Part 7: Les Femmes de Guerre

The ticking of the little glass clock above the fire was the only sound she could hear, save for the occasional faint rattling gasp from the man in her bed. Curled in her armchair, wrapped in a blanket of white fox fur, she waited. It was taking a little longer than she expected. A seam of silvery dawn light appeared between the drawn panels of drapery at the window. The heart is strong, she thought, remembering the sparrow hawk whose breast she had cut open to show Lucien the miracle of its tiny hopeful heart. But she was not concerned. She was confident the final dosage had been exact and correct.

How foolish men are, she thought, in their vanity and lust, and how easily misled. How ridiculously simple it had been to assure Rigaud that he had won, and that she had consented to share her bed in return for his naming Lucien his heir. She had upheld her end of the bargain; surely he could not hold her responsible for the fact that he had found himself unable to hold up a portion of his. Certainly he could not deny that she had applied herself diligently in respect to his difficulties. "An infusion of burdock and mandrake, Monsieur," she explained as he docilely slurped the proffered cure. "An application of goat's root and savory in goose fat," she said, looking him directly in the eye as she massaged the sadly affected area. Curiously, it was all to no avail, and Imogene was at a loss to explain how her skills had failed. Perhaps, when all of the paperwork was completed, and the distasteful business of finalizing the actual transaction was behind them, his powers of concentration might return? Monsieur was single-minded in his pursuits, she must grant him that, and the will was written, witnessed, and processed with quite remarkable expedition.

And tonight, miraculously, he had found himself restored. She greeted him in her chamber wrapped in the fox, and underneath, a sheath of shimmering gauze shot through with silver thread that both enhanced and revealed all that he had bargained to obtain.

Brandywine bubbled with a satisfying hiss as she removed a red-hot iron from the grate and plunged it into the silver goblets. She gave him the hot wine, heavily sweetened and spiced, as he sat on the edge of her bed, his gown open to reveal his prideful member, pulsing and purpling with vigorous, renewed ambition.

"To my son," he said, drinking deeply.

"And to mine," said she, letting the fox drop to the floor as she raised her cup to her own blood red lips. Her eyes, green-gold and glimmering above the rim, held a promise, he was sure.

*****

Imogene had meant to stay awake to the very end, but she must have drifted off, for when she awoke, the room was filled with the morning sun. Anne-Louise turned from the window, having drawn back the heavy drapes to let in the new day.

"Madame," whispered Imogene, rubbing at her itchy eyes, "All is well?"

"All is well," Anne-Louise, a faint smile on her lips, nodded briefly in the direction of Imogene's bed. "You should go to my room, petite, and get some rest." She flicked her wrist dismissively, as one who would brush a spec of lint from a dark velvet cushion. "I will see that this…mess…is cleared away."

*****

Corsica, 1771

Pierre-Charles Valfours de Charette was as disheveled in appearance and careless in his personal habits as his friend, Lucien de Moncoutant, was sleek and fastidious. His stringy, fair hair fell unbound to his shoulders and his battered tricorn, smashed down over his brow, was the only thing containing it against the whipping wind that lashed his back as he looked down from his place on one hill onto his objective, which occupied the next hillside over. Charette was perhaps forgiven his lapses in military decorum, as he was the son and heir of his regiment's commander, the legendary General, le Baron de Charette. But even more likely, it was the fact that any man, once having made the acquaintance of the young Captain Charette would see nothing but the unquenchable flame of martial fire in his piercing dark eyes, the indisputable and overwhelming charisma that left no doubt that he, like his father before him, was destined for greatness.

"What do you make of it, eh?" Pierre asked Lucien, turning to look at his friend and first lieutenant. There was but a quarter moon, and even though Lucien's mount stood near enough that their boots touched as the horses shifted nervously, they could barely see one another, much less get an accurate idea of what they were looking at hundreds of yards away.

"A bit more than we bargained for, I think," Lucien replied quietly, "Von Sachsen had a good look at it earlier. Von Sachsen…"

"Sir." The young Von Sachsen was Moncoutant's cheval-caporal, whom Charette had jokingly dubbed "L'Ombre" because, like an ever-present shadow, he was always, as he was now, a half-pace behind and to the right side of his master.

"Tell the captain what you saw."

Von Sachsen's youthful voice was soft and light. "High walls, mon capitaine, and very thick, built into the hillside.  A single gate. Guns on the ramparts. I counted six. I could not guess the size, but does it matter? I don't see how…"

"Yes," Charette silenced the boy with a word. He would not breach such walls even with an entire battery of three-pounder galloper guns, of which, in fact, he had exactly two. More than they had bargained for, as Moncoutant said. He had been expecting, at most, an earthen breastworks, perhaps an old field piece or two. But this was a true fortification, albeit a rather small one. The situation seemed exemplary of the problem of Corsica as a whole. The Corsicans had been defeated, without question, two years before by the army of the Marquis de Chauvelin. Further resistance was quite hopeless, and yet the insurgencies were frequent and surprisingly tricky to suppress. The rebels seemed not to understand that they were defeated, and in fact, they did have much in their favor. In Corsica, every man was a soldier, every home a fortress. It was with great difficulty that the French troops were able to drag cannon over the mountains, where every pass was admirable for defense and and perilous to assailants. The people of this island were of a race of banditti, steeped in the culture of vendetta, who had pursued their family animosities ceaselessly and bitterly for generations. Knowing when to surrender, apparently, was not in their temperament.

Charette had a mission to accomplish, however, and accomplish it he would. Thinking aloud, he whispered, "How would a frigate take on a first rate? For that is how it seems to me!" He and Lucien had been studying the Naval strategies of the British in the last war, a subject that was both fascinating and instructive, they believed, as it might relate to the success of land forces.  

Lucien chuckled softly, "Well," he replied, "She would have to lay alongside her before the big ship's guns were run out, that is for certain. And, I would think, one would have to board her before she could beat to quarters. But what ship of the line could be approached in such a way? We need a ruse de guerre, my friend!"

"Just so," sighed Charette, trying hard, but in vain, to think by what subterfuge he could get his men across the ground unseen, let alone gain the walls. He peered through his telescope in the darkness for some clue.

A minute later he saw what he had failed to see before. The merest glow from the sentry fire at the foot of the walls revealed it. He had located the gate easily enough in his first sweep of the field glass—a substantial timber barricade impenetrable to the artillery he had at his disposal. Perhaps it was a trick of perspective in the dark, or perhaps the height of the angle from which he had been looking, but as he peered ever more intently through the glass his heart began to race, for as his eyes became accustomed to the pools of darkness, he gained a more accurate sense of what he was seeing. It did not seem possible, and yet it was so. The sentry's fire was inside the gates!

"Mon dieu!" he breathed, snapping his scope shut excitedly.

"What is it?" asked Moncoutant.

"The gates are open; they are wide open!" he replied, grinning broadly.

Lucien was incredulous at first, and then, not at all reassured that they had been delivered of their difficulty, asked, "And your plan, therefore?"

"To attack---at once!"

"You mean…to run straight at the gates?"

"Just so! Through the gates!" said Charette without hesitation.

Lucien paused a moment, in case he had missed some obvious key to victory. "And when we are inside---what then?"

"We fight. There cannot be that many of them."

Lucien paused again, still certain that some vital element had escaped his understanding. Soon he realized it had not. "Pierre, you don't know…that could be suicide!" he gasped, "You mean us to run into them and just fight?"

"That's what a boarding party would do, is it not? It would clamber aboard and fight. It wouldn't have a plan! They don't know we are here, Lucien! How that is possible, I do not know, but we shall have surprise! Make ready, lieutenant. Make ready!"

*****

It did not take Lucien long to relay the orders, for there were few to relay. They consisted, in essence, of making their way down to the base of the fortress in complete silence, and then rushing straight at the gate. At this point, speed took precedence over stealth, as they could not risk the gates being swung shut against them at their approach. Therefore, in the absence of cavalry, the handful of mounted officers would precede the men and cut down any initial resistance. They would bring the guns into action at the rear, and fire the place finally.

"We shall have to fight for our lives," Moncoutant told his men, as at last they stood ready. He drew his sword. His pistol and carbine were loaded, but he knew that it would be with steel in close quarters that he would engage the enemy. Toledo steel, its edge as keen and as deadly as Melusine's practiced hand could achieve.

Charette drew up beside him, ridiculously buoyed by his own audacity. "Stay alive, eh?" he said, nudging his friend. "You do not want me to be forced to comfort that beautiful wife of yours in the event of your demise."

A little sound from Von Sachsen drew Charette's attention. "Don't be afraid," he assured the boy. "Stay close. Besides, if they know what is good for them, they will run from you as far and as fast as possible!"  Corporal Von Sachsen was the sparring partner of choice among the officers of the regiment for practicing their swordsmanship. Charette thought he had never seen anyone who handled a blade with such skill.  

He surveyed his little battalion, formed up in columns of two, with bayonets fixed. The galloper guns, hitched to the gun-horses occupied a space in the middle. Charette saw that all was in readiness. Looking over his shoulder one last time, he raised his sword aloft.

"Charge!" he shouted, and the rushing wind carried his voice back to the ranks.

"The last of the Moncoutants," Lucien thought wryly to himself.

They burst from the edge of the trees as if shot from a cannon. Lucien's mare was at full stretch within a dozen yards. The noise they made, as hooves and the gun wheels pounded across the hard packed ground that led up to the gate was terrible and frightening. Lucien fixed his eyes on the gate, expecting at any moment to see it swing closed, and he urged his little command forward with all the power in his lungs. Charette was five lengths ahead already, screaming like a berserker and waving his sword above his head. Melusine rode close on Lucien's flank.

At two hundred yards he could see clearly through the open gate, and unbelievably as yet, there was still no sign of alarm. Where was the line of picquets? At one hundred yards he at last saw them running to the opening—then flashes, ragged shots. Seconds later, his mare flew through the gate arch, Lucien stretching low on her neck as the hapless picquets scattered before him. He took one on the point of his sword, and then another. Easy, so easy. They truly did have surprise, it would seem. The rebels, hastily armed, rushing at the invaders from all quarters, were completely without order. The thought occurred to him with incongruous clarity, as he lay about him with his swinging blade in darkness and chaos, that he had no idea who he was killing, he only hoped it was the enemy. His own men swarmed around him, and in a space of time that might have been an hour or an instant for all he knew, there were dead and dying men everywhere on the ground, and the rest were a dazed and scrambling mass for whom there was no hope of resistance, only flight or death. For many it was both. No matter which way they ran, they were met with fire or steel. Some threw themselves on the ground, prostrating themselves in abject surrender.

He wheeled his mare, looking about him for Charette's white charger, thinking it must be over, that at any moment would come the order to stand to and cease fire. The galloper guns were through the gates, their loaders dismounted and busily loading them with grape, although there was no rush of enemy, that Lucien could see, against which to discharge them. The first gun went off with a terrific roar, the brunt of its shot striking the front of a smallish, barn-like building, which must, in fact, have been a powder magazine. The entire thing blew apart in a magnificent conflagration. Lucien was dazzled as he watched great hunks of flaming debris sailing leisurely through the air.

The pistol ball struck the mare full in the chest and she went up and over. Time stretched and snapped like a rope drawn tight as he felt himself falling backward. A pair of startled blue eyes met his for an eerie moment as he fell one way, and the head of the man who had meant to kill him flew past in the opposite direction, separated from his body by the stroke of Melusine's unerring, fatal blade.

*****

"Sitting on your arse, Lieutenant?"

 Lucien shook off a momentary blackness. Melusine was behind him, pushing him up into a sitting position. He jerked his feet back, out of the way of Charette's horse's dancing hooves. Looking up, he saw the animal's chest was flecked with foam, its white coat spattered with dark blood. Above, the sky glowed orange as the thatched roofs of the remaining buildings were fired.

"A rout! A complete rout! What did I tell you?" Charette was raving, giddy with triumph. Lucien struggled to his feet. His mare was standing a few feet away, her head hanging, her sides heaving. Suffering shock, but not mortally wounded, he guessed.

"Jesu!" Lucien cursed, spitting on the ground. His mouth was filled with grit. He looked up at his friend, at the bizarre sight of Charette's grinning, gore streaked face.

"Just tell me one thing…" Lucien began, stooping, hands on his knees, still struggling to catch the breath that hand been knocked out of him.

"Yes, my friend?"

"How do you manage to sit a horse with balls like those?"

*****

Slipping into the tent a few hours after midnight, Melusine nearly tripped over one of Lucien's boots. He must have been truly exhausted to have just left his things scattered on the floor in such a way. He was normally such a martinet when it came to neatness and order. It had been an exhausting twenty four hours and one without sleep as the exhilaration of battle had necessarily given way to the business of its aftermath, by turns grisly and tedious: seeing to the removal of the dead and the care of the wounded; corralling and containing the survivors. Unbelievably---except of course to him---Charette had not lost a man.

The only light in the tent came from the campfire outside, which had long since died low to a bed of red coals that cast a dark orange glow through the walls. Lucien was asleep on his back on his camp bed, completely naked, she guessed, his blankets bunched down around his hips.

She knelt beside the cot. His back and shoulder had been badly bruised by the fall, and he had a nasty cut on his thigh, caused, she imagined, by his own blade, striking him as he fell. Carefully, she lifted the edge of the blanket to look at the wound. The bandage was clean. No blood. She'd had to do the stitching herself as the battalion surgeon was run ragged attending to far more urgent cases. Seamstress or surgeon, she was neither. She only hoped it would heal decently, and without becoming infected. Remembering an old soldier's remedy her father had taught her, she'd poured most of a bottle of Lucien's jealously hoarded cognac over the wound, much to his dismay.

Reaching up, she ran her forefinger along the old scar that ran from his throat to his breast. That wound had been stitched so expertly that there was now only the thinnest and faintest of marks on his smooth, burnished skin. "Now my mark is on him too," she said to herself, thinking of the woman in France, her unseen rival who possessed all she never would have.

Looking at him, she felt a now familiar despair, and a tightening in her throat, as if she might choke with love of him. She knew fully and completely how foolish she was, how desperate and degraded her hopes. But still she loved, and she could not help herself.
In the midst of battle she'd had no fear for herself, only for him.

So beautiful. Her fingers smoothed the rich black hair from his brow. She thought him so perfect. She loved his long, straight nose, his wide, cruel mouth and flawless golden skin. Ever so lightly, she lay her head upon his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, the slow, steady beat of his heart. "I love you," she mouthed silently, not even daring to whisper the words.

"Corporal," the voice was raspy with sleep. "Time to get up already?"

"Not for hours and hours," she whispered, raising her head. "I didn't mean to wake you. Sleep." She sat up.

"Lucette?" he inquired drowsily.

"She is well. The ball was spent. We got it out. I've just left her. She's eating her head off and not letting any of the geldings at the fodder!"

"Typical," he started to raise himself on one elbow, but winced as the bad shoulder took his weight, and lay back down with a sigh. "Christ, it hurts!"

"You were lucky," she said, coming up to sit on the edge of the cot.

"You were there," his eyes met hers and she felt herself flush, suddenly afraid of her own emotion, and what she might say. She looked away, and then down at the floor. She reached down and picked up his other boot that had been kicked halfway under the cot.

"Shall I have these cleaned for you?" she asked briskly, starting to rise. His hand on her wrist stayed her.

"You've been up all day, all night," he whispered, the sound of his voice was dark, low and hotly insinuating. She felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. "Why don't you come to bed, mon caporal?"

His fingers were already unbuttoning her waistcoat as she toed off her boots, an old pair of his that were just a little too big for her in the calf. In a moment, her shirt floated to the floor. He knew just where to find the end of the bindings that wound around her chest, tucked and pinned neatly just under her arm.

She stretched out on top of him, reveling in the feeling of his arms closing tightly around her, the softness of her breasts pressing into his sleepy warmth. She sought his kiss, tender and sweet, and as always, the dream of love that her heart could not forsake. His tongue moved against hers, a caress of velvet, a gentle invader, commanding a surrender she could no more deny than she could stop her own heart from beating.

His hand slid down inside the waist of her breeches. One finger teased at the very top of the cleft of her sex. She knew she was already hopelessly wet; she could feel the pulse of desire pounding between her legs.

"Lucien!" she shuddered and gasped at the shock of pleasure, her body's amazing response to his slightest touch.

"Shhh…" he kissed her at the base of her throat, her neck, her chin, behind her ear. "The whole camp will think we're a couple of buggers." His hand moved to unbutton her breeches.

"I imagine they already do," she whispered, getting to her knees and then off the bed to make fast work of removing the rest of her clothing, her breeches, drawers and stockings.

Undressed, she knelt beside him on the edge of the cot, leaning over him to pull off the blankets. His beautiful manhood rose from its thick nest of glossy black hair, so hard and smooth, just a little longer than her hand as she stroked the underside with the flat of her palm, letting her fingers curl lightly, briefly around him, with the pad of her thumb spreading the slick bead of clear fluid over the head until it gleamed like a knob of polished rosewood.  

"Come," he whispered. His lovely hands moved to her breasts that swayed gently as she climbed on top of him. He caressed the curve just below her nipples where the skin was softest and she was most responsive.

"Mmm," she murmured softly, arching her back. He attended her with such sweet deliberation, teasing each nipple to tingling, aching arousal. He ran his hands slowly over her body: the flat of her belly, the curve of her bottom, her long, strong thighs. She rose on her knees, putting her hand between her legs, reaching for him.

Holding herself above him she began to lower herself slowly, letting her eyes close, savoring every inch of him, every sweet, aching moment of his filling her.

"God!" he breathed, his hips rising to meet her. Her head fell back as she let herself sink onto him, feeling him sliding, gliding, plunging deep into that place that ached for him, that dark, secret place that in her mind's eye throbbed with red heat, the gate of her soul that held back the flood until that last, helpless, glorious moment of release.

Oh, she would die of love! She let herself go, falling forward onto his chest as the gate flew open wide, and she lay there as he moved inside her, letting every last little undulation of sweetness move through her as she pressed her cheek against his pounding heart.

"No, no!" she whispered as she felt his hands on her hips, lifting her away from him. "Stay, this time, oh God, please stay!" She wanted to hold him forever in the heavenly chamber of her body. She wanted to feel him inside her as his own joy burst forth. But he would never give this to her, always he would leave her, as he did now, withdrawing just at the moment when his climax ripped through him.

"Melusine," his voice was breathless, bewildered, moments later as he kissed her trembling mouth. "What? Don't cry…silly girl." He stroked her hair. "You're so tired. Go to sleep, courageous heart…ma femme de guerre."

Go to Part Eight