Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 47

Chapter 47

Approaching the camp, we were bothered by buzzing flies, while my horse’s feet sunk deep into the mud. Ahead of us, a large number of tents had been erected, several fires were burning, and soldiers scurried like ants. To judge from the smell, the latrines had not been covered as quickly as they should. To our right, men were singing – the tune seemed to be that of Sweet Maid Be Mine, but the lyrics concerned sexual activities most of which, I would have thought, were simply impossible.

This was Sir Garrafad’s camp, the finding of which had not proved difficult. It lay only two or three miles beyond the river – its approach a swathe of destruction and recently churned mire. Behind us, battle raged at Teddy’s Town. There were minor engagements closer to hand, but such arrows as landed in our vicinity had lost their force – my feeling was that we had passed beyond bowshot of the Surrey archers only just in time.

“Who goes there?” a mud-spattered sentry challenged.

“Irregular troops from the Palace Victoria,” Lisa-Louise replied.

“It’s spymaster Addal’s niece,” said a second guard, sounding thoroughly depressed. “I’ll go and fetch the captain.”

The captain was a young man with blood stained breeches, a sooty cuirass and a dirty face – a cigarette dangled from his lower lip. He was on foot, whilst we – still on horseback – towered above the officer, tempting me to nudge my horse into kicking him. Glancing at us with scant curiosity, it was unclear whether he had so much as noticed my mask. Removing the cigarette from his mouth, he coughed and spat before speaking.

“I’ve neither the time nor the patience to deal them,” he said to the guard. “Take them to Colonel Standish – he’s got bugger all to do.”

“Yuss, sir!” the sentry replied. Then, to us: “If you ladies would care to dismount, I’ll take you to where you needs to go.”

Obediently, we clambered from our saddles and, leading the horses, followed him. Now that my boots – rather than my mount’s hooves – were sinking into the mud, my distaste for the camp increased. As we passed, men peered at us from the flaps of their tents – their ragged and unshaven disorder very different from the smart troops who had departed from the Palace Victoria. Reaching a tent larger and less filthy than the others, we waited outside while the guard entered.

After perhaps ten minutes, a man with a grey moustache emerged from the tent. In contrast to the surrounding squalor, his uniform was smart – with gold braid at the wrists and a shining cuirass. Unlike the other men, he smelled as though he had washed that day. The colonel, for such he obviously was, glared at us as he might so many spatters of mud upon a parade uniform.

“Irregulars!” he snorted. “Damn disgrace, if you ask me. Corporal! Take the blighters to Sir Garrafad – see what he wants to do with ’em.”

The sentry who had served as our guide sauntered in the direction of the perimeter, while a slightly smarter man escorted us deeper into the camp. He led us to the largest of the tents, and the only one to have remained white. There, ostlers took charge of our horses, while we were ushered inside, to a place of gleaming wooden furniture, where our boots muddied an incongruous rug. Sir Garrafad no longer looked immaculate – his hair was a little tousled and mustachios unwaxed – but his dark blue tunic, white breeches[1] and black riding boots showed signs of neither dirt nor wear.

“What’s this?” he roared. “Surrey prisoners? Have they been tortured?”

“We are irregular troops from Lundin,” Lisa-Louise replied. “You and I have met before. I’m Wilfred Addal’s niece.”

“So you are. Torture inappropriate, I suppose. Pity. Dashed pity.”

“We’ve come,” she continued, ignoring the general’s remarks, “to offer our services.”

“Offer your services? Dashed impertinence! Girls in arms? Damned disgrace – that blighter Bosset wants horsewhipping for coming up with the idea.”

“Leaving Sergeant General Bosset aside, sir, perhaps you might find us useful as scouts.”

“I have my own scouts, miss, no need for more. And why’s one of you wearing a mask? Damnable bad show in a general’s presence.”

“Sir, it’s the slash of a sabre,” I lied. “You might not care to see my face.”

“Not so pretty now, eh? Don’t suppose the boys will want to kiss you any more. Serve you damn well right. Maybe you’ll have go native and consort with your own sex.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I was joking, you damnable harridan.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

“What would you like us to do, sir?” Lisa-Louise asked.

“The only places for girls around the battlefield are to bind wounds and whore themselves. How do you see yourselves fitting in with that?”

“We are not whores, sir. My uncle would turn in his grave at the very suggestion. Do not forget, sir, that he gave his life in defence of Lundin.”

“Do what you damn well like – as long as you don’t bother me or my men. Don’t get in our way, girly, there’s men’s work to do, here.”

“We’ll try not to get in your way, sir. And I hope that your men will loose no arrows in our direction, should we chance to be in range.”

“Damnable nuisance. But I’ll give instructions that no one should shoot at you… Corporal – escort them from the camp!”

The interview at an end, we took our horses from the ostlers and led the beasts back to the perimeter. At the flaps of their tents, filthy and dishevelled men puffed on pipes, swigged from bottles of strong spirits and played games of chance. One soldier, I noticed, was defecating in the mud immediately outside his tent, spattering the canvas with his filth – his action, ignored by the other troops, went some way to account for the stink. It was a relief to climb back into the saddle, as we left the camp.

“Well,” said Diqui, “we didn’t achieve much there.”

“We’ve achieved enough,” said Lisa-Louise. “Now, I hope, we can follow them without anyone shooting at us. Leastways, not until we shoot at them.”

“Useful to be allowed the first volley,” Modesty agreed.

During the next two weeks, there was little chance of following the army – it wasn’t going anywhere. Whenever Sir Garrafad’s men made a move to advance, Surrey warrior girls blocked their progress. Each skirmish resulted in the deaths of between half a dozen and twenty Lundin guardsmen – and both sides returning to their positions. The area occupied by the troops loyal to my father and his allies remained constant – but the same was not true of their opponents.

“The Surrey girls are tightening their grip on the Lundin army, aren’t they?” I asked Modesty, after witnessing eight or nine more corpses dragged back into the camp.

“They certainly are, Tuerqui. The Lundin guards are more or less surrounded. I’d say there’s only a day or two left before the last chance for even a few of them to break out.”

“Sir Garrafad must know that, Modesty, we see his scouts patrolling every day. But there’s no sign of them trying to strike the tents and move out. It’s as though they don’t want to escape the trap.”

“More likely,” said Lisa-Louise, “he realises that his army can’t win. The best he can hope for, I think, is a small force slipping out by night and passing unnoticed through the Surrey lines. Sacrificing his main force so that a few of them can head south.”

“We need to keep a look out for that. If any of the soldiers escape, they’ll be out for Tuerquelle’s blood.”

“That, Tuerqui, is what we’ve been doing for the last fortnight. The force will have to head south, that’s why we’re on this side of the camp. It hasn’t passed yet – don’t worry.”

“It can’t be much longer, mistress. The Surrey girls are definitely reinforcing to the south.”

“Yes – keep a sharp eye out when you’re on sentry go. It’ll probably have to be tonight or tomorrow.”

Diqui, Barguin and Jane had raided Sir Garrafad’s camp, including an unauthorised visit to the officers’ cooking tent. Consequently, that night, we had cold roast fowl, served with elderflower wine, while there were carrots and apples for our horses. They had also returned with march ration biscuits, beast flake and additional quarrels for our crossbows – my impression was that Lisa-Louise expected us to require these within the next day or two. The prospect of moving on simultaneously pleased and alarmed me – I was tired of staying put, but fearful of what might befall.

Modesty and I took the uneventful second watch that night, observing no sign of activity at the camp perimeter. Afterwards, my bedroll was more than usually welcome – the wine with our evening meal had left me a little thick headed. When Jane shook me awake, I didn’t need to be told what was happening. Rolling my blankets, I glanced down towards Sir Garrafad’s army where a group of mounted men – too many to be a scouting party – headed south, moving almost silently.

Following them was not an easy ride, and for most of the remainder of the night we were dismounted, leading our horses. The soldiers ahead climbed the steep side of a valley by the most direct and precipitous route. Having crested the ridge, they took the most difficult way downwards. Clearly the force was taking a path that didn’t seem worth guarding, so that they could slip through a gap in the Surrey warrior girls’ defences.

With first light we strained our eyes to catch any detail of the force we had followed. The company comprised about sixty men, all of them mounted. Their armour seemed to have been deliberately dulled – perhaps with soot. At the head of the column rode an officer whose dull coloured coat flapped open, occasionally, to reveal startlingly white breeches[2].

“Who do you reckon that is,” Diqui asked of no one in particular, “in the white pantaloons?”

“Sir Garrafad,” Lisa-Louise replied, “without a doubt. And that means that we’re following the right company.”

An hour or so later, we entered open farmland in which green unripe wheat sprouted from the rich dark earth. The soldiers ahead paused to loot from the first large farmhouse – no one made a move to oppose them. They left with an ox, a few chickens, eggs, cheese, bread and other provisions. The plundering was repeated several times during the morning.

Only one farmer protested – a guardsman silenced him with a single sword stroke. Soldiers dragged from the house a girl – probably his daughter, and a woman – his wife, I assumed. Unbuttoning their breeches, the troops embarked upon a gang rape, Lisa-Louise motioned for us to dismount, and we took cover behind a tall hedge.

“Time for a bit of target practice,” she said.

She unloosed a quarrel that took one of the rapists just below his back plate, lodging – I thought – in the base of his spine. Several other shots produced bright red splashes, although I was uncertain as to whether mine found its mark. Sir Garrafad bawled at this men – I recognised his voice – telling them to damned well remount and get shifting. It seemed to me that he was panicking – they could have been upon us before we’d had time to reload.

We waited until Sir Garrafad and his men had breasted the hill before we emerged from cover. Outside the farmhouse the only remaining soldier was the one shot at the base of his spine – the farm woman and girl were kicking him. Evidently unable to move, he was not only alive but conscious, sobbing and asking for his mother. He screamed when Lisa-Louise retrieved the quarrel, making no attempt at gentleness.

“Thanks, lady,” said the farm woman. “D’ you want yer prisoner?”

“We’ve no use for him,” Lisa-Louise replied. “He’s got no more than any rapist deserves and – so far – a bit less. Do what you want with him, ladies, although I think he’s too badly injured to make a useful slave.”

“Just give the bastard a nasty death,” said Jane.

By the time we crossed the ridge, Sir Garrafad and his troops were camped on the next hilltop – fires lit, presumably to cook lunch. We paused to eat the remainder of the fresh food plundered the previous day, aware that our next meal was likely to be of march ration biscuits. Having been on our way since the middle of the previous night, without the leisure to take breakfast, we were all very hungry. Our horses received oats – superior fodder to beast flake, but less conveniently carried.

Continuing to follow when the troops ahead moved on, we came during the afternoon to a recent battlefield[3] – marked by a flock of crows and, even at perhaps two miles distance, a stench of death. Here, Sir Garrafad’s men had paused. My first thought was that they were looting weapons and soldiers’ personal possessions. Approaching a little closer, I realised, vomit rising in my throat, that they were sexually defiling the corpses.

“Do you see what they’re doing?” I asked.

“Yes,” Lisa-Louise replied, “it’s horrible. But, while I’ll risk a volley for the sake of living women, it’s not worth it for the dead.”

“Mortalia take them, all the same,” I said.

“Mortalia?” asked Tipsi.

“An Essex goddess – she protects the living from the dead, and the dead from the living.”

“Then I’m sure Mortalia will take them – and good luck to her.”

Once Sir Garrafad’s men were done, and had moved on, we approached the battlefield, where flies proved the most numerous living things. The corpses – the debris of young lives cut short – aroused in me pity mingled with nausea. Since all of the dead were girls, this was clearly a civil war conflict and, with Nadine’s dragon standard trampled into the mud, Berenice’s soldiers must have won. Knowing that Lady Isobel supported the victor gave me a crumb of comfort – but didn’t much help.

In the late afternoon, we passed a village I recognised – it was one of the more outlying places to which Sam sometimes delivered. Sir Garrafad’s men could easily have reached Sam’s house during the evening, had they continued riding. After that, it wasn’t very far to Dorking and the Laughing Phallus – beyond lay the University of Pain. To my relief, the Lundin troops ahead of us made camp early – their doing so gave us a little more time.

We camped on a partially wooded hill, a place that afforded a good view of the soldiers we were following. Lisa-Louise had the idea that there would be no harm in our lighting a fire, there being half a dozen of them burning in the country ahead of us. With some water from a nearby stream, Tipsi made an approximation to porridge from march ration biscuits. The result was, in most regards, less palatable than eating the food dry – but there was a measure of comfort in having something warm.

“You seem worried, Tuerqui,” Lisa-Louise said.

“Yes, mistress, I am. From where they’re camped, Sir Garrafad’s men could easily reach Sam the carter’s place before noon tomorrow. Depending on how long the slaughter takes them, they could be in Dorking for Madame Scurf during the afternoon. The University of Pain would be reachable by nightfall.”

“So this is it, Tuerqui?”

“I’m pretty sure that it is, mistress.”

“I’ll take the first watch with you. That way, you should have unbroken sleep for the most of the night.”

“The goddess willing, mistress.”

It seemed that the goddess might be willing – my watch with Lisa-Louise passed without, it seemed, real cause for alarm. A couple of times, we thought to hear something at the perimeter – but could find nothing to account for the noise. After Modesty and Tipsi relieved us, I settled into my bedroll, with my sword tucked into the bundle that served as a pillow. Although expecting to toss and turn, I fell asleep remarkably quickly.

Aroused by clattering, neighing and human cries, I was instantly on my feet with my blade in my hand. Silhouetted in the firelight were two figures with drawn swords, at their feet dark shapes that didn’t move. Approaching, it was clear that Tipsi and Modesty had survived the incident, while a couple of men had not. The two corpses were clothed in workman’s breeches and leather jerkins – not the uniforms of soldiers.

“There were three of them!” Modesty said. “The third got away on a horse, and leading two more.”

“Right!” said Lisa-Louise. “Modesty, Tipsi and Jane will stay to guard the camp. The rest of you on horseback. Now!”

Impelled by urgency, we saddled our horses faster than on any previous occasion. A crescent moon, perhaps three days before half, cast sufficient illumination to see the outlines of the stolen beasts. The robber, riding bareback and leading two animals, was making slower progress than we were. Even so, he remained ahead of us on reaching the comparative security of his camp.

“Dismount and lead your horses,” said Lisa-Louise. “It looks like we’ll have to fight.”

“Why not fight from horseback?” Diqui asked.

“We’re not cavalry girls[4]. In any case, if any horses are killed – or badly hurt – we might just as well have let the thief keep his loot.”

Three men from the thief’s party didn’t wait for us to approach, but rushed in our direction. A burly man with a great bushy beard hurled himself towards me, swinging a four foot blade as though it were a toy. Ducking beneath the arc of his sword, I thrust upwards with my own – the metal juddered on bone, then sank deep into my opponent’s chest. As he fell backwards, the hilt of my weapon was wrenched from my hand.

Cautiously, I stepped forward to retrieve the sword, still embedded deep in his chest. There was a suggestion of movement at the corner of my eye. In a single movement, I spun round and withdrew my dagger from its sheath. Someone was lunging at me with a knife – my response was automatic.

My dagger had already done its deadly work when I realised that my second opponent was female, and harnessed as a slave. A moment later, I recognised her face in the pale moonlight. Beyond tears, I gazed down at the dying woman. She lay, staring up at me, blood pumping from the wound, a dark stain spreading into the shadows.

“Do you recognise me?” I asked.

“I know you,” she confirmed. “You’re my enemy. You killed the only man I ever loved, and now you’ve killed me.”

“I’m sorry… I didn’t realise…”

“Don’t worry. Now that Bobby’s dead, I’m as well pleased to join him. I’ll be glad to serve my master in the World to Come.”

She hadn’t recognised me – of course she hadn’t – the upper half of my face was hidden by a leather mask. How could she grant me the forgiveness I needed, if she didn’t know who I was? Hands at the nape of my neck, I struggled with the mask – it refused to budge, I bit my lip until the blood flowed. As the recalcitrant object finally came away, the dying slave regarded me with widening eyes.

“The gods save us,” she murmured.

“Please,” I implored.

With her last strength, she reached toward me. Falling to my knees, I embraced her. She was dying. There was now no remedy for that.

“I didn’t know,” I said. “I wouldn’t… We needed the horses to save my daughter – and now I’ve…”

“Don’t worry…” she repeated. “I hope I’d have done as much for you… Old generations die to make way for new… Goodbye, sweetheart…”

She convulsed and was still. When I placed a kiss on her forehead, her body was tenantless. Tears coursed down my cheeks. A gentle hand stroked my shoulder.

“A friend from your slavery, Tuerqui?” it was Lisa-Louise’s voice.

“No,” I replied. “My mother.”

Lisa-Louise stood back as I composed the body, as well as possible, before rising to my feet. Picking up my dagger, I stepped to the corpse of my mother’s lover – and, placing a foot on his chest, eased my sword from the wound. Wiping my eyes, I counted the people still standing – there were four of us. There were seven in our party – no – three were still at the camp – none of us had been killed.

“I’m sorry, Tuerqui,” Lisa-Louise said. “If we’d known…”

“If we’d known,” I replied, “we’d probably be three horses down. Then maybe Tuerquelle would be murdered. Like my mother said, old generations die to make way for the new. All the same…”

“It’s not easy, is it?”

“No,” I said, weeping again, “it isn’t. Maybe it’d be easier if we’d been closer. She had me brought up by a nanny. And now we’ll never…”

“No you won’t. We’ll turn their cooking blaze into a pyre – and then be on our way. Tomorrow or the next day we’ll have to save your daughter.”

Diqui and Barguin helped us to drag fallen timber from the woods, and stack it on the fire. Once the blaze properly sprang to life, we lifted the bodies of my mother and her lover – handling them respectfully – to place them on top. There had not been time to assume my cuirass, so my goddess on her chain was easy to extract. Having done so, I prayed for the souls of those we had killed, and for Tuerquelle’s safety.

Mounting, I turned only once to look back at the pyre. The return to our camp seemed shorter than the outward journey – although I’d have expected the opposite. Modesty, Tipsi and Jane were clearly relieved to see all four of us return – and with a full set of horses – but I wasn’t in the mood to talk. Returning to my bedroll, I struggled fitfully for what seemed a long time before sleep took me.

In the morning, Sir Garrafad’s men were clearly in no hurry to strike camp. At first, their delay pleased me, but – as the morning wore on – I became increasingly impatient. It was almost lunchtime when they finally saddled their horses. We followed, narrowing the gap between us and them during the early afternoon.

The countryside was increasingly familiar, lanes that I’d repeatedly worked as a draught slave. Finally, the stable in which I’d been housed came into view. Smoke curling from Sam and Sarah’s chimney showed that their house was still inhabited. Looking beyond, I saw the cart breasting the ridge on the other side of the valley, lumbering in our direction.

A slave-drawn goods wagon is not a fast vehicle – the vanguard of Sir Garrafad’s force reached Sam’s house while the cart was barely half way down from the ridge. Roger was the first to die – he seemed to have been sleeping behind a mass of sacks and bales, presumably awaiting transhipment. Two soldiers hoisted him to his feet, while a third guardsman cut a lengthwise incision from throat to belly. The Lundin troops cheered as the Surrey boy screamed.

We urged our horses into a half ruined barn, then took cover behind a low wall. As Roger’s butcher turned to face his comrades, Modesty loosed a quarrel. The wretch tumbled forward, blood spurting from his eye socket. Several soldiers fired crossbows, but clearly without any idea of our position – one caught a cart slave in the chest, I think that she died instantly.

Sarah emerged from her front door, whip in hand. The enraged woman landed several good blows before soldiers disarmed her. Her action reminded me of a hen blackbird I’d once seen, vainly attempting to defend her brood from a marauding cat. She could have flown, but stayed and perished.

The cart had continued its progress erratically, with the dead slave dragged by the traces, tripping her shaft mates – Sam now reined them in, and applied the brake. Standing on the box for a moment, he surveyed the scene. Obviously disinclined to adopt Sarah’s blackbird tactics, he leapt to the road, putting the cart between the soldiers and him. Without heeding the obvious pain, he wriggled through a hawthorn hedge that would have stopped anyone short of desperation.

While Sam began to sprint across the field on the far side of the hedge, his wife was held by three burly soldiers. A fourth tore at her garments before unfastening his breeches. Several of us fired from behind our wall. One of the soldiers holding Sarah received a quarrel in the head, the would be rapist had blood gushing from his thigh.

Jittery archers, taking cover now, shot at random – this time no one was hurt. The two uninjured soldiers thrust Sarah back into her house, where they must have raped and probably killed her. A few minutes later, Fiona – paler and thinner than ever – emerged with a shrill cry. No one followed the girl from the building – presumably those inside were preoccupied with her mother.

Half a dozen soldiers had urged their horses up the road toward the cart, where slaves were unhitching themselves from the shafts. Wheeling abruptly left, the cavalrymen cleared the hedge without breaking pace. Sam turned towards them as they bore down upon him, like hunters upon a beast. The troopers raised their sabres, ready to strike.

In the yard, soldiers had seized Fiona. One tumbled with blood gushing – a quarrel from Tipsi that time, I’m almost certain. Our fire could not prevent them from bundling the girl back into the house, where she was surely raped repeatedly. The only aspect of affairs to please me was that most of the cart slaves seemed to be making good their escape.

The riders upon him, Sam fell to his knees where, with hands clasped behind his head, he bent over, forehead pressed to the earth. There was a suggestion of the foetal in his posture, as though he wished Mother Earth to take him to her womb. After a few sabre slashes, three of the soldiers dismounted, two of them lifting the struggling carter in a macabre travesty of birth. Lisa-Louise, having reloaded, fired again – a soldier fell, but his companions remained.

“There’s nothing we can do here,” Lisa-Louise said. “We should do better for Madame Scurf – and must do much better for Tuerquelle. Tuerqui, you know this country – where will they go next?”

“Dorking, for Madame Scurf. They need to turn left just beyond the ridge. It’s not very far.”

“Can we get there ahead of them?”

“Yes, as long as they don’t move on too quickly. If we cut across the fields, we can reach a lane that brings us out a mile or two down the road from Dorking.”

“OK, girls,” Lisa-Louise said. “Saddle up behind the barn, follow Tuerqui, and try to keep out of sight.”

Within twenty minutes we could see the more easterly houses of Dorking – my memory of the area having proved accurate. Even at first glance, there was obviously something wrong with the town. A blur of smoke, and acrid burning smell, was the product of neither hearths nor stoves. Approaching closer, several of the buildings had obviously been gutted.

Turning into a side street, I saw that the Laughing Phallus had suffered badly. It was the mere shell of a building, bricks encrusted with soot. The brothel sign had been removed from its pole and lay across the street, back broken, like a gigantic half-open penknife. The painted grin leered idiotically in our direction.

The main street had been deserted, but someone sat on the brothel doorstep. It took me a minute or two to recognise her as Madame Scurf. She was unkempt and filthy, eyes red from smoke, grief or both. Her gaze remained fixed upon the broken sign as we approached.

“What happened?” Lisa-Louise asked.

“Tub-luggers[5],” she replied without looking up, “murdering, looting and burning. They’ve taken all me girls and boys, burnt the house, and wrecked me lovely sign. They meant to take it with ’em, but dropped it. Not that it matters – me business an’ me life are over.”

“Your life really will be over, if you stay here. Almost sixty Lundin troops are at Sam the carter’s place – or were a short while back. You’re next on their vengeance list. If they find you, it’ll be nasty.”

“Vengeance from Lundin troops?” she asked, looking up for the first time. “What do they want with me? I ain’t never been to Lundin. Not even close.”

“It’s the man who rules Lundin. You had his daughter as a whore – then sold her to Sam. They’re aiming to restore his honour, as they see it. If you’d seen what they did to Sam’s son, you’d be running.”

“Roger? They got Roger? Bastards! He were an idle body, but there weren’t no ’arm in ’im.”

“Well – I’ve warned you, and that’s as much as I can do. The rest is your business. We have to be heading on.”

Madame Surf rose to her feet. She showed no sign of running, but did walk slowly from her brothel, through a narrow gap between the buildings towards a green field at the end of the alley. We reined in our horses and were soon on the main road – heading for the University of Pain. Dorking soon vanished as we rounded a bend, but the pall of smoke was still visible when I glanced back perhaps twenty minutes later.

The next small town was in marked contrast to the desolation at Dorking. The streets were full of people – singing, drinking, laughing. Buildings were decorated with images formed of thin metal foil – depicting the sun, moon, stars and warriors. As we made our way slowly through the crowded streets, the local constable – armed with a sword and poleaxe – approached us.

“Who are you?” she asked. “Tub-luggers?”

“If we’re tub-luggers where’s our loot?” Lisa-Louise asked. “We’re scouts – keeping an eye on Lundin troops.”

“Lundin troops? This far south? I never heard of such a thing. And why’s one you wearing a mask?”

“Sabre slash across my face,” I repeated the usual lie.

“Sir Garrafad and almost sixty Lundin soldiers are approaching Dorking – and then will be heading this way,” said Lisa-Louise. “You’d better get the people to take cover. They’ll be here before dark.”

“That’ll be a problem. The townsfolk are celebrating. Of course they’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“Haven’t you heard? The Victory? Where have you been? Hiding down a treacle well?”

“We’ve been trailing Sir Garrafad, all the way from Teddy’s Town. Victory?”

“Berenice has won the war. Nadine fled yesterday. This afternoon, Field Marshal Marilyn Mailfist surrendered her army at Leatherhead[6].”

“We’ve won the war!”

“Yes, sister, we’ve won the war!

The constable did not attempt to detain us – perhaps she still suspected us of villainy, but was in no position to arrest a band of seven well armed women. We urged our horses slowly through the crowd, to emerge once more upon the open road. Glancing back again, the smoke from Dorking was no more than a vague smudge. Looking ahead, the sun shone on prosperous-looking farms, seemingly untouched by war.

“With the civil war over,” Modesty said, “there’s no way that Sir Garrafad can get back to Lundin[7] – unless it’s as a slave after Berenice conquers the city.”

“That seems about right to me,” Lisa-Louise agreed. “But it may make him even more dangerous. If he has no hope, who knows what desperate things he might do?”

“Worse than this afternoon?”

“Maybe.”

A bend in the road suddenly brought us within sight of the University of Pain. Tears rose in my eyes – perhaps joy on finally coming home, possibly concern for my loved ones, more likely both of those combined. Straining my eyes for changes since I’d been away, the buildings seemed a little neglected – here and there a tile was missing from the roof, the windows less bright than they should be. The gardens had not been returned to their peacetime beauty, quite the reverse – a military force, seemingly several hundred strong, was camped where once there had been fountains, lawns and flower beds.

A taste of blood filled my mouth, giving me the idea that I was about to vomit. To our left, a skylark burst into song as it ascended into the sun bright sky. A great weariness descended upon me – it seemed an age since I’d had a proper night’s sleep. In a field to our right, a foal gambolled with the exuberance of life’s first flush of delight.

[1] The standard uniform for generals, amongst Surrey’s enemies of this period, included sky blue breeches with a red and yellow stripe (see Chapter 33, note 1). It seems that Sir Garrafad had reverted to an older tradition by which generals were distinguished on the battlefield by their white breeches. They showed their courage by making themselves especially conspicuous.

[2] Sir Garrafad was, evidently, still wearing his white breeches (see note 1) – but, prudently, making them less conspicuous with a dull coloured coat.

[3] This must have the Battle of Wilson’s Meadow. On Cornsprout 21st, Nadine’s 6th Company of Foot, en route to reinforce her main army, was overtaken by Berenice’s 4th Cavalry Regiment at Wilson’s Meadow – and slaughtered. The precise location of Wilson’s Meadow is unknown, but it would have been on (or close to) Tuerqui’s route. Two locations in that general area – Blood Meadow and Slaughter Farm – have been suggested as the battlefield.

[4] Lisa-Louise is distinguishing between mounted infantry and cavalry. The latter rode into battle on horses, but fought on foot – the latter fought from horseback. A civilian might have loosely used the word cavalry for both.

[5] Tub-luggers – freebooting marauders taking advantage of the disorder associated with war. Some were army deserters, others foreign adventurers or common criminals. A few were escaped slaves.

[6] These details are correct. On Cornsprout 23rd, Nadine Next’s army broke at the Battle of West Cott. Nadine fled to the south coast, where she took ship. She was to settle in Llandudno, north Wales. On Cornsprout 24th, Field Marshal Marilyn Mailfist entered Leatherhead and formally surrendered her army. The civil war was over, and Berenice I undisputed empress of Surrey.

[7] With the civil war over, there was no hope of breaking through the Surrey lines for any part of the army Sir Garrafad had commanded. Colonel Standish resisted for another week before surrendering the bulk of the army, still camped a few miles south of Teddy’s Town, on Cornsprout 30th. Under the terms of the surrender, the officers were to be allowed to return to Lundin, but their soldiers were to be enslaved. Enraged by this agreement, some of the soldiers mutinied and killed more than thirty of the officers. Colonel Standish barely escaped with his life, but did return to Lundin. The Surrey commanders allowed at least some of the mutineers to escape, as people likely to harm their enemies’ interests. The more compliant troops, and a few of their officers, were enslaved.

For Chapter 48 click
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2008/01/of-bondlings-and-blesh-chapter-48.html