“If you please. What happened to your face?” Johnny sat down again and looked at Gabriel expectantly.
He felt his cheeks burn. “It is a war injury,” he explained.
“You mean, sir—”
“Your Grace,” Birdie interjected.
“Yes, miss. You mean, Your Grace, sir, that you were fighting in the war? Against the French Beast?”
“Er. Yes.”
“That’s bloody brilliant!”
A chorus of children’s voices chimed in:
“How was it like?”
“Did ye see him yersel?”
“Are ye a hero?”
“Does yer face still hurt?”
“Did ye—”
They jumped up and crowded around Gabriel, who backed up against the door, ready to flee.
“Children, if you sit down and calm down, His Grace will tell you all about his experiences in the war,” Birdie said.
He was going to do what? Gabriel stared at Birdie, aghast.
But Birdie sat down quietly in an armchair, folded her hands in her lap, and looked at him invitingly. He looked around and saw the expectation on the children’s faces. Bright, shiny faces with eager eyes.
“We’re ready, sir, Yer Grace,” piped up a little boy. He had curly auburn hair, a peaky little face and only one arm. He sat down right in front of Gabe with crossed legs and looked at him with anticipation.
“It was Sunday, the 18th of June 1815,” he heard himself say. “Do you know where Waterloo is?”
The children shook their heads.
“It’s on the continent. Near Brussels.” Gabriel looked at Birdie for help.
“We will look it up in the Atlas afterwards, children,” Birdie chimed in. “Continue, Your Grace.”
“Six nations were pitched against France. The coalition consisted of Prussia, the Netherlands, Hanover, Nassau, Brunswick and the United Kingdom. The Prussians were in rear-guard—” He interrupted himself. He battled with himself for one moment before he made up his mind. He gave a curt nod. “I shall have to show you. Come with me.”
He strode out of the room before he changed his mind.
A general scramble and the quick patter of feet followed him.
Higgins had been right when he’d said the castle was invaded by children, he thought, as he opened the door to his tower. They spilled into his room and gathered in awe around his miniature model of the battleground. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined, as he rose from of bed this morning, that he’d be spending his afternoon showing his precious model to a group of village children.
He told them the story of Waterloo. It was the first time he had ever talked about it.
It felt oddly liberating.
As he spoke, he noticed the little one-armed boy hung on to his every word, looking at him with serious, big eyes.
“… and after the Prussians broke through the French right flank—over here—and the coalition vanquished the French Imperial Guard, it was clear the battle was won.”
