Beloved Enemy (48 page)

Alex
groaned. "How do you know?"

"As
I was coming back, a corporal waylaid me, wanting to know if I had anything to
help him because he'd been stopping every mile or so along the march today, he
and the rest of his troop."

There
was silence as they all absorbed the implications of this. Dysentery would run
like wildfire throughout the division, the march would have to be slowed to a
snail's pace to accommodate the need for constant stops, and the men would grow
weaker by the day. "As far as I could gather," Ginny went on calmly,
"it is only the one troop so far. I told the sergeant to dig separate
jakes for them and pitch their tents away from the others. They should cook and
eat separately. It would be best not to march tomorrow, so that it can be
determined if the outbreak has spread further, and those who have it can be
immediately isolated."

"God's
death! I cannot afford another day's delay," Alex exclaimed, pummeling his
clenched fist into his palm.

"If
you do not, you will be able to make little speed in a day or so when the
entire division is afflicted," she pointed out unarguably. "At
present, the symptoms do not appear to be severe, and we can hope to keep it
contained. I can help a small number of men, but not the entire division. I do
not have sufficient sulphur."

Sulphur,
Alex thought. What the devil had sulphur to do with dysentery? Presumably yet
another of Gimr/s mysterious but potent healing formulas. He paced the
quarry-stone floor until he could accept the inevitable, if not with a good
grace, at least with resignation. "Very well, we will remain here
tomorrow. It will provide the opportunity to drill the division and smarten
things up. There has been some laxity on the march. I will leave the
arrangements to you, gentlemen." He nodded at his colonels. "I will
hold a review of the troops on the green at ten tomorrow. It will be a sight for
the villagers and will inspire the men."

"Presumably
not as well as a hanging," Ginny muttered, unable to help the sardonic
comment. The room emptied as if by magic, leaving only the general and his
troublesome lady. "I crave pardon," Ginny said swiftly. "That
was unnecessary."

"Since
you emerged victorious in the matter, I would have to agree that gloating over
your victory is indeed unnecessary," Alex responded in a tone as dry as
dust. He filled a cup with wine, took a slow sip, regarding her over the rim.
"I cannot help what you do not like, Ginny. I would spare you if I could,
but these things, while unpleasant, are necessary."

"Unpleasant!"
she exclaimed. "Is that what you call the floggings and the pillory and
the hangings? The torture of a helpless prisoner with no information of value
is a mere unpleasantness?"

"The
men need an outlet for their fury," he said. "You forget that they
face battle and disease, that they have been forced to leave their families for
the second time in seven years, and all because there are those too stubborn to
acknowledge the truth of final defeat."

"I
cannot accept that." She turned from him. "My energies go in saving
lives, General, not in taking them. In relieving suffering, not in creating it.
We can never reach agreement on this."

"Then
can we agree to differ, sweetheart? I cannot bear to be so estranged." He
spoke softly, surprising Ginny, who had expected a snap of impatience at her
refusal to see his point of view. "I listened to you this afternoon and
will do so again,  although I cannot always promise to follow your
advice."

"That
is concession, indeed," Ginny said with a shaky little smile. "I
cannot bear to be estranged, either, my love, but I cannot bear the unnecessary
shedding of blood. In battle . . ." She shrugged. "There, it is
necessary, I suppose."

"Will
you come upstairs?" he asked quietly. "I have great need of
you."

In the
chamber abovestairs, they resolved their differences in the only way they
could, in the ephemeral joining of bodies that brought the joining of selves,
and the reaffirmation of the magic that bound them through all divisiveness.

Chapter
18

"Colonel
Bonham, will you tell the general that I am gone to have further speech with
Dame Barton?" Ginny came into the kitchen the following morning, drawing
on her riding gloves.

"You
will not watch the review?" the colonel asked. "It will be a rare
sight."

Ginny
shook her head. "I do not doubt it, sir, but I have not had the luck to
find such a one as Dame Barton in many months. I will sit at her feet and learn
this day. Perhaps she will have some new insights into the dysentery or will
know where I may acquire more sulphur."

Colonel
Bonham smiled. "I will inform the general, Ginny. May I tell him what time
you expect to return?"

Ginny
frowned. "I do not really know; it will depend on the dame and what plans
she has. Perhaps you had better say not before supper; then he will not worry,
and if I am back earlier, it will not matter."

The
colonel bowed gravely at this very sensible proposition, but he was unprepared
for the reaction when he passed the message on to the general.

"Damnation!"
Alex swore. "I do not wish for her to roam the countryside, and
particularly not in the company of witches and warlocks!" Colonel Bonham
coughed. "Oh, I do not mean that exactly," Alex sighed. "But it
is how such folk are designated by the ignorant in these parts, as well you
know. I will go in search of her after the review, although how I am to bring
her back without a scene, I cannot imagine. Mistress Virginia Courtney does not
take too kindly to restrictions on her movements, as I am sure you are
aware."

The
colonel confessed that he had indeed noticed this on one or two occasions, and
Alex chuckled ruefully, leading Colonel Bonham to reflect that the advent of
Mistress Courtney in his life had wrought some changes for the better in
General Marshall, had certainly had an agreeably softening effect on the
rigidly principled commander.

When
Ginny reached Dame Barton's cottage, she discovered she was not the only
visitor. A distraught, middle-aged couple, holding a pallid, inert baby,
huddled against the inside wall, watching in the gloom as the old woman mixed a
paste in a mortar, grinding it with a pestle and muttering to herself.

"Good
morrow, dame," Ginny greeted her cheerfully, pushing through the door.
"What's to do?" She smiled inquiringly at the couple.

"
Tis the babe," the dame said. "Has a sleepin' sickness." She
grunted. "Folks don't come near the old woman most times, 'ceptin' when
they're scared to death of death itself."

"May
I see the child?" Ginny held out her arms, and the mother gave her the
baby.

"It
is our only child, mistress," she said in a low voice. "A miracle
after all these years, and there'll not be another; I'm at the end of my
time."

Ginny
nodded and carried the infant out into the sunshine, laying it on the grass and
beginning to unwrap the swaddling blankets from the little limbs. The father
demanded with nervous anger to know what she was doing. "I wish to see him
properly," she replied, examining the naked body carefully. "How long
has he been like this?"

"A
week," the mother answered. "He was quite well until a week ago. You
know of these things, mistress? Like the dame?"

"Dame
Barton has more knowledge than I," Ginny replied, "but I have some
small skill, although I confess this puzzles me. There is nothing to indicate
what it could be." Wrapping the child again, she handed him back to his
mother and returned to the cottage. "What think you, dame?"

"Somethin'
lackin' in the milk," the old woman said briefly. "Seen it several
times." She put the paste on a broad, damp green leaf and rolled it
tightly, then stood up, groaning as her stiff limbs creaked, hobbling outside
to where the couple waited. "Give him this, goodwife, and find a healthy
wet nurse as soon as may be. Your milk's not good."

With
hastily garbled thanks and the exchange of the leaf for a coin, the couple made
off with the baby across the fields. Ginny watched them go, her lip curled
slightly. They could not wait to get away from the old dame and her dilapidated
cottage and her potions, until the next time they found themselves in straits
desperate enough to warrant the dangerous contact.

The
morning passed rapidly and pleasantly in the fields and hedgerows where they
gathered flowers, herbs, and berries, Ginny listening and noting all the while
as Dame Barton imparted her wisdom in throwaway statements. It was early
afternoon when they returned to the cottage, and at the sight that met them,
Ginny went cold and sick with fear.

A
crowd milled around the cottage, brandishing staves and rope. The wall-eyed cat
hung head down from the branch of the sapling, and the dame's few sticks of
furniture, her cooking pots and scraps of linen were flung higgledy-piggledy
onto the grass. Dame Barton gave a great cry of sorrow and anger when she saw
the murdered cat and tottered toward the group, who turned faces, twisted with
the fear that breeds unreasoning hatred, toward the two women. An ugly murmur
rose and swelled, and the group advanced on them.

"What
is the matter?" Ginny tried to sound calm, to keep her voice from shaking.
"What business have you with Dame Barton? You have no right to — "

"Rights!"
someone exclaimed. "Witches have no rights. Seize 'em!"

"No!
You are mad —let me go — " Ginny fought the hands that grabbed her;
kicking, clawing, and spitting, she struggled against inevitable captivity, but
they caught her wrists, bending her arms up against her back so she cried out
in pain, yanking on her hair until she thought it would be pulled from her
scalp. "I am no witch!" she yelled frantically, feeling the rough
cord pulled tight around her wrists, seeing Dame Barton on her knees, sobbing
as she was punched and kicked while they bound her hands also.

"The
witch finder'll tell soon enough," the middle-aged woman of this morning
hissed, bringing her face close to Ginny's. "My babe's going to die
because of your witchcraft, yours and the dame's. I heard you whisper your
spells over him when you laid him naked on the grass, poking at him, laying the
devil's curse on him."

"You
are talking nonsense." Ginny tried to turn her head away from the hot
breath, fetid with rage, that blasted her face, but her head was held fast by
whoever still hung on to her braid. "There were no spells, and I did not
touch the child except to see if his limbs were whole."

The
woman hit her in the face with her open hand, using the full force of her arm,
and Ginny fell into a shocked silence, as her ears rang and she tasted the
blood from her cut lip. There were no words to convince this mob of her
innocence, but if they were to be taken to the witch finder, then at least she
would hear the charges laid clearly, and perhaps they could be answered.

The
mob dragged them through the fields, Ginny stumbling as she was poked and
prodded, and her heart went out to Dame Barton who had neither youth nor
strength to help her counteract the roughness of her handling. Where were they
taking them? Not to the village where the division was quartered, but away from
it, so there seemed little chance that someone who knew her might see her
plight and come to her aid. It would have to be a substantial hamlet if it
boasted a witch finder. . . . The reflections raced through her head as she
thought of and as quickly discarded plans for escape. There were none, unless
some miracle brought rescue, or with sweet reason she could convince a mob mad
for vengeance and an implacable witch finder with his pins.

Alex
had little time throughout the morning to give thought to his wandering
mistress. After the review he went on an unannounced walk through the camp,
stopping to talk with the troopers as they scrubbed clothes in wooden
wash-tubs, bent over their cooking pots, cleaned armor. The general joked and
laughed with them, listened to grievances and opinions as if they were of
genuine importance to him in the business of commanding the division, and gave
short shrift to an incensed surgeon complaining about the orders given to
isolate the troopers with dysentery. Such a precaution seemed ridiculous to the
chirurgeon, unheard of in all his days in the army. "Well, now you
have
heard of it," General Marshall said curtly, "and I'll hear no
more from you, unless you've a wish to visit the guardhouse!"

He
strode back to the farmhouse, his good mood somewhat dissipated, and gave
orders to Jed to saddle Bucephalus. "Diccon?"

"General?"
The aide-de-camp appeared instantly.

"Furnish
me with directions to this dame's cottage," he demanded, cutting a slice
from the loaf of barley bread on the table, taking a deep gulp of ale. He
listened while consuming this hasty repast, then went back outside to where Jed
was waiting with his horse.

"Like
me to come too, General?" Jed asked.

"By
which you mean that you've a mind for the outing," Alex responded with a
chuckle. "Aye, by all means bear me company."

It was
a peaceful ride on a sunny afternoon across the fields to the stone cottage,
and the two men rode in the companionable silence that came from long intimacy.
As the cottage came into sight, Alex let fly a string of oaths, spurring
Bucephalus forward, Jed on his sturdy cob pounding behind. A small boy was
picking through the pathetic heap of Dame Barton's possessions as Alex flung himself
from his horse before the animal had come to a full stop.