A/N: At last it has come, the mystery will be revealed in full. And to all. Which means, I guess, even to the only one still oblivious. Boyd. For all of you, enjoy!


June 19th, 1815

To everybody seeing him this morning. it was obvious that Field Marshall Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington, was in a much better spirits than the previous days and weeks. Though polite and engaging in social circles, his staff had felt the hardship of the Duke's low mood in preparation for the battle.

Yet, on the morning of June 19th in the year of the Lord 1815, it could not be denied that Wellington was of an exemplary jovial disposition.

Though he would hardly announce any news, his appearance before his victorious soldiers was anticipated with great excitement.

All over the continent, messengers had pushed their horses all night in order to arrive at their destinations with the good or devastating news of an Allied victory. In Paris, where the bells had tolled victory the morning before, people now heard the details of defeat, and while the Bonapartes' hastily packed for flight again, the common man and woman on the street could hardly spare more than a shrug.

Everywhere else in Europe the news where accepted in a much more jubilant manner. Though the war was not fully over, little doubt was now on its quick and victorious end in Paris, where a final decision and action on the fate of Napoleon would be made.

Even the weather, such source of worry the day before, was jubilant, bright, blue and sunny.

Weather for the victorious.


In the field encampments that were not stage to official and high ranking ablutions, the situation looked brighter as well, but there was still chaos and no little despair. Around hospital tents, wounded still lay on one side, waiting for treatment or sleeping off their pain. On the other side, on the edge of the encampments, small hills were growing.

It was a small mountain of dead bodies, brought back from the battlefield by their comrades or died of their wounds over night. Field doctors and their reluctant nurses - none of them with actual medical training - moved carefully between the bodies of those alive, then ordering porters to pick up those who no longer were.

For a day of joy, it was a depressing sight and it left few unaffected.

Ms Lockhart all but stumbled over an outstretched leg on the ground as she made her most recent round. She could barely hold her eyes open after an entire night of helping out and caring for the wounded. Barely two hours of sleep had been hers and she felt it. Her ladyship looked even worse, no doubt, because she had rested even less.

They had not seen the face of either that soldier nor of her son, but it was little consolation. It could take years to identify all dead, if it was accomplished at all.

"Milady," Ms Lockhart quietly called the other woman.

Grace smiled wearily as she made her way towards a fire where fresh tea of indistinguishable content was brewed. There was a little brandy in it and it was hot. That was the only matter of interest.

With a longing gaze, she turned towards the other part of the camp, there where unscathed soldiers were.

If only she could go...


"What in God's name made you think you could get away with this, Sergeant?" Colonel Money demanded.

It was the same question Col. Christie had already raised, but the arrested officer had chosen not to answer. His face was closed off and for those looking closely, as both Colonels and the Captain in attendance did, they could see that it was anger the young man tried to rein in.

Anger, frustration, annoyance.

Boyd had little doubt that, given half the chance, Chris would attempt to perform exactly the same act again. The thought had kept him awake most of the night, along with the happier images and visions of a small hay shed and warm, luminous skin. Lucas and he had not gotten along well; in fact, their relations had been fraught and disharmonious, but despite everything, he was certain that his son had never wanted to kill him. Or vice versa.

Jean le Pilleur had not looked as if he would hesitate to kill his own son.

It was an unbearable thought.

"Why?" he asked before he could stop himself. His gaze was fixed on the young man who wore the chains of a prisoner.

Chris looked up at him, their eyes connecting. They were blue. Very deep and intense blue.

Funny how this had never before registered with Boyd.

The expression in the younger man's eyes was calculating, wary. It seemed as if it was Boyd who was assessed, not the other way around.

Finally he spoke, his voice sounding rough. The words were eloquent, probably rehearsed several times in the past, yet the emotion behind them was unmistakable.

"My father was a traitor...in the past. Now he is a traitor and a murderer. He has to be stopped!"

"But not by becoming a murderer yourself, son," Col. Christie almost beseechingly replied. "Your future, your good name... Your family's reputation..."

"Will mean nothing once the full extent of my father's digression becomes public. My mother..." So far, Chris had remained detached in his tone, but his agitation rose and it showed.

For a minute there was silence as the young man grappled with his self control, then he shook his head. "Your order was to apprehend and stop Jean le Pilleur. I helped with that." He smiled sardonically for a moment. "I do not believe that there was any specific stipulation that he had to stay alive."

In reaction to this, Colonel Money angrily marched out of the tent, all but slamming the cloth shut. The sound was not as effective as with a wooden door, but the intent behind it was obvious.

The remaining men rolled their eyes, then Col. Christie announced, "We will decide your fate later, Sergeant Foley!" and left the tent as well, gesturing for Boyd to follow him.

Outside the Colonel stopped until the Captain stood next to him.

The two men slowly walked away, over to Boyd's tent, when the latter broke the silence. "What will happen to him? War tribunal?"

"Hardly," Christie denied.

"He is a very able soldier."

"I am aware of it, Captain, which is why I doubt he will receive more than a few days of arrest, to be carried out after the campaign on Paris. He has made very good points earlier, despite his lack of sense in following his self-set task."

There was a pause.

"A very talented young man, our Sergeant. Family trait, it seems."

"The family...?"

"Fairly influential family as long as...'Jean' still was on the correct side of the law. Colonel Lord Foley was one of my teachers in the early stages at Camberley." Christie smiled. "A course, I believe, you refused to take."

Boyd had the grace to colour slightly. Neither he nor Christie were under any illusions that, had he been a more obedient son-in-law, their roles would be reversed.

"His career, however, was taking a downturn, along with, it is said, the family fortune. Col. Foley sought a field command in the American campaign, where he was - it was said - amongst the losses."

"A fact we can now prove as false."

"Indeed."

Christie shook his head again as they stopped in front of Boyd's tent. "To answer your question, though, Col. Money and I have already decided that Sergeant Christopher Foley will be joining our ride onto Paris as a fully instated officer. It will be his chance to prove himself worthy of the trust we - you - put in him."

Captain Boyd nodded, fully understanding the meaning of his superior's words. Giving a small smile of acknowledgement, he then ducked into his tent. The Colonel smiled back, then turned towards his own accommodation for a few hours of rest.

Neither man saw the young woman squatting near the fire in front of Boyd's tent.

And nobody bothered to register when she left in a hurry.


Boyd was an experienced man. More than twenty years in the service assured that he could go through the motions of a soldiers with his eyes closed, one arm only and almost asleep. This was the way he went about gathering his belongings and packing for the campaign onto Paris.

It would not be an easy road with many skirmishes ahead, especially once they reached the vicinity of the capital. While it was obvious that Napoleon was defeated, he could still gather a large number of fanatics to prolong the inevitable, killing many men in the process.

However, this was not what kept Boyd occupied. There was nobody waiting for him at home, nothing he could return to. His wife dead, his son dead, no close relatives to speak of, even the house was minded by strangers. It would hardly matter to anybody he knew whether he returned or not.

The defeatist ideas he quickly squashed though, giving way to much more intriguing thoughts. Boyd wanted to live - out of pure stubbornness, maybe, but also out of curiosity. He wanted to know what came next.

He also wanted to - and that rather desperately by now - solve the mystery of the blue eyes.

The idea that Sgt. Foley's eyes were rather similar to Grace's had come quickly as he had been in the solitude of his tent, along with the question how he could have missed it before. Of course, in their earlier exchanges the young Sergeant had not looked so directly at him, and in broad daylight. In addition, he had never seen Grace's eyes in full daylight. But also, Boyd had not really looked for it. A sudden perception...a sudden thought. Now it was on his mind and refused to leave.

But apart from that mystery he wondered when he would see Grace again. If he would at all.

Direct marching orders had not yet come, might wait until morning. If that were so, then there was the chance that they could spend one last evening, a few minutes in each other's company.

The unspoken request and promise, no forty hours ago, to survive and return came back to his mind. Before his inner eye he could still see her pale skin, feel her shivers against him as she sought the warmth of his body in the chilly and damp night. Grace had not said a word, but before they parted, she had suddenly knelt before him, the chain of the miniature in her hands, and placed it around his neck.

"For luck. And for health," she had whispered, before tenderly kissing his bearded cheek.

Boyd could still feel her lips against his skin, still feel her breath.

He smiled.

She would be waiting for him. If he asked. Maybe.

Unseeingly grabbing his half-made pack, he ducked out of his tent, still smiling widely.

He had to squint a little in the brightness, but the assessing gaze passing around the camp site was routine. In fact, one would call it instinctive behaviour. Within moments he had therefore noticed Wharton and Jordan squabbling over a pot of tea or coffee they were brewing on the fire across the main path in the camp. He could see Colonels Money and Christie conversing over a message they had received, in the company of Lt. Worrell, who had apparently been sent by Col. Grant. From the corner of his left eye, he had a good look at the arrest tent, where Sgt. Foley was now led out from.

The scene caught his interest and he turned slightly to watch the proceedings.

Held by two lower ranked men, the Sergeant waited, patiently, for the next step. Col. Christie from the distance signalled and the soldiers carefully, but none too quickly removed the shackles from the Sergeant's wrists, then took a step backwards.

In a moment he would never be able to account for, Boyd suddenly was compelled to turn away and look in the other direction.

It was not a sound. It was not some movement or an effect of light. There was nothing.

Yet he turned.

And swallowed, all of a sudden sporting probably the most inane grin imaginable.

Her dress was torn in many places. Dirty almost from bottom to top. The splatters and smudges were numerous, blood, mud, dirt, wine, God knows what else.

She was even smaller than it seemed at night.

She looked as if she had gone through hell.

She was glorious.

Her smile seemed to almost split her face, her eyes wide and full of joyous disbelief. He could not turn away, could not stop himself from beaming back in return. Without volition he took the first step towards her, propriety and discretion be damned.

Even from this distance, he could see tears streaming down her face.

"Mama!"

Before Boyd had the chance to take the second step towards Grace, Chris was rushing by, running and finally scooping her up, twirling her around.

Time passed in slow motion for Boyd as he watched the scene unfolding.

"Mama!"


Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.