William, however, spent most of his free time moping and sulking. He missed, with an agonising ache that no balm or elixir could soothe, everything about Sir MacTaggart’s estate – the freedom, the open spaces, working with horses all day, and, most of all, being able to rendezvous with his lover on the weekends. His mind was always on her, regardless of whatever else it was that he happened to be doing. It was probably why he was such a dunce when it came to training and learning the arts of combat, he thought to himself. That did not matter though; he cared not for musket, lance or sword; he only wanted to ride horses, write poetry and be with his beloved. Now, however, after signing his life and freedom away to the Queen, he did not know now when he would be able to see Aurora again, and his heart pined for her presence, her voice, her scent, her taste, her—
‘What in the bloody ‘ell are you doing, Gisborne?!’ a throaty voice snarled in William’s ear, snapping him out of his daydreaming and yanking him back to the harshness of the present. ‘Standing there like a lost lamb, wiff’ yer sabre ‘angin’ loose from yer arm like some old codger’s useless shrivelled prick! You useless bleedin’ monkey!’
Sergeant Fray’s breath was sour, rancid and inescapable in its offensive immediacy, and the brassy roar of his immensely loud voice rattled William’s brain within his skull. The sergeant, a short but powerfully built man in his fifties, used his training sabre to knock William’s sword out of his hand with a sharp blow. The sabre clattered to the ground, and William stood empty-handed and red-faced as the balding sergeant raised the blunted tip of his weapon to William’s throat.
‘That’s what’ll ‘appen to you on the battlefield, Gisborne. Except there, it’ll be some French or Prussian trooper wi’ a sharp blade, and ‘e’ll not be speaking to you the way I am right now, oh no! ‘E’ll be running ‘is weapon right through your pathetic throat, ‘e will! Then, when your life is bleedin’ out o’ the great gaping hole ‘is blade will ‘ave left, you’ll ‘ave wasted ‘Er Majesty’s time and coin by dying, instead o’ killin’! ‘Er Majesty would be bloody disgusted to see how ‘er crowns are being spent so wastefully ‘ere, trying to train ‘opeless runts like you! Yes, wasted on a worthless urchin who’d be more suited to sweepin’ filth off the streets, or perhaps with the rest of the lowest of the scum, workin’ with piss an’ poison all day in a bloody tannery! Christ almighty, anything but ‘ere, wastin’ my bleedin’ time on your utter ‘opelessness as a soldier! Bah!’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ William mumbled, his face reddening with a flush of hot shame.
‘Don’t bloody well apologise, you stupid ‘alf-wit! I’ve never ‘eard anything so bleedin’ pathetic in my life! Pick up that bloody sword an’ do the blasted drills properly! Pick it up, for God’s sake, pick it up and bleedin’ well get to it before I rip your pretty-boy face off your thick skull wiff my bare ‘ands!’
Sergeant Fray stormed off in disgust as William, browbeaten and ashamed, bent down and picked up the sabre.
‘Chin up boyo,’ Michael said gently. ‘You’ll get the hang ay it soon enough.’
William shook his head and grimaced with exasperation.
‘Will I Mikey? Will I really? Because I’m telling you, it doesnae bloody well feel like I e’er will. The sergeant’s right, I’m damned hopeless at this.’
‘Quick, get your sword up! Fray’s coming back!’
William heaved his sword back into position and grunted with exertion as he resumed his sword drills, moving with weary, clumsy gracelessness. Sergeant Fray paused as he walked past William and fixed him with a protracted stare of unadulterated revulsion, his fierce eyes two burning coals beneath his bushy brown eyebrows. After a few moments he shook his head, muttered a curse under his breath and moved on, leaving William to continue in his ineffectual floundering.
***
‘Wee Willy Gisborne, the dandy little poet!’ Private Watson sneered from his cot. ‘Write one for me next, lad. I’ll dictate it for ye, see? It’ll start like this: “Dear Mrs Gisborne, I do so miss the massive, gaping ‘ole between yer thighs, I do!”, yeah, write that, why don’t ye!’
William ignored him and carried on writing his letter to Aurora.
‘Ohh, what’s the matter Wee Willy?’ Watson continued. ‘Do you “love” this little strumpet you’re writing to? Humbug! Don’t tell me you believe in that codswallop! “Love” is pure piss, nuffin’ but bleedin’ bollocks! You’re a fookin’ ‘alf-wit to believe in that, you are!’
‘Lay off the boy, Watson,’ slurred Private Smythe, who was reclining against his bunk post and slugging heavily on a half-jack of rum. ‘He’s a good lad, he is! Doesn’t bother nobody, does he?’
‘’E’s a runt and a meater!’ Watson spat. ‘Crikey, is there a man in ‘ere who ‘asn’t given ‘im a damned good clobberin’ out on the training grounds? Why, he can’t even ‘old a bloomin’ sword straight!’
The relentless taunting finally got to William, and he put his quill down and glared at Watson, who was a tall and brawny powerhouse of a man. His broad, simian-looking face was crowned with a wiry mop of black hair, and his jowls were thick with dark stubble. A man who was always spoiling for a fight, he was especially fond of bullying the new recruits. He had remained a private for his entire nine-year stint as a cavalryman of the 17th, and was likely to remain that way until he was either discharged or killed in battle, for he was a hopeless alcoholic
