Incognita (Fairchild Book 2) (30 page)

Tearing across the field, they cut through the stream, spattering mud up their horses’ flanks, their boots and the arms of their coats. The drumming of hoofbeats sounded through him, shaking the earth, yet he knew from experience they wouldn’t be heard on the other side of the hill. Not yet at least. They might have been scouted out already, of course, but no point speculating till they reached the top of the rise—the sight from there would tell him if the French expected them or not. At his signal, half the troop peeled off with Harris, sticking to the low ground, darting around the rise. The rest drove uphill, slowing as they neared the top, a few of the horses foundering in the greasy earth. Alistair raised his hand and they slowed to a walk, breathless and silent, waiting. The creak of saddle leather, the swish of a tossed mane, fingers that tightened around reins as one readied one’s sword: every detail seemed terribly important, picked out in bright colors though the sun was weak, almost lost behind the heavy grey sky.
 

Drawing breath almost as one, they crested the ridge, glancing down at the tight ranks moving below. It was the French. Alistair took one look, then turned back, hoping they were tucked out of sight. His orders were to engage only if necessary, but it would be, if they were to defend the 28
th
Foot from this horde of French Cavalry.
 

“Ride to the village. Tell them we’ve got Hussars, Chasseurs and Lancers,” he said to Jamieson. “They’re moving fast, so go quickly.” God send Jamieson reached the 28
th
in time for them to form up. The stream, even swollen with days of rain, wouldn’t check the French advance any more than it had halted their ride across the plain. The forest was sparse, nearly leafless. His troop and Harris’s would fight, but they couldn’t turn three or four times their number, not alone. “We’ll fall back. Take a position at the edge of the wood.”
 

If they were lucky, it would confuse the French estimate of their numbers, perhaps even give time for the artillery to join the party. But if it came to a pitched battle, the English foot, cavalry and artillery combined were still greatly outnumbered. He spurred his horse faster.
 

At the stream, he heard bugles and glanced back at the swarm of French Horse spilling over the ridge. Damn, they were fast. No time to wait in the fringes of the trees. Signaling the troop to ride on, they raced across the open fields, trying to put more space between them and the oncoming Chasseurs before they would have to turn and fight. A hundred yards from the forest’s edge, Alistair gave the signal, wheeling about as his sergeant sounded the call. Within seconds they were massed and ready, sabers drawn, the colors flying bravely. A nod to the sergeant, another note on the bugle that was swallowed almost immediately by galloping hooves. Alistair leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the glinting helmets and streaming plumes of the French. A second troop was pouring over the hill; something to worry about after they collided with the first, springing across the plain, devouring the distance between them. On the right, Harris’s troop swung into sight, darting along the course of the stream to the space where they would all collide. A quick hit, then away, if they could manage it, north towards the village. Alistair tensed, raising his saber, finding a line and a target—a broad blue coat and behind it, another. He could reach both if he held his course and moved quick.
 

“Show ’em how we fight in
The
Division!” Alistair roared, adding to the bellows from his sergeant. Behind him, Gordon was yelling in gaelic: fierce, meaningless words that always made him shiver. Kicking his mount forward, Alistair lunged out of reach of his target’s falling blade. A quick thrust, a snick and a pull that momentarily caught at his sword, then he was away, nudging the black to the left, away from the wild cavorting of a riderless horse. Another thrust, the clang of metal on metal, the grunts of men and horse. On, leaping over a bad patch of ground that he spotted almost too late, his eyes watering from the speed. An oncoming chausseur marked him, galloping towards him on churning hooves. Alistair noticed the spattered brown horse, the swinging plume, the face screaming blood-curdling obscenities he couldn’t make out above the pounding in his ears. Their swords rattled together; he shoved with shoulder and horse, forcing a faltering side step but tangling his own sword. Cursing, he lurched the other way, pulling himself free, then kicked his horse forward before a Frenchman turning towards him could cleave his skull in two. He felt the blade whistle by as his horse took off, screaming.
 

This time it was all he could do to check the black’s course. The maddened animal was ready to plow into anything that crossed their path. Reining in hard, Alistair slowed to a canter, glancing back on his left. The French, deflected from their course, were veering east on a line that would soon have them skirting the village. Reforming quickly, Alistair joined his men with Harris’s troop, circling west, chased by the bugle calls of a fresh squadron of French Lancers. Well, Alistair wasn’t going to face them today, not if he could help it. He spurred his horse onward. Beneath him, the ground was a sickening blur. Veering into the woods, they shot through the trees, bypassing the village and laboring up another slope. “Steady!” he called out, for he was too far to reach the trooper beside him who was sliding off the back of his faltering horse. He drew in, but by then the animal had regained his feet and Daniels, a tough old campaigner, had pulled himself back into his seat.
 

“You fall and I’ll have to leave you here for the frogs,” Alistair warned.
 

“I never fall,” said Daniels, glancing at Alistair. Daniels had been in the Peninsula since the first campaign with Moore and never gotten anything worse than greying side whiskers and a face of tough brown leather. “Worry about yourself. I don’t want to have to cart you to the surgeons. That’s not mud on your leg, is it?”
 

Alistair glanced down, surprised to find a large dark stain spreading over his knee and a slit in the top of his boot.
 

“Never felt anything?” Daniels asked.
 

Alistair shook his head.
 

“You’re all right, then. Your man can sew you up later,” Daniels said, laughing at Alistair’s sudden change of face.

“I’d rather use your tailor,” Alistair said. Daniels had never required stitches in his skin, so far as Alistair knew, but his wife was known for her skill with a needle. Daniel’s uniform might get threadbare or soiled, but it was never in need of mending and his tent never leaked.
 

There was no more time for talking, or for worrying about the nick on his leg. Grateful his horse had good wind and strong quarters, Alistair spurred him to the top of the slope.
 

“Look at our boys!” crowed the sergeant, as Alistair broke out of the trees and onto the plain. The Foot was here—formed up in squares. Shabby, starved and worn, they were ready all the same, rousing a cheer from the just-arrived cavalry. Letting out a whoop, Alistair stood in his stirrups, waving his sword at Gregson, the brigade major, who was riding beside his tight ranks of infantry.
 

“So you do know how to get up early in the morning!” Alistair called.
 

Gregson grinned and swore at him. “D’you find the French?”
 

“Course! Invited them out to play—expect ’em any minute, the laggards!”
 

Ordered to left flank, they took off at a trot, happy to leave their pursuers in the infantry’s hands for now. By the time they’d taken their position, both the Chasseurs and the Lancers were massing, preparing to charge.
 

“We’re outnumbered,” someone muttered. Alistair looked over. Another green one.
 

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Watch and learn.” Unless the French had brought invisible artillery, their squadrons of horse would break on the British squares.
 

The man didn’t believe him. When the French sounded the charge, he shifted in his saddle, glancing left and right at the men beside him. Alistair played with the ends of his reins, watching with a practiced air of idleness, yet still intent. Gregson’s men were well drilled, but it didn’t do to get careless. Alistair caught his breath—the French charge was beautifully co-ordinated, flying like wispy cloud, untroubled by the broken ground. Suppressing a shiver of envy—the French Cavalry trumped the English in numbers and glamour—he waited.
 

So did Gregson. The French stormed closer and closer still, until even Alistair began to wonder if—

A crack of gunfire ripped through the air and the vanguard of the French cavalry shivered. At this distance, Alistair couldn’t see the holes punched through limbs and bodies, only the out-flung arms, crashing falls, and thrashing hooves that inevitably followed. Another crack as the second rank fired, and the French charge bounced away from Gregson’s square, just in time to be repulsed by another.
 

“Mind where they’re going,” Alistair said, to no one in particular. “Can’t let them have the road.”
 

But the chasseurs were regrouping, riding back to the squares for another swipe. Though swift and fierce, by the time they struck again, any damage they’d inflicted was already repaired, the lines of infantrymen closing ranks in the time it took to blink. Peeling away, but not giving up the field, the French reformed again, but by this time the squares were marching in formation, crawling west. Alistair motioned to his troop and they set forth with the usual jingling, holding themselves to the painfully slow pace of the Foot. Marches like this were wearisome things, interminable hours of bluffing, keeping a stoic front for the enemy. The French kept pace for a while, finally swooping in again, but once more, the squares held them off, Alistair’s troop ready to pounce should the French attempt to overtake the Foot and find a better target further up the line.
 

“Losing interest, I think,” Alistair said, when this third charge turned even quicker than the last. It was the end of the fighting season. Time to let each other alone.
 

Apparently the French commander had reached the same conclusion. Both companies drew off together, moving for the woods. A moment later a rider bolted out from the middle of the square, making for Alistair’s company.
 

“We’re to keep an eye on them?” Alistair asked.
 

“If you’d be so kind,” said the adjutant, wiping his streaming nose.
 

They followed the French at a respectful distance, not wanting to pick a fight on their own, for a good two hours before changing course, convinced the French had had enough.

See you next year, Alistair thought, turning westward again, hoping it wouldn’t take them too long to find the road. It was raining again. Alistair hunched his shoulders in his damp coat, trying to calculate how many miles to go until they reached their base at Ciudad Rodrigo. He wasn’t sure of his guess, but didn’t bother to pull out his map, just in case it was still dry. Besides, whether his guess was right or wrong, the number of miles remaining was too high to please anyone. Wiggling cold toes in wet boots, and ignoring the noisy pleas of his stomach (the devil knew where the supply wagons were by this time), Alistair reminded himself there was much to be grateful for. At least they’d parted ways with the French.
 

Lady Fairchild was admiring the effect of sapphire earrings against her pale blonde curls when the door to her bedroom opened.
 

“Almost too pretty, I think. Don’t know if I should allow it,” William said, quietly closing the door. Turning on her chair, Lady Fairchild caught her maid’s eye in the mirror, signaling her to vanish. By the time she was facing her husband—the word had an unaccustomed, silly warmth today—she was smiling.
 

“I didn’t invite your opinion,” she said, pleased to have it nonetheless.
 

William leaned against her dressing table, picking up a fan she had discarded, inspecting the carving on the ivory handle. “I was hoping you’d make time for me today.”
 

Georgiana made a face. “Mrs. Morris took an age with her shopping. Besides, you’re getting spoiled.” She liked him intruding in her rooms, but she couldn’t admit that. Not with words, at any rate.
 

“Getting rid of Alistair’s fiancé is proving to be time consuming,” she said, speaking her excuse aloud. It wasn’t all bad. She’d never had a companion before who took shopping as seriously as herself—it was like choosing weapons, a kind of personal armament. Despite sifting through shops for hours, the only worthy finds had been this fan for herself and a bonnet garnished with artificial cherries for Mrs. Morris. Instead of making her look hopelessly young and countrified, as such flourishes generally tended to do, she’d made the bonnet look . . . provocative. Georgiana frowned, remembering the sheen of Anna’s bright lips, the mocking expression she had unconsciously put on with the hat.
 

“You don’t enjoy it?” William asked. “I think I like her.”
 

“She’s certainly beautiful,” Georgiana admitted, her eyes darting to William’s hands, playing with the tassel on her fan.
 

“And about Henrietta’s age,” William said, setting the fan on the table. “Don’t be a goose.” He was laughing at her, smiling in a way that made her think he might try to kiss her. Gratifying to be sure, but she still couldn’t laugh with him about pretty women. Perhaps not ever, she thought bleakly. In spite of the care she took with her hands, her age was written there, plain to a watchful eye. The grey in her hair had come prematurely, but she had always consoled herself with the way it silvered her blond coloring. Unfortunately, she was now at an age where grey hair began to belong.
 

It had hit her today, watching Anna laughing at her cherries, a sight to behold—striking, with the kind of beauty that made men catch their breath. Anna might have had a hard time of it, married to Anthony Morris, but he was dead now. She had her son back and still some youth, even. Georgiana hadn’t spoken of her insecurities before, hadn’t even let herself think them, but William’s interest in Anna’s progress with the terror residing in the nursery hadn’t escaped her. He and Anna fell into conversation easily whenever they met. In private, Georgiana found she and her husband had plenty to say, but in company, they hadn’t broken out of old habits. She was afraid to try. If this romance didn’t last, she couldn’t bear for anyone to know.