The Richmond Ball

Chapter 34 of "A Sword for Wellington", Book Three of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles

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The story began in A Grail for Eidothea and continued with A River Trembles. Now the Chosen Court seeks another Arthurian treasure. New here? Save this post and have a binge read. You deserve it.

Eidothea told Ondine what happened and how Maeve was lost. She joined Sir Hugh and Gwenddydd in delivering the sword to Wellington. It transformed from a Roman spatha into a British cavalry sword. (If you remember Mr. William Widcombe’s essay, this is what tripped up his research.)

Gwenddydd thought she might be transported back in time the moment the sword was handed over, but she wasn’t. She and Hugh consummate their relationship. They attend the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. (If you know your history…)

Gwenddydd entered the Richmond ballroom, her hand tucked under Hugh’s elbow. His head bent close to hers. “Do you realise that I’m the only man here with a beautiful Celtic warrior?”

The wail of bagpipes prevented her answer. She jumped, startled.

“Bagpipes. The Highlanders.” He guided her to a better viewpoint.

She stared, amazed, at the hulking men leaping over crossed swords. Their dark tartans lifted and whirled above their nimble legs, keeping time with the piper whose red cheeks puffed and deflated with alarming frequency.

When the last moan of the pipes faded into the company’s rapturous applause, Gwenddydd remarked, “You may be the only man who will, but a number of women will have handsome Celtic warriors tonight.”

He laughed. “Perhaps! Shall we dance?” He bowed over her hand clasped in his. “Every dance, tonight, is yours.”

He led her into a country dance, to the tune of Mister Henry’s Maggot, Hugh told her, which she thought an odd name for a melody. They hooked elbows, turning one way and then the next, separating around another couple, only to come together again.

Every brief touch made her yearn for more. They made their turns, their gazes fixed on the other. She wanted and longed for him all in the same quickened breath. They danced the next dance, and the one after that. She felt on fire for him, wanting each brief gloved touch to last forever.

He led her to the supper room with promises of a cooling drink. She sipped icy wine out of a glass cup, breaking her besotted gaze to look around. There seemed a slight stir in the air.

Somerset joined them, slapping Hugh on the shoulder. “Well, you’ve done it now,” he declared.

Hugh grinned. “Yes, I have.”

“Done what?” Gwenddydd looked up at Hugh’s blond friend.

“Declared his intentions to everyone who matters in Brussels. You’re off-limits now, Miss Jones.”

She shrugged. She’d broken another rule of Society without knowing. This time, she found it difficult to care. She flashed an accusing look at Hugh, who looked utterly unrepentant and gorgeous.

Somerset didn’t appear too pleased. He turned to Hugh. “You can kiss your diplomatic career goodbye. First the scar, and now this.”

“Nonsense,” Hugh retorted. “The scar is not an issue and don’t forget Emma Hamilton.”

“I’m sure Parliament won’t want a repeat of that scandal,” Somerset drawled, his brows beetling in anger.

Hugh grimaced. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Who is Emma?” She had to ask.

Somerset fixed her with an impatient look. “A woman who abandoned her husband for Nelson, an admiral.”

His answer left her with more questions. “I am not leaving Hugh for anybody.”

“I’m not arguing about this,” Hugh said to Somerset. “Whatever happens, we shall manage.”

Somerset’s face darkened, his jaw quivering with repressed frustration. “Very well. The Duke wants to see us.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s over there.”

Hugh kissed her cheek, making her smile. She watched him cross the floor to where the duke had commandeered one of the larger supper tables. She remained silent, troubled. Somerset’s words reminded her she didn’t fit in to his society. She would talk to Hugh later. Perhaps another, more private, path existed that would not hurt his career.

An hour passed. Gwenddydd noticed the whispering grew more agitated. It could not still be about her and Hugh. Wellington rose from the supper table and left the room. Hugh, Somerset, and a couple of other men followed him.

“Something’s happening,” Miss Pendyr observed, drawing closer.

Gwenddydd examined her fellow guests’ faces. The ache within her grew to an intuitive, silent scream. She recognised all the signs. “He’s here.”

“Napoleon?” Miss Pendyr clasped her arm. Beside her, Ondine gasped and moved closer to them. “Here?”

“Yes, I suspect so.” She slipped her arm from Miss Pendyr’s and patted her hand. “Go home with your father and Lady Meredith and start packing. If we have to leave, I want us to be prepared.”

“Leave?” Miss Pendyr echoed, her face white.

“It might be safer to stay within the city walls...” Her mind raced at the possibilities. “Have your father secure us some horses. If we do have to leave, there’s going to be a panic, no matter how much Wellington wishes to avoid it.”

Miss Pendyr and Ondine slipped away, their pale faces steeled with determination. One by one, the officers emerged from their conference with the duke. Their stern countenances affected the Duchess of Richmond’s guests like a blast of cold wind across water, replacing gaiety with trepidation.

The news broke and a woman sobbed. Men said their farewells, streaming from the room. Gwenddydd picked up the news in snippets. The grip on her fan tightened. She would see Hugh one last time before she helped his aunt and the Pendyrs. She overhead the command. The men would be in position at first light.

Hugh appeared in the doorway. She saw him search her out, their gazes locking at last. He pushed through the frightened crowd to reach her side. “Where’s my aunt?”

“I sent her and the Pendyrs back to the hotel.” She felt giddy, light-headed. The familiar rush of preparing for battle ran like quicksilver through her veins. “Bonaparte is here.”

“Close by. He tricked us, damn him.”

“Is the city safe?” If it weren’t, she would somehow get Lady Meredith and the Pendyrs out.

“Safe enough for now.” He nodded at the rapidly thinning guests. “Most of them will be on their way tomorrow for Ghent or Antwerp. You should take Lady Meredith and the Pendyrs to Antwerp if you can.”

Leave? She stood tall. “No. I am coming with you.”

Frustration twisted Hugh’s features further. “Gwen, I do not have the time to argue. You cannot join me.”

“I can fight.”

“You have no idea how to fire a gun. This isn’t a Saxon invasion, this is modern warfare.” His frown deepened when she continued to bristle. “Then stay. If Brussels comes under attack, you can defend her, aid in the retreat if she falls.” His frown transformed into a rueful grimace. “I won’t be able to stop you then.”

“Brussels will not fall. Arthur has Caledfwlch.”

Heaving a sigh, he pulled her into his arms. “Leave if you can. Do this for me, Gwen. So I know you are safe.”

“Yes. Very well. I will protect your aunt.” She wanted to share his danger, protect his back, but she would be useless in this battle to come. He was right about that.

He tilted her chin, kissing her with a wild desperation. Her heart leapt in response. She clung to him, not wanting to let him go. With reluctance, he pried himself out of her embrace, still kissing her. “I have to go, my love,” he gasped out.

She released him. “Go. Iechyd da, good health to you.”

He backed off a few paces and she memorised his form, his face, everything.

Then he turned and vanished from her sight.

She had let him go.

By noon, the last of the army had departed for the battlefield south-west of the city. Some of the city’s visitors departed, but the majority stayed. Mr. Pendyr had been unable to find any horses, so their little group also remained.

Gwenddydd and Miss Pendyr strolled along the city walls. The parapets edged the oldest part of Brussels, the remnants of an ancient city wall, much built upon and improved. News and gossip of the battle would be heard here first, as well as in the Parc.

They looked out beyond the city for signs of war but saw none. They returned to the hotel only to be enlisted in preparing for the wounded.

The women sat in groups, scraping linen to make lint bandages. They worked in silence, any conversation faltering. Every now and then, a hopeful soul looked out the window for a sign of news.

A loud rumble of thunder made the women jump. One of the older ladies grew a pinched look. “They’ve started.”

“That wasn’t thunder?” Gwenddydd paused in her work.

“Cannon,” affirmed the older lady.

The rumble repeated and intensified as the afternoon wore on. The women disbanded for supper, a listless affair.

With Sir Hugh gone, Miss Pendyr and Ondine moved into Lady Meredith’s and Gwenddydd’s bedchamber. The three of them shared the wide bed, while Lady Meredith slept with Mr. Pendyr in Sir Hugh’s bedchamber.

Gwenddydd lay awake. Everything seemed distant and unreal. She had never had to stay behind before. Was this how Olwen felt when Gwenddydd left to fight the Saeson?

Uneasy, she slipped out of the bed and crossed to the window. She sat on the ledge, peering out at the night. The half-full moon cast some light into the darkness. Behind her, one of the women shifted in bed.

Somewhere out there, Hugh either lay dead, or asleep. If he lived, he’d be trying to catch what sleep he could. She wrapped her arms about herself. Let him still be alive, she prayed.

The cold glass pressed against her forehead and she closed her eyes. ‘Dear Lady, please don’t let me lose him.’

She kept her vigil, falling asleep, only to wake again at the sound of wild galloping. Cavalry scattered through the square below, riding as if their life depended on it.

She saw nothing beyond the walls: no marching lanterns, not a movement. If this was a retreat, then the enemy moved not at all. She kept watching, hearing cries of alarm from within the hotel, but saw no movement on the rolling plains blushed into a rosy grey by the dawn.

Miss Pendyr stood behind her, her hand brushing her shoulder.

Gwenddydd didn’t move from her vantage point. She had removed her necklace. “Can you make out are they saying?”

She spoke in her native tongue but Miss Pendyr understood. “They’re saying the French are coming.”

“Are they?” Gwenddydd twisted to look up at Miss’ Pendyr’s pale face. “Dress and wake your father. We do not need to leave yet.”

She dressed, donning her magical necklace. She descended to the square and traveled to the ramparts to get the latest news. Nothing but conflicting reports filled her ears. Worn with uncertainty but determined to stay put, she returned to the hotel.

In the sitting room, Miss Pendyr called her to the window, and the two women looked out.

“What is going on?” asked Lady Meredith from the sofa. She looked tired and worn, a shawl clutched tight about her shoulders.

“Wounded,” Gwenddydd flung back over her shoulder. The injured streamed into the city, a shuffling mob of walking wounded alongside heaped carriages.

Miss Pendyr turned from the sight with a horrified cry. “Should we leave?”

Gwenddydd banged the dust from her skirt. “No. The wounded would be greater if we were losing, and we would get word from Wellington’s men, rather than the Belgians. It’s too soon to say.”

“But there are so many!”

Gwenddydd had to agree.

Ondine joined them at the window. “We should help them.”

The constant roar from the battlefield hinted at a hellish war between two gods. No mortal man could survive it. “Let’s collect the bandages and go.”

On the way, Miss Pendyr called out to a carriage hastening by. “I was there,” claimed the driver, an older gent, whipping his carriage by them. “I will not stay here a moment longer. It’s a slaughter, I tell you, a slaughter.”

Ondine shivered at her side. “Civilian,” Gwenddydd muttered under her breath. “Do not listen to him.”

The flow of wounded increased to a flood. They lay in carts in the streets, upon dirty cobblestones, and in the once-graceful parks. Their constant agonised moans filled the air.

“The poor surgeons must be overwhelmed!” said Miss Pendyr, staring about her.

“We must help them.” Ondine said, fists clenched at her sides.

Gwenddydd agreed. Anything to distract them from the galling gossips. “We deliver the bandages. We must find them water, more bandages, some food, if we can find it.”

Ondine’s face looked pale but resolute. “I will do everything in my power to help.” Her shoulders straightened.

In a short while, they had handed over what supplies they scrounged from the hotel and set to work tending to the wounded. Gwenddydd glanced at Miss Pendyr’s grey-green face, proud of how the inexperienced woman stuck by her. She had quickly exhausted her meagre healing gift, and focused on washing and dressing wounds alongside Gwenddydd.

Meanwhile, Ondine shone like an angel going from man to man, bestowing her healing gift until the colour drained from her skin.

Miss Pendyr touched Ondine’s elbow. “Go slowly and discreetly,” she advised. “There will be more wounded and there is only one of you.”

Ondine nodded and moved to her next patient.

Gwenddydd bound dreadful wounds, soothed brows, cleansed where she could. She’d assisted with the wounded before, in her own time, although then she’d also been hurt. She’d had no reason to otherwise frequent the medical tents.

A soldier, his red uniform in tatters, lay face down on the cobblestones. Steeling herself, she knelt besides the motionless figure. He did not breathe. Others needed her. Yet she had to know.

Each face she looked into, she dreaded to find Hugh. Kneeling, she rolled the body towards her, the arms flopping and heavy. Dried blood and flies masked his face.

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