Pallant’s lungs burned and her legs ached. She ran as if the devil himself were at her heels.
Perhaps he was, if the devil was named Napoleon Bonaparte. Napoleon had escaped from Elba and was again on the march, heading straight for Waterloo and a clash with Wellington’s army, and Marian was in the middle of it.
Already she heard the random cracking of musket fire behind her and the sound of thousands of boots pounding into the muddy ground to the drum beat of the French pas de charge. Somewhere ahead were the British.
She hoped.
The muddy fingers of the earth, still soaked from the night’s torrential rains, grabbed at her half-boots. The field’s tall rye whipped at her hands and legs. She glimpsed a farm in the distance and ran towards it. If nothing else, perhaps she could hide there.
Only three days earlier she and Domina had been dancing at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball when Wellington arrived with news that Napoleon’s army was making its way to Brussels. The officers made haste to leave, but, during a tearful goodbye, Domina had learned from her most passionate love, Lieutenant Harry Oliver, that, unless the Allies were victorious at a place called Quatre Bras, the Duke expected to defend Brussels near Waterloo. Domina spent two days begging Marian to come with her to find Ollie’s regiment. Domina was determined to see the battle and be nearby in case Ollie needed her.
Finally Marian relented, but only to keep Domina from making the journey alone. Marian thought of them dressing in Domina’s brother’s clothes so it would not be so obvious they were two women alone. They’d ridden together on Domina’s brother’s horse for hours and hours in darkness and pouring rain, hopelessly lost until they finally heard men’s voices.
Speaking French.
Domina had panicked, kicking the horse into a gallop so frenzied that Marian flew off and hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of her. Afraid to shout lest the French hear her, Marian watched Domina and the horse disappear into the rainy night. She huddled against a nearby tree in the darkness and pouring rain, hoping for Domina to return.
She never did.
Marian spent the night full of fear that Domina had been captured by the French. What would French soldiers do to an English girl? But when daylight came, she shoved worries about Domina from her mind. The French columns had started to march directly towards her.
The farm was her only chance for safety.
A wooded area partially surrounded the farm buildings, and Marian had to cross a field of fragrant rye to reach it. The crop would certainly be ruined when the soldiers trampled on it, but for now the tall grass hid her from Napoleon’s army.
Still, she heard them, coming closer.
Her foot caught in a hole and she fell. For a moment she lay there, her cheek against the cool wet earth, too tired to move, but suddenly the ground vibrated with the unmistakable pounding of a horse’s hooves.
Domina?
She struggled to her feet.
Too late. The huffing steed, too large to be Domina’s, thundered directly for her. Her boots slipped in the mud as she tried to jump aside. She threw her arms over her face and prepared to be trampled.
Instead a strong hand seized her coat collar and hoisted her up on to the saddle as if she weighed nothing more than a mere satchel.
‘Here, boy. What are you doing in this field?’ An English voice.
Thank God.
She opened her eyes and caught a glimpse of a red uniform. ‘I want to go to that farm.’ She pointed towards the group of buildings surrounded by a wall.
‘You’re English?’ He slowed his horse. ‘I am headed there. To Hougoumont.’
Was that the name of the farm? Marian did not care. She was grateful to be off her weary feet and to be with a British soldier and not a French one.
The horse quickly reached the patch of woods whose green leaves sprinkled them with leftover raindrops. A low branch snagged Marian’s cap, snatching it from her head, and her blonde hair tumbled down her back.
‘Good God. You’re a woman.’ He pulled on the reins and his horse turned round in a circle. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’
Marian turned to get a proper look at him. Her eyes widened. She’d seen him before. She and Domina had whispered about the tall and handsome officer they’d spied during a stroll through the Parc of Brussels. His angular face looked strong, his bow-shaped lips firm and decisive, his eyes a piercing hazel.
‘I am lost,’ she said.
‘Do you not know there is about to be a battle?’
She did not wish to debate the matter. ‘I was trying to reach somewhere safe.’
‘Nowhere is safe,’ he snapped. Instead of turning towards the farm, he rode back to where her cap hung on the tree branch, looking as if it had been placed on a peg by the garden door. He snatched it and thrust it into her hands. ‘Put the cap back on. Do not let on that you are a woman.’
Did he think she was doltish? She repinned her hair as best she could and covered it with the cap. Behind them came the sounds of men entering the wood. A musketball whizzed past Marian’s ear.
‘Skirmishers.’ The officer set his horse into a gallop so swift the trees suddenly became a blur of brown and green.
They reached Hougoumont gate. ‘Captain Landon with a message for Colonel MacDonnell,’ he announced.
Marian made a mental note of his name. Captain Landon.
The gate opened. ‘There are skirmishers in the wood,’ he told the men.
‘We see them! ‘ one soldier responded, gesturing to a wall where other men were preparing to fire through loopholes. A company of soldiers filed past them out of the gate, undoubtedly to engage the French in the wood.
The soldier took hold of Captain Landon’s horse and pointed. ‘That’s the colonel over there.’
The colonel paced through the yard, watching the men and barking orders. Some of them wore the red coats of the British; others wore a green foreign uniform.
‘Stay with me,’ Captain Landon told her.
He dismounted and reached up to help her off the horse. Then he gripped her arm as if afraid she might run off and held on to her even when handing the message to the colonel and waiting for him to read it.
The colonel closed the note. ‘I want you to wait here a bit until we see what these Frenchies are up to. Then I’ll send back my response.’ He pointed to Marian. ‘Who’s the boy?’
‘An English lad caught in the thick of things.’ Landon squeezed Marian’s arm, a warning, she presumed, to go along with his story.
MacDonnell looked at her suspiciously. ‘Are you with the army, boy?’
Marian made her voice low. ‘No, sir. From Brussels. I wanted
