Captivity
The ground gave no warning.
Villiers raised a hand. Two fingers—spread. Enemy cavalry ahead. Fitzwilliam saw them through the haze: two dozen riders, maybe more, and behind them, the dark wave of infantry forming on the ridge.
No call went up. They moved wordlessly. They always had.
He caught Villiers’s eye, drew one line in the air with his gauntlet, then two. The men shifted as one, rein leather creaking in harmony.
The French advance rippled downhill. He angled Perseus to draw them clear of the regiment’s main body, the Twenty-Fifth fanning behind him like a flight of arrows. The air filled with the dull thud of hooves, the crack of powder in the smoke.
A hand signal—Villiers’s this time. Ready.
Fitzwilliam lifted his sabre, dropped it forward.
They turned as one.
The charge met the French head-on; the first ranks broke. He saw eyes, flashes of steel, a bay horse plunging to its knees. His men cut through. No cheering. No cry. Only breath and impact.
The enemy wavered. Fitzwilliam led his men past them, wheeled about, and drove again. The air stank of powder and blood; the sound came in waves—then faded.
He caught the distant cough of a cannon—one he should never have heard so late.
“Vill—”
White fire bloomed.
The field folded in upon him.
* * *
The world had no sound.
Light. Mud. Hooves passing somewhere above him. Close enough that the earth shuddered.
He could not breathe. He tried again.
Something wet struck his cheek. Rain, perhaps. Or blood. But cold.
He turned his head. The sky tilted, grey and red together. A horse limped past dragging its reins, the rider half-spilled. Villiers’s voice—he thought it was Villiers—rose and fell behind the ringing in his ears.
He tried to answer, but the words caught in his throat.
Hands on him—rough. Not his men. The smell: oil, sweat, sour wine. A shout in French. Another.
He swung once, blind. Steel met flesh, but his arm would not lift again. The strike should have mattered.
It did not change anything.
Something struck him from behind. The ground disappeared.
* * *
Light pressed behind his eyes. He opened them slowly, waited for the spinning to stop.
Stone behind him, cold against his spine. Chains on his wrists. No clothing. The air sharp with damp. A drip counted time.
He lowered his head. The world tilted, then steadied. A sharp crack—open palm against his face. He blinked, not knowing how long he’d been asleep. A subaltern spat on him and turned away.
Fitzwilliam closed his eyes, forcing his breath even. Thumb to finger—five times, right hand first, then left. The movement was slow, unsteady. The manacles chafed, but the fingers obeyed. Toes next—one by one. Sluggish.
His body was giving way.
Footsteps drew nearer—two, maybe three. Voices, French. He lifted his head, slow, measured, eyes open. The subaltern’s boots stopped within a yard. Better that they see him look.
Two men entered—the first holding by the door, the second advancing, gloves tucked beneath his arm. The subaltern straightened.
“Comment vous appelez-vous?”
The question was repeated without change.
Silence. A glance to the subaltern, then both turned and left. The door closed.
He let his chin fall and the dark took him again.
He opened his eyes. Heat, then the smell—iron and the thin flare of singed hair. A man stood over him in a leather apron, poker white at the tip. The same subaltern—same silver bar—smiled.
Fitzwilliam watched the metal approach. No pain; only the fact of heat where there ought not to be. He counted the seconds by the poker’s hiss.
The man squatted, grin widening. He set the iron to Fitzwilliam’s chest and held it.
“Les Anglais ont plus d’hommes que vous ne croyez,” he whispered. The English have more men than you think.
Fitzwilliam hacked out a cough, then another.
The subaltern bent nearer. “Combien?”
He set the iron on the stone and came close enough that Fitzwilliam could see the pulse in his neck. The skin there rose and fell.
Fitzwilliam did not lunge.
He closed—teeth sinking deep on the throat before him.
The man jerked, hands striking out, fingers catching at Fitzwilliam’s hair. He tried to rise; Fitzwilliam dragged him down by the throat. Warm blood surged into his mouth. He bit harder—and then through. The man’s body fell, spasmed once, then went slack.
Fitzwilliam opened his mouth and let the meat fall. Blood ran down his chin. He turned his head, spat until his throat cleared.
He exhaled, worked his tongue. A thin taste of blood remained. Not fear or triumph. Iron.
He shifted, pulling the chain taut, and dragged himself towards the water pooled along the far edge of the floor. He drew a mouthful and spit. Slurped, spat again. He could not feel his teeth.
He ignored it. He closed his eyes.
Boots in the passage, voices. Four, maybe five. The door opened; men filed in. A captain followed, saw the body, and stopped. He went down on one knee beside the subaltern, then leapt to his feet.
“Merde! Salaud d’Anglais!”
He drew his sword.
“Il est temps que vous mouriez.”
Fitzwilliam bared his teeth.
“Je te verrai d’abord en enfer.”
Warmth—blood—struck his face and collar, stung his eyes, painted his mouth. He blinked through it. The Frenchman was opened from throat to navel. He fell.
The French lay everywhere—faces turned, hats askew, blood pooling in the dust. Villiers stood among them, breath harsh, shoulders moving slightly. Two wiry infantrymen stood close to him, knives dripping red.
Both were lean—cord and bone beneath stained wool and close-cut coats.
Their hands were the first thing Fitzwilliam marked—broad in the palm, scarred at the fingers, hands made for iron and bodies.
They held their knives as men held tools, not weapons—no flourish, no rage, no haste.
They looked at Villiers, then at Fitzwilliam’s manacles, and waited—quiet as a forge between blows.
“Armourers? You wound me, sergeant.”
Villiers gave a thin smile. “Found these two Quince men wandering about, sir. Idle hands—theirs—I would not want on my conscience.”
Fitzwilliam jangled his manacles. Moments later, they were struck off.
The iron left his wrists. The weight remained.
Villiers caught his arm and raised him. The room tilted.
Daylight thinned—then greyed.
* * *
English voices. Boots in water. Horse tack jingling.
He could not lift his head. Someone shouted his name—Burton, perhaps? No. Villiers. Then nothing.
Heat pressed against his skin, smoke and iron. A voice on his right— “Hold him—now—steady—” Fire licked his shoulder. Hands forced him down. Thread pulled through flesh. A scent cut through the smoke—vinegar and boiled linen. He caught it and kept it.
“No laudanum. Keep sewing—”
Another voice, calmer. “He’s breathing. Leave him. We’ll suture the others at another time.”
He thought he heard Villiers laugh—the dark shimmered.
“Cousin.”
Darcy stood immaculate—collar stiff, hat in hand. Ridiculous—Darcy was in England, safe behind stone and silence.
Fitzwilliam turned his face away and closed his eyes. He would not be seen like this.
He opened his eyes. Ellie’s face bent over him—and Phoebe’s.
The same nose. The same chin. One smoothing his hair, the other gripping his hand.
“You are our champion,” Ellie said softly.
Phoebe lifted her chin. “Not theirs.”
He tried to answer her. His mouth filled with blood and water. He swallowed. It went down warm. It came back warmer.
Heat touched his shoulder. Hands forced him flat—more pulling, more stitching.
His teeth clicked once. He counted it a kindness.
You need not restrain me.
They did not restrain him. They held him.
He drifted.
He counted at first—five days, then eight.
After that he lost the measure.
Villiers appeared over him. “You gave them a bit of work, sir.”
Fitzwilliam tried to answer. Only air. Villiers’s grin faltered. “Rest, Colonel. You’ve earned it.”
His vision swirled.
Dark again.
* * *
He woke. Swallowed. Worked his tongue.
“Water.” The word came out rough, as if it had scraped him on its way.
A nurse appeared above him. “Good evening, colonel.”
“Set me up.”
“Sir, you cannot—”
“Set. Me. Up.” He inhaled. “Now!”
“I have him, nurse.” Villiers again. Fitzwilliam sat upright a moment later.
“His bandages—” she began.
“How many days?” he asked.
“Three in French hands. Six in the surgery.”
He looked about. The smell hit him first, thick with blood and vinegar. Five men still bleeding. He stopped counting.
A nurse approached with a basin. She stared above him.
“Get me to my tent.”
They refused him that night.
And the next.
Villiers would not allow it.
When next he opened his eyes, it was daylight. The air cooler. He was being carried; the canvas above him swayed.
He turned his head—his neck pulled. Rows of soldiers lined the path. Smoke curled from the ruins beyond the ridge.
The litter rocked. Faces he did not know—blackened, bandaged, bloodshot. Each raised a hand as he passed, lips moving.
Imperator.
He lifted his hand in answer. Roman fancy in Portugal.
Nonsense.
The chant followed him to his tent.
They set him down; Villiers propped him up.
“Leave the flaps,” Fitzwilliam said.
“Yes, sir.”
“You stink of sympathy.”
“That I do.”
“As do I, colonel.” Wellesley stood in the doorway.
Fitzwilliam met his eye. “General.”
Wellesley inclined his head with a faint smile. “You look like the devil, Fitzwilliam.”
“Do I?”
“I daresay you do. You shall mend in England. The countess has sent no less than three letters; the earl one—shorter, though not less forceful. I am ordered to deliver you home before they storm the Peninsula themselves.”
“Formidable, my mother.”
“Then we are agreed.” He drew a folded paper from his coat. “You’ll find yourself in the broadsheets. The men speak of you as a candidate for sainthood.”
Fitzwilliam scoffed.
“Indeed. You will receive official notice of your actions—commendations, perhaps another star.”
“Spare me.”
“It will be sent to Matlock regardless.”
Wellesley gave a short nod. “Your war is over, Fitzwilliam. God keep you.”
The general left.
Fitzwilliam exhaled. Slowly.
Villiers muttered, “What next, sir? Matlock House?”
“Aye, Villiers.”
Fitzwilliam inclined his head.
“Home.