French eight-pounder cannon arrived. “Limber up!”
The Prussian guns galloped northwards, their retreat guarded by black-uniformed Hussars who wore skull and crossbone badges on their shakos. The French Dragoons did not follow immediately; instead they spurred into the abandoned wood where they found the Prussian camp-fires still burning. A plate of sausages had been spilt onto the ground beside one of the fires. “Tastes like German shit.” A trooper disgustedly spat a mouthful of the meat into the fire.
A wounded horse limped in the wheat, trying to catch up with the other cavalry horses. In the trees two Prussian prisoners were being stripped of weapons, food‘, cash and drink. The other Prussians had disappeared northwards. The French, advancing to the northern edge of the captured wood, watched the enemy’s withdrawal. The last of the mist had burned away. The wheels of the retreating Prussian guns had carved lanes of crushed barley through the northern fields.
Ten miles to the south, and still in France, the Emperor’s heavy carriage waited at the roadside. Staff officers informed His Majesty that the Dutch frontier had been successfully crossed. They reported very light resistance, which had been brushed aside.
The Emperor grunted acknowledgement of the news then let the leather curtain fall to plunge the carriage’s interior into darkness. It was just one hundred and seven days since, sailing from exile in Elba with a mere thousand men, he had landed on an empty beach in southern France. It was just eighty-eight days since he had recaptured his capital of Paris, yet in those few days he had shown the world how an emperor made armies. Two hundred thousand veterans had been recalled to the Eagles, the half-pay officers had been restored to their battalions, and the arsenals of France had been filled. Now that new army marched against the scum of Britain and the hirelings of Prussia. It was a midsummer’s dawn, and the Emperor was attacking.
The coachman cracked his whip, the Emperor’s carriage lurched forward, and the battle for Europe had begun.
CHAPTER 2
An hour after the French Dragoon Sergeant and his horse had been broken and flensed by the canister another cavalryman rode into the bright midsummer sunshine.
This man was in Brussels, forty miles north of where the Emperor invaded Belgium. He was a tall good- looking officer in the scarlet and blue finery of the British Life Guards. He rode a tall black horse, superbly groomed and evidently expensive. The rider wore a gilded Grecian helmet that was crested with black and red wool and plumed with a white tuft. His bleached buckskin breeches were still damp, for to achieve a thigh-hugging fit they were best donned wet and allowed to shrink. His straight heavy sword hung in a gilded scabbard by his royal blue saddle-cloth that was embroidered with the King’s cipher. The officer’s black boots were knee-high, his spurs were gilded steel, his sabretache was bright with sequins and with gold embroidery, his short scarlet jacket was girdled with a gold sash, and his tall stiff collar encrusted with bright lace. His saddle was sheathed in lamb’s fleece and the horse’s curb chains were of pure silver, yet, for all that gaudy finery, it was the British officer’s face that caught the attention.
He was a most handsome young man, and this early morning he was made even more attractive by his expression of pure happiness. It was plain to every milkmaid and street sweeper in the rue Royale that this British officer was glad to be alive, delighted to be in Belgium, and that he expected every one in Brussels to share his evident enjoyment of life, health and happiness.
He touched the black enamelled visor of his helmet in answer to the salute of the red-coated sentry who stood outside an expensive front door, then cantered on through Brussels’ fashionable streets until he reached a large house on the rue de la Blanchisserie.
It was still early, yet the courtyard of the house was busy with tradesmen and carts that delivered chairs, music stands, food and wine. An ostler took the cavalryman’s horse while a liveried footman relieved him of his helmet and cumbersome sword. The cavalry officer pushed a hand through his long golden hair as he ran up the house steps.
He did not wait for the servants to open the doors, but just pushed through into the entrance hall, and then into the great ballroom where a score of painters and upholsterers were finishing a long night’s work during which they had transformed the ballroom into a silk-hung fantasy. Shiny swathes of gold, scarlet and black fabric had been draped from the ceiling, while between the gaudy bolts a brand-new wallpaper of rose-covered trellis disguised the damp patches of the ballroom’s plaster. The room’s huge chandeliers had been lowered to floor level where servants laboriously slotted hundreds of white candles into the newly cleaned silver and crystal holders. More workers were twining vines of ivy around pillars newly painted orange, while an elderly woman was strewing the floor with French chalk so that the dancing shoes would not slip on the polished parquet.
The cavalry officer, clearly delighted with the elaborate preparations, strode through the room. “Bristow! Bristow!“ His tall boots left prints in the newly scattered chalk. ”Bristow! You rogue! Where are you?“
A black coated, white-haired man, who bore the harassed look of the functionary in charge of the ball’s preparations, stepped from the supper room at the peremptory summons. His look of annoyance abruptly changed to a delighted smile when he recognized the young cavalry officer. He bowed deeply. “My lord!”
“Good day to you, Bristow! It’s a positive delight to see you.”
“As it is a delight to see your lordship again. I had not heard your lordship was in Brussels?”
“I arrived yesterday. Last night.” The cavalryman, who was called Lord John Rossendale, was staring at the sumptuous decorations in the supper room where the long tables were draped in white linen and thickly set with silver and fine china. “Couldn’t sleep,” he explained his early appearance. “How many are you seating tonight?”
“We have distributed four hundred and forty tickets, my lord.”
“Four hundred and forty-two.” Lord John Rossendale grinned at Bristow, then, as if he were a magician, produced a letter that he flourished in the elderly servant’s face. “Two tickets, if you would be so kind.”
Bristow took the letter, unfolded and read it. The letter was from Her Grace’s private secretary and gladly agreed that Lord John Rossendale should be given a ticket for the ball. One ticket, the letter said, and Bristow gently pointed to the instruction. “It says just one ticket, my lord.”
“Two, Bristow. Two, two, two. Pretend you cannot read. I insist upon two. It has to be two! Or do you want me to wreak havoc on the supper tables?”
Bristow smiled. “I’m sure we can manage two, my lord.” Bristow was butler to the Duke of Richmond whose wife was giving the ball in this large rented house. Competition to attend was keen. Much of London society had moved to Brussels for the summer, there were army officers who would be mortified if they were not invited, and there was the local aristocracy who had to be entertained. The Duchess’s answer to the eagerness of so many to attend her ball had been to have tickets of admission printed, yet, even so, Bristow expected there to be at least as many interlopers as ticket holders. It was not two days since the Duchess had issued instructions that no more tickets were to be given away, but it was hardly likely that such a prohibition would apply to Lord John Rossendale whose mother was an intimate friend of the Duchess of Richmond.
“Her Grace is already having breakfast. Would you care to join her?” Bristow asked Lord John.
Lord John followed the butler into the private rooms where, in a small sunlit salon, the Duchess nibbled toast. “I never do sleep before a ball,” she greeted Lord John, then blinked with astonishment at him. “What are you doing here?”
Lord John kissed the Duchess’s hand. She was in a Chinese silk robe and had her hair gathered under a mob-cap. She was a quick-tempered woman of remarkable good looks.
“I came to collect tickets for your ball, of course,” Lord John said airily. “I assume you’re giving it to celebrate my arrival in Brussels?”
“What are you doing in Brussels?” The Duchess ignored Lord John’s raillery.
“I’ve been posted here,” Lord John explained. “I arrived last night. I would have been here sooner but one ot our carriage horses slung a shoe and it took four hours to find a smith. I couldn’t sleep either. It’s just too exciting.“ He smiled happily, expecting the Duchess to share his joy.
“You’re with the army?”
