Griff’s head in a fit of temper, her cheeks tinted carmine by fury and frustration. “Get out! Do you hear me? Get out of this house this minute!”

  Griff ducked and backed out of Agina’s bedchamber while she hissed at him like another frustrated feline.

  “Trent! Trent! Bring me something quickly. I’m going to swoon!”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A large part of Wellington’s army was stymied in Spain, waiting to cross the Pyrenees into France and strike the Emperor with a final coup de grace.

  Napoleon had made a terrible blunder when he invaded Russia. Thousands of his well-trained troops were wounded and killed during the interminable and unspeakably frigid, Russian winter. Thousands of stragglers streamed westward, back toward France while the undersized, egotistical Corsican rallied his commanders and their soldiers.

  Wellington split his army of some seventy-thousand men and sent the majority of them with General Graham, forcing the French on the eastern front to keep a watchful eye on their flanks. The remaining number of Wellington’s force harried Marshall Jourdan and King Joseph of Spain, who had a seasoned troop of fifty-thousand men with them.

  Now Griff faced another battle and several small skirmishes in which his brigade was engaged since he had returned to the Peninsula. Neither Griff nor his fellow soldiers knew exactly where they were. They knew there were troops to the north because they heard the dull thunder of artillery fire echoing over the hilltops. In the field, an aide-de-camp galloped past him in a cloud of dust, carrying, he suspected, current reports on the new fight brewing.

  The division of which Griff was a part halted. The military grapevine spread the word that the army had come up with the main body of the enemy. At the village of Vittoria, the two sides collided.

  It was misty and damp on the morning of the twenty-first of June. Heading back to France the massive train of baggage carts, caissons and artillery wagons waited on the other side of the Zadorra River. In the caravan were several fourgons containing gold worth almost five million French francs

  General Hill had the honor of opening the battle and took the heights in mid-morning. About half-past eleven o’clock another brigade began to move forward.

  “Hey, why the devil are they moving?” someone asked.

  Another officer in Griff’s group, Roger Pentagon, replied, “If there’s no sport, we get no pie neither!”

  “Hell, how should I know?” Griff shouted back, also irritated at being kept out of the action. “I heard a Spanish peasant alerted Wellington that there’s no guard on the bridge of Tres Puentes. I think they plan to cross there.”

  It was another of the French’s crucial errors. Wellington swiftly crossed the Zadorra with several divisions. Now Griff watched and waited, anxious to join the fray, hoping to earn a hero’s pride to bring home to his newly acquired family. A shell burst almost under Bravo’s nose, kicking up a shower of dust and sharp pebbles. The gelding squealed with fright, capering about in a mad struggle to bolt until Griff got him under control with whip and spurs.

  After the first burst of artillery fire, the French stopped shelling. “Why don’t we advance?” Pentagon yelled.

  Griff was out of patience. “I agree,” he shouted back, spinning his mount in circles when the horse continued to fidget. When he had first ridden up, he believed the village would be taken without hesitation. His men were keyed up for battle, now they sat their horses and waited.

  “There’s the signal. Let’s go.”

  As officer in charge of a small group of seasoned soldiers, Griff yelled and wheeled his horse, dashing recklessly toward the village. He was in the forefront of the brigade until his horse checked. The leery animal refused to put a hoof over the stream’s bank. Griff bullied the gelding, but twice the frightened animal came to a slithering halt. With a furious oath, Griff kicked his feet clear of the stirrups and vaulted out of the saddle. He grabbed hold of the tail of a bay horse running past him and hung on until he was dragged across the brook and up the far bank.

  The rider stopped and had the nerve to chastise Griff. “What have you done with your horse, Lieutenant, pray tell?” the officer drawled.

  Griff knew the man, but wasn’t fond of his hauteur or snide, aristocratic remarks. “I abandoned the damn brute,” he answered, squinting upward to meet the man’s eyes.

  “How like you,” the boldly handsome fellow commented, wearing a casual grin as he sat quietly on his own mount. “I daresay then you will have to walk to get into the fight.”

  “Who cares?” Griff retorted. “I’ll do what I have to.”

  “In that case you had best run fast, for we—the men of my company—like to be first in the field, old chap!”

  Just that moment, Bravo chose to reappear, weaving erratically up the riverbank toward Griff. He grabbed the horse’s reins and hopped onto his back a second time. During the furious gallop toward the village, Griff noticed the horse’s lack of courage was put to rest. Hoarse from cheering on the men galloping beside him, Griff plunged into the fight.

  Dusty, disheveled, intent on herding the scattered troop into some semblance of order after their impetuous sweep through the village, the two officers met again on the other side of the river. Griff rode up to the man he met at the riverbank. Griff felt his cheeks burning with excitement. The Captain met his gaze with a flickering smile. “Finished harrowing hell and raking up the devil, are you, Spencer?” he asked.

  Griff couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “Bloody hell, Blakey, that was damn good work!” He stretched out his hand. “Thank you for the loan of your horse’s tail, old chap!”

  A short while later, Griff was still smiling when he approached the Light Brigade’s commander, Lord Dalhousie.

  “Upon my word, sir,” Dalhousie said. “You follow orders quicker than any officer I ever saw!”

  Griff grinned. “You said ‘Take the village, sir,’ he explained. “As you can see, my lord, there it is, guns and all!”

  The English aristocrat put up a hand to hide a smile. “Well done, Lieutenant!”

  * * * *

  From there, the British began flank attacks on the French defenders, slowly pushing them black toward the village. The French held on to give the baggage train a head start to France. The battle was no means over; they fought stubbornly over every yard of ground, their sharpshooters taking advantage for cover from every ditch and shrub. The noise grew more deafening until one had to shout to be heard over the din. Smoke lay heavily over the plain, the stench in the air acrid and suffocating.

  Griff saw
only a dark mass of the enemy from his horse. Shells screamed overhead and burst in flames, sending up showers of mud and stones that felt like sharpshooters’ bullets when they struck. Even more horrible debris, bits of gore and body parts, floated through the air. “Blast me!” Griff exclaimed with an aside to Pentagon. “I’ve never seen such an inferno!”

  As he spoke, Bravo staggered from under him, clobbered senseless out-of-the-blue like a bird on the wing. Griff had just time to spring clear. He leaned close and searched for blood or a wound on the animal. He wasn’t conscious of any missiles falling close enough, but it was possible his mount was hit without Griff knowing it. He ran a hand over his sturdy gelding’s chest. The horse’s heart was thumping hard. To arouse him, Griff kicked Bravo in the ribs. The stunned gelding shook his head and scrambled to his feet. Griff jumped into the saddle again.

  “Must’ve been a knock-out blow by a large stone,” a nearby soldier yelled. “Saw another one downed the same way and got up.”

  As the brigade passed by the village of Vittoria, its advance was halted by an indescribable conglomeration of abandoned French baggage. Everything seemed to have been left behind, even the precious treasure chests. Fleeing to the east, the French took to their heels to avoid capture while hundreds of British troops plundered the caravan. The soldiers carried away cases of wine and brandy, ropes of sausages, full hams, and thick rounds of Swiss cheese. Elsewhere, chests lay open with broken hasps, treasure spilling out of them. A number of looters became wealthy men, stuffing their pockets with doubloons, jewelry, and trinkets easily carried away in canvas kitbags. It soon became necessary for officers to post pickets. Cavalry members pursued the routed Frenchmen well into the night.

  Although it seemed Wellington’s forces won, the Allied Forces’ mopping-up operation was decimated by the loss of the badly needed, looted goods taken in tow by poorly paid soldiers.

  Writing bitterly to Lord Bathurst at the War Department, Wellington complained: ‘The soldiers of the army have got among them about a million sterling in plunder.’ The commander-in-chief found himself left with only 250,000 French francs to bolster his war chest. During the encounter, the British lost some five thousand men. Seventy-five hundred Frenchmen were casualties at the battle of Vittoria.

  Again, the weather was appalling. Thunder rolled incessantly, and the rain came down in torrents. The army plodded onward, marched in silence, and with gritted teeth.

  * * * *

  After a month of being badgered by daily posts from her stepmother to return to Town to finish the Season, Dulcie still held her ground. She politely wrote back, telling Agina that she would wait for Griffith Spencer’s return at Bonne Vista.

  Dulcie made several trips into the market town, Pinkney-on-Barrow, to purchase a few new frocks. Autumn would soon be upon them, and she wanted heavier-weight clothes. This time she chose those that fit her as they should, and picked some brighter colors to compliment her complexion and her fresh, girlish looks.

  Some days, Dulcie’s nights were fraught with loneliness. Before falling asleep she prayed fervently that Griff was unhurt. She dreaded the day a letter from her stepmother would bring the awful news of Griff falling in some vicious battle on the Peninsula from which he would never return. Should that happen, she knew Agina would demand she immediately agree to seek another suitor and marry him right away.

  Dulcie missed Griff’s smile, his laughter, his teasing—and most of all, his heady kisses and caresses. She knew she shouldn’t. She knew their engagement was a fraud and was simply left in place to dismiss her stepmother’s greedy schemes and thereby, grab half of Dulcie’s inheritance for herself.

  Dulcie was brave enough to write to her father’s solicitor and ask for a copy of the earl’s last testament. When she received it, Dulcie studied the document until she knew every line and nuance, spelling out as to what she was entitled. And to what the countess was not entitled. It was clearly stated in her father’s will.

  As the summer days passed, Dulcie and Simon easily fell into their previous routine of an hour of daily playtime and long walks in the country. She went back to regular visits to the Bonne Vista’s tenants. She spent hours with the Walls in their comfortable cottage, talking and laughing with Denny much of the time. She often asked him to accompany on her walks with Simon.

  “So, yer to be married, Miz Dulcie? And who is the lucky fellow? A rich nabob? An aristocrat like yer father?” He winked. “Or a blacksmith? Mayhap, even a poor gardener, like meself?”

  “None of those, Denny. He has neither title nor wealth.”

  “Well then, why in the world are ye to being leg shackled to the man? Yer a lady, not a common lass. Is he after yer money?”

  “He told me he needs my dowry, Denny. He didn’t lie to me about that. We agreed upon a bargain.”

  “A bargain, is it? And wot would that be, pray tell?”

  “My stepmother arranged the match after I arrived in London. Griff…er…Mr. Spencer had just returned from India after a stint in the army. She told me he was her nephew, but he confessed later that she and he were not related at all.”

  “Ye mean she set him up with ye so they would both share in yer inheritance?”

  Dulcie hesitated, stooping down to pet Simon when they came to a turnstile in the thick, stonewall. She grazed her fingers through the dog’s thick, black fur. “Well, that’s not quite all the story, but yes, I suppose what you are saying is true.”

  She looked up at him, seeing him frowning down at her.

  “Where is the man now? Yer betrothed, I mean?”

  “He re-joined the army and left for the Peninsula to fight Napoleon Bonaparte more than a month ago. He’s very brave, Denny, and quite honest. If he hadn’t left when he did, my stepmother would have forced us to wed almost immediately. For some reason, I have the feeling she is holding something over Griff’s head, things to which I am not privy.”

  Simon jumped up first then leapt down off the boulders. Spotting movement in the tall grass on the other side, the dog streaked after whatever it was, probably a rabbit. Denny helped her over the loosely constructed wall.

  “Griff and I agreed to stay engaged and postpone our marriage. We also agreed to cancel it when he comes home. Of course, we didn’t tell my stepmother. By then, I will have reached my majority and the greedy countess will be given a yearly allowance, not half of my inheritance, to which she believes she is entitled.”

  “So that ‘tis the way of it. But if yer Mr. Spencer is kilt before yer birthday, what happens then?”

  “She will demand that I choose someone else, or she will. The countess is my legal guardian, Denny. She can make me do what she asks.”

  “Aye. Yer so right, lass.” He passed a rough hand down over his worried expression.

  “So, you see, Denny, I’ve been praying hard that Griff stays alive until November twenty-second.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  When Marshall Soult counterattacked through the Pyrenees, Wellington collected a sizeable force of twenty-four thousand able-bodied men he believed could stop an attack at Sorauren. While on reconnaissance, Wellington was almost captured by the French, but managed to elude them and return to his main force. Soult, who had sixty-thousand troops at his disposal, launched a vicious uphill assault with half of his men. The battle was bitter and bloody on both sides.

  Griff and Captain Blakey had become good friends. Always impulsive, naturally warm-hearted, Griff at once forget Blakey’s affectations of speech and manners which initially irritated him. Griff was glad to have the man riding by his side. Blakey was cool in the thick of a fight, and therefore, a solid compatriot in Griff’s eyes. The Allies had held the French off.

  “By Jove, Spencer! You’re a bully madman in battle,” Blakey congratulated Griff when the fighting slowed.

  Griff merely grunted in reply.

  I have things to prove, he said silently. To myself and to my family. Perhaps then I can believe my earlier peccadilloes are red
eemed, forgotten, and go on with my life, wherever it takes me.

  Reinforcements arrived and more fresh British units reached the field. With his momentum slowed, Soult ordered the battered French troops back to their homeland to prepare defenses against the expected British offensive.

  The next day, the Light division was invigorated by the sight of Wellington. His lordship looked to be in excellent spirits. He touched his hat in a salute to the troops and smiled. Presumably, he was satisfied by their performance.

  Meanwhile, Sir Thomas Graham was besieging the town of San Sebastian on the north coast of Spain. The town, with its forbidding fortress sat on a great sandstone rock, surrounded on three sides with water.

  The danger having ended at Sorauren, Wellington brought his full force toward San Sebastian. With Graham maintaining the siege, most of August, 1813, passed quietly for the Light division. Griff was glad of the respite. He was bone weary. The weeks gave him time to recover.

  One day Blakey approached where Griff sat on his cot sharpening his sword. “You’re wasted in the army, I daresay,” his friend commented. “By God, man, what a smuggler you would have made. Perhaps, I’ll make use of you when I get back home to Cornwall.” He chortled pleasantly, raising a half-empty bottle of claret in his fist. “How did you manage this?”

  “I found out the bloody Spanish peasants always trade contraband with the French,” Griff replied. “I bribed them, like everybody else,” he replied with a low laugh while uncorking his own full bottle of red wine and letting it pour down his parched throat.

  The August heat wave ended. Volunteers were asked to hold one of the bridges of a town relatively near San Sebastian. Of course, Griff was one of the first, and another was Blakey. The two officers and fifty riflemen were sent out as pickets, not expecting to be assaulted by a greater force. The reconnaissance was held to be truthful by the higher-ups because of the damnable weather. What idiot would march forward as the drenching rain continued unabated, surging over the banks of the raging stream?