Kit (49 page)

‘You led her through the
gate
.’

‘Yes.’

Kit went cold – if she could sense the danger, could not Ross?

‘And how did you gain ingress?’ asked the Elector grimly.

‘I spoke the password.’

‘Which was?’

Ross looked about him. ‘It cannot matter now. It was the dragoon’s motto –
Nemo me impune lacessit
– No one touches me with impunity.’

The Elector clasped his hands together with great care and placed them on the lectern. He spoke clearly and distinctly. ‘Captain Ross. Let me be absolutely clear. You met a woman you believed to be a French countess, on a battlefield in the middle of a French attack. She embraced you, and in return you led her through the city gates?’

There was silence in the chamber. When Ross spoke, he spoke low. ‘Yes.’

‘Captain Ross,’ said the Elector. ‘I put it to you that you sold Turin to the French for the price of a kiss, and if Brigadier Panton had not had the presence of mind to arrest this woman, she would have opened the gates that night to a stealth attack from French reinforcements. By dawn they would have taken the city and every dragoon and Hessian would have been dead in their beds.’

Ross looked ashen.

‘At worst, you were this woman’s accomplice. At best, you were her dupe. In either case, the consequences for you will be dire.’ He gestured to his sentries. ‘Put him in irons.’

Kit stood. ‘No.’

‘Fraulein …’

‘No! I must be heard.’

‘And shall in time.’

‘Now.’

‘Very well,’ said the Elector testily. ‘Let us hear you. What signals had you planned to bring the French forces to Turin once the city was sleeping? What torches would you light in the windows, what pennants would you fly from the battlements? What blades had you sharpened for the throats of the unwitting sentries at the postern?’

‘I made no such plans!’

‘You bewitched this foolish captain into giving you the password.’

‘I knew it already!’ protested Kit.

‘Do not try to protect your
amour
– it does you little credit.’

‘I am no
amour
of hers,’ protested Ross.

‘Come, come, man! She bewitched you – why else would you take her through the gates with you?’

‘Was I to leave her on the battlefield?’

‘Why not?’ cried the Elector. ‘She was an enemy and an alien. Why take such a person through the gates?’

‘Because you do not leave a man behind!’ It was a shout.

There was total silence in the court. Precisely, carefully, the Elector steepled his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. He spoke softly and dangerously. ‘But Captain,’ he said. ‘We do not speak of a man. The
comtesse
was not one of your dragoons, to whom you are so devoted, of whom you spoke so eloquently in terms of brotherly love. So I ask you again; why did you take her though the gates of Turin?’

Ross pushed the balls of his palms into his eyes. ‘I do not know,’ he said, low voiced, despairing. ‘I do not know why I took her through the gates.’

‘I do,’ said Kit into the silence, gentle and clear. She stood up tall and straight; straight as a soldier on parade. ‘He let me in because he knows me.’

Slowly, slowly, Ross took his hands away from his eyes, and looked up at her.

‘That is the court’s very contention,’ said the Elector, exasperated. ‘Are you admitting, then, that he plotted with you?’

‘No, not that. He aided an old friend – I have known him for a full year.’

A gasp whispered around the assembly.

‘Explain yourself. This plot between you has been a device of long standing?’

‘No,’ said Kit. ‘He was and is the most loyal of the queen’s soldiers.’ She looked Captain Ross in the eyes. ‘And so, once, was I.’

She slid the matted wig from her and shook out her red hair so it fell about her face. She spoke to him in her strong Dublin brogue, breathy and low, just as she’d done when she had been his dragoon. ‘Don’t you know me, Captain Ross? I am the brother that you lost. And that is my father’s blade that you wear. I am Sergeant Kit Walsh.’

He looked at her, the colour draining from his face, his eyes burning blue.

‘Fraulein Kavanagh, what are you saying?’

‘I am saying,’ said Kit clearly and loudly, ‘that I am as loyal to the Grand Alliance as any man here. I fought for a year as a dragoon in the Royal Scots Greys.’

There was another gasp about the room, and a rising tide of chatter. She stared defiantly at Ormonde – he gazed at her from beneath his hooded lids, his face curiously immobile. One man in the place, then, believed her.

‘Fraulein Kavanagh,’ bellowed the Elector over the commotion, ‘I must remind you where you are. This is the Imperial court, held under the aegis of Prince Eugene of Savoy. And before that, this place was a house of God. You have placed your hand upon the Bible and sworn to tell the truth in his name. It is true, you are in dire straits, but your dishonesties have taken us to the realms of fantasy.’

He might as well not have spoken. She fixed her eyes upon Ross. She spoke to the captain directly.

‘Do you remember now? I fought alongside you at the Abbey of San Columbano, where the French fought in monks’ clothing. I cut the warning bell from the rope and you gave me a chalice. I buried the babes with you in the valley below. I froze with you in the mountains of the Adige, and we slept cheek by jowl.’ Rising tears tightened her throat. ‘You told me what we were fighting for. You drew a boot in the mud and told me about the countries of Europe. You told me everywhere has a horizon, and you had to ride for it before the enemy. Then I took a musket ball in the hip at Luzzara. I was decorated by Marlborough himself, given five pistoles by his own hand.’ Ross seemed to be in a waking dream, he did not respond at all. Kit turned to the Elector in appeal. ‘Marlborough – Marlborough knows me. I rode straight from the Palazzo Borromeo to warn him of the French attack. Marlborough ordered a fast-rider to warn the dragoons.’ She felt it would not be tactful, in this company, to tell of the Prince of Savoy’s plan to leave the dragoons to be taken by surprise. ‘I took it upon myself to be Marlborough’s fast-rider. I rode to warn the dragoons,’ her voice cracked at last, ‘for they are my regiment.’ She looked at Ross, who was still and pale, his eyes as blank as a statue’s. ‘I was doing my commanders’ bidding, as I always have. My loyalty to the Grand Alliance is beyond question. Marlborough saw me, talked with me on Superga hill, he will vouch for me if the captain will not.’ She could not keep the reproach from her voice.

The Elector tapped his fingers on his lectern, impatiently. ‘The Duke of Marlborough,’ he said in carefully measured tones, ‘is currently mobilising his troops for the Low Countries. Here the battle may be over, but the war is yet to be won, and is waged on many fronts.’

‘Now the battle is over?’ echoed Kit, in a dream – repeating without understanding; Ormonde’s parrot.

‘Yes, over,’ said the Elector with relish. ‘Your compatriots have withdrawn from the peninsula, returned to France and left you behind.’

She blinked as she digested this. So the stalemate had been broken, the chess pieces returned to the box for now. But they were to be taken out again, and dusted off, and repositioned on the board for another game elsewhere.

‘I see this is news to you. They have abandoned their tool. It would behove you now to confess, then the court might be merciful and grant you a quick death.’ Only then did she understand the true seriousness of her situation. She saw Ross, even in his stupor, flinch at the word ‘death’ and turned back to him in a final desperate plea. ‘At Cremona …’ she paused, took a breath, ‘at Cremona, when you took a musket ball of your own, I carried you beneath the aqueduct. Do you remember now? I sang to you then a certain song …’ Because she could never separate words from music, and because the rhymes had been marching through her head all night, she sang into the silent courtroom. Every limb was stilled, every tongue silenced, even the snow fell noiselessly outside, loath to break the spell. Her voice rang around the old stones, as the monks’ voices must have in days gone. Her voice, sweet as a bell’s chime, singing the secular little tune, for that moment as glorious and godly as any plainsong:

As she sang Ross stood, as if he had woken from his dream, his eyes holding hers. It was working. She sang on, joyfully, giving the simple little ditty her all. Ross’s skin was as grey as a spectre’s. His mouth was working, and she ceased her song to hear him. No sound came, until he mumbled out; ‘Honoured Judge, may I be excused for a time?’

The Elector nodded, and Ross rose and descended from the stand, not once looking at Kit.

‘But Captain …’

Ross stopped but did not turn.

‘Hold yourself in readiness,’ said the Elector. ‘You will have charges of your own to answer.’

Ross did not reply, but, back straight as a ramrod, walked from the room.

Kit swallowed cold bile, a chill stone of disappointment sitting in her stomach, sickening her. How could he not know her? She could not be so changed. She was still Kit under the skin; she had given Ross proof enough, God knew, of their acquaintance – she had told him things that no other living soul would know. Granted, other dragoons might have told her of the battle in the abbey or the bundling at night, but at Cremona they had been alone, and no other man alive had heard her sing ‘Arthur McBride’.

She swallowed back tears. What chance had she now? She had revealed herself at last, and for what? Ross had not come to her rescue. At least Ormonde had acknowledged their acquaintance, for all his lies; it had been Ross who had not.

When he was gone, the Elector turned to her.

‘Now, let us get to the bottom of this fantasy. Are you actually suggesting that you were a soldier in the queen’s army?’

Kit was suddenly deathly tired. There seemed little point in persisting with this examination. ‘Yes, Honoured Judge. For over a year and four campaigns.’

‘Disguised as a man.’

‘Yes.’

Now the Elector rubbed his weary eyes with the pads of his fingers. ‘I must own that your story seems unbelievable. Have you anyone who can corroborate your story?’

Her eyes stung. The very man that could have done it had just walked out of the door.

‘How did you assume this new identity?’

‘I enlisted in Dublin, and was issued a uniform.’

‘But how was it possible to manage such a deception? To live among men?’

She shrugged – her male gestures returning. ‘We were never without clothes along the road. And I was careful. I bought a false prick.’

There was laughter from the throng.

‘A what?’

‘A false prick, wrought of silver.’

‘Wherever did you find such a thing?’

‘I bought it in Genova.’ Not for worlds would she give up the name of Maria van Lommen.

‘And do you still have this strange appendage? It might constitute evidence in your defence.’

‘No. It was taken from me in hospital – when I took my injury at Luzzara.’

Then it dawned upon her. She struck the carved arm of her chair sharply. ‘There
is
one who can vouch for the truth of what I say. He knows I fought as a dragoon, for it was he who discovered I was a woman.’

‘Who is this person?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Doctor Atticus Lambe, army surgeon to the Scots Grey Dragoons.’ Atticus Lambe. He had always wanted to expose her. Well, now he had his chance.

The Elector nodded. ‘Very well.’ He leaned heavily on his lectern. ‘I will be candid with you, Fraulein Kavanagh. The complexion of this trial has changed somewhat following your revelations. It is up to you to prove the veracity of your story, for what is now on trial here is your loyalty to the Alliance’s cause.’ He called for his sentinel, and the man entered the room with a rapid step, fresh snow upon his shoulders, ruddy of cheek, short of breath. He looked agitated.

‘Call Doctor Atticus Lambe of the Scots Greys to appear on the morrow.’

‘Yes, Honoured Judge. But, my lord?’

‘Yes?’

‘There is something more.’

‘Well?’

‘Captain Ross has absconded.’

I’ll cut off your heads in the morning …

‘Arthur McBride’ (trad.)

Atticus Lambe trained his pale grey eyes on Kit. She could see he knew her at once.

‘I have never seen her before in my life.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked the Elector.

‘I am confident of it, Honoured Judge.’

‘Bear in mind, if you will, that she is now in woman’s attire. This female claims that she fought with the dragoons, dressed as a man.’

‘That is not possible, Honoured Judge.’

‘Not?’

‘In my medical opinion? No.’

‘Could you tell the court why?’

Atticus Lambe adjusted his pince-nez on his nose, his eyes never leaving Kit. ‘They have not the physical strength nor the mental acuity for the task. Their limbs are soft and weak, their humours erratic. They are plagued by (saving your honourable presence) monthly discharges of their bodily fluids. The woman’s state at war would be insupportable.’ This speech was directed straight at Kit, and the surgeon delivered every word like a blow.

Kit gazed at him with contempt; the Elector inclined his head. ‘So much for the general objections; now to the specific. The accused claims that she was treated by you following the Battle of Luzzara, in the fortress of Riva Garda.’

‘I did indeed establish my field hospital in that barbican, but anyone may have known that.’

‘It was common knowledge?’

‘Yes.’

‘The accused maintained that, in the person of Kit Walsh, she was injured in the hip, and you were obliged to operate upon her person, thus revealing her – ahem – woman’s parts.’

Atticus Lambe laughed, a sound she had never heard. ‘Ridiculous.’

‘Did you treat a patient by the name of Kit Walsh?’