‘Jack!’ Grace cried, ‘Jack!’ and she reached out her hands, as if to grasp his through this sea of people. Katie glanced towards James. The look on his face was complicated: a mixture of pride in his brother, worry for his future, and more than a touch of jealousy. James was the kind of boy who shunned the limelight, who had no desire to be a hero. But even a bookish boy like James would envy his big brother at this moment. Dr O’Reilly’s face was easier to read. His son, his Jack, was marching towards glory. This could only strengthen his position at court. His vanity and ambition were satisfied.
The Light Brigade moved from a walk to a slow trot. On the command of Lord Cardigan, they halted before their Queen, tipped their lances and saluted her. ‘God Save the Queen’ the Light Brigade shouted as one. The crowd went wild. There were tears on the Queen’s cheek. Katie could see Jack, his head turned, like all others, towards his sovereign; but were his eyes searching the balcony, for his family – for his friends?
Their commander, Lord Cardigan, led his horse in a passage directly below the balcony. Both man and horse bowed their heads to their monarch. The Queen clapped and smiled, but Katie saw James roll his eyes. She had to agree with him. There was something about the scrupulously dressed Earl of Cardigan that Katie did not like. Perhaps it was his bristling ginger moustache, or his air of extreme arrogance. She got the feeling she wouldn’t like him to be her commander. He looked as if he might be a bully.
For Jack, though, this was a day of high adventure. As the Light Brigade moved away, he reined his horse in, ever so slightly, and against all military rules, waved up to the balcony. Both Grace’s and Katie’s hands shot up in return. ‘Goodbye, dear Jack,’ Grace said softly. ‘God bless you. And come back to me safe and well.’ As the cavalry disappeared, on their way to Waterloo Station, the band struck up again.
But someday I’ll return again
If rebels they don’t find me
And never will I roam again
From the girl I left behind me.
Directly behind the scarlet and blue uniforms, the glinting lances and the rousing music, came the camp followers. These were the soldiers’ wives, the lucky ones, chosen by a draw to accompany their men. The women were shabbily dressed and lugged bundles like pack mules. Amongst them Katie could see one man. He marched along cheerfully, his huge leather boots swinging to the music. In his mouth he clenched a smoking pipe that tipped dangerously towards his enormous curly black beard. A rakish cap was pulled down low on his forehead. As one woman stumbled, he reached forward, took her arm, and then relieved her of her bundle – slinging it over his back despite his own burdens.
DuQuelle laughed aloud. ‘Well, that’s all right then,’ he said. ‘If William Howard Russell is with them, they’ll come to no harm.’
‘William Howard Russell?’ Katie asked as the bearded man doffed his cap and bowed exaggeratedly to a stony-faced Queen.
‘Russell of The Times,’ DuQuelle explained, ‘The Times of London. He’s their correspondent covering the war. Not that the politicians or the establishment want a newspaper writer in the Crimea; but where there’s trouble, Billy Russell will report it. He is the hero of the downtrodden, and those soldiers’ wives look as if they could use a helping hand.’
Along the balcony, Prince Albert did not seem to share DuQuelle’s sanguine view. As Russell bowed, the Prince turned away in contempt. ‘Miserable scribbler,’ he murmured, as Russell cheered the women.
Prince Leopold could no longer contain himself. The pomp, the glory, the sheer excitement of the military parade had gone to his head. ‘That’s what I’m going to do,’ he ex claimed to his tutor. ‘When I grow up I’m going to be a soldier!’
Felix, overhearing him, laughed his particularly harsh, unpleasant laugh.
‘You, a soldier!’ he cried. ‘When you can hardly walk, much less march. I leave soon, to find glory. You will not even be able to leave your bed. What an absurd idea!’
‘Leopold is better every day,’ Alice piped up, looking at her brother’s miserable, crestfallen face. ‘And even if he cannot be a soldier, I am certain he will help with the war effort in some other way.’
‘Come Felix,’ Vicky said sharply. ‘You must learn to hold your tongue. If you continue in that rude way, there will be no war for you.’
Felix, with his disagreeable manner, had punctured the high excitement of the day. The Royal Family began to leave the balcony, Alice holding Leopold’s hand as he was pushed indoors by the Reverend Robinson Duckworth.
‘I can’t say I am sorry to see young Felix go,’ the Queen was heard to say. ‘That boy is not ideal. Aside from our beloved Frederick William, there is an occasional unpleasantness in the Prussian national character – so brusque, an indelicate aggression . . .’ Prince Albert nodded as they trailed inside. Katie gave the crowds below one final glance, catching sight of something she’d rather not see. It was Lord Twisted, leaning against a column, deep in conversation with a slim, sinuous man. Lord Twisted looked both sullen and fearful. The other man swayed in a graceful yet somehow repulsive way. It was Lord Belzen.
Bernardo DuQuelle sniffed the air and shivered. He did not care for the cold, and it was bitter this morning. Besides, he’d seen too much of history, too much of war to believe blindly in its glory. He’d had enough. ‘If war is to commence, there is much for me to do,’ he said, making his apologies and bowing to those still remaining. To Katie he murmured, ‘At our very feet stands something far more dangerous than all the Queen’s brigades. I suggest we move inside.’
‘And what have you to do?’ Felix sneered at DuQuelle as he went past. ‘Must you dust the Royal Art Collection, or update the Royal Archives? I am now a warrior, while you are nothing. You are no Mars. There are no manly duties for you.’
Those remaining were quiet, shocked at Felix’s behaviour. But DuQuelle looked at him – not with anger, but with pity. ‘Poor child,’ he said. ‘There are different ways of being a man. And heroic actions do not always require the blare of the trumpet and the roar of the cannon.’ Felix, white with fury, stormed from the balcony.
DuQuelle shook his head, watching him go. ‘Poor boy,’ he repeated, ‘not really a boy at all. Not anymore.’ Katie opened her mouth, but DuQuelle continued. ‘I know, my dear, I know. Felix has no hopes for glory, no plans for heroism. Quite the reverse, I fear.’
Lucia
For Bernardo DuQuelle, it was a war on two fronts. Yes, the Crimea was of consequence, but only in this time, in this particular universe. Elsewhere, another war raged, a war of thousands of years – not between countries or peoples, religions or races, but a war, chilling in its simplicity, a war between good and evil. In comparison, the Crimean expedition was tiny; a pebble in the shoe of history. But throw a small pebble into a vast body of water, and it will create ever-expanding rings. So it was with this war between the British and the Russians. It could bring into motion a war to end, not just this world but many worlds. ‘If war is to commence,’ he said again, ‘there is much for me to do. I will need all kinds of knowledge: history, comment and philosophy. One must be well informed if one is to guide Lucia.’ The Royal Family would now be busy at breakfast: kippers and sausages, haddock in puff pastry, mutton, Scottish woodcock, and a large wobbly jelly in the centre of the table. The Queen, in particular, believed in a hearty breakfast; and she was certain to have built up an appetite. It would be hours before they were done. He was free to begin his vital work.
He made his way to his cell-like room, deep within the Palace. Lifting his head, he sniffed the air. It was not just the menace of Belzen he smelt, but something equally powerful, and more subtly dangerous. Turning one last corner, he saw his door, lightly outlined against the wall, bright from within. There was no time to learn, or to plan. Lucia was already there. ‘Just what I need,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I’ve spent most of the morning chilled to the bone, watching boys march off to become cannon fodder. I’ve had an upstart, a snooty, possessed child insult me. And
now Lucia . . .’ Clearly, it wasn’t Bernardo DuQuelle’s day.
To be with Lucia was always an uncomfortable reminder of the past: the Verus and the Malum – good and evil – Lucia and Belzen. Had they ever really had their own civilization, with their own communities, laws and languages? DuQuelle remembered his youth, his exquisite life and his great attachment to Lucia, and his friendship . . . with Belzen. But through greed they had overstepped themselves and destroyed their world.
Lucia had confidence in the power of good. DuQuelle had to admit, she was nothing if not good. It gave her strength. Step by step she had begun to rebuild, taking what they needed from other societies. Language had been the hardest. They needed words, but had lost the ability to communicate. Here, in the nineteenth century, in England, they had struck a rich vein. But war threatened to disrupt everything and Belzen was in revolt – scorning the peaceful export of words, believing that brute force was the key to their vital energies. And Belzen wasn’t alone. The Black Tide might be thwarted for now, but there were others ready to take their place, to join Belzen and the Malum.
What had Lucia become? A woman, or the shape of a woman, but burning bright through the zeal of her cause. He entered quickly, locking the door behind him. Lucia flitted from corner to corner. She seemed to pulse and throb with fire and air, but gave out no warmth. Yet he could still see her features, which were lovely, and her wild waving blonde curls. But when he tried to approach Lucia the elements within her rebuffed him.
‘What can you tell me?’ she demanded of DuQuelle.
He smiled to himself. She had always been direct, even before her great transformation. ‘There will be war, and soon,’ he told her. ‘But it has drawn Belzen as well as you. The Malum are present as well as the Verus. Young Felix is the agent of Lord Belzen. That poor child has been channelled from the dead for a purpose. He is the chosen, the Tempus Occidit, the child who falls through time and brings the war to end the world.’
Lucia wavered, her face becoming clearer and her body more formed. The look she gave DuQuelle was decidedly female. He had long feared the strength of Lucia, but he was more alarmed by these few signs of weakness. ‘And how will the princeling Felix achieve this?’ she asked.
DuQuelle smiled slightly. He thought about removing his cloak, but instead pulled it tighter around him. One could never tell with Lucia. ‘I was present when the Queen announced that Felix leaves for the Crimea. What the Queen does not know is that Felix serves, not the Queen, but Lord Belzen. Felix’s mission is to make certain that Britain does not win this war. He will spy, he will betray, he will wreak havoc. Felix will plant the seeds of discontent, envy and rebellion. From what I gather his targets are Lord Lucan, Lord Cardigan and a certain Captain Nolan.’
Lucia was not taking this news well – yet she tried to hold the elements within her in check and gather her strength. Lucia did not look back. The past was nothing to her. And she did not trust Bernardo DuQuelle. She needed him, though, in this world, in the centre of power, as part of the Royal Court. He was the only one capable of living with them. Darting forward, she placed a cold, bright hand just in the crook of DuQuelle’s elbow. ‘That is well done,’ she said in her whistling airy voice. ‘But there is still much more to do. War is upon us, as you say, a great war. We must strike first.’
DuQuelle pulled away from her touch. ‘No, Lucia,’ he replied. ‘You do not listen, you never did. This war in the Crimea is a small war, though its trivial actions could set in motion events that lead to the Great War – a war throughout Europe that would last for half a century. You cannot simply unleash the Tempus like gladiators. This must be handled carefully, through diplomacy, through communication; or it could be the beginning of the war to end the world.’
Lucia tried to hold in her impatience and anger. She saw the path of duty, straight before her. Like many ideologues, she was not open to new ideas. DuQuelle was now tinged with humanity. This only got in the way. He must be made to understand her will. ‘There are two wars, in two spheres,’ she persisted, ‘the English and the Russians; the Verus and the Malum. Both can be stopped, but only through the chosen, the Tempus. You have found one. I need all three. The three children must meet in battle. They hold the key to creation or destruction.’
Lucia had seemed diminished, but now it was DuQuelle who sank into a chair by the fire. It was not just the February morning. Lucia’s words chilled him to the bone. ‘You really wish them to meet on a field of battle?’ he spoke quietly, his voice filled with disbelief. ‘They are barely out of childhood. You would brutalize them in this way?’
‘Sympathy,’ she hissed as the elements rose within her. ‘It is sympathy which weakens you.’
A very rare rage sliced through DuQuelle, ripping aside his usual urbane mask. ‘Listen closely, Lucia,’ he said. ‘Don’t pick a fight. Not with me, not in the Crimea, not with Lord Belzen, not with the Malum. Try everything else before you resort to Belzen’s tactics – to brute force. Let me put this in the terms of this world, which is the only language we now have. You are moving towards a crusade. And while crusades are mounted in the name of good, they are executed in sheer evil.’
He was infuriated by his loss of temper, aghast at the abuse implicit in her request. DuQuelle could not bear to look at her, to be in the same room. Yet as he unbolted the door and hurried through the Palace corridors, seeking the human element, he could still hear Lucia’s voice, rising like the winds within his brain. You will bring me the three children. The Chosen. The Tempus. They will fight on the field of battle. And the victor must be the harbinger of peace.
Despite his fury, he knew what he was, and where his loyalties lay. But his sense of what was right and wrong had been changed by living amongst them. Could he ignore the voice of Lucia? He wasn’t sure.
A Crimean Correspondent
As the Verus and the Malum prepared for conflict, battle lines were also drawn in the Crimea. But Katie, James and Alice were engaged in their own war, a fierce fight against Grace’s illness. At first Katie feared it couldn’t be won. Grace was seriously ill, and there was so much they didn’t know. James had been studying tuberculosis since Grace’s return from Italy and Katie needed to catch up. Together they pored over medical papers and treatises, including Sir James Clark’s hefty A Treatise on Pulmonary Consumption; Comprehending an Inquiry into the Causes, Nature, Prevention and Treatment of Tuberculous and Scrofulous Diseases in General.
With each word she read, Katie’s frustration grew. Doctors recommended blistering patients with hot plasters to bring out the sickly vapours, bleeding them to release bad blood, starving them to diminish the appetites. Some doctors were adamant that an almost comatose state of druggedness and bedrest were necessary. Others refuted all medication except extensive fresh air and exercise, even strapping weakened patients onto horses for hour-long gallops.
‘This is ridiculous’, Katie had told James. ‘Your doctors, they write such garbage. They just don’t know what causes tuberculosis. It’s like a germ that spreads through coughing. Once you get it, it ends up in your lungs and causes pneumonia. And then it can spread all over your body: to the joints, to the throat, to the spine. We all get a shot, in my time, so we can’t catch it.’
‘A shot?’ James wrinkled his forehead. ‘They shoot you? With a pistol?’ Despite being stressed out, Katie laughed.
‘No, not that kind of shot. I mean, what do you call it? An injection, from a needle.’
James looked grim. ‘It’s too late for preventative medicine.’
Katie thought again. ‘There are things you can take, once you have tuberculosis. We don’t really get it that much anymore, but it’s like an antibiotic or something.’
‘Can you make it?’ James asked. Katie shook her head.
‘There’s no way I could make it. I don’t really even know what it is. You haven’t discovered it yet . . .’
James was getting frustrated too. ‘There isn’t much point telling me how stupid we all ar
e, Katie. If you can’t make this anti-mobotic medication, we’ll have to think of something else. Instead of complaining, why don’t you come up with some ideas?’
‘It’s not anti-mobotic, it’s antibiotic, and you’re a long way from it, you don’t even have penicillin yet.’
An equally frustrated voice came from the bedroom. ‘The two of you, like bickering babies. Can’t you see in front of your very own noses? Every day you’re helping me. James never ceases in his care. You’d think I was one of the Queen’s wee babes. And Katie brings common sense to everything she says and does. So do stop arguing and come keep me company. Despite what Father says, a bit of mental stimulation does cheer me up.’
They both jumped, shamefaced. They hadn’t realized Grace was listening. Katie sloped off to see her. ‘We’ll have to make do with the stuff we do know,’ she said to James. ‘The important thing is to keep trying.’
He shook his head at Katie. ‘You’re a very stubborn girl,’ he said.
Princess Alice assisted greatly. At the request of her father, Prince Albert, she had been tutored by Dr O’Reilly; though on a far lesser scale than James. Dr O’Reilly wasn’t a proponent of the education of women, but James knew, from experience, that Alice was a competent nurse: steady, kind and patient. If the truth be told, he admired her tremendously – not for her royal status, but for herself.
The Queen at War Page 9