“It might be,” Janet admitted, “but soldiers don’t usually bother camp followers. We’re no danger to them.”
The reverse wasn’t always true, but Suzanne felt a powerful impulse to help. To do somethingactive. Maurice was a few steps away and temporarily unoccupied, so Suzanne said, “Mrs. Allen needs help to bring her wounded husband back to Brussels. Can you find us a cart with wheels wide enough to manage the mud, plus canvas to cover the cart to protect Corporal Allen?”
Maurice snapped a couple of questions at Janet, then nodded. “Aye, I can find a cart and a pair of strong mules to pull it. I’ll come with you to help push the cart out of the mud.”
“Thankyou!” Suzanne said gratefully, knowing his strength and knowledge of the area would greatly increase their chances of success. She crossed the infirmary to where Lucas was treating the wounded arm of a member of the King’s German Legion.
Briefly she explained what she was going to do. She half expected him to object, but he nodded understandingly. “Risking yourself as a sacrifice toward Simon’s safe return home?”
She winced. “You are altogether too perceptive, Lucas. My mind knows that ritual magic isn’t going to help him, but this is worth doing for its own sake.”
He laid a quiet hand on her shoulder. “Just be careful, Suzanne. Simon needs you.”
“And I need him.” She gave Lucas a crooked smile. “Pray for us, almost brother. I’m sure you’re better at it than either Simon or I.”
He smiled, then turned away to help a man being carried between two friends. She hoped Lucas could pray and bandage at the same time.
* * *
The journey down to Jack’s location was wet, muddy, and utterly miserable, though they made decent time under the circumstances. The corporal was just where his friends had described, in a copse of dense trees a little way off the main road. They seemed to be in a kind of no man’s land and hadn’t seen any soldiers from either side in the last half hour.
Suzanne looked around uneasily, feeling that danger could come from any direction, but Janet leaped from the cart. “Jack.Jack!”
Her young husband had been half unconscious, saturated by rain and looking frighteningly pale, but he jerked awake and made an instinctive reach for a weapon before he recognized his wife. “Janet, is that really you? You’re mad, my girl!” But he crushed her into his arms when she knelt beside him.
Maurice allowed them a minute for their reunion before saying, “Time we got a move on. There are safer places for hugging.”
That was undeniable, so working together, they managed to get Jack into the back of the cart, under the canvas and wrapped in a blanket. They were about to head back to the road when a deep voice shouted in French, “Who is back there!” The shout was followed by several shots.
The rescue party froze in panic. After an instant of frantic thought, Suzanne said, “I’ll go out and talk to them. I’m the only one here who is French and I should be able to convince them that I’m just a camp follower looking for my husband.”
Maurice frowned. “That’s not safe.”
“We’re in the middle of a bloody war zone!” she swore. “Nothing here is safe! But I have the best chance of keeping us all in one piece. If they want to take me off for questioning or something, head for Brussels as soon as we’re out of sight. One way or another, I’ll get away from them and manage to make my way home.”
More shots were fired. Not waiting to argue further, Suzanne called out in French in a frightened feminine voice, “Please, sirs, I’m a camp follower looking for my husband! I’m unarmed. I’ll come out but, please, don’t shoot me!”
“Show yourself!” the deep voice barked.
Suzanne emerged from the woods, hands held high and stumbling in the mud. It was easy to look harmless and terrified. Though she had her knife and one of her pistols, she doubted they’d be any good against the half dozen mounted men of the patrol.
The leader with the deep voice was a lieutenant. He said sharply, “Your name!”
“Suzanne Duval, sir,” she said, her voice quavering. The name was common enough to be harmless.
“What outfit was your husband in?”
What had Simon said? “The Dutch-Belgian Sixth Infantry.”
“They fought well,” the lieutenant said with grudging respect. “The great Wellington made a mistake, and if not for the Dutch-Belgians, we’d be in Brussels now!”
“And a lot drier!” one of his men muttered to general laughter.
“She might know something useful. Gerard, take her up with you and we’ll bring her along to headquarters.”
“But I want to find my husband!” she wailed, backing away.
Gerard, a burly sergeant, said not unkindly, “The battle was fought yesterday. He’s either recovering or dead. Now behave yourself and you won’t get hurt.”
