Chapter 20
For three months of training, Mary never saw Officer Van Acker.
Sergeant Gorst headed their regiment and kept them busier than sailors taking in canvas during a storm.
Mary and Henry, like the other soldiers without horses, acquired them from neighboring villages.
Henry found himself an old Spanish-bred gelding he called Arthur while Mary took home a true prize—a brown Thoroughbred she’d named Merlin.
Merlin’s agility and spirit won her over at once, though his hot temper cooled in her presence.
His high spirits allowed her leverage in the negotiations.
Ma would have been proud, seeing her strike the bargain.
Merlin was sixteen hands tall and utterly gorgeous.
Mary hadn’t meant to spend so much of her savings, but she needed a horse.
It might have colic or break a leg, leaving her penniless, but a deeper part of her said otherwise—that she could trust this creature despite the risks.
She would have a better chance of rising in the ranks on the back of a fine, capable horse like Merlin.
To do so would secure a better future for herself, and her mother.
Any day, any second—Mary knew—this could all come to an abrupt end.
Mary’s mind was all training—bonding with Merlin, learning swordsmanship on horseback, practicing how to maintain and quickly assemble her weapons, and participating in drills.
Drill after drill after drill. Her legs and buttocks ached in places she didn’t know they could.
She had all but forgotten Van Acker existed when he rode into camp one April afternoon.
“Oh look, it’s Father Time again,” Henry said. He leaned in his saddle and grinned at Mary. “Think he can do us a favor and slow down our training schedule?”
Mary’s mouth went dry. Merlin’s dark ears pricked and he stamped his foot.
“At ease!” Sergeant Gorst yelled at the regiment, his jowls shaking.
Officer Van Acker dismounted and bowed to Sergeant Gorst. Mary couldn’t make out their words, but Sergeant Gorst showed clear displeasure. His lips formed a tight line as he read a letter Van Acker handed him.
“Soldiers!” Gorst shouted. He held his chin high in the bright sun. “Today is your last day of training. Tomorrow, we join Van Acker’s regiment and move west.”
This was it? Superiors never had to explain their orders. This was war. This was battle. Not just the defensive fighting she’d learned on Captain Southwick’s ship or the marching and minor skirmishes she’d dealt with as a cadet. Real war.
A murmur rippled among the men. Mary tightened her grip on the reins, feeling slick sweat on her palms. The moment she looked up, Van Acker caught her eye.
That glaze of blue, the shock of white-blond hair.
How he looked atop a horse. Mary immediately glanced away, feeling a burn down to her toes as she shifted in her saddle.
“Dismissed for the day,” said Gorst. “Rest. We move at dawn.”
“To Queen Anne!” one English soldier said, holding up a flask as they sat around a fire that night.
A few toasted with enthusiasm. Others were slower to follow.
Mary swirled the liquid in her cup, knowing she’d dump it out at the first opportunity.
Keeping a clear head remained her greatest asset.
Her stomach roiled from nerves, or maybe it was the slop served at dinner.
Officer Van Acker’s regiment had joined them, but there would be more—thousands more—in the days and weeks to come.
She looked around at the lit faces of her companions against the black of night: mostly young men, some old.
Mostly English fighters like her and Henry, but also the Dutch.
A few Austrians, Hanoverians, Prussians, and Danes.
A handful of Scots, Irish, and Swiss. Captain Southwick had been right about this being a world war.
Had he been right about this being the safest way forward?
“You’re awful quiet tonight, Read,” Henry said to Mary, elbowing her in the ribs.
“Because I’m normally such a talkative fellow,” Mary said.
He tsked. “Don’t be testy with me. If I perish, you’d regret it terribly.”
The humor left Mary’s face. “Don’t jest about that.”
Henry sighed. “Very well. What is there to jest about in war?”
Mary shook her head. Henry had a new pimple on the bridge of his nose—stress did that to him.
“Officer Van Acker, over here,” one soldier hollered, waving his arm.
Mary went rigid. With one breath, then two, she stood up to make her escape. Unfortunately, she slammed right into Van Acker.
She gasped, sounding too much like a woman. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, moving to leave again. Only her feet, her miserable feet, would not move.
Van Acker angled past her without a word and stood in the fire’s glow. He crossed his arms. Mary was beginning to feel her feet again when the interrogation began.
“Is it true?” someone asked.
Mary turned to listen.
Van Acker exhaled. “I fear so.”
Henry shot Mary a look, gesticulating for her to return to her seat, but she did not budge.
Someone handed Van Acker a drink, and he downed it. His muscles flexed under his loose white shirt. After wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he sat with the men who watched with expectation. His white-blond hair fell loosely to his shoulders.
“What’s true?” Henry finally asked.
“We anticipate skirmishes as we travel,” Van Acker said. He drew his brows together, and his jawline appeared even starker in the dancing flames. “But the true goal is to battle Marshal Villeroi and the French troops in one month’s time.”
“How many on our side?” asked a Scot.
“As many as we can get. All the guards, dragoons, foot soldiers, and artillery companies on the continent. Civilian contractors, too.”
The men searched each other’s faces. Some flickered with anticipation while others paled.
“Can we win?” Mary asked. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.
All eyes turned to her. She immediately regretted speaking—all this attention from him. From everyone.
Van Acker rose slowly like the smoke and Mary squared her shoulders.
“Draw your sword,” he said.
Someone gasped. Mary’s heart thumped with fear. “Is that an order?” she asked.
“I am not your commanding officer.”
Henry laughed nervously, and the man beside him kicked Henry’s boot to silence him.
What game was this? Mary’s hand shook, but she reached for the blade at her side. She unsheathed it. Van Acker did the same.
He took his stance. “Your name, soldier?”
Mary gripped the sword tight. “Read.”
“And where do you hail from?”
“London, sir.”
His lips tugged up at the side, then he turned around to meet the gaze of onlookers. “How many of you here are also from England?”
Half raised their hands.
Van Acker spun back to Mary. “And how many of you here, other than Read, thought to wear your sword at all times?”
Mary’s stared at her weapon. She’d been sleeping with a knife since joining a ship, never sure when she might have to defend herself or her identity.
Van Acker lunged, and Mary blocked his blow. He smiled. How Mary hated that smile. This man was a risk to her, to every battle she had to fight on an invisible field. She wanted him to leave her alone. She wanted him to disappear.
She struck from above, and he parried. Foot over foot, they went again. Metal against metal, the way Southwick had taught her. Mary’s heart pumped and her blade swirled and there was nothing but ringing and grunts and a hum in her bones.
At last, Van Acker faced her, close enough to feel his heavy breathing—his blue eyes close enough to see the smolder in his pupils.
He flicked his blade in a movement that threw Mary’s to the ground.
She stepped on the handle and flipped it back into her palm—an old trick from her sailing days.
Her chest heaved and she bared her teeth.
What was wrong with this man? How dare he pick her out of a crowd and challenge her?
How dare he exist?
Van Acker sheathed his weapon, then raised his hands in surrender.
“With a battalion of soldiers, brave and always prepared like Read from London,” Van Acker said, eyes kindling with intensity as he studied first Mary’s blade, then the gathered men, “yes, we can win.” He paused, his voice quiet and flinty. “We will win.”
She fumed as the men cheered. All Mary wanted was to storm away into the night. Disappear. Sleep and put to rest the uncharacteristic anger pounding inside her skull. Instead, she forced herself to wait. Two minutes, then three, until enough soldiers had left so she could slip away like a fog.