Page 7 of A Midwinter Wager

Chapter 4

Fitz'sfurlough seemed to vanish in the blink of an eye. No sooner had he been reunited with everyone, than he must leave again. Sometimes he wished he weren't so honorable, nor so keen to do his duty. He was tempted to tell Duty to go hang—and stay in England with his family and spend more time with Cesca.

But Papa had recovered quickly. His speech was less slurred, he could move his left arm, and the peculiar tilt of the mouth which accompanied his seizure was reverting to normal. There had been no excuse to remain any longer, and Fitz had returned to Flanders, under Wellesley's excellent leadership.

He was now fulfilling a promise he’d made to his beloved—writing to assure her he'd made it safely back to camp. He'd no idea how long it would take for his letter to get to her—if it even got there at all—but that counted for very little. What mattered was the feeling he got as he wrote—he could picture her reading his words, imagine her close to him, and feel as if, just at that moment, they were together once more.

April 21st, Flanders. My darling Francesca,he wrote, then paused. The wind whipped the canvas walls of the tent, making the whole structure shake, and buffeting the campaign chest he was using as a writing desk. Curse it! The end of the pencil lead had snapped off. The pencil was Cesca's parting gift to him; it was the push-up sort, with a miniature intaglio seal fitted into the end—more practical than pen and ink. Pushing up a fresh length of the lead, he forced himself to write more sedately.

I can't say too much about the fighting, as you know, for in our current situation secrecy is everything. We have our spies, continually at risk, and the enemy has theirs – you understand.

The sides of the tent shook again. He cocked his head to one side, his concentration broken but could hear no sound of wind.

So, what was rattling the tent?

With a sigh, he set the paperweight on his letter and stepped outside to investigate.

No, definitely not wind. There was nothing to see but the haze of cooking fires, soldiers busying themselves cleaning their weapons, and the general hustle and bustle of a military encampment.

He examined the side of the tent, but there was nothing leaning against the canvas which could account for the movement, which was still going on. The back of his tent was almost flush with a stone field boundary, but as he peered around the corner, he discovered the gap between wall and canvas was occupied.

A soldier sat there, a woman bent over his lap with her rump raised high in the air. The man had one hand over her mouth, his face a mask of prurient glee as he lashed her bare buttocks with a switch.

The woman’s violent efforts to escape spurred Fitz into action. He yanked her attacker up by the collar and pulled her free. She tottered against the wall while the man yelled, trying to stuff his engorged penis back into his breeches with one hand and break Fitz's grip with the other.

Turning his face aside, Fitz waited for the woman to push her skirts back down, but this was a mistake. His captive twisted and thrust a fist into his jaw, breaking his grip and sending him staggering across the hardened mud of the camp. Shaking his head, he fought for balance, which he achieved; then fought for self-control, which was a great deal harder.

How dare some gin-sodden soldier beat one of the camp followers in broad daylight, at the back of an officer's tent? An army ran on discipline, not debauchery and the abasement of women. As he sucked in a furious breath, he saw the woman's face screw up in anger as she launched herself at their mutual foe, scratching at his face and teaching Fitz many entertaining expletives he'd never heard before.

An interested group of spectators was gathering. Fitz drew himself up straight, ready to berate the soldier and send him back to his tent. The churl fully deserved to be punished for this. But as the man shook the enraged camp follower off, and turned a face of fury toward him, Fitz realized that matters would not be so easily dealt with.

The perpetrator was a fellow officer. Captain Brandt.

"What do you mean by your interference, sirrah?" Brandt ground out. "What right have you to come between a man and his woman?"

"You should know better, man," Fitz retorted. "What kind of example is this to set to the men?"

"What right have you to throw up my skirts in the middle of the day where anyone can see?" the woman hissed at Brandt. “I did no more than singe that rabbit. ‘Tis no crime worth a beating. He's a beast and a brute sir," she added, turning to Fitz, "and ‘tis he needs to be taught a lesson, not I."

From the corner of his eye, Fitz saw there was quite an audience now for this domestic dispute, and he heartily regretted having become involved. Even though the woman wasn't Brandt's wife—for he had none—but a camp follower, she had a right to a modicum of respect. And she'd have paid for her keep in kind, darning Brandt's clothes, scrubbing his laundry, letting him bed her, and cooking his meals. A woman who could put together a good rabbit stew had a worth beyond rubies in the camp and should not be abused.

A birching from a lascivious officer behind a fellow officer’s tent, where anybody might stumble across them, was despicable behavior. Brandt had been enjoying the punishment so much, Fitz was surprised he wasn’t selling tickets.

"Thank you for getting him off me," the woman said, gazing boldly up at him. "I'll spit in his soup if he tries that on again. It's good to know there's at least one decent man in the camp." Shooting him a gap-toothed smile, she added, "I won't forget this, sir. If you ever need a favor from me, you only have to ask. Claire Banton's my name. And if you're interested, I'd be more than happy to exchange that cur over there for a decent protector."

"Thank you, ma'am," Fitz replied graciously, though hell would freeze over before he’d take any woman but Cesca to his bed. But there was no harm in showing a bit of gallantry. "And should you ever find yourself in difficulties again, I'd be more than happy to assist you. I could even send you back home if you wish it."

Far better to have her think he was suffering an excess of gallantry than let her know the truth—that he’d have to refuse her outright. How Cesca would laugh when he told her he’d been propositioned!

He bowed, and the woman chuckled and gave him an exaggerated curtsey. "Sorry if I'm not doing it right, me lord. I don't usually get to deal with a real gentleman." Then, having treated Brandt to a warning glare, she flounced off into the depths of the camp. The onlookers made no move, and Fitz realized, with sinking stomach, that the shameful spectacle wasn't yet over.

"I should call you out for that." Captain Brandt, having put his clothing to rights, glared at Fitz with a battle-light in his eye. "Laying hands on a fellow officer. Do you seek to shame me in front of my men?"

"There's no shame in having a cock like that," someone muttered and was greeted by a gale of ribald laughter.

Fitz returned the glare. "And I should call you out for striking me. At best, that’s not the behavior of an officer and at worst, it’s a court martial offence. You'll never make it to major if you can't control your animal urges."

"Who won't make it to major?"