Young Bloods [Wellington and Napoleon Quartet - Book I] by Simon Scarrow

Napoleon turned over in his bed and drew his knees up to his chest in an effort to keep warm. Even though it was June, the nights had been cold the last few days and the single blanket that cadets were permitted, all year round, was hardly enough to make sleep possible. The bed on which he lay was a crude affair: a straw-filled mattress resting on simple bedstraps that had sagged with the years and made the whole feel more like a hammock than a proper bed.

Around the bed the plain plaster walls of the cell rose up to rafters, angling down from the tiled roof-pitch above. A single, narrow window high on the outside wall provided illumination during the day, and now, as the sun rose, a faint grey finger picked its way into the room, illuminating a slow swirl of dust motes.

With a muttered curse he jerked up from the mattress and heaved his bolster back against the wall. Then, reaching into the small locker beside the bed, he fumbled for the copy of Livy he had rented from the local subscription library. He had too little grasp of Latin to attempt to read it in the original and had opted for a recent translation into French. He had come to speak and write the language quite fluently, even though he had not managed to shed, or hide, his Corsican accent. Indeed, it was something he was beginning to affect some pride in, as part of the identity that made him different from the sons of the French aristocracy.

Settling back against the bolster, he opened the covers of the book, flicked to the chapter he had marked with an old slip of parchment and began to read.

Ever since he had first attended school in Ajaccio and been made aware of the history of the ancients, Napoleon had a fervent enthusiasm for the subject. Something he had in common with another boy - Louis de Bourrienne - who was the closest thing that Napoleon had to a friend.

Louis was happy to share his collection of books with the young Corsican. Napoleon spent long hours poring over the campaigns of Hannibal, Caesar and Alexander. And so, covered by his blanket, he read on, immersing himself in the war between Carthage and Rome, until the dull, booming thud of the drum beat out its summons.

Napoleon set the book down on the locker and jumped out of bed. His stockings, breeches and shirt were already on, as he had worn them against the chill of the previous night. In any case, they gave him an advantage when the drum called the cadets to morning assembly. He pulled on his boots, tied the laces and stood up, glancing over his clothes. They were badly creased in places and he hurriedly rubbed his hands over the worst spots to try to ease out the creases. Then he snatched up his coat, thrust his arms down the sleeves and grabbed his hat before quitting the cell and joining the last of the cadets hurrying down to the quadrangle.

By the time he emerged from the building almost all the other boys had lined up and were standing silently.

Napoleon scrambled across the cobbled stones, acutely conscious that he would be the last one in place.

He reached his position, at the end of the front line in his class by virtue of his small stature, and quickly straightened his back, stiffened his spine and stared straight ahead.

‘Cadet Buona Parte!’ Father Bertillon, the duty teacher, bellowed across the quadrangle. ‘Last man on parade. One demerit!’

‘Yes, sir!’ Napoleon shouted back in acknowledgement.

To the side he was aware that some of the boys in his class were casting angry glances at him, and a voice whispered from behind, ‘That’s one demerit too many, Napoleon. You'll pay for that.’

Napoleon’s lips curled into a mirthless smile. He knew the voice well enough. Alexander de Fontaine, the tall, fair-haired son of a landed aristocrat in Picardy.

From the moment of Napoleon’s arrival at Brienne, Alexander had made his contempt for the Corsican quite clear. At first it had been by quiet slights and sneering judgements about the new boy’s poverty. Alexander had been delighted to discover a ready target for his bullying who never failed to respond to the bait with incandescent explosions of rage that left everyone who witnessed them in fits of laughter. Blows had been exchanged between them, the kind of half-hearted fights that provided plenty of scope for others to intervene and stop them, but both boys knew that there must be a full reckoning some day. One that Alexander was bound to win, since he was by far the bigger of the two, and fit and strong besides. Napoleon knew that he was facing a beating, but it was better to fight and be beaten than to be branded a coward.

The director emerged from the administration building and strode across to the cadets. He nodded a greeting to Father Bertillon and, without any preamble, began his inspection of the first class, proceeding slowly down the ranks, picking fault wherever he could. A demerit for a missing coat button. And another for a grass stain on a cadet’s breeches. He passed on to Napoleon’s class and worked his way up from the rear. Napoleon heard him award a demerit for a tear in the collar on one boy’s coat, then nothing more apart from the scrape of the old man’s boots across the cobbles.

‘Cadet de Fontaine.’

‘Yes, Director!’

‘Immaculately turned out, as usual. One merit awarded.’

‘Thank you, Director.’

Napoleon could not help a bitter little smile. Alexander’s uniform had, as ever, been cleaned by one of the kitchen boys and quietly delivered to his cell last thing at night as the young aristocrat slept. The service cost good money, and wasn’t strictly permitted by the college. But then Alexander came from a class that was above the rules that applied to many of the other cadets.

The director was passing down the first line and Napoleon stood as still as he could, fixing his eyes on one of the chimney stacks on the far side of the quadrangle so as not to let his gaze waver a fraction under the director’s inspection.

‘Ah, and here we have my favourite little adversary,’ the director chuckled. ‘Monsieur Buona Parte, how are we today?’

‘I am well, Director.’

‘Are you? Are you indeed?’

The director came to stand directly in front of the smallest boy in his class, and leaned forward a little, staring through his thick lenses at Napoleon. ‘You may be well, sir, but alas, your clothes are in an appalling condition. It looks like you have been sleeping in them. Well, have you?’

‘Have I what, sir?’

‘Don’t get cheeky with me, boy. Have you slept in these clothes?’

‘No, sir.’

‘So they became abominably creased all by themselves, did they? Fairly cringing from contact with your rough Corsican skin.’

Napoleon bit back on his anger. ‘Evidently, sir.’

‘I see.’ The director straightened up and called over his shoulder to the duty teacher, 'Cadet Buona Parte, one demerit for untidiness … and another for dishonesty.’

He turned away and moved on to inspect the next class. Napoleon could sense the hostility of his classmates and for an instant cursed himself for adopting that insubordinate tone with the director. Two demerits would mean that his class would be in the bottom position of the merit table. It was close to the end of the month, and if the position remained the same then the class would be confined to the college while the other cadets were permitted to spend a day in the town - a crude but effective reward system and one that was unforgiving of those who failed to perform according to the college’s standards.

The inspection came to an end as the director mounted the steps to a small wooden podium and offered morning prayers. As ever, Napoleon’s mind blanked out the sense of the words echoing across the quadrangle. He had little time for religion, considering it to be one of the greatest inefficiencies afflicting mankind. Imagine, he mused, how many more shoes a cobbler could make, how many more pages an historian could write, how many more miles an army could march, if they were only spared the hours demanded of them by the Church. Life was brief enough as it was, and a man should make the best use of the time he was given.

The prayers ended, and as soon as the director has disappeared back into the administration building, Father Bertillon dismissed the cadets to breakfast. They streamed back into the hall below their cells and silently went to their places at the two rows of long wooden tables. Once all were present, Father Bertillon said a brief grace and gave the word that they could sit. A deafening shuffle of boots and scraping of benches filled the hall. The cadets began to speak - quietly at first, then growing in volume until it echoed off the walls.

The door to the kitchen swung open and several sweating boys entered the hall carrying steaming pots of porridge. They heaved the pots up in front of the senior cadet at the head of each table. At Napoleon’s table, that was Alexander de Fontaine, and Napoleon sat several places down from him. On the table in front of each cadet was a wooden bowl, spoon and cup. A jug of watered beer stood in the centre of the table, and as the porridge arrived this was passed round to fill the cups. As yet, no one had spoken to Napoleon but the atmosphere amongst his comrades was hostile and there was little of the usual carefree chatter. That did not bode well, and Napoleon wondered what kind of retribution they would impose on him for placing their class at the bottom of the merit table.

‘Pass your bowls!’ Alexander called out, standing over the pot, and stirring its contents with the ladle, releasing a fresh swirl of steam. The cadets shoved their bowls up towards him and each was filled in turn before being passed back, starting with those closest to the head of the table. Napoleon, still considered to be the new boy, was last in line and as Alexander reached for his bowl he looked down the table and his lips parted in a malicious grin. He raised the ladle so that all could see what was happening, and then poured a far smaller portion into Napoleon’s bowl than had been given to the other cadets. Then he leaned over the bowl and spat into it.

‘A little something in return for the demerits you so kindly provided for us.’

Napoleon clenched his hands into fists on his lap, and lips compressed into a tight line. He felt his heart seethe with hurt and hatred. Then, as the bowl was passed down the table towards him, each cadet spat in turn into the bowl. The last cadet glanced at Napoleon, curled his lip and spat before shoving the bowl sideways. Napoleon glared up the table at Alexander, then, not trusting himself to control his feelings, he glanced down at the bowl. The porridge lay in a small congealed lump at the centre of the bowl. Glistening over it was a slick of white bubbly sputum. He felt sick, and close to throwing up.

Alexander laughed. ‘Eat up, Buona Parte! Or you’ll never be more than a common Corsican runt.’

Napoleon’s hands flew up from beneath the table and seized the bowl. At the same time he felt a blow to his shin; a sharp and violent kick. He gasped in pain and his eyes flashed across the table to where Louis de Bourrienne was shaking his head at Napoleon.

‘Don’t do it, Napoleon!’ he hissed. ‘You’ll get us another demerit. At least.’

Napoleon glared back, hands still gripping his bowl, his face chalk white with seething rage. Around the table the other cadets paused over their breakfasts, watching in eager anticipation for the storm to break.

Napoleon closed his eyes tightly, and breathed in deeply through his nostrils as he fought to control a wave of emotion that felt far too big for his body. Slowly, it seemed, he fought for, and won, control over his rage and pain and began to think logically again. Louis was right. Now was not the time to react. To fight now, against overwhelming odds, was foolish. To do it in front of Father Bertillon would be rank stupidity. This was a battle best avoided, however much his heart compelled him to action. As his mind cleared Napoleon focused on the pain in his shin. Louis was right. Napoleon opened his eyes, looked across at his friend and nodded. His fingers relaxed, he let go of the bowl and returned his hands to his lap.

‘What? Not hungry?’ Alexander called out. ‘I might have known you’d have no stomach for it.’

A ripple of laughter flowed amongst the other cadets and for an instant Napoleon felt the rage returning as he reacted to the accusation of cowardice. But then he knew what he must do. He would show these contemptible French aristocrats that he was better than them. That he had the courage to confront and overcome their attempt to intimidate him. Steeling himself, he drew a deep breath, picked up his spoon and scooped up a lump of porridge and spit. He glanced towards Alexander and smiled.

‘Pass your bowls!’ Alexander called out, standing over the pot, and stirring its contents with the ladle, releasing a fresh swirl of steam. The cadets shoved their bowls up towards him and each was filled in turn before being passed back, starting with those closest to the head of the table. Napoleon, still considered to be the new boy, was last in line and as Alexander reached for his bowl he looked down the table and his lips parted in a malicious grin. He raised the ladle so that all could see what was happening, and then poured a far smaller portion into Napoleon’s bowl than had been given to the other cadets. Then he leaned over the bowl and spat into it.

‘A little something in return for the demerits you so kindly provided for us.’

Napoleon clenched his hands into fists on his lap, and lips compressed into a tight line. He felt his heart seethe with hurt and hatred. Then, as the bowl was passed down the table towards him, each cadet spat in turn into the bowl. The last cadet glanced at Napoleon, curled his lip and spat before shoving the bowl sideways. Napoleon glared up the table at Alexander, then, not trusting himself to control his feelings, he glanced down at the bowl. The porridge lay in a small congealed lump at the centre of the bowl. Glistening over it was a slick of white bubbly sputum. He felt sick, and close to throwing up.

Alexander laughed. ‘Eat up, Buona Parte! Or you’ll never be more than a common Corsican runt.’

Napoleon’s hands flew up from beneath the table and seized the bowl. At the same time he felt a blow to his shin; a sharp and violent kick. He gasped in pain and his eyes flashed across the table to where Louis de Bourrienne was shaking his head at Napoleon.

‘Don’t do it, Napoleon!’ he hissed. ‘You’ll get us another demerit. At least.’

Napoleon glared back, hands still gripping his bowl, his face chalk white with seething rage. Around the table the other cadets paused over their breakfasts, watching in eager anticipation for the storm to break.

Napoleon closed his eyes tightly, and breathed in deeply through his nostrils as he fought to control a wave of emotion that felt far too big for his body. Slowly, it seemed, he fought for, and won, control over his rage and pain and began to think logically again. Louis was right. Now was not the time to react. To fight now, against overwhelming odds, was foolish. To do it in front of Father Bertillon would be rank stupidity. This was a battle best avoided, however much his heart compelled him to action. As his mind cleared Napoleon focused on the pain in his shin. Louis was right. Napoleon opened his eyes, looked across at his friend and nodded. His fingers relaxed, he let go of the bowl and returned his hands to his lap.

‘What? Not hungry?’ Alexander called out. ‘I might have known you’d have no stomach for it.’

A ripple of laughter flowed amongst the other cadets and for an instant Napoleon felt the rage returning as he reacted to the accusation of cowardice. But then he knew what he must do. He would show these contemptible French aristocrats that he was better than them. That he had the courage to confront and overcome their attempt to intimidate him. Steeling himself, he drew a deep breath, picked up his spoon and scooped up a lump of porridge and spit. He glanced towards Alexander and smiled.

Again, the other cadets tensed up, waiting for Napoleon to explode. Instead, he opened his mouth, raised the spoon and closed his lips over it. His tongue recoiled in disgust, but Napoleon forced himself to eat the porridge, slowly and steadily, and then return the spoon for some more.

‘Disgusting …’ He heard someone mutter.

He continued eating until the porridge was finished, and quietly set down his spoon. As he looked up he saw that most of the other cadets were looking at him with expressions of horror and disbelief. Some had not eaten their porridge, he noticed with delight. At the head of the table, Alexander glared at him, eyes filled with hatred, his neat fingers balled into a fist around his spoon. As their eyes met, a means of revenge occurred to Napoleon. A revenge that would be most appropriate indeed.

‘Be seated.’

The class pulled out their benches and sat down, in silence, waiting for Father Dupuy to begin the lesson. The teacher folded his hands together, stared down at the ranks of faces and began in his customary manner.

‘Where did we end last lesson?’ he asked. His eyes passed over the students, who were trying their best to be invisible, in their customary manner. Then Father Dupuy nodded at a boy on the back row. ‘Alexander de Fontaine.’

‘Yes, sir?’

Father Dupuy smiled. ‘If you would be so good as to remind me of the point we had reached.’

‘Yes, sir.You were talking about the siege of Jerusalem.’

‘Indeed. And remind me whose work I was citing in describing the siege …’ his eyes turned to another cadet, ‘Buona Parte.’

‘Josephus, sir.’

‘Josephus, precisely.’ Father Dupuy picked up the first notebook and flicked it open. 'Which leaves me slightly perplexed by de Fontaine’s prep from last night in which he quotes, at some length, from Suetonius’ eye-witness account of the siege.’

Alexander de Fontaine had some idea of what was coming and shifted uncomfortably on his bench as Father Dupuy paused for dramatic effect.

‘Clearly, Suetonius was blessed with a most precocious talent, since he would have been all of one year of age at the time of the siege of Jerusalem. Unless, of course, you are referring to a previously undiscovered historian whose translated works have only just become available in Brienne.’

Alexander blushed. ‘No, sir.’

‘I see. You are in error, then?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘In which case it is only fair that I award you one demerit. I suggest that you pay attention in my lessons from now on.’ He picked up a pen, dipped it in his inkwell, and made a note against Alexander’s name in the class record book, before looking up again. ‘Come and collect your workbook.’

Alexander scraped his end of the bench back and walked stiffly to the front of the class, mounted the podium to receive the book Father Dupuy held out to him, then turned and made his way back. From his desk Napoleon was delighted to see the attempt Alexander was making to hide his shame. Father Dupuy coughed.

‘In contrast to de Fontaine’s entertaining but inaccurate effort, I am delighted to say that at least some students have managed to write thorough accounts of the siege. Notably Louis de Bourrienne, who has a fine style; clear and succinct and neatly written. For which he is awarded a merit. Here.’ He raised the next workbook and held it out. Louis beamed at Napoleon, then rose from his seat and hurried forward to fetch his workbook.

‘And now we come to another cadet’s work. Like de Fontaine, he seems to have had some difficulty in listening to instructions. Rather than relating the events of the siege this cadet decided instead to offer a critique of the defenders of Jerusalem.’ Even though he spoke without meeting Napoleon’s gaze, the latter shrank back a little behind his desk. Father Dupuy lifted the next book in the pile and weighed it in his hand as he continued. ‘Of course, I had to struggle with the handwriting, which would do shame to even the youngest infant ever to hold a pen. But once I had deciphered the scrawl I am bound to admit that the analysis of the defence of Jerusalem was most sagacious for a cadet of his age. The prose style was not perfect, inclining as it did to a rather hectoring tone, but the argument was compelling.’

Now he fixed his eyes on Napoleon. ‘Cadet Buona Parte, you will make a fine staff officer one day, assuming you learn to write legibly. I award you two merits for your essay, but deduct one for your presentation. Please collect your book.’

Napoleon had fully expected a tirade of criticism for his wilful departure from the task the class had been set. It took him a moment to accept that his work had been admired instead. Not only that, but he had won a merit. That would go some way towards rescinding the bad feeling he had caused at the morning parade. He stood up and made himself walk at a sedate pace to retrieve his workbook from Father Dupuy. On the way back to his desk he passed close by Alexander and their eyes met in a mutual glare of hostility. Napoleon realised that at least one of his fellow cadets bore him even more ill will than before. Alexander and his aristocratic cronies were going to make life very difficult indeed.

That night, as Napoleon lay on his bed, he reflected on the months since he had arrived at Brienne. Not a day had passed without his thinking about Joseph and the rest of the family. Far from becoming used to his new life, as his father had promised he would, he had become steadily more miserable, yearning for what now seemed the carefree existence he had lived back in Ajaccio. He was far from the comfortable familiarities of home, in an alien world, surrounded by people who looked down on him as a crude provincial and treated him with haughty contempt. Only one friend, and one teacher, stood between him and a terrible isolation.

Napoleon felt his heart harden. Alexander de Fontaine needed to be taught a lesson. He needed to be knocked from that self-satisfied pedestal from which he looked down on the rest of the world. Napoleon had decided on his plan earlier in the day and refined the details in the hours since he had gone to bed, and now he waited for the tower clock to strike two, the very depth of night when all in the college would be still. Under the bedclothes he wore the garments he had brought with him from Corsica. For the task he had in mind he could not risk sullying any part of his Brienne uniform. So he lay still, his mind racing - partly from his restless temperament, and partly in order not to let sleep creep up on him. Then, as the clock struck two, he rose from his bed, carefully eased open the door to his cell and crept out into the still, silent shadows of the college.

As a faint pink glow silhouetted the edge of the roof tiles, the cadets spilled out into the quadrangle to form up for the morning parade. From the end of the line Napoleon stood stiffly, trying hard to give the appearance of a model cadet. He had learned the lesson of yesterday and made sure that his uniform was clean and pressed for this morning. Beneath the cloth he felt his skin tingle with anxious anticipation and his pulse had quickened as he casually glanced at the last few cadets emerging from their quarters. So far no one had noticed anything unusual and Napoleon forced himself to keep still, and stop staring at the last of the cadets trotting across the quadrangle.

‘Where’s Alexander?’ he heard someone mutter.

‘No idea. Haven’t seen him. He’s cutting it fine. He’ll be the last - there he is …’

‘Good God, what’s happened to his uniform?’

As the muttering increased around Napoleon, he thought it was safe to turn and stare along with the other cadets. Crossing the quadrangle towards them was Alexander. His face was a mask of cold fury, and his uniform was covered with dark stains and smears of what looked like mud, but as he approached his classmates and the smell hit them, it was clear that his uniform had been covered with something far more distasteful. A particularly pungent application of pig-shit, as Napoleon well knew. Not that there were any traces on him. He had scraped the filthy ordure from the sty belonging to a local farmer and brought it back in a wooden bucket, in which he had thrust Alexander’s neatly folded uniform and stirred it around, before creeping to the water trough in the college stables by moonlight to clean the bucket and make sure that his old clothes were clear of any stains. Only when he was satisfied that no marks would betray him did Napoleon return to his cell and climb back into bed, excited and terrified by the deed he had just carried out, so that he only fell asleep a scant hour before the morning drum beat out its summons.

Around Napoleon the astonishment of the cadets was turning into a growing wave of laughter and muttered ridicule. Alexander’s expression crumbled and tears glinted in the corners of his eyes as he rounded on his classmates.

‘Stop laughing!’ he shrieked. ‘Stop it!’

But the laughter only increased in intensity and with a convulsive shudder of his chest, Napoleon joined in, for once on the side of the majority. So this was what it felt like to be part of the crowd. He winked at one of the other boys and nodded in Alexander’s direction. The boy, who had exchanged no more than a few words with Napoleon since he had arrived at Brienne, nodded and smiled back.

‘Who did this?’ Alexander shouted, whirling round as his eyes swept over the other cadets, wildly searching out his enemy. 'Who did this to me?’

Alexander stopped and thrust out his arm towards Napoleon. ‘You! You did this! It must have been you!’

‘Silence!’ the duty teacher shouted as he hurried across the quadrangle towards their class. ‘Get in line there! Hurry up!’

For a moment Napoleon watched as Alexander’s hands closed into tight fists and he seemed on the verge of charging at him. Then the larger boy became aware of the duty teacher’s approach and, taking control of his anger, he went to his position. Before the duty teacher could reach them the director emerged from his office.

‘Get in line there!’ the duty teacher yelled. ‘All of you! Form up!’

The last of the cadets’ laughter died away and they hastily moved to their positions as the director strode across the quadrangle towards them, an angry expression on his face.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ he shouted. ‘What is this? A formal parade or a damned fishwives’ market? Silence there! Stand still for inspection.’

When all stood stiffly to attention, staring straight ahead, the director nodded grimly and began the familiar routine of striding down the ranks of each class, scrutinising the appearance of every cadet.

When he reached Napoleon’s class he had taken no more than half a dozen paces before he stopped dead and grimaced.

‘What is that stench? Which one of you is responsible?’ He continued along the rank until he came to Alexander, and abruptly stopped.

‘Cadet de Fontaine, what on earth are you doing in that state?’

‘Sir, I - I,’ Alexander stammered. ‘I didn’t—’

‘You smell like shit!’ The director’s tone changed from anger to astonishment as he continued, ‘My God! It is shit. You’re covered in shit. What is the meaning of this, Cadet? Looks like you’ve been rolling in it. How dare you present yourself on parade in this condition? Are you a gentleman or a common swine? Well?’

Alexander opened his mouth to reply, then closed it and shook his head, as he stared straight ahead.

‘Very well,’ the director continued harshly. ‘Three demerits for Cadet de Fontaine. And two months confined to college.’

He swept on, continuing the inspection, and Napoleon struggled to keep his face expressionless as the director turned the end of the line and strode towards him, pausing every so often for a closer glance at one of the cadets. When he reached Napoleon he paused, stared hard at the small Corsican boy and nodded grudgingly.

‘Much better, Cadet Buona Parte. It seems that you are learning the ways of your betters at long last. Keep it up.’

‘Yes, sir.’

As soon as morning prayers were over and the cadets had been dismissed, Napoleon started towards his classroom, but a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him round. Napoleon stared into the white face of Alexander de Fontaine.

‘You little bastard!’ Alexander hissed. ‘I don’t know how you did this.’

‘Me?’

‘I know it was you. Don’t pretend it wasn’t.’

Napoleon smiled sweetly. ‘Prove it.’

‘I don’t have to. Who else would stoop to something like this?’

‘I don’t know,’ Napoleon scratched his chin, as if considering the question seriously. Then his eyes lit up. 'Someone just like you perhaps?’

The other boy’s lips parted in a snarl and he started to raise his fist to strike Napoleon, in full view of the duty teacher. In a moment of pure delight Napoleon waited for his enemy to strike, a blow that would result in far greater punishment than he had received a moment earlier. But at the last instant one of Alexander’s friends caught his arm and held him back.

‘Not now! Not here.’ He glanced at Napoleon and continued softly. ‘Later, when there are no witnesses. Come on, Alexander.’

De Fontaine allowed himself to be firmly steered away and he made himself smile at Napoleon. ‘Later then, Corsican.’

‘Of course.’ Napoleon shrugged. ‘If you are man enough.’

‘Man enough?’ Alexander chuckled. ‘Oh, yes. I’ll be man enough. The question is, will you?’

‘I’ll be ready.’

Napoleon woke from his sleep with a start. Just for an instant he registered the presence of several dark shapes surrounding his bed. Then something dark was thrust over his head and before he could attempt to snatch it off, hands grasped his body and a fist slammed into his stomach, driving the breath from his body. As he groaned he was rolled on to his stomach and held down while someone roughly tied his hands behind his back.

Then a voice whispered close to his ear, ‘Keep your tongue still, if you don’t want it cut out.’

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Napoleon gasped.

‘Quiet! Not another word from you. Or else.’

Napoleon felt something jab into the small of his back, sharp enough to puncture his skin. He yelped and was rewarded with a hard slap to his covered head.

‘Next time you make a sound the blade goes in all the way.’

Then he was lifted on to his feet, dragged to the door of his cell and outside into the corridor. They moved quickly and quietly and he guessed they must be barefoot. Down the corridor they went, to the top of the stairs and then down them at speed, Napoleon’s feet scraping painfully on the edge of each step. A door opened and he felt a faint rush of chilly air. They were outside and heading along the side of the college buildings, then across some open grass.

‘Inside with him,’ a voice hissed, and a door squeaked faintly on old hinges. Napoleon brushed against a rough doorpost and then he was thrown to the ground. The tang of horseflesh and manure filled his nostrils. He must be in a stable. There was the sound of a flint being struck, then the faint crackle of kindling before the flame was transferred to a candle whose wan illumination was just visible through the coarse material of his hood. Napoleon felt his heart pounding in his chest, and his ears had to strain to pick up the sounds around him. He was terrified. For the first time since he had been wrenched from his bed he feared for his life. Who would hear him out in this stable, even if he did scream for help?

‘You’re to be taught a lesson tonight. You breathe one word of what happens and you’ll pay for it. Do you understand?’

‘Let me go.’

‘In good time. After we’ve had our fun. Get him up, over that bench.’

He was seized again, dragged across the floor of the stable and thrust face first over a low bench. Hands held his shoulders down while someone raised the hem of his nightshirt and threw it up over his back to expose his buttocks. Napoleon kicked out his legs and felt his foot strike home.

‘Ouch! Why, you little shit!’ A moment later there was a sharp blow to the side of his head and the world went bright white for an instant. As he winced at the pain, Napoleon’s chest convulsed.

‘Tears won’t save you now, Buona Parte … Shall we get started, gentlemen?’

‘Wait. He’s not here yet.’

‘Too bad.’

‘Someone’s gone to wake him. He’ll be here. He won’t want to miss the entertainment.’

For a while no one else spoke and the only sound was the heavy breathing of the young Corsican. Then the door scraped open behind him.

‘At last. I was about to give up on you. You going to join in?’

‘No,’ said the newcomer, and Napoleon recognised the voice instantly. Alexander de Fontaine. ‘I’ll just watch.’

‘As you will. Pass me that cane.’

Napoleon heard someone approach behind him. There was a swishing sound and an instant later he felt the first blow strike his buttocks with a searing pain that stung like a burn as the cane was drawn back for the first of many more blows. As the second stroke whipped down, Napoleon screamed.

Early in spring Arthur and his brothers landed in Bristol and took a coach to London. When they reached Windsor they saw ahead a thick grimy haze hanging over the landscape like some sick bloom. As the coach drew ever closer to the capital they began to make out the silhouettes of St Paul’s and Westminster amid the trails of smoke filtering up into still sky. The countryside gave way to the first paved streets and the boys began to get a sense of the true scale of the city and marvelled at its vastness, completely dwarfing the pretensions of Dublin. Then the buildings rose in height on either side and blocked the view as the coach weaved through increasingly heavy traffic. The noise of wheels and hoofs on the paved roads, and the confusion of shouts from pedestrians and street-criers assaulted the boys’ ears. But these did nothing to diminish their excitement and their keenly anticipated reunion with the rest of the family.

At length the coach turned into a large yard close to King’s Cross, where several other coaches already stood, some recently arrived and others making ready to depart. Piles of manure littered the yard, the odour mixed with the bitter tang of smoke and soot as the boys climbed down from the coach.

‘Master Richard! Sir!’ A voice cut through the air, and Arthur caught sight of O’Shea, waving his hand to attract their attention as he ran across the yard, weaving through the heaps of manure. He drew up, panting and then coughing in the acrid atmosphere. ‘I’ve come to fetch you to the house. How was the journey, young masters?’

‘Fine, thank you,’ Richard smiled. ‘It’s good to see you again. Who else is at the house?’

‘Oh, just misself, from old Dangan, sir. Rest of the staff was taken on in London. On a better wage than I’ve ever had, so it is.’

O’Shea called over some porters to take the boys’ school trunks to a small cab, drawn by a single horse, and then they set off through the streets towards the address their father had leased in Knightsbridge. As the sun set there was only a gradual diminution of the light in the haze that hung over the city, and by the time they reached the steps leading up to the front door a profound gloom had closed in about them, illuminated only by the wan glow of lamps and candles in the windows of the buildings they passed. Only a few flickering streetlamps provided further lighting in some of the wider thoroughfares.

‘Here we are, young masters!’ O’Shea announced, pausing before a flight of steps leading up to a pillared portico. ‘Your new home.’

He led the way up the steps, knocked on the door and then stepped respectfully to one side as they waited for it to be opened. With an unfamiliar clatter of a bolt the door swung inwards and a sallow-faced footman inspected them.

‘Yes, sir?’ He addressed Richard, before catching sight of O’Shea and the porters. ‘Ah, you must be the sons of His Lordship.’

‘Indeed we are!’ said Richard, leading his brothers inside. O’Shea nodded to the porters and they left the trunks in the hall, waited for the fee and tugged the brims of their caps in acknowledgement before returning to the street. The door closed behind them.

Richard looked around the attractively panelled and papered entrance hall. ‘Very nice. Please inform my parents that we have arrived.’

The footman bowed his head a fraction. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Lord and Lady Mornington are not at home. They are attending a function. They left instructions that you were to be fed when you arrived and a cold buffet has been prepared in the dining room.’

‘When are they coming back?’ asked Arthur with a concerned expression.

‘Not until much later, sir. Now, if you’d allow me to take your coats, I will show you through to the dining room.’

‘Cheer up, Arthur!’ Richard gently squeezed his arm. ‘We’ll wait up for them.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir,’ the footman called over his shoulder as he hung the coats on pegs in a shallow cupboard by the front door. ‘Her Ladyship said that you would be tired from your long journey and should get a good night’s sleep as soon as dinner was over. They look forward to seeing you at breakfast, sir.’

‘I see. And where are Anne, Gerald and Henry?’

‘They have already been sent to bed, sir.’

‘Oh …’

‘Is that all, sir? May I take you through to the dining room now, sir?’

‘Yes … I suppose so.’

Although the boys ate heartily, there was a peculiar sense of despondency hanging over the table, and as soon as the footman had served their cuts of meat and retired from the room William leaned closer to his brothers and whispered, ‘They might have stayed in for us. After all, they haven’t seen us for absolutely ages.’

‘Bad timing,’ Richard shrugged. 'It happens. Besides, it has been a long journey, and I, for one, am utterly exhausted. Good night’s sleep will do me wonders and I’ll be fresh for the parents first thing tomorrow.’

‘I suppose so,’ William muttered. ‘But all the same …’

Arthur felt too tired to eat more than a few slices of pork and then he placed his knife and fork together and sat back and waited for his brothers to finish eating. Glancing over the room, he saw that it was comfortable enough and well maintained, but it was a fraction of the scale of Dangan. Then his gaze switched to the window. The dining room was on the first floor and overlooked the street. Outside, in the gloom a solitary hackney cab trotted past like a grey fish in a dirty aquarium through the stained and pitted glass.

After dinner he was shown up to a narrow room off a short corridor on the fourth floor of the house. A brass bed lay beneath a sash window. The clothes from his trunk had already been unpacked and neatly folded away in a large wardrobe. He undressed, slipped on his nightshirt and then climbed under the covers and lay down. For a while, sleep would not come and he sat listening for any sound of his parents’ return. But the house was quiet and the only sounds were the occasional muffled clop and clatter of a carriage in the street below. Far away a distant bell chimed the passing of another hour.

Arthur woke to find a pale beam of light shining directly on to his face. For a moment he was startled and confused by the setting. Then the previous night’s arrival came back to him and he threw back the covers and hurriedly dressed. He had no precise idea of the time and feared that the rest of the family was already at breakfast. The prospect of being reunited with his parents filled his heart with a warm glow, and as soon as he had laced up his boots he ran downstairs in a cascade of thuds. On the first floor he slid to a halt and changed direction towards the dining room. The door was slightly ajar and he wrenched it open and ran in, breathless and smiling.

‘Morning, Arthur,’ Richard said quietly. He was the only person in the room. The table was laid for breakfast but none of the settings had been disturbed.

Arthur frowned. ‘Where is everybody?’

‘Still in bed.’

‘Oh …’

‘You might as well join me. I’ve sent for tea and some lamb chops.’

Arthur crossed the room and pulled out a chair opposite his eldest brother. ‘What time is it?’

‘Half-past seven. Or it was when I asked a little white ago.’

‘Half-past seven!’ Arthur could not hide his astonishment. Back in Dangan, everyone would have finished breakfast long ago. ‘Do you think they’re all ill?’

‘William’s a heavy sleeper, but the others … ?’ Richard shrugged.

An elderly maid entered the dining room from a small service door in one corner. She carried a tray to the table and quietly set it down beside Richard. She removed the cover from a plate to reveal some lamb chops still steaming.

‘Will there be anything else, sir?’

‘No, thank you.’

She looked up. ‘Will the other gentleman require anything?’

‘Some tea, please. And bread. And do you know what time my parents will be joining us?’

‘Tea and bread. Very well, sir. As to the other matter, I cannot say. They did not return until after midnight. On such occasions they are rarely to breakfast before nine o’clock.’

‘Nine o’clock!’ Arthur exclaimed. ‘But that’s half the morning gone.’

‘You might say that, sir.’

‘What about Anne and Gerald?’

‘They were fed earlier, sir. Their nanny has taken them for a walk. Now, if I may, I’ll fetch your breakfast.’

She turned and disappeared through the service door. Arthur looked at his brother helplessly. ‘She can’t be right.’

‘We’ll see.’

Richard ate his lamb chops and then sat waiting while Arthur chewed at his bread. Shortly before eight o’clock William entered the dining room and was as puzzled as the others at the absence of the rest of the family. Finally, at quarter to nine, the sound of the parents’ voices could be heard and a moment later they entered the dining room, still in their nightclothes. Lady Mornington clapped her hands to her cheeks. ‘My darlings!’

She rushed round the table to deliver kisses to her sons, and then took her seat with a smile as Lord Mornington assumed his place at the head of the table with a smile. 'Good to see you again, boys.’

‘We arrived last night,’ Richard said curtly. 'And you were out.’

‘That’s right,’ his mother answered. ‘There was a ball at the DeVries place on Mayfair. We simply couldn’t refuse. Please don’t take on so. Not when we haven’t seen you for so many months.’

‘Which is why I thought you might be keen to see us.’

‘And I am, I am, Richard dear. But you must understand, it’s so important to make the right connections in London. Really, if we could have possibly avoided last night’s soirée we would have. Isn’t that so, Garrett?’

‘Yes. And I think Richard might show a little more gratitude for all our efforts to smooth the path to good society for him and his brothers.’

Richard swallowed. ‘I am grateful, Father. Truly.’

‘There!’ Anne smiled. 'I told you he’d be pleased. Boys, you are going to love it here. There’s so much going on. So many interesting people to meet. I can’t wait to present you to my friends.’

‘I’m looking forward to it, Mother.’

‘And please don’t speak that way, Richard.’

He looked puzzled. ‘What way?’

‘With that accent. It really won’t do in London society. Makes you sound so … provincial.’

‘Provincial?’ Richard looked surprised. ‘It’s how I’ve always spoken.’

‘Precisely,’ his father cut in. ‘And that’s why it must change. You don’t want society making assumptions about you. That applies to you two as well. I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it soon enough. Things are different here, and you must make every effort to fit in unless you want to be cut from everyone’s list. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that to happen to your mother and me, as a consequence of any mistake that you might make.’ Garrett looked at his eldest son fixedly.

‘We understand, Father.’

‘Good! That’s settled. Now we can enjoy ourselves. Oh, I nearly forgot! Arthur, I’ve found a new school for you. Brown’s in Chelsea. Term starts next week. I’m sure you are looking forward to it.’

Arthur smiled weakly.

‘Make a nice change from that backwater at Trim.’

‘I quite liked Trim,’ Arthur replied. ‘Once I got used to it. And Dr Buckleby was a fine teacher.’

‘Yes, yes, he was. How was he when you left? He must be getting on.’

‘He is old, but his mind is sharp.’ Arthur looked up brightly. ‘He wrote a piece of music for me. I have it upstairs. Would you like me to fetch it?’

‘There’ll be plenty of time to see his little ditty later, Arthur. Perhaps we can find some time to sit down together and play it through.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘But not today. I have a head like a blacksmith’s and I need to lie down this morning.’

Anne rang the small hand bell on the table. When the maid appeared she ordered coffee to be sent to her bedroom and rose from the table.

‘Now, boys, I must get ready for the day. Please feel free to explore your new home. You can play with the others in the nursery when they return. Then, after lunch we can take a carriage to Cortfields and have you three measured up for some proper clothes. Until later.’ She turned and waved over her shoulder without looking round.

‘Well,’ Garrett smiled, ‘I need to rest my head. It’s good to see you again.’

Once he had left the room the three boys were alone again. Arthur felt that an important bond with his father had been broken and he feared that it would never be restored.

Brown’s in Chelsea was an undistinguished prep school on the fringe of a fashionable area. Arthur was escorted to school early each morning by O’Shea. The headmaster was a bilious ex-army officer, Major Blyth, whose educational philosophy was that a curriculum needed to be limited to the fewest possible skills delivered in the most repetitious manner. William had been sent to Eton and Richard had gone up to Oxford as soon as a place had been found for him at one of the colleges. Accordingly, the house felt strangely empty and, since it was rented, very impersonal. The thick, gritty air of the city became even more of a stew as spring gave way to summer and the almost permanent haze that hung over the centre of London shrouded its inhabitants in a sweltering gloom that depressed Arthur’s spirits.

By the time he returned from school it was suppertime, and more often than not he ate with his younger siblings while his parents dressed for yet another engagement. When it was not a ball, or a party, it was the theatre, occasionally opera or even a prize-fight. His father was still composing and had scheduled a series of free public concerts at venues across the city. However, the busy social scene left Garrett too little time for recital sessions with his son and Arthur was left to practise alone in his room. At first he made a great effort to learn Dr Buckleby’s composition, but time passed and his father showed no sign of setting aside a few moments to hear the piece.

Occasionally there was a family outing. Usually it was to one of Garrett’s concerts, in order to boost the numbers in the audience and Anne prompted them to wild applause after each piece. At other times the children were taken to the races or cricket, and were frequently left in the care of one of the staff while their parents circulated amongst the other aristocrats and swapped invitations. Whenever Lord and Lady Mornington entertained at home the children were expected to keep discreetly out of the way in their rooms or the nursery. Thanks to the war in the American colonies the capital was filled with the colourful uniforms of officers either on their way out to fight the traitor General Washington and his ragtag army, or recently returned from campaigning. From what Arthur heard from such men the war was not going as well as the London papers implied.

In any case, the people of the capital were concerned with events much closer to home that summer of 1780. Lord George Gordon, a fervent opponent of the Church of Rome, had been stirring up the London mob. At a series of public meetings he claimed that there was a conspiracy behind the Catholic Relief Acts that had been passed two years earlier to restore some of their civil rights. Arthur and his father had been walking in Hyde Park one Sunday when they came across a crowd listening to one of Gordon’s fiery attacks on the Catholics plotting to seize power in England. Gordon, red-faced and spluttering, punched his fists into the air as he raged against his enemies, and played his audience like a cheap fiddle. Their grumbling assent to his rhetoric soon turned into a seething expression of hatred. It was the first time that Arthur had witnessed the raw emotions of the mob and the experience frightened him.

‘Father.’ He tugged Garrett’s hand. ‘Please can we go home? That man is scaring me.’

An old woman with black, crooked teeth overheard the remark and leered at Arthur. ‘Why bless you, young ’un, that’s ’is point. We’ve plenty to be scared of. Them Catholics’ll ’ave us for breakfast, less we ’ave ’em first!’

Garrett stepped between them. ‘Please leave my son alone.’

She glared at him. ‘I’m only tellin’ ’im the truth, sir. Best he knows it, ’fore it’s too late.’

Garrett, holding tightly to Arthur’s hand, eased them away from the old woman. He paused a moment longer, listening to Gordon’s impassioned ranting, and gauging the response of the crowd. Then he said to his son, ‘He’s scaring me too. Come, let’s go, before there’s trouble.’

At the start of June a crowd gathered outside the Houses of Parliament, and shouted their fury at the politicians as Gordon and his followers stoked up their rage with yet more speeches and pamphlets. Inevitably the mob turned to violence and in the days that followed, Arthur saw thick clouds of smoke spiral into the sky as the mob raged through the streets of the East End. On the morning of 7 June, on the way to school, Arthur had had to stand in a shop front while a drunken mob of men marched past, yelling anti-Catholic slogans, as they hurried to join the rioters. He stared at them in wide-eyed fright until they had passed by, and then ran the rest of the way to school.

‘And what is the meaning of this?’ Anne waved the note from Major Blyth at her son.

She sat in a velvet gown at her make-up table in her boudoir where she had been applying beauty spots for that evening’s party. She would be attending by herself since Garrett had been bed-bound for the last week with a cough. The doctor had prescribed rest and leeches. Garrett had consented to the first treatment but insisted that his bankers provided more than enough of the second.

Arthur had been summoned from his room the moment she had finished reading the note and now stood in the doorway, eyes downcast.

‘Well, speak up!’

‘There was a fight, Mother. These things happen in schools.’

She fixed him with a cold stare. ‘Don’t you dare address me in that tone.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Major Blyth informs me that you started the fight.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Why?’

‘I was insulted.’

‘So you thought you would call him out.’

‘No, I just punched him.’

‘You punched him?’ Anne looked over his frail frame. ‘I’m surprised the other boy didn’t snap you in two. Lucky for you Major Blyth was on hand to break it up.’

Arthur shrugged. ‘Seems my fortune is changing.’

‘And what does that mean exactly?’

For a moment Arthur felt his emotions rushing to the surface and he had to pause to control them. ‘I don’t like it here, Mother. I never have. I don’t like the school. I don’t like London. I don’t like feeling abandoned by you and Father—’

‘Oh, grow up, Arthur!’ his mother snapped, slapping down the headmaster’s note. ‘You can’t spend your life squirrelled away in some draughty Irish backwater. London is where things happen. Make the most of it.’

‘I’m tired of London.’

‘Arthur,’ she continued in a more kindly tone, ‘this is your home now and you had better get used to it. It is also my home and your father’s, and we like it here. Please try not to spoil it for us.’

‘What happens when the money runs out?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’m not a fool, Mother. I know what an overdraft is. I heard you talking about it with Father the other night. What happens when his debts are called in?’

‘They won’t be. It is in no one’s interest to beggar a peer. And since you have decided to take such a keen interest in the financial affairs of other people you should know that our income has only been reduced temporarily. As soon as the war in the American colonies is over, confidence in the markets will recover and our income will return to its previous level. So please don’t worry on that account.’

Arthur stared at her for a moment. ‘Is that all, Mother?’

‘Damn you, that is not all!’ She brandished the note at him. ‘That fight of yours is not the only issue raised by Major Blyth. It seems that it is merely a symptom of wider failure. He says you are … “dreamy, idle, careless and lethargic”. He says that you are making no progress in any subject and that you have poor relations with your peers as well as teachers. Now what do you make of that?’

‘It’s true.’

‘I see … Then you must be punished.’

‘Will you tell Father?’

‘No. Not at the moment. He is not well. He does not seem to have shaken that chill he caught in the spring. I have no desire to make his health any worse by telling him about your woeful performance at school.’

Arthur tried to hide his disappointment. In truth, he wished that his father was made aware of his unhappy state, so that he might reconsider their move to London. Maybe his father would see sense where his mother would not.

‘Now go.’ Anne gestured impatiently towards the door. ‘I have much to do before I go out.’

Arthur nodded and quietly left her boudoir, shutting the door behind him. He made for the staircase to climb back up to his room, but as he reached the first step he heard a strange sound from the street in front of the house, a rhythmic harsh trampling. As it grew in intensity he left the stairs and made his way to the doors of the first-floor balcony overlooking the street, and stepped outside into the evening air. Down below a long column of soldiers was marching up the cobbled street, their nailed boots making the loud noise he had heard from inside. Three officers rode at the head of the column and in a moment of childish high spirits at so brave a sight, Arthur smiled and waved at them. Only a sergeant saw him, and did not return the greeting, but looked sober and strained before he faced front again. Arthur continued to watch as the column snaked past. He tried to count them but gave up when he passed two hundred and still they came. Hundreds more of them. At last the tail of the column went by and he continued to stare as they disappeared down the street. Only then was he aware of a presence behind him and turning quickly he saw his father, wrapped in a thick coat, holding on to the doorframe for support. Arthur had not seen him for days and was shocked by the pallor of his skin and the shrunken look in his eyes.

Garrett made a thin smile. ‘Soldiers, eh? It seems that the government has finally decided to put Gordon and his rabble in order.’

‘Will there be fighting, Father?’

‘Perhaps. I doubt it.’

‘Will the soldiers shoot at them?’

‘No.’ Garrett laughed and ruffled his son’s fair hair. ‘Of course not. There’s no need. The mob will take one look at them and then run for their lives.’

As the tramp of boots faded away they heard faint sounds in the far distance: the indistinguishable roar of a crowd that rose and fell like a fluky breeze. Interspersed with the shouting was an occasional crackle of gunfire. Garrett stepped on to the balcony and rested a hand on his son’s shoulder as he concentrated his attention on the distant sounds. Arthur felt the tremor in his father’s hand and put it down to the chill of the evening air. His father coughed. Coughed again, and then his body was racked by a fit of coughing. Arthur reached up and patted his back gently, then stroked it as the fit eased off.

‘You should get back to bed, Father.’

‘What are you now? A physician as well as a pugilist?’ He smiled. ‘I overheard some of your conversation.’

Arthur smiled back conspiratorially, and for a moment there was sense of that old relationship, before the move to London.

‘I haven’t seen you for days,’ his father continued, then frowned. ‘Feels longer. In fact I can’t remember the last occasion when we had a decent conversation.’

‘I can. Two years ago. Back in Dangan.’

His father laughed, and started coughing again for a moment. ‘That was a long time ago. Life was much quieter then.’

‘Life was better, Father.’

Garrett turned to look at his son, and the expression of unhappiness in the young boy’s face was palpable. He squeezed Arthur’s shoulder. ‘You really don’t like it here, do you?’

‘No.’

Garrett nodded. ‘I should have noticed. I haven’t been paying much attention to you.’

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry … I must admit, I’m getting a bit jaded by life here. Much too ornamental. Too little substance. And very expensive. The air’s not good for me either. Perhaps we should leave for a while. Take a holiday. Go back to Dangan for a few months. Would you like that?’

‘Yes. 'Arthur spoke quietly, but his heart swelled with hope. 'We could learn Dr Buckleby’s piece together.’

‘What? Oh, yes. That old thing … Be interesting to see if he still has his touch. Soon as I’m better I’ll have a word with—’

He was interrupted by a volley of of musket fire and both of them turned in the direction of the distant shouting. A terrible, shrill noise rose up from the invisible crowd and Arthur felt his spine tingle with cold as he realised that he was hearing screaming. A vast mass of people screaming in terror.

‘What’s happening, Father?’

‘I’m not sure.’ He strained his ears. ‘It sounds like a battle. Or a massacre.’

They stood a while longer listening. More volleys were fired and the screaming went on and on, rising and falling in intensity.

‘What on earth is going on out there?’ Anne called from inside. A moment later she emerged on to the balcony. ‘Garrett! You should be in bed. You're not—’

‘Quiet! Listen!’

The sounds of the violence carried clearly across the rooftops and her eyes widened in surprise. ‘Good Lord, sounds like a quite a fracas. Hope it doesn’t come this way.’ She kissed her husband on the cheek. ‘I’m going to the party now. I’ve sent O’Shea for the carriage.’

‘Do you think it’s wise to go out?’

‘Why on earth not? That trouble is in the opposite direction.’

‘For now.’

‘Oh, tish! It’s nothing to be worried about. Now get back to bed.’

Suddenly there was shouting from further up the street. Then the first dim shadows flitted between the streetlamps. As they watched more of them appeared, like rats running for their lives, some crying out in panic. Then they heard some harsh shouting and the grinding thud of army boots charging down the street towards the house.

‘Get them! Get those bastards!’ a voice bellowed.

Now Arthur could make out the forms of soldiers in amongst the people fleeing along the street. They had fixed their bayonets and the wicked spikes glinted in the lamplight as the soldiers ran down their prey. Arthur held his breath as he saw one of the soldiers slam the butt of his musket into the back of a man’s head, and as his victim slipped to the ground the soldier calmly reversed the weapon and drove the bayonet into the man’s chest, twisted it and wrenched it free before continuing the chase.

Suddenly there was a shout from directly below the balcony. A woman had seen the family gazing down into the street and was calling up to them.

‘Let us in! For pity’s sake, let us in. They’re murderin’ us out ’ere!’

She ran to the door and started pounding on the gleaming paint work. In the middle of the street a soldier stopped and Arthur saw that it was the sergeant who had marched past earlier. Only now he had a sword in his hand. He strode across and mounted the pavement. With his spare hand he grabbed a fistful of the woman’s hair, wrenched her away from the door and spun her into the gutter. She shrieked in pain, then terror as the sword arm swept up. Then the blade glinted down, crushing the pale hand that had risen to try to fend the blade off, and an instant later there was a crunch as the sword cut into the woman’s skull. She lay still in the street as a dark halo slowly pooled about her face.

‘Inside!’ Garrett ordered, pressing his wife and son towards the doors. They did not resist and mutely retreated from the horror outside. Then Garrett shut the doors and swept the curtain across, shutting off the view of the street.

‘Oh God,’ Anne muttered. ‘Did you see? Did you see what he did to that woman? I think I’m going to be sick. Garrett … Garrett?’

Arthur turned round and saw that his father was clutching his chest. He was making small, agonised grunting noises as he tried to breathe.

‘Father?’ Arthur grabbed his arm. ‘Father? What’s the matter?’

Garrett shook his head, then his face crumpled into an expression of terrible agony. As Anne screamed, he collapsed to the floor.

‘I’m afraid your husband has something of a weak constitution, my lady.’ The doctor pulled on his coat as he delivered his conclusions. ‘His heart is particularly susceptible to his overall condition. He’ll need as much rest as he can manage for what is left of his life. On no account is he to exert himself. Is that clear?’

Anne nodded and turned to her husband lying in the bed, propped up on pillows. His arms lay limply each side of his body, on the bedclothes. She took his hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze. ‘So, no more concerts for you, my dear. You heard the doctor. You must rest.’

‘Indeed you must.’ Dr Henderson added with an emphatic nod, ‘Your condition demands it, sir.’

Garrett Wesley smiled faintly. ‘Very well. I’m outnumbered. I give in.’

‘Good,’ Anne smiled, rising from the chair. ‘I’ll see the doctor out.’

‘Wait.’ Garrett raised a hand. ‘Doctor?’

‘What is it, sir?’

‘You’ve been on your calls this morning. How is it on the streets?’

The doctor had picked up his cane and bag and now rapped the cane sharply on the floorboards. ‘Terrible, sir. Bodies everywhere, and troops … They’re stopping everyone, regardless of their social station, and demanding to know their business. It’s an intolerable state of affairs.’

‘Quite.’ Garrett frowned. ‘Bodies, you say? Has there been any report of how many?’

‘There must be hundreds dead, sir. Thousands more wounded. Not to mention the destruction caused by that damned rabble. Dozens of Catholic chapels and houses burned to the ground, or damaged beyond repair. They even had the gall to attack Newgate and Fleet prisons and set the inmates loose on the street. The Bank of England itself was assaulted. If it hadn’t been for John Wilkes and his militia the Bank would have been burned to the ground. I tell you, sir, it was a close-run thing. We’ve escaped anarchy by a whisker.’

Anne stared at him. ‘Surely it can’t have been as bad as that?’

The doctor pursed his lips. ‘I’m sure of it. If it hadn’t been for the army, law and order would have gone up in smoke as well. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lady, I have much urgent business this morning.’ He turned to Garrett and made a formal bow. 'I bid you good day, my lord.’

‘Thank you, Doctor.’

‘I’ll send my man with the bill later.’

Garrett smiled. ‘Receipt of which will ensure a speedy recovery.’

They both laughed and then Garrett’s face twisted in pain and he hunched forward, fists clenched as a fit of coughing seized him. It quickly passed and he slumped back, sweat gleaming on his brow.

The doctor wagged a finger at him, and then turned and left the room, dodging to one side as he became aware of Arthur and Gerald, who had been surreptitiously watching the consultation around the doorframe.

They smiled guiltily and were about to make off when their mother called out to them, ‘You might as well come in, since I assume you overheard our conversation.’

The two shuffled into the room and stood at the end of their father’s bed. He smiled at them. ‘It’s all right, boys, the doctor says I won’t die.’

Anne took a sharp breath and glared at her husband. ‘Of course you won’t die. Not if you are sensible and do as the doctor says. Rest is what you need. You’ll be back on your feet soon enough.’

‘I hope so.’

‘So do I,’ Arthur added quietly. He had not forgotten the moment of companionship he had shared with his father before his collapse on the balcony. He looked up and smiled at his father. ‘After all, we must set to learning Buckleby’s piece together.’

Garrett nodded. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

Anne wagged her finger at her husband. ‘All in good time. I forbid you to lay a hand on your violin until the doctor says you are well enough. Do you understand me, husband?’

‘Yes, dear. You have my word. Arthur, you must practise without me for the moment. I’ll join in as soon as I can.’

‘Yes, Father.’ Arthur lowered his gaze. ‘But you must keep this promise.’

‘Oh! For heaven’s sake!’ Anne stamped her foot. 'Don't be such a selfish child! Your poor father is sick and all you can think of is your precious fiddling—’

‘Anne …’ Garrett interrupted her. ‘Anne, dearest, please. That's enough.’

‘No it’s not!’ she said crossly. ‘He’s been moping about for months now. Whining that we’re not giving him enough attention. And then this letter from Major Blyth about his fighting and his poor attitude at school. It’s too much.’

‘Yes it is,’ Garrett nodded. ‘It’s too much. I agree with you. Now calm yourself.’ He eased himself up, slowly and painfully. ‘I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since last night. I could do with some soup. Could you and Gerald see to it, please?’

‘What? Why should—’

‘Please, my dear. I’m famished. And I’d like a little talk with Arthur. Alone.’

Anne stared at him, biting back on her irritation. Then she nodded and, taking Gerald by the hand, she quit the room. Father and son listened to the sounds of footsteps crossing the landing and then clacking on the stairs as Anne and Gerald made their way downstairs towards the kitchen.

That’s better,’ Garrett smiled, and patted the chair where Anne had been seated beside his bed. ‘Sit there, Arthur.’

When his son had stepped round the bed and taken the seat, Garrett shifted slightly so that he could see Arthur more easily. They smiled at each other, uneasily as the silence unfolded. At length Garrett drew a breath and began.

‘Your mother and I have been talking about you. In light of yesterday’s letter.’

‘I rather thought you might.’

‘Arthur, please don’t take that tone with me. I’m worried about you. Worried what is to become of you. Frankly, there’s little sign that you derive any benefit from attending that school. Your grasp of the classics is slight, at best.’

‘I’m sorry to let you down, Father,’ Arthur frowned. ‘I just don’t have the head for Latin and Greek. It’s not my fault.’

‘Well, you might try harder.’

‘To what end? So that I can be half as good as Richard? And still live in his shadow? There’s no point, Father.’

‘There’s always a point to learning. If you carry on in this manner you’ll be fit for nothing more than soldiering. And I did not raise you to belong to that class of wastrels and dandies that decorate the fringes of society with their gaudy uniforms. You're better than that, Arthur.’

‘Am I?’ he muttered bitterly.

‘Enough!’ his father snapped, but before he could continue he was seized by another fit of coughing. Arthur watched him in concern and gripped his father’s hand tightly until the fit had passed.

‘I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m so sorry.’

Garrett shook his head. 'Not your fault … As it happens, I am proud of you. You've a talent for the violin, so cherish it. One day you’ll play it better than I ever could.’

‘No.’

‘You will. Trust me.’ Garrett reached over and patted his son on the chest. ‘Trust yourself. You have it in you to succeed. I know it.’

Arthur tilted his head to one side, and did not reply.

Garrett was watching his son’s expression closely, trying to read the thoughts passing behind the screen of that thin face, made to appear thinner still by the long nose. The boy was consumed by doubt, that much was obvious, and Garrett wished there was more he could do to comfort him. But all he could offer was a father’s love and affection. That was not nearly enough to sustain a boy of Arthur’s age, who placed far more emphasis on the approval of his siblings and peers, against whom he would measure his value as a person. How sad, Garret reflected, that people should crave the goodwill of others and take the far deeper sentiment of parents for granted. He squeezed his son’s hand.

‘I’ve not been a good father to you, have I? These last years. I should never have permitted myself to neglect you so.’

‘Hush, Father. You mustn’t upset yourself.’

‘Arthur, I wish I could make it up to you. While there is still time.’

‘What do you mean?’ Arthur felt the flesh creep on the back of his neck. ‘The doctor said you just needed to rest.’

‘That’s what he said, and perhaps he was right about my constitution. Even so, I’ve not been feeling well for some months now. I’ve been growing weaker all the time. Now I fear that whatever is wrong with me may not be cured simply through rest. And I’m worried about your future, and the future of the rest of the family.’

‘You mustn’t worry,’ Arthur replied in a concerned tone.

Garrett slumped back against his cushions and shut his eyes. ‘I sense that things are changing, and not for the better. The news of the war in the American colonies gets worse by the month. We’re going to lose that war, Arthur. And if the rebels can defy the King, what kind of example does that set for all the discontents around the world?’ He coughed for a moment, then cleared his throat before continuing. ‘Even here in London, the established order is under threat. You heard the doctor, hundreds dead. Public buildings sacked and burned. Soldiers on the streets. I tell you, Arthur, I’ve never seen the like, and I’m afraid. Afraid for us all. When the hour comes when I’m most needed, I may not be here. Or at least, I may be in no position to protect you.’

Arthur was only half listening, his eyes fixed on the bright bloody spittle that had begun to trickle from the corner of his father’s lips shortly after the last bout of coughing. A flash of associated memory drew his mind back to earlier that morning, shortly after dawn, when he had stood in the doorway of their house, gazing into the street as one of the footmen scrubbed the sticky blood from the steps where the woman had been cut down the night before. Her body had already been removed, collected by an army cart that had passed down the street before first light. Arthur had sensed the strange feeling in the morning air. The street was almost deserted and a mood of fear and anticipation was evident in the few faces peering from doors and windows, and in the expressions of the handful of Londoners passing by, avoiding the gaze of the squads of soldiers posted at the main junctions of the capital’s streets. His father was right to be scared. Law and order were fragile things. More fragile than Arthur had ever dreamed. A mere damask veil over a much uglier and violent world forever threatening bloody chaos. Unless there were enough responsible men to hold back that prospect, things would fall apart. The nation he had been raised to revere would no longer be able to hold itself together. What then? Arthur dare not think about it.
His mind turned back to his father, lying still in the bed beside him. His eyes were still closed and he was mumbling now, increasingly incoherent as he slipped into an uneasy sleep. Eventually the mumbling stopped and his fingers relaxed in Arthur’s hand as he breathed in a soft easy rhythm. Arthur pulled his hand free and when he was quite certain that his father was asleep he gently stroked Garrett’s brow. He felt a peculiar tenderness in his heart at this reversal of roles, of the child comforting the parent. The peaceful expression on his father’s face made him look far younger and more innocent than Arthur had ever seen him.

A faint sound of footfalls on the staircase announced the return of his mother. As she entered the room, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of soup, she gave a start at the sight of her husband lying still on the bed.

‘Garrett!’ The tray tilted and the bowl began to slide towards the edge.

‘Mother!’ Arthur pointed at the tray. ‘Look out.’

She glanced down and levelled the tray just in time to stop the bowl tipping over. Then she hurried across the room, set the tray down on a dressing table and trod softly across to the bed.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Didn’t mean to cry out. I just thought, when I saw him asleep, for a moment I thought he was …’

‘He’s just sleeping, Mother. That’s all.’

‘Yes.’ She smiled at her son, then gazed at Garrett with a frown. ‘Poor lamb. He’s not well.’

‘He’ll get better, Mother.’

She patted Arthur’s cheek. ‘Of course he will.’