'Yes, Thomas, to Manchesterto this thing, this Art Treasures Exhibition.' Cracknell spoke slowly, as if addressing an idiot.

'Howhow did you discover this?'

'Simply by using the investigative skills that have made me such an effective newspapermanskills you would do well to recover.' Cracknell drew again on his cigarette, his broad face puckering with malevolence. 'You and I alone know the full extent of that man's crimes. And we're going to punish him. More than that, we're going to b.l.o.o.d.y well destroy him destroy him. You'll see.'

Kitson stared speechlessly at the luminous windows of the Polygon, a profusion of disturbing scenarios playing out in his mind. Addresses were underway inside, the a.s.sembled guests suddenly shaking with laughter. He caught a glimpse of Jemima amidst the admiring crowd, standing behind her chortling father, her slender arms crossed with impatience.

The French windows opened, and a pair of footmen emerged. It was obvious who they sought; Kitson looked around, but saw only the moonlit garden. Cracknell had disappeared.

Before Sebastopol, Crimean Peninsula OctoberNovember 1854

1.

'From the western end of the Causeway Heights, just north of Balaclava, the true scale of the calamity is revealed. A skein of shattered Balaclava, the true scale of the calamity is revealed. A skein of shattered bodies is cast across the floor of the valley beyond, the men bodies is cast across the floor of the valley beyond, the men and their horses intermingled in death, knocked to pieces by grape, and their horses intermingled in death, knocked to pieces by grape, canister and shot. Patches of bright colour, the cherry red of a canister and shot. Patches of bright colour, the cherry red of a Hussar's Hussar's overalls, the golden yellow of a standard, or the blue of overalls, the golden yellow of a standard, or the blue of a a Lancer's Lancer's tunic, can be made out in amongst the dust and blood; tunic, can be made out in amongst the dust and blood; and tiny sparks of light ripple over the surface of the carnage, where and tiny sparks of light ripple over the surface of the carnage, where bridles, spurs, b.u.t.tons and blades catch the setting sun.' bridles, spurs, b.u.t.tons and blades catch the setting sun.'

Kitson lowered his pocketbook and rubbed his aching eyes. He sat blankly for a few moments, then cleared his throat and tried to begin his next sentence. His mind kept stumbling, however, the words emerging in the wrong order or not at all. After six or seven attempts he gave up, and only just managed to prevent himself hurling his pencil down the hillside.

Cracknell came panting up the path from the low-walled redoubts further along the Heights, around which the earlier stages of the battle had been fought. His brow was shining with sweat. 'd.a.m.n this country,' he gasped, spitting out a bead of phlegm. 'How vertiginous it is! Enough to bring a fellow's heart to bursting point.'

He staggered over to where Kitson was sitting, complaining about various aspects of life on the peninsula. The view from the summit, however, was enough to silence even Richard Cracknell.

'So there it is,' he said eventually. 'The Light Brigade is lost.'

Black-winged carrion birds were circling down towards the valley floor with the lazy ease of creatures who knew that a certain feed awaited them. There was a distant dash of musketry from the far side of the valley, on the Fedyukhin Hills, where the Russian Army had managed to gain a lasting foothold after the battle. They seemed to be firing on a British detail sent out to retrieve the last of the wounded, which had accidentally strayed into range.

Cracknell turned away, fumbling with a cigarette. 'h.e.l.l's teeth,' he muttered, 'they might as well have sent the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds charging straight at the barricades of Sebastopol.'

He sat down heavily and asked to see what Kitson had. The junior correspondent handed over his pocketbook and lay back on the gra.s.s, gazing up at the evening sky, following wisps of cloud as they drifted out to sea. Kitson was immensely tired. It had been many nights since he had rested properly. He had always been a light sleeper, easily disturbed; and the noise of the Allied artillery bombardment, although over two miles distant from the small hut Cracknell had secured for them, was more than he could stand. This dull, constant fatigue was slowly leeching away his vigour, his eloquence, and his enthusiasm for his work.

Cracknell, Kitson realised, was pleased. 'This is good, Thomas,' he said approvingly. 'Good indeed. You have a real feeling for the human tragedy of all thisfor the plight of the men who are falling victim to our generals' woeful inept.i.tude. The political and the strategic elements elude you almost completely, of course, but this is to be expected, given your background. You write through sorrow and sympathy rather than anger, a deficiency well supplied by my own commentaries.' He tossed the pocketbook on to Kitson's chest. 'This, my friend, is why we are such an effective partnership.'

Their account of the battle of the Alma and its aftermath had been published mere days after the event, thanks to the wonder of the electric telegraph. Filled with both copious praise for the fighting men and severe criticism of Lord Raglan and his generals, it had been a major success for the Courier Courier, completely selling out the issue that had carried it. Telegrams had arrived from O'Farrell relating its impact, and the fierce debate it had provokedand urging them to keep up the good work. Already, however, there had been signs of how this prominence might have adverse effects. Shortly after publication, the Captain whose vessel conveyed their reports to the telegraph office at Varna had stated that he was no longer prepared to a.s.sociate with them. Cracknell had found this encouraging, strangely enough, and a new messenger had been secured that same morning; but for Kitson at least, a worrying precedent had been set.

The senior correspondent now started to read out his own work. It was predictably blunt and confrontational, littered with speculation, fearlessly a.s.signing blame to those in command. There was a delight in Cracknell's voice, a deep pleasure in his own polemical savagery that was utterly incongruous with his subject. Kitson closed his eyes.

'A crime was done today, dear reader,' the report concluded stridently the report concluded stridently, 'a great and terrible crime against all the codes and usages of war. Our foe, the men of Tsar Nicholas, took a great chance, usages of war. Our foe, the men of Tsar Nicholas, took a great chance, rushing out of Sebastopol in ma.s.sive numbers, cunningly skirting rushing out of Sebastopol in ma.s.sive numbers, cunningly skirting the Allied camps on the plateau to strike at Balaclava, the port the Allied camps on the plateau to strike at Balaclava, the port supplying their supplying their besiegers besiegers. They were thwarted, but only after a great many valiant lives had been squandered due to the wretched stupidity many valiant lives had been squandered due to the wretched stupidity of a villainous, cold-hearted cadre of aristocratic buffoons. Our Light of a villainous, cold-hearted cadre of aristocratic buffoons. Our Light Cavalry, among the finest in the world, was left unused at the Alma, Cavalry, among the finest in the world, was left unused at the Alma, when it could have made a real difference; and has now been when it could have made a real difference; and has now been destroyed needlessly at Balaclava. This reprehensible waste seems destroyed needlessly at Balaclava. This reprehensible waste seems the result of a spat between n.o.blemen, between the famous enemies the result of a spat between n.o.blemen, between the famous enemies (and, we might add, brothers-in-law) (and, we might add, brothers-in-law) Lucan Lucan and Cardigan. The and Cardigan. The latter, who supposedly led the charge, was interestingly among the latter, who supposedly led the charge, was interestingly among the very first back to safety; and whilst so many of his men lay bleeding very first back to safety; and whilst so many of his men lay bleeding in the dust, the Earl was enjoying a bath on his yacht in Balaclava in the dust, the Earl was enjoying a bath on his yacht in Balaclava harbour, with the prospect of a fine dinner before him. Such is the harbour, with the prospect of a fine dinner before him. Such is the calibre of leadership in the Crimea!' calibre of leadership in the Crimea!'

His recitation complete, Cracknell launched directly into a pa.s.sionate tirade about the wider strategic failings of the campaignabout how Raglan had made yet another error in listening to his engineers rather than his generals and bringing up the artillery for a bombardment instead of mounting an immediate attack.

'Now they pound away at earthworks with cannon, achieving nothing and allowing Russians to come at us as they have done here. And still, still still they talk so lightly of Sebastopol falling in a matter of weeks!' He got to his feet and gazed out at the gruesome panorama before them. 'Honestly, I cannot believe that I supported this war at its outset. I shiver with embarra.s.sment, Thomas, at the praise I heaped on this wrong-headed enterprise. I honestly thought that they had a proper plan of actionthat they they talk so lightly of Sebastopol falling in a matter of weeks!' He got to his feet and gazed out at the gruesome panorama before them. 'Honestly, I cannot believe that I supported this war at its outset. I shiver with embarra.s.sment, Thomas, at the praise I heaped on this wrong-headed enterprise. I honestly thought that they had a proper plan of actionthat they had had to have one.' He shook his head, exhaling cigarette smoke. 'But they do not, my friend; they most definitely do not.' to have one.' He shook his head, exhaling cigarette smoke. 'But they do not, my friend; they most definitely do not.'

After a few seconds' further contemplation, the senior correspondent let out an exclamation and pointed down at the redoubts. Kitson sat up. Turkish troops were removing the bodies of their slain comrades from the crude defensive structures, piling them up outside the walls like rolls of tattered, b.l.o.o.d.y cloth.

'Our Turkish allies,' Kitson said. 'I hear that they suffered heavy casualties resisting the Russian advance, before the British forces had turned out. Their sacrifice is worthy of mention, Mr Cracknell, do you not think?'

'Codswallop,' proclaimed Cracknell forcefully. 'The heathen dogs let two forts fall. Their cowardice d.a.m.n near cost us the day. But I wasn't looking at them.' He tapped Kitson's arm, and then pointed again. 'Highlanders, man. Sir Colin Campbell and his ADC.'

The two officers from the Highland Brigade, in their kilts of dark green tartan and their black feather bonnets, weren't difficult to locate. They stood to one side of the redoubt, in conversation with an upright, bearded civilian in a long blue frock-coat, a peaked cap and highly polished riding boots.

'Russell of the Times Times,' Cracknell growled. 'My great rival. Ingratiating himself as usual. The slimy toadI'll bet he saw everything.' The Courier Courier team, delayed by the unexplained absence of their senior, had arrived in the valley some time after the final shot had been fired, and had been obliged to rely on eye-witnesses for their information on the battle itself. 'Here's what we'll do. I'll go down there, have a jaw with Billy Russell and those two bonnie Scotsmen, and see what more I can learn about the action. You stay here and brush up what we've got so far.' team, delayed by the unexplained absence of their senior, had arrived in the valley some time after the final shot had been fired, and had been obliged to rely on eye-witnesses for their information on the battle itself. 'Here's what we'll do. I'll go down there, have a jaw with Billy Russell and those two bonnie Scotsmen, and see what more I can learn about the action. You stay here and brush up what we've got so far.'

Kitson jotted a note in his pocketbook. 'What of Styles?' he asked wearily. 'It has been some time since he left for the valley floor.'

'What? Oh yesdon't want him collapsing again, do we, with neither of us around to prop him up!' Cracknell chuckled wickedly. 'Very wellyou find the boy then. I want you to keep up your watch on Mr Styles for me, Thomas. The lad's is a little soft in the head, I think. He'll need some careful supervision during the trials to come, you mark my words.'

Kitson watched as the senior correspondent trotted off towards the redoubt, shouting a robust 'hallo' to Russell and the Highlanders. That he could make such avuncular p.r.o.nouncements with every appearance of sincerity was remarkable. In the month since the clash at the Alma, his treatment of Styles had been consistently, characteristically merciless, both with regards to the events of that day and the enduring issue of Madeleine Boyce. It was this unrelenting mockery, Kitson suspected, that was driving Styles to seek more and more time alone.

Cracknell reached the Times Times' correspondent and his companions, who greeted him with obvious reluctance. Kitson turned and headed down into the valley. He followed a narrow, winding footpath, cut deep into the gra.s.s by centuries of pa.s.sage by Tartar shepherds. The hills around him were smooth and treeless, and dotted with pale rocks. In the distance, beyond the wide plateau that held the main Allied camps, the location of Sebastopol and its fortifications was marked by a few winding trails of grey smoke. To the left, off between two steep green spurs, was the dark ribbon of the sea.

Slowly, the slope began to level out, and Kitson pa.s.sed through a large, abandoned vineyard. It was yet another corner of the fecund peninsula rendered barren by the invasion, yellow dust caking the withered, trampled vines. As he picked his way towards the valley floor, the arid furrows became littered with the detritus of a recent battle. A beaten-in dragoon's helmet told him that this was where Brigadier-General Scarlett's Heavy Brigade had repelled the Russian cavalry, just after the struggle for the redoubts. Sc.r.a.ps of uniform from both armies had been sown into the vineyard by hundreds of stamping hooves, and sabre-shards winked like flints in the crumbling earth. Pushing aside a screen of ragged, browning leaves, Kitson saw a hand, severed just below the wrist, lying on the ground before him. White as soap, it was frozen in a loose pointing gesture, with a silver wedding band on the ring finger. Averting his gaze, he hurried on.

Styles was sitting atop a boulder in plain sight, as close to the battlefield as was safe. He was hunched over his paper, hard at work in the soft evening light, a battered cap of uncertain provenance pushed back on his head. Without speaking, Kitson approached, and peered over to see Styles' subject. The drawing in his lap depicted one of the many dead chargers laid out on the bed of the valley. This horse had been gutted by a cannonball, its entrails entirely gone, the carca.s.s lying darkly hollow like an empty sh.e.l.l.

Kitson sighed, leaning up against the boulder and crossing his arms. This grisly scene was becoming typical of Styles' productions. Only one of his drawings, in fact, depicting the battlefield of the Alma, had so far been engraved for the Courier Courier; since that day, the ill.u.s.trator had been exposing himself to the most distressing sights that the war had to offer, dwelling upon them at unhealthy length. The resulting images were nightmarish, and completely unusable.

'Do you really imagine that the Courier Courier will run that?' Kitson asked. Despite his best efforts, he could not keep the impatience from his voice. will run that?' Kitson asked. Despite his best efforts, he could not keep the impatience from his voice.

Styles stopped drawing. He did not reply.

'I realise what you are attempting,' Kitson went on, 'truly I do. And as ever, your great skill is evident. But you must realise that no magazine in England would print such an image.'

The ill.u.s.trator turned towards him sharply. 'I am only doing what we came out here for, Kitson,' he snapped. 'To see war for what it is. Or have you forgotten?'

I have lost his confidence, Kitson thought. For some reason, he considers us to be adversaries. How had this happened? He uncrossed his arms and put his hands in his pockets, feeling suddenly ashamed, wondering how he could repair the damage that had plainly been done.

Styles stared out at the valley. 'Do you know what happened yet?'

Kitson brushed a fat autumnal fly from the shoulder of his jacket, trying as he did so to keep his eyes off the slaughter. The light breeze carried over a revolting, fleshy stench, already tainted with putrefaction. Over at the foot of the Causeway Heights, privates from the Highland Brigade were burying fallen hussars. Still clad in their magnificent uniforms, the bodies were being swung into deep pits, their brocaded sleeves flapping behind them as they plummeted to their graves.

'As far as we can deduce,' he said quietly, 'Cardigan's men were supposed to charge the contested redoubts up on the Heights, but went head-on for the Russian artillery instead. G.o.d only knows why.'

'So it was a mistake. Not even an ordinary defeat. All this death for the sake of aa blunder blunder.' Styles' voice grew bitterly angry. 'They will try to disguise what happened here, you know. They will try to dress it up in the garb of heroismmake it acceptable, admirable even. I must stand against this in my work, Kitson, do you not see? I must show the truth truth.'

'I do understand that, Styles, believe me, but-'

'Then keep to your business,' he interrupted, 'and allow me to keep to mine.'

Frowning, Kitson glanced away. How could he challenge this? Revelation of the truth of warfare, as he had declared himself on many previous occasions, was the cornerstone of the Courier' Courier's presence in the Crimea. Yet for some reason it made him profoundly uncomfortable to hear this from Styles now. This same commitment fuelled Cracknell's grandiloquent rage, spurring the senior correspondent on to ever more scathing condemnation of the British commanders; in the young ill.u.s.trator, however, it seemed to be fostering only a dark and violent melancholy.

'Come, Robert,' Kitson said after a while, adopting a conciliatory tone. 'We must not quarrel. G.o.d knows, this land needs no more ill-feeling in it. We are friends, are we not?'

Styles had resumed work on his sketch, the pencil scratching busily as it transcribed the charger's mangled remains. 'Yes,' he said after a pause, his voice low and a little strained, 'we are friends.'

2.

The brushwood on Inkerman Ridge was thick and almost waist high. Major Maynard fought his way through, muttering curses as brambles and twigs scratched against his legs. He was holding a tin mug of steaming broth up in the air, in the hope of keeping it stable, but the uneven, slippery mud beneath the tangle of bushes was causing him to stumble frequently. Hot liquid splashed over his hands, making the chilled flesh smart and tingle.

Private Cregg followed about five yards behind him, cheeks ruddy from rum-and-water, with his minie rifle ready in his hands. Maynard knew that this was not necessarily a man to be relied upon. He could tell that Cregg was one of those who had fled to the service to escape the law, joining Her Majesty's Army in order to avoid being dangled from the gallows. The scoundrel was famous for his insubordination, and was regularly flogged for it; but the Major had noticed that Cregg treated him, and him alone, with a certain gruff deference. Above all else, Maynard believed in giving every man under his command the chance to prove his worth. So this was ithe was giving Private Cregg his chance.

Finally, they reached the battery. Maynard set the mug down and caught his breath. Lifting a fist to his mouth, he licked the warm broth off his knuckles and looked about him in the early morning half-light. The battery, built in haste as soon as the Allies had arrived on the Heights around Sebastopol, had since been abandoned as it stood too far forward of the rest of the line. It was large, constructed from sandbags and wire gabions filled with white rocks, and had two gun emplacements, designed for Lancasters from the look of them, both now empty.

The Allied positions were already lost in the fog behind them. All he could make out was the battery itself and a small grey ring of the wasteland around it. It was as if they were enclosed in an opaque, smoky bubble, lost to the rest of the ridge. The gloom was quite overpowering. Everything was thoroughly soaked by the drizzling rain that had been falling now for thirty-six straight hours. Maynard took out his watch. There was just enough light for him to see the hands against the white face; it was shortly before five. He put the watch back in his coat and picked up the mug, pressing his hands around it and inhaling the broth's thin aroma. With some effort, he resisted raising it to his lips, and instead began to walk slowly around the battery's perimeter.

'h.e.l.lo?' he called, trying to keep his voice clear and confident. 'h.e.l.lo, are you there?'

There was no reply, but he knew what he'd seen. He'd been standing in the forward pickets of the Second Division, talking to Major Hendricks of the 55th, a fellow India man and an old friend. The wind coming in from the Black Sea had shifted the fog slightly, affording him a brief glimpse of the abandoned battery. There, close to the dark ma.s.s of sandbags, had been a solitary figure in a cap and a long coat. It had been exposed for just a second before the fog engulfed it once more. Hendricks had laughingly declined to go with him to investigate, and advised him to ready his revolver. The Russians were getting increasingly cunning, he'd said, and audacious as well; their scouts and spies were often seen nosing around the old Sandbag Battery. Undeterred, Maynard had beckoned Cregg to his side, and then set out.

There was a scuffling sound somewhere to his rear. He turned to see Cregg hauling himself on to the battery wall, his charcoal greatcoat falling open to reveal the red tunic beneath, worn to the colour of cured beef by the months of hard campaigning. Once up there, the private adopted a crouched sharpshooter's pose, looking about him keenly as if searching for targets.

'Major,' he hissed urgently, 'what we after, exactly? This bloke you saw' e can't very well be one of our own, can 'e? What would 'e be doin' out 'ere, all by 'isself?'

'I believe that I recognised him, Cregg. A fellow from the London Courier London Courier magazine.' magazine.'

Cregg's eyes, glinting beadily under the brim of his shako, stayed on the mists. 'You mean the paddy, Major? Fat covebig black beard? Likes the sound of 'is own voice? I seen you with 'im at the Almachum o' yours, ain't 'e?'

Maynard could not help but smile at this vivid description. 'As much as anyone is,' he replied. 'Mr Cracknell and I are acquainted, but I would hesitate before claiming any more than that. I'm quite sure that he would jettison me in a moment if he believed it to be in his best interestsor should I say in the best interests of his work.' He continued his search, peering into the darkest recesses of the battery. They were quite empty. 'It was not him I saw, thoughrather a member of his team. An ill.u.s.trator.'

Now Cregg looked down at him, his face twisted into an uncomprehending sneer. 'What, like an artist, what draws an' that? Why would 'e be out 'ere?'

This was the nub of it. Maynard was but a humble soldier, a career man, not so very different from the scrawny chap up there on the battery. He stood well apart from the grand lords and refined gentlemen who deigned to wear the uniform, and he could not for a moment claim to understand the niceties of art. But even he could tell that it was not a morning for making ill.u.s.trations.

'Indeed, Cregg.' Maynard completed his circuit. 'Well, there is certainly no one here now. A little mystery we shall not be able to solve, I fear.' He glanced down at the broth that sloshed blackly within the mug, and thought that he might get to drink it after all.

'Major!' said Cregg sharply, suddenly tensing. 'Major, what's that noise?'

For a second Maynard had no idea what the private was talking about. Thus far, the night had been a deathly quiet one, as if the fog was m.u.f.fling sound as well as obscuring sight. But then, away down the steep slope in front of the battery, he heard the faint creaking of cartwheels bouncing down an uneven road; the c.h.i.n.k of metal, and the clump of boots; and, distant but quite clear, the murmuring of hundreds of voices, speaking in a thick alien tongue.

'That'sthat's bleedin' Russian Russian, that is! The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are gettin' ready to attack us!' The private scrabbled down from the battery.

'Calm yourself, man,' Maynard instructed firmly. 'It is but traffic on the road into Sebastopol. Major Hendricks was telling me of this shortly before we left the pickets. It runs along the base of the Chernaya valley. All quite routine.'

This served to confuse the soldier rather than rea.s.sure him. 'Supply road? But 'ow are they ever goin' to give it up, if they're gettin' new supplies?'

Maynard had no answer. Cregg was right: the campaign could not come to any sort of an end at present. The sad, simple truth was that the Allies lacked the troops to encircle the city properly, and their forces dwindled a little further with every pa.s.sing day. Maynard's fear, shared by a growing number of officers, was that the inexplicable delay in mounting an a.s.sault on Sebastopol had cost them a quick victory, and that the already ailing army was now doomed to face a Crimean winter.

'You would be well advised to leave such matters to your superiors, Cregg,' he said. 'Now get yourself back to the line. Mrs Boyce and her friend should still be there with their cauldron of hot broth. I think you've earned yourself a cup.'

Cregg saluted and hurried off, plainly glad to be putting some ground between himself and the Sandbag Battery. Maynard turned back to the slope, lifted the mug and took a sip of broth. It was weak and bitter, and now only lukewarm; but he drank the rest down anyway, murmuring thanks to Mrs Boyce once he had finished. He had been most impressed to see her at the pickets, braving the cold and gloom in order to perform such an honest, valuable service for the sentries. Now there, he'd thought, is a person with a proper sense of dutymore than could be said for her d.a.m.ned husband.

Boyce had been appointed to make the two o'clock tour of the line, a responsibility a.s.signed to a different infantry colonel every night for the past three weeks. He had failed to appear, however, leaving Major Maynard no option but to perform this task for him, instead of retreating to his cot for some much-needed rest. No word had been sent, but Maynard knew that the Colonel (as he now was, having recently received an entirely undeserved promotion) had dined in the hut of some senior artillery officers half a mile back from the line. Obviously the attractions of a well-stocked table, and a sufficiently elevated company, had proved too compelling to leave. The Major had been angry, but not particularly surprised. It was hardly the first time Boyce had behaved in this manner.

Before heading back himself, Maynard decided on another circuit of the battery, to make a final check for any irregularities. As he trudged around its front, the dew from the coa.r.s.e gra.s.s washing the mud from his boots, his brow slowly creased with gathering consternation. He wished that Hendricks, who had more experience of this portion of the line, had agreed to come out to the battery with him. The volume of noise rising up from the Chernaya valley seemed great indeed, and was growing by the second. Surely this could not be normal. Suddenly, there was a fresh clamour of Russian voices, shouting as if for order, mingled with the sound of rapidly turning wheels. These were not now the wheels of the Sebastopol supply train, of lumbering ox-carts loaded with flour, milk, or gunpowder, but something altogether lighter and faster, like small carriages or broughamsor pieces of field artillery.

Maynard swallowed, listening hard. This surely warranted an urgent report to Brigadier-General Pennefather of the Second Division. Pennefather might well laugh at him, and call him a lily-livered poltroon; or he might curse and castigate him for raising an unnecessary alarm, and bid him return post-haste to his own section of the line, where he knew what was what.

So be it. Maynard started to walk back in the direction of the pickets, lifting his boots up high in order to move through the mud and brushwood as quickly as he could. After half a dozen paces, he started to run.

3.

The cauldron was heavy, and Annabel was glad indeed to set it down. She straightened up and put her hands on the small of her back, rubbing the aching muscles. Who would have thought that broth could weigh so much? The soldiers in the nearest pickets began to look around, nudging each other. Word started to travel along the positions on Inkerman Ridge.

'Broth, my lads!' she announced, peering through the steam that rose from the cauldron. 'Hot broth, come and get some!'

They shuffled towards her out of the early morning fog, holding out their army-issue tin mugs for a ladleful of the watery brown liquid and then retreating. Some muttered thanks. Most said nothing, and kept their eyes fixed on the ground. One or two looked at her most oddlyand none too pleasantly. She suppressed a shudder, keeping a broad, compa.s.sionate smile plastered on her face. These men were killing killing, she reminded herself, killing on an almost daily basis, and they were being killed as well, in their droves, and sleeping in dirt, and living on filth. Do not presume to judge them. Judgement is the Lord's right, and His right alone.

'That's right, my lads, drink up. And remember, the light of Almighty G.o.d is upon thee always. Speaketh unto Him and thou will be heard. Today is the Sabbath. Be sure to offer up thy prayers and devotions this day. As the good book tells us: the eyes of the Lord are on the righteous, and His the eyes of the Lord are on the righteous, and His ears are attentive to their cry.' ears are attentive to their cry.'

As if to fortify her words, through the oppressive gloom came the sound of distant church bells, tolling within the besieged city, calling the faithful of Sebastopol to the first service of the day. Annabel thought about remarking upon this to the soldiers, but decided against it. It was probably best not to remind them of their Christian kinship with an enemy whom they would soon be ordered to fight to the death once more.

Annabel looked around for her young partner in her labours, and for a few seconds could not locate her. The girl had retreated a few yards after putting down the cauldron, and now stood all but enveloped in fog, the hood of her cloak raised against the drizzling rain. There was still something of the officer's wife about her, Annabel noticed. She remained reluctant to mix with the common soldiery.

'Madeleine, what are you doing back there? Come forward, if you please. There is more to be done.'

As Madeleine returned obediently to her side, Annabel was struck yet again by the girl's beauty. Such a woman must be used to the adoration of all Londonof all England. That she had chosen to stay in the camps said much, Annabel thought, for the Christian goodness of the soul beneath. The majority of the wives had headed straight back to Constantinople after the shocking loss of the Light Brigade, and the first frost; but this young woman, scarcely out of childhood, had opted to remain, and furthermore was prepared to a.s.sist with the alleviation of the suffering of the fighting men.

The unmarried sister of a chaplain from the 93rd Highlanders, Annabel Wade had travelled from Speyside to the Crimea quite independently of the British Army. Motivated by her stern Evangelical faith and a compa.s.sionate desire to lend whatever a.s.sistance she could, she was inexhaustible in her efforts to relieve the difficulties of the men on the front lines. She had met Madeleine in the Commissariat storehouse supplying the Light Division, where Annabel had been berating the officer behind the counter for the continued lack of winter clothing. They had conversed, and she had welcomed Madeleine's cautious offer of a.s.sistance without hesitation.

Annabel could tell, however, that the situation with Madeleine Boyce was not quite as simple as it seemed. Spousal loyalty had played no part in her determination to stayshe only spoke of her husband with barely contained hatred or dismissive contempt. Neither, despite her efforts, was the plight of the soldiers her true reason. There was another motive at play. Annabel entertained no speculation, but she kept her eyes open. She knew that this girl was going to require her help.

Madeleine smiled at a private with a dirty bandage wrapped around his head, who was approaching the cauldron. He stared at her as if she were some manner of apparition come to taunt him in his misery. She looked away uneasily.

Annabel stepped forward, taking the private's mug, filling it, and then pressing it back firmly into his hands. 'There you go, laddie, a lovely mug of broth to warm the bones against this perishing cold. G.o.d go with thee.' The man wandered off without a word, casting a long backward look at Madeleine as he went.

This rescue was typical of Annabel. In the weeks that they had been together, this admirable, fearless lady had taken on the role of Madeleine's protector; and as a genuine affection burgeoned between them, she guarded her friend like a Caledonian mastiff.

Madeleine's standard excuses for absenting herself from her husband's tent had soon lost their credibility once the siege of Sebastopol was underway. The official issue of suppliesof what few supplies there werewas now regulated by a Commissariat store so close to where the 99th were pitched that it took but minutes to visit it. The exodus of the other officers' wives back to Constantinople had robbed her of an infinite source of imaginary social arrangements. She had been left with no good reason to do anything but attend on Nathaniel. He had continued in his usual abuses, insulting her, beating her, subjecting her to intimate a.s.saults; and had soon realised that he had a new weapon to use. The notion of sending her back to England had started to be broached several times a day. He had talked of how a couple of the very best men had already ordered their wives home; no longer, it seemed, did such a course of action carry its previous implications of poverty and dishonour. She knew that she would have to think of something quickly.

Then, as if by the divine providence she so frequently invoked, Annabel Wade had appeared. Nathaniel could hardly object to her undertaking such useful work, which was so beneficial to the army, alongside a lady of eminent respectability. Of course, he was deeply suspicious at first; but no matter how much scrutiny he applied to the proposition, not a trace of Richard Cracknell could be detected about it.