Moonless night, one worthy
of ghosts.
Simon shivered as he
stared at the twinkling stars. The
boulder he leaned against had lost its sun-drenched heat. Winter still lurked in the ground. The sky was clear, cold, but still warmer
than any English Spring. He might shiver
in his wool jacket, but he wouldn’t freeze.
And he wouldn’t risk a fire. He’d
only shaken the French patrol in the early afternoon.
He propped his temple on
the cold rock and resolutely shut his eyes.
But sleep still wouldn’t come.
Nothing stirred the chill darkness, no owl, no sleepless bird, no animal
snuffling through the dry rocks, no predator lurking for easy prey. Simon had soldiered for years. He knew the tricks to sleep, no matter how
hard the ground or how cold his body.
Yet tonight, every time he blanked his mind, a new thought erupted.
He envied his horse. Muzzle nearly touching the ground, the beast
drowsed, not even flicking its tail when moths blundered into him. The days over twisting trails through the hills
had taken their toll. But the horse
hadn’t balked, just kept plugging on when and where Simon directed. A dun color with raw bones that bulged
through the coarse coat, a broad head with ears longer than a mule’s, a mane
that looked like rubbed ash, the horse didn’t attract eyes in this country that
loved beautiful horseflesh. And that’s
what Simon had asked for when General Murray tapped him for this
assignment. Something ugly with great
stamina, sturdy and with a little speed over short distances. Nothing that would attract attention. A horse tall enough to fit Simon’s own height
but with more muscle than speed.
His own horse, Chancy,
remained with the army, well into Spain by now.
He missed Chancy’s even gait and easy seat. The stallion’s long legs that ate up ground. Those sleek muscles, a dappled grey coat, and
eyes lashed like a courtesan’s drew everyone’s attention, even peasants on
their burros or leading oxen to the fields.
The glossy hunter would have sped away from that French patrol, leaping
over fences and rock walls and racing over smooth ground. But Simon’s trail wound through the
hills. Against the mottled earth and
pine forests, Chancy’s moon-touched grey would stand out.
The dun gelding vanished
in the shadows and blended with the boulders jutting out of the hillside. The horse kept at a trail when Simon was
ready to stop. He tolerated heat and
cold and didn’t need a stable. He ate hay
and green grass and anything else that Simon found for fodder.
And slept as soon as he
finished his nightly food and water while Simon stared into the darkness and
wished for sleep.
He checked again that his
pistols were at hand then re-folded his arms, a poor barrier against the
cooling night air. He missed the soft
pillows and giving mattress of his London lodgings. He didn’t miss the cold reception from his
father, a memory more uncomfortable than the rocks digging into his arse.
On this moonless night,
was it that memory that kept him awake?
Eyes shut, Simon turned
up the collar of his duff wool jacket, tucked in his chin, and closed his eyes
to see the memory more clearly.
A footman had admitted
him to Ainsley Hall. The butler had
taken one look at Simon and sniffed. But
he had led the way to his lordship’s study.
After the grand entrance crowded with massive paintings and heavily
carved tables and cabinets, Simon had expected the room to be lined with
bookshelves, a few tables covered with ledgers, chairs around the tables, a
massive fireplace with a leaping fire against the chill of early January.
Lord Ainsley’s study had
the fireplace and the fire, but the walls were painted plaster. The only table sat perpendicular to the
fireplace and had only an inkstand, a leather mat, and a single ledger. One chair, darkened by age, stood against the
amber-painted plaster. One bench stood
at the windows, with green curtains opened to the snowy day. And his lordship sat in a straight-backed
chair behind that empty desk. He wore
severe black, his cravat tied plainly.
He had Simon’s high forehead and dark eyes, but his hair had
silvered. He couldn’t be more than five
and forty; he looked two decades older.
He templed his fingers as
the butler intoned “Simon Pargeter, my lord.”
Simon had hesitated at
the door, but when Lord Ainsley merely lifted one eyebrow, he stepped
forward. He stopped before the desk,
like any servant called before his master to endure a lecture.
“Well?” Ainsley asked,
and when Simon still hesitated, not sure what to say, not even sure if he
should say anything, the high brow deepened its furrows. “I know the name Pargeter, but that’s a long
time ago.”
Simon withdrew the letter
his mother had entrusted to him only as she lay dying. He had read it, then looked to her for more
answers. She had none, only an
injunction to present himself to Lord Ainsley.
He handed the letter across to the man his mother claimed was his father
and watched as he read it.
The baron scanned the
letter, glanced at the leaping flames that warmed the room, then read the
letter again. Then he folded it and
placed it carefully on the leather mat.
“So you’re May Pargeter’s son.”
“And yours.”
He nodded once, a small
admission. “We did elope together.”
“But you abandoned her
before the promised wedding.”
He nodded again. He pressed fingers to the letter then leaned
back in his chair. “She recorded your
birth in her home parish?”
“No. She never returned home. The vicar at St. Anselm’s in Cardiff recorded
my birth. He’s still there. She sent you word of my birth.”
Once more he gave that
single nod. “How much do you want?”
Simon stepped forward and
reached for his letter. Lord Ainsley let
him take it, watched mutely as Simon restored it to an inner pocket, and said
nothing as he turned on his heel and stalked out of the study, out of Ainsley
Hall, and away from the father he’d discovered he didn’t want to know.
Why did that memory haunt
him tonight? He’d cast it off along with
the dust of Ainsley Hall. With the
carefully hoarded guineas that his mother bequeathed him, he bought a
lieutenant’s commission and marched on.
He never looked back.
A pointy rock dug into
his arse. He scrabbled to find it then
flung it into the darkness. It clattered
across rocks. The dun gelding briefly
lifted his head. When no other sound
came, the horse returned to sleep. Simon
shifted position, dug his heels into the rocky ground, and knocked his head on
the boulder, hoping to knock the memory out.
But the old ghost was stubborn.
The scent of leather and whiskey had scented the study. The fire had warmed the room, welcoming him,
ready to cast off the chill after his long walk from the village. Standing before the large desk, watching his
father read the letter, he had hoped and feared and—.
Simon opened his eyes and
into the pitchy dark. Pinpricks of light
flashed in his eyes. He refused to let
that memory skulk around. He didn’t
smell leather. The whiskey was the
single swallow he’d permitted himself to stave off the cold.
But this day was like
that half-hour. Desperate to shake the
patrol, hoping the next hill offered more shelter, he’d pushed on. A decade ago he’d felt the same desperation. His mother’s letter had given him a shock
even as it offered shelter from loneliness.
Her parents might have welcomed him, but after Lord Ainsley’s rejection,
Simon wouldn’t risk another dismissal from family.
Once again he shut his
eyes. Once again he breathed deeply and
willed himself to sleep. He refused to
remember. He had a mission. Find the road north, a road that would
support an army’s swift passage.
Wellesley would not waste time in the south. He wanted to block the French border. Cut off supply, cut off reinforcements, and
he could oust Napoleon’s brother from the Spanish throne. Once he did that, the Spanish would rise to
ally with the English. Together, with
Portugal aiding, they would maneuver the French into a decisive battle.
For all that to happen,
though, Wellesley’s reconnaissance officers had to find the passage north.
Which meant Simon had to
sleep. Come morning, he needed sharp
eyes and sharper wits.
No comments:
Post a Comment