Page 1 of Lord of the Lost

Prologue

Early 1815

“No! No……”

The words drifted into a moan, and Lord Devlin Vickery thrashed on the stained pallet, the pain of his wounds dragging him out of the fitful sleep and the terrible repeating dream. The dream where the ghosts of every man he had fought and killed, and every man on his own side whom he had not been able to save, surrounded him, desperate, hoping for the life they could no longer touch.

They were, collectively, the lost – all those who had gone to war, and would never go home.

Soon, he might join them, if his wounds festered, if the inadequate attentions of the battlefield surgeon and the two nurses who tried to save hundreds of men failed him. Perhaps that would be better? But stubbornness rose within him – he thought that he had something to live for, someone to live for, perhaps?

He pulled himself up into wakefulness as a cold cloth touched his brow.

“Now, now, my Lord, you’re just dreaming again. You’re not on the battlefield any longer!”

The nurse looked exhausted, but at least she tried.

He shook his head.

“Here, I’m not ‘my Lord’ – here, I’m just another soldier – Lord of the Lost, perhaps, and damned near lost myself. Titles mean nothing when I can’t save men’s lives.”

She looked at him with sadness in her eyes.

“You can save your own life, you can fight to get better – surely you have family, someone to live for?”

He turned his head away. Memories were bittersweet, and likely just imagination – would she even remember him? Still… he would like to know if anyone at home cared, if home was real – for now, it seemed like a fever dream, an impossible place where each day went by without anyone trying to kill you.

The cool cloth soothed the heat of his fever, and he drifted into sleep again – sleep which was, this time, blessedly free of the demands of the lost, of the haunting which filled almost all of every day.

~~~~~

August 1815

Gregory Vickery, Duke of Grimstoke, looked at his wife with despairing eyes, as his laboured breathing echoed through the room. He would die soon, he was sure of it, for nothing the physician had given him had made one stroke of difference.

“Emilie… how long has it been since the war ended?”

“Over two months, my love.”

He sighed, and turned his head away for a moment.

“More than two months? And no word of Devlin?”

“None. But I am sure that he will come home. If… if he had died, the army would have sent us a letter by now… You must not give up hoping.”

“I will not – but if he does not come soon, then I will be gone – I would like to see my son again, before I die…”

A sob broke from Emilie’s throat, and she clutched at his hand, knowing that he was right, that death would claim him soon. She had the most terrible feeling, that Devlin would not come home in time, that she would be left here, caring for the Duchy for him, alone in this great ancient pile of stone that was Grimstoke Castle, all but her daughter, surrounded by people who all looked at her askance, because she had been born in France, despite the fact that she had now been 50 years in England.

He patted her hand, then gave a great sigh – a sigh which sounded so different, that she lifted her head, and brought her tear-filled eyes to his, only to watch, in horror, as the light of life left them.

“Nooooooo……”

She bent her head to rest on his shoulder, as it had so often before, and wailed, devastated by the loss of her life-long love, and the aching loneliness which struck to her heart. Moments later, her daughter ran through the door, followed by what seemed half the Castle staff, and all joined her in her grief.

Many hours later, once all of the necessary arrangements had been made, she collapsed into her bed, but could not find her way to sleep. Her thoughts ran around, and around, focused on Devlin, who was now Duke, Devlin, who would never see his father again, and who, if fate was not kind, might not come home at all. What was she to do?

Tomorrow, she resolved, she would write to the Army headquarters, and enquire about Devlin’s whereabouts. He had risen to the rank of Brigadier, so surely, they would know where he was? And if, when they responded, they could offer her no news, then, should he still be absent, she would need to place advertisements in both English and French newspapers, and pray that he would see one of them.