by M. J. Putney
Jack squeezed Cynthia’s hand. “Cinders, have you made me look like General Blakesley?”
“Yes, or at least like the portrait of him in the house. It’s just illusion magic,” she explained to Bran. “Jack can’t see the illusion on himself, but everyone else sees him as your father. A good illusion should convince your idiot colonel to stand down and let your apparent father take command.”
She released the illusion, and Jack was Jack again. “I used Jack, but any of us could be made to look like your father. You’d be the best choice since you look like him and know him best.”
“Impersonate an officer?” Bran said, scandalized. He hesitated, clearly torn.
“If we’re going to produce a false General Blakesley, it shouldn’t be Bran,” Allarde said. “For one thing, everyone knows he’s here and it would seem strange if he just vanished when his father showed up. Also, it could ruin Bran’s military career if he’s caught. If Jack or I impersonate the general, Bran can look shocked if the truth becomes known.”
“We could stuff Bran in a barrel,” Cynthia said helpfully. “Allarde, you can be the general, and Jack, you can be Bran.”
Bran started to laugh, his expression easing so he looked young again. “Jack, I no longer envy you. Lady Cynthia is quite a handful, I see.”
“Indeed.” Jack grinned and draped an arm around Cynthia. “My handful.”
Cynthia wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or resent his possessiveness. Then she laughed at herself. She loved that Jack thought they belonged together. She looked into his teasing blue eyes and loved that he loved her.
Reminding herself that serious matters were afoot, Cynthia said to Bran, “Are you willing? I doubt a convincing impersonation of your father can be done without your military experience and knowledge of the local country and people.”
Bran paused, then his expression turned to resolve. “By God, I’ll do it! After we finish eating, I’ll coach you on how to act like my father, Allarde. Are you good at being fearsome? My father is a general and generals need to be fearsome.”
Allarde’s mouth quirked. “I can manage. Dukes need to be fearsome, too.”
“Generals don’t travel alone,” Tory said firmly. “Cynthia, can you make the rest of us look like staff officers? We can use our magic more effectively if it’s needed.”
“That’s a good idea.” Jack grinned at Tory. “At your size, you’ll have to be a drummer boy.”
Tory sniffed. “Cynthia can change our appearances to whatever is needed. You can be the drummer boy.”
“Staff officers will be best,” Bran said. “No one here will know what my father’s staff members look like. You won’t have to do much except follow my father and say, ‘Yes, sir!’ regularly. The important thing is removing Dawson from command. The head of the yeomanry is a major with good sense, and there are several experienced soldiers scattered through the ranks. Given the chance, they can make what troops we have behave like real soldiers.”
“What about voices?” Bran said. “I can demonstrate my father’s voice and how he uses words, but I don’t see how you can sound exactly like him.”
“The illusion magic includes an element of persuasion,” Cynthia explained. “Because Allarde will look like your father, people will be inclined to believe that he really is your father. As long as Allarde doesn’t do something completely out of character for the general, it will work.”
“I hope you’re right,” Bran said wryly. “The French are no fools. If we give them time to regroup, we’ll have a real war on our hands.”
“This will work,” Cynthia said, not quite as confident as she sounded. “You’ll be the general’s aide-de-camp in your own right, Bran. I’ll make myself a major, and Jack can be a captain.” She beamed at her sweetheart. “That way I can give you orders.”
He slid an arm around her waist. “As if you needed an excuse to do that!”
She leaned into him, glad they could all laugh together. They needed laughter, because tomorrow would be a dangerous day.
CHAPTER 18
Allarde had been right, Tory saw. Being raised as a future duke made him a very good general. The Irregulars worked late into the night as Bran instructed them in how to be believable soldiers. Besides learning duties and behaviors, they discussed the military possibilities so Allarde wouldn’t have to consult Bran at every step. The two of them were still working when Tory and the others headed up to their beds.
They all rose before dawn the next morning. After they breakfasted, Cynthia transformed the appearance of each Irregular. Allarde was so convincing that Tory had to remind herself that he wasn’t really General Blakesley. Not only did he have the stern face and confident manner, but he held himself differently. Like a soldier.
Jack required only an illusion uniform and some aging in order to look like a captain. The girls required more work, but Cynthia managed beautifully. Not only did she make Tory and Elspeth look like older, taller, male versions of themselves, but she made the scarlet uniforms look convincingly travel worn.
Elspeth would claim to be a regimental surgeon if asked, while Tory was a captain and a staff courier. Tory didn’t care what her rank was as long as she was close to Allarde. He had the most difficult role, and she wanted to be available if needed.
When Cynthia was finished, Bran shook his head with amazement. “You really do look like my father and a group of his staff officers. Do the illusions require a huge amount of magic, Lady Cynthia?”
She shook her head. “It takes a fair amount of power to create them, but now that the illusions are in place, the magic is maintained by the person who wears it. There’s very little work involved for me.”
“Fascinating business, this magic.” Bran got to his feet. “Now let’s ride for Carmarthen so you can displace that idiot colonel!”
* * *
It was still early when they reached the Carmarthen tavern that Colonel Dawson had chosen as his headquarters. Allarde dismounted and swept into the taproom, confidence in every line of his body. Following behind, Tory watched appreciatively as he barked, “Where’s Colonel Dawson?”
Colonel Dawson was a spindly, callow-looking fellow well under thirty. Obviously his officer’s commission had been bought by his family with no belief that he’d actually have to act like a soldier.
Dawson had been drinking tea at a table with other officers and a map, but at the general’s question, he scrambled to his feet, his gaze fixed on the newcomer’s insignia of rank. “I’m Dawson, sir.” He saluted clumsily. “And you are General…?”
“Blakesley,” Bran said helpfully. “My father was coming home for a short leave. Naturally, as soon as I informed him of the French invasion, he realized that he was the senior officer in the area and it was his duty to take command.”
“Naturally.” Dawson had overcome his shock and looked resentful about losing his command, but also relieved. “Allow me to introduce you to the other officers of the militia and yeomanry.” He rattled off the names of the other men present.
Allarde nodded curtly. “How many troops do we have?”
“About five hundred, sir. Reinforcements are coming from Cardiff. We’ve been waiting for them to arrive before attacking.” He sounded defensive.
“I see the town is filled with volunteers,” Allarde said. “Do you count them?”
“Of course not,” Dawson said indignantly. “What can a bunch of farmers do?”
“Fight furiously for their homes, for a start. They can also provide intelligence. On my ride here, I was informed that the French ships have sailed for home and most of the enemy ammunitions stores were blown up. There were a fair number of casualties,” Allarde snapped. “We must seize the moment to move against the enemy. Now I must inspect my troops.”
After that, things happened quickly. With advice from Bran about who was competent, the available troops were mustered and their small army started marching west. Several roughly organized companies of volunteers marched
behind, armed with ancient muskets, pitchforks, and grim determination.
Tory had never ridden at the head of an army before. It turned out to be … slow. But the pace was steady. By midafternoon, they’d passed Tregwilli and were nearing the French encampment.
They were heading toward a narrow lane when Allarde threw up his hand and shouted, “Halt!”
The marching companies behind raggedly obeyed. Speaking in a low voice to his staff, Allarde said, “There’s an ambush ahead, where the lane narrows. The French are using their remaining resources well, but now is the time to end this.” Raising his voice, he ordered, “Bring up the cannon!”
The two horse-drawn cannon were dragged up the line and set up in front of the officers. After they were loaded, Allarde commanded, “Aim high and fire!”
Boom! BOOM!!! The two cannons fired almost simultaneously with deafening power. As the echoes bounced menacingly among the hills, Allarde said, “Anyone have a white truce flag? It’s time to parley.”
Bran turned his horse to the flag bearers who marched behind the officers and borrowed a staff. After reversing it so the militia banner wasn’t visible, he tied his own handkerchief to the bare end and raised it into the air. “I’m riding up with you.”
Allarde nodded. “Let’s go.”
Tory didn’t bother to ask permission. She just kicked her mount into motion and rode on Allarde’s other side.
He frowned at her. Since he wore the general’s appearance, it was a fearsome sight. She smiled back sunnily, and the “general’s” mouth curved into an unwilling smile. “You’re never going to be sensible, are you?” he said in a soft, private voice.
“Where you’re concerned, never,” she agreed.
Seeing Tory advance, the other Irregulars fell in behind Allarde and his companions. After a fast canter forward, Allarde reined in his horse a hundred yards before the lane where the ambush had been set up. In French, he shouted, “We will not be ambushed, so come out and talk!”
Then they waited. Voices could be heard arguing. Finally two men rode out of the lane, one holding a white handkerchief in the air.
Tory wasn’t sure about French insignia, but she thought one was a major and one was a captain. The major had a bandage on one arm and his blue uniform was torn and filthy, as if he’d been thrown in an explosion. But his voice was jaunty when he said in French, “I am Major Girard and this is Captain Fournier. Do you wish to offer your surrender? We will be generous in our terms.”
“I commend you on your humor, Major, but we both know who holds the winning cards,” Allarde replied icily. “I am General Blakesley, commander of the South Wales Army. This is my aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Blakesley”—he gestured toward Bran, then toward Tory—“and my chief mage, Captain Mansfield.”
Tory almost gasped aloud to hear of her new rank. Controlling her expression, she tried to look tough and competent and male.
Girard arched his brows as he studied Tory. “Perhaps this lad has talent, but we brought France’s most powerful war mage, Colonel Levaux, with us. This invasion is only the first step. For too long Britain has waged war on France, a nation that wants only peace. We will not cease until you surrender!”
“If France wants peace, she should stop trying to impose it on her neighbors with a sword,” Allarde said dryly. “Captain Mansfield, tell Major Girard the fate of his war mage, and what your mage corps did next.”
Lowering her voice, she said, “Sir, the mage was defeated by our magic and badly injured. He may not have survived the encounter, but I’m not sure since he left on one of the French ships.” She cleared her throat and tried to look fierce. “After the ships sailed, we blew up the French arsenal.”
Looking stunned, Girard said, “I had not known Britain has such an … effective mage corps.”
Allarde continued, “Since you are the one to parley, Major, I wonder if Colonel O’Brian was killed when we blew up your arsenal.”
Surprised that the general knew the French commander’s name, Girard admitted, “He was gravely injured, but overall casualties were low. We still have crack troops, including French grenadiers, eager to fight.”
“No one doubts the courage and skill of your grenadiers,” Allarde replied in a deep, resonant voice. “But we have superior forces, superior weapons, and superior magic. You can kill innocent farmers, but you cannot defeat the Army of South Wales.”
Girard scowled. “Bold words, General Blakesley, but only words. What matters in battle is fire and steel!”
“Oh?” Allarde glanced at Tory as if giving an order. “Captain Mansfield, give Major Girard a sample of British magic.”
Before Tory could figure out what he meant, a dead tree fifty feet away crashed with a force that made the ground shake. Allarde’s work.
He continued, “We also have fire.”
Catching her cue, Cynthia set the tree into a blaze so fierce that the horses shied and needed calming. Even Allarde looked impressed at the fire, since he hadn’t seen her do that at the Blakesley house.
Quickly smoothing his expression, Allarde continued, “We also have the most powerful weather mages in Europe, perhaps anywhere.” Lightning flashed so close that the thunderclap was almost instantaneous. As it boomed thunderously through the air, Captain Fournier’s horse reared and almost bolted. Tory suppressed a smile. Jack or Cynthia had been lucky to find the raw material for lightning with such perfect timing.
The French officers exchanged a glance, their faces pale. Turning back to Allarde, Girard said, “You make a compelling case, Monsieur le Général. We are willing to negotiate conditions for a possible surrender.”
“No conditions!” Allarde barked. “I will accept nothing less than unconditional surrender. Lay down your arms and you will be treated as honorable enemies. If you refuse, defeat and death will be your fate!”
“I cannot surrender unconditionally without conferring with my fellow officers,” Girard said, his voice almost apologetic.
“You may confer with them, Major Girard. But if you are sensible, you will not throw away the lives of your men pointlessly.” Allarde gathered up his reins. “At eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, I will accept your unconditional surrender at Tregwilli Sands, the wide beach below the village. If you do not meet us and lay down your arms, battle will be joined.” Allarde pivoted his horse and headed back to his troops, his expression unyielding.
As the British rode away, Bran shook his head in awe. “That was remarkable, Allarde. I would never have guessed you weren’t my father.”
Allarde exhaled with relief. “I’m glad I was convincing! I was relying on pure bluster. Are you going to tell your father that his identity was borrowed?”
Bran nodded. “This will be talked about for a long time to come, and he needs to know how he became the hero of the hour.”
Tory said, “If it’s going to become known, can you say that a patriotic mage pretended to be General Blakesley in order to stop the French? Anything that paints mages in a good light is worthwhile.”
“I like that idea,” Allarde said approvingly. “Bran, is that possible?”
“I’ll discuss it with my father.” Bran’s brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you press them to surrender today? They might well have done it.”
“Accepting the surrender of a force several times the size of ours would not be easy,” Allarde explained. “I’m hoping the reinforcements from Cardiff will arrive tonight. I’d rather put a real colonel or general in charge.”
“Ah, good point about taking so many prisoners.” Expression brighter, Bran said, “Don’t worry, we’ll think of something!”
Conversation ended as they joined their troops and were greeted by roars of approval. So far, so good. Tory wondered if the soldiers realized the British had a tiger by the tail. And she was in no mood to be eaten.
CHAPTER 19
The march back to Carmarthen was even slower than the march out, but there was an air of triumph. The troops were singing General Blakes
ley’s praises, though a few complained that they wouldn’t have a chance to kill any Frenchies. Tory suspected those comments came from men who’d never been shot at. Having dodged bullets on several occasions, she prayed this invasion would end without bloodshed.
As part of the general’s staff, Tory and the other girls had to maintain their false identities until after the expected surrender. Most of the troops were camped outside of Carmarthen, but the officers and various officials were staying in the town, which was packed to bursting.
An efficient former sergeant in the regular army had taken on the job of assigning quarters and rations. He told Tory, Elspeth, and Cynthia they were lucky to have a room at all, sent them to a tavern for supper, and assigned them an attic room in the mayor’s house, which the mayor had offered as headquarters for the general and his staff.
The tavern offered a basic meal of bread, cheese, and beer. After, they returned to the mayor’s house. Allarde and the other senior officers were conferring in the drawing room but unfortunately weren’t talking loudly enough for the girls to be able to eavesdrop.
As Tory followed her friends up the stairs, she wished she could have private time with Allarde, but that wasn’t possible. She sensed that he was patiently dealing with an endless string of requests, complaints, and demands. She hoped Bran would be able to fill in any gaps in Allarde’s military knowledge.
Ordinarily the attic rooms were for servants, and the last stairway up was narrow and twisty. Cynthia led the way with a candle. She had to duck to get through the door into the tiny attic room. As soon as Tory and Elspeth entered, Cynthia doused the candle and replaced it with a mage light.
The ceiling slanted down so sharply that the only area where Cynthia could stand straight was by the door. A narrow pallet lay against one wall and a wider one on the opposite side. There were no other furnishings except for a chamber pot and several pegs on one wall for hanging clothes.
“I’ve had closets that were larger,” Cynthia said gloomily. “We’ll have to take turns breathing.”