The Book of Thorns by Hester Fox

Author:Hester Fox
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Graydon House Books
Published: 2024-02-14T16:26:31+00:00

Twenty-Five

CORNELIA

CHICKWEED: a rendezvous ordained by the stars.

I was always impatient in Sussex: impatient for my life to start, impatient for someone new, impatient for a new season to bring with it new flowers. But now I find that time is rushing ahead too fast, that I would do anything to prolong my precious moments with Henri and Sophie. Now that we have crossed the river and are within striking distance of Brussels, there is no time for lovemaking or idle days by the stream. There is only marching, heat, and exhaustion. Fear.

Even if there were time, it would do me little good. The sound of flowers is so loud that it is almost enough to overpower the distant noise of the nearby skirmishes that have broken out between the Prussians and the converging French armies. I can be eating my rice or attending to my sorry toilette, and suddenly the most noxious fumes fill my nose, my lungs. My ears ring from the overlapping chorus of flowers all vying for my attention, and it’s all I can do to stumble behind my tent and retch until my body is empty and shaking. I can no longer pretend that all is normal, or even that everything will be all right.

There is little use in trying to sleep tonight. My cot had to be surrendered to the luggage train so that the regiment could travel lighter and faster through the countryside. Both Henri and Sophie are sleeping soundly when I carefully steal from the bedroll we share on the ground now. They look so content, so peaceful. I brush each of their temples with a kiss. There is a meager breeze, and it carries with it the scent of roses and bids me to dress quickly and follow it out into the night.

But outside I find no roses, only a field of cowslip. They bob in the breeze, eager for me to hear them. In the city. Go to her in the city.

“Go to who?” I ask the night.

Go to the city.

I don’t know what it means, only that I must obey them. There is no one here to judge, to question why a woman can commune with flowers. With my guard asleep in my bed, I wrap my shawl around me and set off through the camp into the night beyond. The way is hard, with the roads leading to Brussels destroyed, forcing me to continue my trek through the rye fields and overgrown byways. Marching in the daytime, we have the men to slash down the fibrous stalks, but now I must navigate them on my own. But I have faith in the flowers, and they reward me by guiding me to an old cow path which runs along the field, narrow but mercifully clear.

I have not been walking more than half an hour when the thundering of hoofbeats approaches behind me. Anyone out at this time of night, on this forgotten path, cannot have good intentions. It could be highwaymen, errant soldiers, or God only knows who else.

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