The lieutenant and her deputy are decided; an attempt will be made. The gun’s unhitched from its truck and reconnected to a jeep.
The lieutenant’s haul is duly hauled, taken through the irontoothed mouth of the castle’s face, pulled by the grumble engined jeep. The lumbering artillery piece barely fits, its wheels knocking stones off the bridge’s balustrade to send them splashing into the black moat, the long barrel’s end grating I on the underside of the passageway beneath the old guard chamber. The jeep’s wheels skid on the courtyard cobbles and the gun seems stuck, but the laughing men push and heave and it scrapes through and in, to he parked beside the well in the castle’s hollowed core. Its great barrel is elevated to provide more room, so that those two gaping mouths, well and gun, rough stone and rifled steel, both aim towards the night, a silent concert of ill matched calibres.
Meanwhile the second jeep squeezes in too, pulling the ammunition trailer and surrounded by soldiers dragging palefaced women and girls, some dressed in daytime clothes, others still in night attire.
The soldiers light torches, brandish candies, throw open rooms and chuck thick logs on fires. Outside, others secure the trucks in stables and fire the generator up, flooding the castle with electric light and leaving us all blinking in the unaccustomed glare. When they return, they bring the black, wrought iron grid of the portcullis down and lock it. The servants not already up are pulled out of their beds, the kitchen stoves are stoked, larders raided and armfuls of bottles lugged up from cellars. The ballroom’s double doors are flung open and spread wide, a collection of recordings is discovered, and soon music fills the space. The fruits of my own taste quickly prove unsuitable, however, and they find fitter strains from the servants’ rooms.
The lieutenant has the tall curtains pulled over to block the light’s escape and quietly instructs a few of the men to take their pleasure, by all means, but also to take turns keeping watch from the roof, lest this jamboree attract unwelcome attention from outside.
The soldiers stow their guns, grenades, take off jackets, bandoleers and bits of combat clothing. Wardrobes and rooms are raided above and a group appear on the stairs laden with clothes of ours and of our ancestors. Shifts, shirts, dresses, trousers, jackets, stoles,. wraps and coats of silk, brocade, velvet, linen, leather, mink, ermine and a dozen other species’ hides and furs are thrown, scrambled for, pulled on, brandished with demand and reluctantly assumed; women totter on high heels, made to wear stockings, basques and old corsets. A selection of hats appears. The soldiers and their escorts sprout plumes, feathers, helms and veils; headgear gathered from half the world dances under the lights. Some of the men strap on pieces of armour, clanking round, still trying to dance. Two of them pretend fight with swords in the hall, laughing as the blades strike sparks from naked walls; they slash a painting, try chopping candles in half. The lieutenant shakes her head, orders them to put up their swords before they hurt themselves or others.
I make to go upstairs, to look for you, my dear, but the lieutenant, smiling, brimmed glass in hand, grabs my wrist as I mount the first step. ‘Abel? Not leaving us, are you?’ She wears the old opera cloak again, its scarlet interior rippling within the black as she moves.
‘I thought I’d check on Morgan. I haven’t seen her. She may be frightened,’
‘Let me do that,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you join the fun?’ She waves the glass at the ballroom where the music thumps and bodies leap and caper.
I look, and give a small pained smile. ‘Perhaps I’ll join you later.’
‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘Definitely join it now,’ she tells me. ‘I know.’ She reaches out as Lucius and Rolans approach, one carrying a huge tray of food, the other a smaller tray stacked with opened wine bottles. She takes one of the bottles from the tray, then shoos the servants onward to the ballroom. She shoves the bottle into my hand. ‘Make yourself useful, Abel,’ she says. ‘Top people’s glasses up. That’ll be your job for tonight. Wine waiter. Think you can do that? Think that’s within your capabilities? Hmm?’
She seems already drunk, though there has scarcely been time. Was she drinking in the jeep on the way back, or could it he that our brave lieutenant can’t hold her drink? I look at the bottle’s label, trying to discern its vintage. ‘I thought being your guide today might have earned me my daily bread.’
‘Normally it would have, I’m sure,’ she says, going up a step above me to put one arm round my neck. ‘But the guys did all the shooting and you didn’t, and they don’t normally get to have parties in castles. Be a good host,’ she says, knocking me on the chest with her glass, spilling wine on my waistcoat. ‘Oops. Sorry.’ She pats at the stain, wipes it with her hand. ‘It’ll come out in the wash, Abel. But be a good host; be a servant for once in your life; be useful.’
‘And if I refuse?’
She shrugs, frowns almost prettily. ‘Oh, I’d be awfully upset. She drinks from her glass, studying me over its rim. ‘You’ve never seen me lose my temper, have you, Abel?’
I sigh. ‘Perish the thought.’ I glance up the rising spiral of stairs. ‘Please tell Morgan not to worry, and I’d ask you no to force her to come down here if she doesn’t want to. She can be shy with people sometimes.’
‘Don’t you, worry, Abel,’ the lieutenant tells me, patting m shoulder. ‘I’ll be nice as nice.’ She nods to the loud ballroom and presses me on the back. ‘Off you go, now,’ she says, the turns on her heel and skips upstairs.
I watch her go, then reluctantly enter the ballroom. Saturnalian, I wander amongst the revellers, topping up their glasses, emptying one bottle and taking another from the supply on a sideboard. By the state of the floor, as much is being spilled as drunk. Performing this duty, I am alternately thanked with camp extravagance, or just ignored. In any event, not everyone requires my services; some of the men clutch their own bottles and drink straight from them. Their partners are at first cajoled, persuaded and bullied into drinking their share, then gradually, swept along by the music, dance and the men’s boisterous bravado, some start to relax, and dance and drink for their own enjoyment.
Next door, in the dust of the partly demolished dining room, also damp underfoot, trays of savouries, meats and sweets are being laid out and almost as rapidly demolished. A surprising amount and variety for such short notice; I suspect the castle’s supply of canned food will not last out the night.
A shout, and from beneath a dust sheet the ballroom’s grand piano is revealed. A soldier drags its stool out from underneath, sits, cracks his knuckles and as the music is turned down, then off launches into some plodding, jangling, sentimental song. I grit my teeth, and take another pair of bottles from a refilled tray. A guitar is produced, and a woman volunteers to play. A drum, draped in regimental colours, is torn from a wall and young Rolans is persuaded to thump its well worn skin. The band of soldier, servant, refugee plays as one might expect, inaccurate, loud and wild.
The lieutenant reappears, leading you. I cease in midpour, watching. You have dressed in a sea blue satin ballgown, arms clad in long topaz gloves, your hair gathered up, a glittering diamond choker at your throat. The lieutenant has changed too, dressed in dinner jacket, trousers and black tie. Perhaps she could not find a top hat and stick. One of my suits, it sits a little large on her, but she does not seem to care. The music hesitates as the piano player stands to watch you two enter. The lieutenant’s men hoot and yell and clap. She bows with low exaggeration, acknowledges their jeers, takes up another glass of wine, hands a second one to you, then bids us all continue.
The woman playing guitar is hauled up to dance; the band takes an extended break and the recorded music resumes. The bottles of wine are shuttled up from cellar to tray to hand and their contents sloshed into glasses and throats. The room grows warm, the music’s turned up, the piles of food shrink, the soldiers lead their women into dance, some lead them off upstairs, others play like huge clumsy children, disappearing to bring back some new toy discovered elsewhere in the castle. Trays hurtle down the stairs with shrieking soldiers hanging on; an old, wood brown globe depicting the ancient world, removed from its stand, is rolled into the ballroom and kicked about; two pikes are ripped from a wall display, cushions tied over their ends and. two men take one each, sitting on serving trolleys while comrades push them up and down the Long Room, jousting, laughing, falling, smashing vases, urns, ripping up carpets and tearing down portraits.