need a knife,’ she said to him.
He shook his head, wincing in pain.
Another man whose face was covered in blood fumbled through his coat. ‘Here you go, lad.’ He held out a small penknife.
Marian took the knife, still sticky with his blood, and used it to start a rent in the cloth so she could rip it into strips. She worked as quickly as she could, well aware that the man the soldiers had carried in was still moaning and coughing. Most of the other men suffered silently.
She knew nothing about tending to the injured. It stood to reason, though, that bleeding wounds needed to be bandaged, as the wounded soldier had suggested.
Marian grabbed a fistful of the strips of cloth and turned to him. ‘I’ll tend that other man first, then you, sir.’ She gestured to the moaning man who’d been so swiftly left to die. ‘And you,’ she told the man who’d given her the knife.
‘Do that, lad. I’m not so bad off.’ His voice was taut with pain.
Marian touched his arm in sympathy and started for the gravely wounded soldier.
Her courage flagged as she reached him. Never had she seen such grievous injuries. Steeling herself, she gripped the bandages and forced herself to kneel at his side.
He was so young! Not much older than Domina’s brother. Blood gurgled from a hole in his abdomen. Her hand trembling, she used some of the cloth to sponge it away. The dark pink of his innards became visible, and Marian recoiled, thinking she would surely be sick.
He seized her arm, gripping her hard. ‘My mum,’ he rasped. ‘My mum.’ His glassy eyes regarded her with alarm, and his breathing rattled like a rusty gate. ‘My mum.’
She clasped his other hand, tears stinging her eyes. ‘Your mum will be so proud of you.’ It was not enough to say, not when this young man would die without ever seeing his mother again.
The young man’s eyes widened and he rose up, still gripping her. With one deep breath he collapsed and air slowly left his lungs as his eyes turned blank.
‘No,’ she cried. The faces of her mother and father when death had taken them flashed before her. ‘No.’
The room turned black and sound echoed. She was going to faint and the dead young man’s hand was still in hers.
The door opened and two more men staggered in. She forced her eyes open and took several deep breaths.
More wounds. More blood. More men in need.
She released the young soldier’s hand and gingerly closed his eyes. ‘God keep you,’ she whispered.
Marian grabbed her clean cloth and returned to the man who had told her to get bandages. ‘You are next,’ she said with a bravado she didn’t feel inside.
He gestured to the soldier who had given her the knife. ‘Tend him first.’
She nodded and kneeled on the floor, wiping away the blood on the soldier’s head so she could see the wound. His skin was split right above his hairline. Swallowing hard, Marian pressed the wound closed with her fingers and wrapped a bandage tightly around his head.
‘Thank you, lad,’ the man said.
She moved to the first man and wrapped his wounded arm. Not taking time to think, she scuttled over to the next man, discovering yet another horrifying sight. She took a deep breath and tended that man’s wound as well. One by one she dressed all the soldiers’ wounds.
When she’d finished, one of the soldiers caught her arm. ‘Can y’fetch us some water, lad?’
Water. Of course. They must be very thirsty. She was thirsty, as a matter of fact. She went in search of the kitchen, but found its pump dry. There was a well in the middle of the courtyard, near the stables, she remembered. She found a fairly clean bucket and ladle on the kitchen shelf and hurried back to the hall.
‘I’ll bring you water,’ she told the wounded men as she crossed the room to the château’s entrance.
When she stepped outside, the courtyard was filled with soldiers. Men at the walls fired and reloaded their muskets, others repositioned themselves or moved the wounded away. The fighting was right outside the gate. She could hear it. French musket balls might find their way into the courtyard, she feared.
Gathering all her courage, Marian started for the well. Before she reached it, a man shouted, ‘They’re coming in the gate!’
To her horror a huge French soldier, wielding an ax, hewed his way into the courtyard followed by others. It was a frightening sight as they hacked their way toward the château. Several Guardsmen set upon them. The huge Frenchman was knocked to the ground, and one of the Guards plunged a bayonet into his back.
‘Close the gate! Close the gate!’
Men pushed against the wooden gate as more French soldiers strained to get in. Without thinking, Marian dropped her bucket and added her slight strength to the effort to force the gates closed. Finally they secured it, but the fighting was still fierce between the British soldiers and the few Frenchmen who had made it inside.
Marian picked her way through the fighting and returned to the well. She pumped water into the bucket, her heart pounding at the carnage around her. When the bucket was full, one of the Guardsmen shoved a boy towards her, a French drummer boy, his drum still strapped to his chest.
‘Take him,’ the Guardsman said. ‘Keep him out of harm’s way.’
She took the boy’s hand and pulled him back to the château with her.
‘Restez ici, ‘ she ordered. Remain here.
The drummer boy sat immediately, hugging his drum, his eyes as huge as saucers.
Marian passed the water to the men and told them about the gate closing and about the drummer boy. A moment later, more men entered the château, needing tending.
Eventually the musket fire became sporadic, and she heard a man shout, ‘They’re retreating.’
She paused for a moment in thankful relief.
‘It is not over yet, lad,’ one of the wounded men told her. ‘D’you hear the guns?’ The pounding of artillery had started an hour ago. ‘We’re not rid of Boney yet. I wager you could see what is happening on the battlefield from the upper floors.’
‘Do you think so?’ Marian responded.
‘Go. Take a look-see.’ The man gestured to the stairway. ‘I’ll watch the drummer.’
She could not resist. She climbed the stairs to the highest floor. In each of the rooms Guardsmen manned the windows. One soldier turned towards her when Marian peeked into the room.
‘Where did you come from, lad?’ the man asked.
She remembered to lower her voice this time. ‘Brussels, sir. I came to see the battle.’
He laughed and gestured for her to approach. ‘Well, come see, then.’
The sight was terrifying. On one side thousands of French soldiers marched twenty-four-men deep and one hundred and fifty wide. The rhythmic beating of the French pas de charge wafted up to the château’s top windows. On the Allied Army side a regiment of Belgian soldiers fled the field. In between a red-coated soldier galloped across the ridge in full view of the French columns. Was it Captain Landon? Her throat constricted in anxiety.
Please let him be safe, she prayed.
‘Where are the English?’ There were no other soldiers in sight. Just the lone rider she imagined to be the captain.
‘Wellington’s got ‘em hiding, I expect.’ The soldier pointed out of the window. ‘See those hedges?’
She nodded.
‘Our boys are behind there,