Feather Castles

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  For Christine—who started it all.

  Chapter 1

  At dusk, smoke still billowed into the sullen skies near the village called Waterloo, and the air seemed to reek of death. The roar of cannon had ceased at last, and gradually a welter of new sounds succeeded those mighty voices of battle. They seemed quiet, by comparison, although in their own way, they were the more terrible. The road from Brussels was cluttered with the aftermath of the titanic struggle: dead horses, abandoned carts and wagons, baggage torn asunder by greedy hands that had scattered haphazardly anything not worth the looting. Most ghastly of all were the survivors; some staggering along with arms across the shoulders of comrades, some crawling painfully through the mud, or lying helplessly, unable to go on, clutching bloody makeshift bandages and crying piteously for water. Others, perhaps more fortunate, neither moved nor pleaded for aid, but sprawled silently, pathetic in their sleep from which there would be no awakening.

  Most who travelled that nightmarish thoroughfare were coming away from the carnage of the battlefield. A steady stream, however, headed for that very carnage; pale-faced, grim-lipped men, going to search for injured friends and relatives, or to find and tenderly bear off their dead.

  The heart-rending cries of the wounded hushed all at once, awe causing stumbling feet to halt and weary eyes to turn to where a phaeton picked its way through the debris. Incongruous in this brutal confusion, a girl sat in the open vehicle beside the ample girth of an elderly nun. She wore a simple pelisse of beige stuff, the hood having fallen back to reveal hair of a light dusty brown, curling softly about the perfect oval of a delicately featured countenance. Her eyes, wide set under arching brows, were a deep, clear blue. And although the little chin had an intrepid tilt and there was strength in the firm mouth, to the exhausted men she was as ethereal as beautiful, a stark contrast to the chaos that surrounded her.

  A very young soldier, gripping a loosely dangling left arm, reeled towards the phaeton and in a croak of a voice, sobbed, “Water … Madonna, in God’s name … Water…” But the phaeton did not check.

  Appalled, Rachel Strand cried beseechingly, “Sister, we must stop and help them! We must!”

  Sister Maria Evangeline closed her eyes, and her lips moved in prayer. Glancing back, the groom slowed his team expectantly. But when she looked up, the nun said a sharp, “Drive on, Andrews!”

  The groom’s eyes slanted from the nun to Miss Strand, and back to the nun. He shook his head with not a little censure at the stern face of this holy woman, but she responded only with a haughty lift of her brows. He sent his whip cracking out over the heads of the nervous horses, and the phaeton bounded forward.

  With firm implacability, the nun said, “I warned you, Rachel, when you insisted upon accompanying me, that I seek one man. It is vital that I find him. I will not—dare not—be turned aside and should we stop now, I fear— Andrews! Whip them up! Fast! Fast!”

  Tightening his lips, the groom obeyed, and the phaeton scattered the desperate little group of the wounded who had converged on it.

  Rachel looked back and uttered a cry of pity as a youth, hopping painfully on one foot, his other leg swathed in bloody rags, was sent sprawling. She swung about on the seat, rage in her young face, but tears glistened in the eyes of her companion, and, instead of the furious denunciation she’d been about to deliver, Rachel placed a compassionate hand on the sturdy arm and murmured, “I should have understood how much harder it must be for you, dear soul. Always so gentle and kind. But—oh, is it not hideous? So … so…”

  “—So ghastly,” the nun finished, unsteadily. “And especially for such eyes as yours, my child! When I allowed you to step into the phaeton I had thought we might chat for just a few minutes, for there is something I am most eager to—” She broke off, sighing. “But, I had no right to— I should never have allowed you to come!”

  “But I want to help. In Brussels there are many to aid the poor souls who get thus far, but if your history lessons spoke truly, and I’m sure they did, on the battlefield they will be desperate for water.”

  Quite apart from her history books, Sister Maria Evangeline was not unacquainted with battlefields. Her frown deepened. “I should have told Andrews to remove you by force. He is vexed with me that I have not done so.”

  The groom gave a grunt of agreement. Rachel, herself dreading what might lie ahead, clasped her hands resolutely and said nothing.

  “At all events,” the nun resumed, “they say thousands have fallen. Our four water bottles will prove all too few, I do not doubt.”

  Rachel was not deceived by the harsh tone and after a moment said thoughtfully, “If thousands have fallen, how can you hope to find your friend?”

  “Because I must find him! With God’s help, I will find him!”

  It was getting dark, and Rachel thought there was little hope that the faith of her dear friend and erstwhile teacher would be justified, but she made no comment, sitting quietly while the phaeton pushed on through a continuing nightmare of sights so harrowing that both women were sickened.

  Unfaltering, the nun scanned the face of each man they passed. “Lord! How many there are!” she muttered. “Andrews—remember, he will be wearing rifle green. Poor souls … oh, the poor souls!” And moved by a sudden thought, “Child—how came you to be wandering about the streets of Brussels, alone?”

  “We were to have met Dr. Ulrich. Until Thursday night nobody really thought there would be a battle, you know, so we waited. But we heard the cannon from Quatre Bras on Friday afternoon—so dreadful! And this morning, even worse, and when the wounded began to straggle into Brussels—well, you saw how many ladies ran outside to try and help.”

  “We? My heavens! Never say Charity is there?”

  “But, of course, for that is why we came, and why I insisted upon waiting. But heaven knows what became of the doctor.”

  Aghast, the nun exclaimed, “And you left her there, alone? Rachel! She cannot walk! What if we lose this battle?”

  “You silly goose,” smiled the girl. “As if I would leave my dear sister alone. Guy is with her.”

  “And he let you go?” Sister Maria Evangeline snorted a contemptuous, “Hah!”

  “He was carrying a wounded Ensign into the house. The confusion was indescribable. He had no idea I had wandered off. And no matter what you say, I believe you know that Guy is a fine and honourable gentleman. As for Wellington losing, surely that possibility is remote. But—if it should happen, then Guy will carry my sister to safety.”

  “Such trust is to be admired.” The sarcasm in the good Sister’s voice was pronounced and brought a faint pucker to Rachel’s brow. “But what of yourself, miss?” she went on. “Does Claude know that his affianced bride rushes to a battlefield with never a thought for her own safety?”

  “Claude was unable to come. This morning he sent word that we must proceed to Ostend in the event Dr. Ulrich is unable t
o reach us, and that he will bring the doctor to Sussex as soon as possible.” With a touch of defiance she added, “And I am very sure that Claude would expect me to do whatever I may to aid these brave men.”

  Sister Maria Evangeline clung to the side and stood to obtain a better view of a gun carriage jolting along with a cargo of seriously wounded officers. Surveying those ravaged young faces in grim silence, she was thinking that Miss Rachel Strand was either hopelessly besotted by the tender passion, or had surprisingly little knowledge of the character of her betrothed.

  * * *

  Captain Sir Simon Buchanan, his broken right hand tucked into the front of his torn and dusty red jacket, bent over a tumbled heap of the dead, his red-rimmed eyes searching among them anxiously. The thick dark hair of the young Colonel he turned had caused his heart to pound with dread, but the quiet face was not that of the man he sought and sighing, he straightened and led his bay mare on again. It was almost dark, the dimness shedding a welcome veil over the horrors of the battlefield littered with its dead and dying. Few tended the wounded; for the most part their piteous cries went all unheeded. The water they prayed for was not to be had for miles around, and most of the men beginning to drift among them were there not to offer help, but to loot and murder.

  Buchanan sought on doggedly, himself barely able to set one foot before the other, and aware he must not linger, lest he also fall prey to the scavengers. He hardened his heart against the pleas that beset him from every side, but the feeble clutch of a hand at his muddied boot sent a pang of anguish through him. Pulling free, he said gruffly, “I cannot help you, poor fellow. If I’m to find my closest friend, I—”

  “Well, damn your eyes, Buck! You might at least … tell me … who won?”

  Startled, the Captain bent lower, and gazed into grey eyes dark-shadowed with exhaustion, yet having an indomitable twinkle in their depths that was unmistakable. With a leap of the heart, he exclaimed, “St. Clair! Are you badly wounded?”

  “Not … wounded at all.” Captain Lord Lucian St. Clair lay propped against his dead horse, and said with a quivering grin, “A bit … sharpish there for a while … wasn’t it?”

  Buchanan’s eyes lit with appreciation of this incredible understatement, but he merely agreed that it had indeed been “a slight tussle.” And, recalling St. Clair’s initial question, added, “Nosey pulled us out of it, as usual. The Frogs are in full retreat.” St. Clair’s breathless cheer widened his smile, and he asked, “What’s to do, Lucian? Resting, old fellow?”

  “Gudgeon! Blasted nag rolled … over me.”

  Much shocked, Buchanan peered at the deceased animal. “Not Caliph?”

  “Well, if that ain’t just like you! You might at least enquire if my back is broken!”

  “Yes, I will. But—was it Caliph?”

  St. Clair chuckled. “No, thank heaven. That lunatic’s too wild for battle. Now, get on with you, or you shall lose what’s left of the light. I’ll be up in a trice and … I’ve got my pistol ready, so do not fret. I collect it’s poor Tristram Leith you seek, eh?”

  Buchanan stiffened. “Yes. You’ve seen him?”

  “Saw him fall. Sorry, Buck. The shell exploded directly above him. He’s finished I’m afraid. Got him in the face, poor devil.” His rumpled blonde locks jerked to the northward. “Over there, somewhere. Have a care, old fellow. Vultures are among us.”

  His heart aching, Buchanan took the time to ascertain that, astonishingly, St. Clair appeared unhurt and his pistol was indeed loaded. Then, he resumed his own sad quest.

  * * *

  They were close to the battlefield now. Scarcely daring to look about her, Rachel was shaking, her teeth chattering as with ague. Everywhere she turned were the dead and dying, and—more terribly—furtive, shadowy shapes that flitted about to dreadful purpose. Young voices upraised in painful pleading were cut off by the flash of steel, or rose into a choked screaming that turned her knees to water. Numbed with horror, she heard the groom explode harshly, “We never should’ve brought the young lady along, ma’am! Turn back, I say! We’ll be lucky do we get away alive, even now! Turn back! ’Fore it do be too late for any of us!”

  “No,” Rachel quavered staunchly. “We—must help the … the poor creatures. Oh, Lord!” Shuddering, she turned from the pile of half-naked bodies before her. “How frightful! Such savagery is—”

  “Stand back there!” Andrews flourished his whip, but three tattered shapes leapt to the heads of the team. A fourth ran forward, and all turned their glowing eyes towards the two women.

  Sister Maria Evangeline fumbled beneath her habit and brought forth a large horse pistol. “Get back, you spawns of Satan!” she cried, fierce and dauntless. “I’ve no wish to shoot, but—”

  Another scavenger came at her from the side. The pistol was wrested from her hand. Struggling, Andrews was dragged from his seat, and Rachel gave a muffled shriek as she was torn from the phaeton and crushed suffocatingly against a rank and hairy chest. A man—more beast than human, she thought—was chuckling, nuzzling at her throat. And she was too overwrought to even attempt a scream.

  A shot rang out, followed immediately by a gurgling cry. She was on her knees, but free! A large man, clad only in a torn and bloody shirt and tattered breeches, crawled weakly towards them, a smoking pistol in one hand. The three remaining looters raced for him, knives flashing, and even in that dim light, Rachel saw that their rescuer was already badly wounded, his face a mask of dried blood so that she wondered he could see.

  The looters surrounded him now. He struck out valiantly with the pistol but, laughing, one of his assailants kicked the weapon from his hand, and another sent a knife streaking down at the arm he flung up in a feeble attempt to protect himself.

  Rachel came to her feet. Sister Maria Evangeline ran to grab her hand and hiss, “Into the carriage! Quickly!”

  “And leave him to die? No, I shall not!” Rachel scooped up the whip the groom had dropped, swung it out, and ran forward. The wounded man had crumpled to lie sprawled on the ground, and the looters, laughing, were bending above him.

  “Filth!” Rachel cried shrilly, and brought the whip whistling around.

  The first man, sword upraised to stab his helpless victim, gave a yowl of pain and shock as the lash cut across his back. His two friends spun about, crouched and ready for action, but seeing the girl and the whip already curling back for another swing, they grinned and, dodging that whistling thong, started for her.

  “Question is,” drawled a lazy voice beside her ear, “which one o’ ye I blows the gizzard out of, first?”

  That lusting charge halted. The looters glared, cursed, and cursing still, melted into the darkness.

  Sister Maria Evangeline’s “Diccon!” was more a sob than a word.

  Rachel threw a glance at the newcomer and had a brief impression of a tall, lean, youngish individual, with an unruly shock of curly hair. Then she was running to the still shape of the man who had so bravely defended them. Sinking to her knees beside him, she wrenched the rolled linen bandages from her pocket and tried to wipe some of the blood from his face.

  A faint gleam told her his eyes were open. A breathless voice said in French, “So this … then, is not … Hades?”

  “I wouldn’t refine on that overmuch, friend,” came that deep drawl once more. The man Sister Maria Evangeline had addressed as “Diccon” slipped a hand under Rachel’s elbow. “This is no place for you, miss. Come.”

  “No!” Stubbornly, she wrenched free. “I’ll not leave him! He saved us, and they’ve cut him badly. See how his arm bleeds! We cannot—”

  “We’ll leave the poor lad some water. It will keep him sane ’til dawn, which is more than could be said for most of these poor devils. Now—”

  But again Rachel dodged that long hand and slipped her arm beneath the shoulders of the injured man, struggling to raise him.

  “Go!” he gasped faintly, his dark head rolling against her shoulder. “Your friend … perf
ectly right. No place for—for blessed angel such as you.… Go!”

  Looking up at Diccon, Rachel grated, “Help me lift him into the phaeton.”

  The looters were coming back. Diccon swore under his breath. Sister Maria Evangeline said, “We’ll manage. I will help. Oh, if only he were not such a big fellow! Andrews? Where are you? Come!” She clambered into the phaeton, urging, “Hurry! Hurry!”

  Between them, Diccon and the groom lifted the soldier and disposed him in the phaeton so that he half sat, half lay across the seat with his head in the nun’s lap. Rachel squeezed into the vehicle and knelt on the floor, attempting to quench the blood that welled from the wound in the soldier’s arm.

  The looters rushed then, two wielding swords, and one thrusting a rifle at Diccon, the bayonet gleaming wickedly. Diccon’s pistol blasted Rachel’s ears. The man with the bayonet howled and went down. Andrews sprang for the driver’s seat. A slap of the reins and the frightened horses plunged forward. With a wild dive, Diccon caught the back of the phaeton. The looters jumped clear, and the phaeton was away.

  * * *

  They had been at sea for a very long time, and the storm was so fierce he was unable to hold himself steady in the bunk but was constantly flung against the side, each collision seeming to hurt his throbbing head more than the last. The portholes were closed because of the high running seas, and the tiny cabin was oppressively hot. Yet sometimes the spray managed to penetrate the closed ports and splash, icily refreshing, against his face. With stunning force he was hurled at the side once more and, crying out, awoke from his dream.

  A cool hand touched his cheek. A blurred shape bent above him, and a sweetly musical voice said in lilting French, “Lie still, please, sir! You must not toss so.”

  Puzzled, he stared at that indistinct form until the mists faded a trifle, and he saw again the girl he had thought to see in his dreaming. Gentle of eye, fair of skin, her face a vision of loveliness, her whole being the very personification of feminine grace and purity. Scarcely daring to breathe lest she disappear, he lay very still, but when she started to move back into the mists, asked faintly, “Am I now … dead, mademoiselle?”