Land of Hope and Glory (23 page)

When he woke, the woman was squatting beside the fire, stirring a blackened pot. The door was open and he could see it was light outside. He heard chickens clucking, but the pigs were restful, only grunting occasionally.

‘How are you today?’ The woman glanced at him, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Jack thought about the question. He found he was strong enough to sit up. He felt well, alert. The pain of his broken rib had gone and the fever had lifted. ‘Good . . . hungry.’

She gave a small laugh. ‘I’ve got some pottage on the boil here. It’ll be ready in a minute.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Anne . . . Anne Carrick.’

‘I’m Jack. Thank you. For everything.’

‘Well, what’s the world come to when we don’t help those in need. You were in a terrible state when you showed up here.’

Jack recalled arriving at the cottage and seeing Anne standing outside with her hoe. ‘Where’s your husband?’

‘Husband?’

‘When I got here you said you’d call him.’

‘Oh, I only said that to scare you off.’ She turned back to the pot. ‘He died a long time ago.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘Life goes on.’

Jack thought of Katelin. ‘It does.’

He watched her stir the pot for a moment. The sleeves of her dress were frayed, the elbows patched and one shoulder had a tear in it. It would be hard for her without a husband. With his army salary, Jack had always ensured Katelin had new clothes when she needed them, and the cottage they’d rented was far larger and better built than Anne’s hut, with several separate rooms.

Anne soon came over with a steaming bowl of barley, peas and beans. He inhaled the scent of the bland soup laced with onion and bacon fat.

She sat on a stool and watched him eat. Within minutes he’d finished and wiped the bowl clean with his finger.

‘You must be feeling better,’ she said with an amused smile.

He half smiled back. The food glowed in his stomach, but with his hunger satisfied he again thought about William. ‘So I’ve been here two days.’

‘Three. You slept another day.’

He felt a quiver of anxiety. William had estimated it would take three days to get to London by horse. If that were true, the rebels would be there already. ‘I need to go.’

‘You need to rest.’ She put her hand on his chest and looked at him for a little too long, then seemed to get embarrassed and removed her hand. ‘Anyway, you can’t leave without meeting my son. He’ll be back soon.’

Jack braced himself to stand, but paused when he heard the scrape of a boot outside and the chickens cackling as they scurried out of the way. A figure appeared, silhouetted in the doorway.

Anne stood. ‘He’s woken up.’

The figure stepped into the room. It was a man in his early twenties, with long sandy hair and bright eyes. His features were smooth, with a trace of youthful fat. He wore a European Army uniform – dark-blue tunic, brass buttons, light-grey trousers – but had a patch with a red cross on a white background sewn on to the left side of his chest: a St George’s cross. No soldier would normally deface his uniform in this way – the punishment was a minimum of thirty lashes. It had to be the mark of a rebel.

Jack would have to be careful what he said.

‘This is my son, Charles,’ Anne said.

‘Pleased to meet you.’ Charles smiled as he walked across to shake Jack’s hand.

‘Jack Casey.’ He sat up straighter, with his back against the wall. ‘Pleased to meet you too.’

Charles sat on a stool and his mother brought him a bowl of pottage, which he slurped slowly as he spoke. ‘Just got in the other day. Bit surprised my mother’s taken in a lodger.’

‘I’ll be gone by nightfall,’ Jack said. ‘I’m much better.’

‘You wait until you’re completely well.’ Anne was tidying the pots and bowls on a set of shelves.

Charles grinned and winked at Jack. ‘Think she’s taken a shine to you.’

Anne slapped him across the top of the head and he laughed as he raised a hand to fend her off.

‘Seriously, though,’ Charles said, ‘you stay here as long as you like. You’re welcome.’

As Anne stepped outside, Charles pulled his stool closer and said more quietly, ‘Pleased there’s someone here to look after her, to be honest. She’s on her own. I’m leaving again in a couple of days.’

‘I’d like to stay, but I can’t.’

‘That’s a pity.’ Charles drew back. ‘Where you headed?’

Jack paused, thinking quickly. ‘London.’

‘London? Well, that’s where I’m . . .’ Charles looked at Jack more closely. ‘You’re going there to fight?’

Jack cleared his throat. ‘Yes.’ An idea was forming in his mind. ‘How are you getting there?’

‘Mule cart.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

Charles shook his head. ‘You’ll never get better in time.’

‘I’m better now. I’m fine.’

A grin slipped across Charles’s face. ‘You’ve been out for days and now you’re fine?’

‘Yes. Listen, I used to be in the army—’

‘Is that right?’ Charles leant forward. ‘Which regiment?’

‘The 2nd Native Infantry.’

‘By St Mary. I’m with the 12th. So you’ve switched sides as well, then?’

‘You could say that. I left the army nine years ago.’

‘Injured?’

‘No . . . just had to leave.’

Charles put his spoon down. ‘Nine years ago. You must’ve seen a few battles.’

‘A few.’

‘What campaigns were you in?’

‘Poland, Dalmatia, Ragusa—’

‘You were at Ragusa?’ Charles’s face lit up.

‘What’re you two gabbling about?’ Anne came back into the hut with a large pot between her arms.

‘You didn’t tell me we had a war hero here,’ Charles said. ‘Jack was at Ragusa.’

Anne put the pot down in a corner of the room and stood with her hands on her hips. ‘There aren’t any heroes in war. Just dead people.’

‘Mother, please.’ Charles turned back to Jack. ‘Don’t mind her.’

‘That’s right,’ Anne said. ‘What do I know?’ Anne looked at Jack and pointed to her son. ‘His father was in the army. Died fighting in Macedonia.’

‘And he got a commendation for it,’ Charles reminded her. ‘His captain came to this village, this very hut, to give it to us. I remember it.’

Anne retrieved something from a shelf, blew dust off it and held it up; it was a circular metal brooch embossed with three lions. Jack recognised it straight away – a Special Commendation, a great honour.

‘That’s all we got.’ Anne’s jaw was locked and her eyes misty. ‘Thirteen years’ service and that’s all we’ve got left of him.’

‘Mother, it’s all right.’ Charles stood and put his arm on her shoulder. ‘Come on. Let’s put that away.’

She sighed and placed the medal back on the shelf. She wiped her eyes on the edge of her sleeve and turned back to Jack. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just hard to see your men going off like that.’

‘I know.’ Jack remembered all those times he’d said goodbye to Katelin.

‘Anyway,’ Anne said, ‘I’m going down to the village. You stay where you are, Jack. You’re in no fit state to go anywhere.’

‘I’ll keep an eye on him,’ Charles said to her.

She put on a bonnet and stepped outside. She looked at Jack as if about to say something, but then changed her mind and walked off.

Charles opened one of the window shutters and stood looking out. From where Jack was sitting all he could see was the white cloud covering the sky.

‘You know, I’m back here rounding up men for the crusade,’ Charles said. ‘We need as many as we can get. They say the Rajthanans have a huge army.’

‘How big?’

‘Don’t know. I heard forty thousand. There’re lots of rumours.’

‘It’ll be tough. They’ll fight hard.’

‘Of course.’ Charles seemed to brood on this until his face brightened. ‘But we’ll fight harder. The Grail will help us.’

‘The Grail?’

‘Haven’t you heard? Everyone’s saying it. The Grail’s coming back.’

‘Yes . . . of course.’ That rumour hadn’t made it to Poole. Did the rebels really believe this? The Grail was just a legend, a superstition. ‘Let me come with you. I’m going to London anyway – you don’t want to make me walk.’

Charles grinned and pointed out of the window. ‘You see the village over there?’

Jack stood and hobbled unsteadily to the window. Half a mile away was the cluster of cottages, dominated by a stone church.

‘There’s an alehouse down there,’ Charles said. ‘Tomorrow, at midday, I’m speaking to everyone there. Trying to get them to join the fight. If you can walk down on your own and drink a pint of ale, I’ll take you to London.’

Jack drank ale from an earthenware mug. He was sitting on a bench in a corner of the alehouse, elbow on a trestle table. All around him were men from the village in their dusty clothes and drooping cloth hats. They drank and talked loudly, some puffing on the hookahs that gurgled and smouldered on each table. Soft tobacco smoke floated through the room.

The building was a simple longhouse with numerous windows letting in the watery midday light. Chickens and dogs ranged about the earth floor and the high thatched roof harboured sparrows and starlings that watched the proceedings with their glossy eyes. Like all the buildings in the village, the alehouse was in need of repair. Even Jack’s tiny hut at the Goyanor house was in a better state.

Charles stood in his army uniform on a raised platform at one end of the hall. He fidgeted and appeared uncertain whether to begin. The St George’s cross on his chest shone faintly in the haze.

‘Gentlemen,’ he called out, but no one paid him the slightest attention. ‘Gentlemen!’ he called louder, and now the talking subsided and the men looked up from their mugs. Soon it was completely silent, save for the clucking of the chickens and the bubble of the hookahs.

‘Thank you all for coming.’ Charles’s voice wavered and he looked at his feet for a moment before continuing. ‘You all know me. I grew up here. Most of you have known me all my life. You also probably know why I’m here. You don’t need me to tell you there’s a war on. Now, I’m not much good at giving speeches. But what I’ve got to say is important.

‘The heathens have taken our lands. Their black magic is everywhere. Long ago King Arthur’s knights freed this country with the power of the Grail. King Edward and his knights found the Grail again and fought off the Caliph. The Grail’s coming back and now we have to fight again.

‘The heathens will march on London any day now. They want to sack the city and murder our King. They’ll burn our churches. They’ll kill our women and children. The King has called on every able-bodied man in England to go to London to defend the city. I leave tomorrow. Who’ll come with me?’

The room was silent.

Jack thought Charles’s claims were somewhat overstated – the Rajthanans wouldn’t destroy London or murder the innocent. They would simply put down the mutiny as quickly and efficiently as they could.

After a few seconds, a middle-aged man with curly hair stood and rested his hands on his round belly. His cheeks were tinged red and he smiled broadly as if he were proud of something he’d just accomplished. ‘This isn’t our fight. This is Wiltshire – an independent state. The Earl has not in any way supported these rebels.’

A few of the men muttered their agreement into their mugs.

Charles met the gaze of the middle-aged man. ‘Bailiff Warburton. Glad you could come.’

The crowd laughed. The Bailiff, as Jack knew, would be the representative of the local lord.

‘True, Wiltshire is independent,’ Charles continued. ‘But only at the whim of the Maharaja. It is a part of England. We’re English. While the Rajthanans are here we’ll never be free.’

A murmur rippled around the room.

‘England,’ the Bailiff said. ‘There is no England. It’s an idea from the past. There’s been no England since the Rajthanans got here a hundred years ago.’

‘Then it’s high time we reclaimed our country,’ Charles said. ‘Gentlemen, this is an opportunity that may not come again. Ever. If we don’t fight now, we never will.’

‘A lot of our young men have gone already,’ said an old man with only a single tooth in his sunken mouth. ‘Three of my sons are in London now. Do you want me to send my youngest as well? Do you want me to go there myself with my walking stick?’

Glancing around the room, Jack noted that there were indeed few men under the age of thirty in the alehouse.

‘Of course not, George,’ Charles replied. ‘We can all only do what we’re able to. But we have to realise this is our chance now. Our one chance. We have to give everything we can.’

He turned to a group of lads, all no more than sixteen years old, who sat together at one of the tables. ‘How about it? Who’ll come with me?’

The young men looked at the ground nervously and smiled at some secret joke between themselves.

‘You stay where you are, Henry,’ called out an older man with wild hair that was speckled with straw and burrs. ‘I’ll not have my son running off with no rebels.’

Henry stared harder at the ground and went bright red. The crowd sniggered at the exchange.

‘Saleem.’ Charles turned to a young man who sat on his own near the front. ‘What about you?’

‘You even taking Mohammedans now,’ someone called out, to loud laughter around the room.