AN: Apologies for silence and no updates for a while, my computer's motherboard imploded and I've just had a complete rebuild done reusing some old bits from my frankencomputer that were worth salvaging and sticking in a case that was lying around with some new bits. I am celebrating with a new chapter of The Cuirassier. Hadn't intended for there to be any more chapters, but it seems to be oddly popular for a really niche story... thank you, all reviews are read and considered.
Colonel Delacour, Vicomtesse de Razanne, Colonel of 1er Régiment de Cuirassiers squared her shoulders, gently spurring forward the battle-scarred grey-furred monster that had borne her through fire, grapeshot, mud and the Russian ice for twenty years, since she first signed up to serve the La République. The clatter of pallasch blades against cuirasses was achingly familiar, but unlike so many battles gone by, this was not to offer steel to any foe, but instead a salute to the enemy occupiers in her beloved Lutèce. Worse, this was the foremost foe who stood yet undefeated, even by wily Soult.
"Lord Wellington. Je t'accueille au nom de Sa Majesté le Roi Louis." she spat, barely able to contain the cold rage that had been slowly smouldering since the days of fury in March when her cuirassiers had let the Marne run red to wash the Emperor's boots with the blood of the Russians.
Now the same men stood across the great courtyard at the Tuileries Palace as had fought with her in the ford at Valcourt, the famed 'Immortals' of the Old Guard, their scarred faces twisted in the same fury as hers, their bearskins often tugged down over their eyes so they did not have to see France so debased. Fleur was sure that soon even the bearskins would be stripped from them, the warlike wolf-bred sons of the Empire, thrown out with the kitchen scraps before the Fat King and his Maison du Roi.
"Merci Colonel. Le Roi est occupé?" he dipped his head in response, the courtly sarcasm easily detected, though he was talking to the wrong soldier if he was looking for a reaction. She blinked, just once.
The English general's grasp of French was fluent, if slightly stilted, once learnt but used all too rarely since. At a second glance, she realised that before her was the Wellington, who had once been disdained by the Emperor as a mere General of Sepoys, who had run Junot and Soult out of Portugal, handed Massena, Jourdan, Marmont and the Prince Joseph sharp defeats. The man who had even run Marshal Soult out of Spain and defeated him repeatedly on French soil wasn't hugely impressive, certainly he was no Murat, clad in a simple if fine dark blue cotton tailcoat, lean and aquiline of features.
"Too overburdened to pull out of his overstuffed throne his equally overstuffed arse to come and greet the British Ambassador who put him there?"
It took a moment for Fleur's mind to comprehend the meaning of the words. Her own instruction in the English language was a long time in the past, and though fluent, she suspected it to be even less used than the Duke of Wellington's English. However, the coarse vitriol was not that of the Duke's making, but the soldier riding at his right hand side on a powerfully-built black charger. An officer of the cavalry going by the black jackboots and the plumed helmet he wore, gleaming black with gilded plates worked into it, the black horsehair plume falling to the small of his back.
"Colonel." the sharply enunciated tone of the Duke cut across the Frenchwoman's shock at the soldier's audacity. "Je suis désolé Colonel…"
"Delacour." she filled the expectant silence. "Colonel du Premier Régiment de Cuirassiers."
"Je suis désolé Colonel Delacour." Wellington repeated.
Fleur simply shrugged, more interested in examining the officer who had spoken, who in turns was appraising her with a slight frown and narrowed eyes. His equipment bore on it, in several places, the legend KDG, woven in gold lacework. One of the British Dragoon Guardsmen, one of their prized heavy cavalry. Tall and broad, short dark hair peaking from beneath his helmet, his eyes a most startling green, his posture in the saddle the confident seat of a career horseman, and his hand resting on the finely cut and polished steel guard of a long-bladed sword in a broad steel scabbard.
"Ce n'est pas mon roi." she snorted. It was true. Her king was half a world away, exiled to a small Mediterranean island, perhaps never to return.
A half-nod this time from the English general, who, with a touch of his heels urged his horse forward down the serried ranks of cuirassiers and the Old Guard. She followed, riding on his left, slightly behind, but still able to hear the English colonel speaking.
"First Cuirassiers… Lord Wellington, I believe that was one of the regiments we faced at Tournai, when my troopers ate the supper of the French generals, left still hot as they fled through the windows."
She spurred her mount into a trot so as to meet the other colonel's stare across the neck of Wellington's horse, her hand finding the hilt of her sword.
"And would zat I 'ad met you zat day, you would not stand 'ere, only two weeks from twenty years on." she bit out in stilted, heavily accented English.
"Enough." Wellington bit out in English. "Colonel Delacour, I am sure you will rejoice that you will have the opportunity to test my escort's mettle as I require, and Le Roi provides they be given fitting accommodation and stabling. Coincidentally that is the Caserne de Courbevoie."
Fleur couldn't prevent a wordless snarl tugging at her lips. To stand guard of honour for a conqueror, protecting his client king was one insult. To play hostess for his bodyguard was quite another!
-x-
Amidst the bustle of students passing around the cloisters below, Fleur noticed a movement out of the corner of her eye as Harry raised his sleeve to his mouth to muffle a sudden snort of humour. The French witch, leaning on the granite balustrade overlooking the great courtyard of Hogwarts, glanced over, one pale eyebrow raised, questioning, her hands still wrapped round a steaming mug of hot chocolate.
"What? I could not, as an officer and noblewoman of ze Empire, be seen to be a purveyor of chocolate 'ouses, pits of plots, gambling and iniquity as zey were." she protested.
"No, no, it's not that. I'm just reminded of another courtyard, and the most charming introduction a Frenchwoman ever offered me." Harry waved his hand in amusement. "He's not my king. How droll, followed by an oblique death threat."
A wry smile caught the corners of Fleur's mouth. "And, 'ow many charming introductions 'ave my countrywomen offered you?"
"Too few, too few." Harry shook his head, before returning to stare into the courtyard, his mind settling back to what Hermione had labelled 'standard Harry brooding setting'. "You know, all these children feel so hopelessly naive to me. This bloody tournament has 'bloodbath' written all over it."
Fleur's eyes flicked sideways briefly to glance at him. "Per'aps, 'ave you ever considered what it was like to be a child."
"Not really. I'm an orphan. Both times round actually. That's a score I have to settle by the way, if you would care to assist." he admitted tightly.
"Always." she reached out with one warm hand to lace her fingers with his. "I at least got a child'ood. Both times round. Even if my first father was taken too soon. Jean-Sebastian and Appoline 'ave ever been good parents, never bound by the expectations of station zat came between my first mother and I, not even when I told zem."
"Told them?" Harry looked confused.
"I could not lie to zem." shrugged Fleur. "I tried to 'ide it at first of course, but zen ze nightmares came. How could I 'ide from zem that I was waking up in cold, shaking terror as my command was shot down by volleys of Russian musketry and grapeshot out of a blinding blizzard zat I could never breach?"
"Eylau?"
"Eylau."
"Bloody awful affair. I read about it." he managed the closest thing to comfort he could offer as an old soldier. Fighting such battles was a duty, but not one that was enjoyed.
"Ze worst part was zat of the men I rode wis, one in eight did not see ze next sunrise, and what for? A damned field of ice, smashed guns, frozen corpses and zree quarters of our 'orses dead or unable to give further service." Fleur nearly slammed her mug of hot chocolate down on the stone, a brief flash of magic revealing the presence of an Unbreakable Charm stopping her from smashing it to smithereens on the balustrade. "Sorry. It was… unpleasant. But Jean-Sebastian and Appoline, well, my fazzer 'ad been a soldier too, and my muzzer, 'er reaction to ze story zat some old ghost was possessing 'er daughter was to leave 'er job and to study as a t'erapist to 'elp give me ze counselling I 'ave come to realise I needed." she added with a wry smile, "Not zat I made it easy on 'er at first, I was a most grudging patient."
"Father and Mother?" Harry raised a querying eyebrow.
Fleur tossed her hair back in defiance. "What else should I call zem? Zey 'ave done everything and more zan I deserved." a small, yet sure smile crept onto her face. "Zey even 'ave given me a sister, petit Gabrielle, she 'as the marks of every bit of good I know of in myself, and not one of my ills. You will meet 'er come Christmastide."
"I will?"
"You will. After all, 'ow could you miss meeting 'er when you will be staying at Chateau de Razanne to enjoy Christmas as one of my family?"
-x-
The blunted swords rang out in the sparring ring, old blades no longer of much service use but still usable for drills and light sparring. This, however, seemed like a grudge match, at least on one half of the fight. Fleur pushed her way through the throng of Cuirassiers, Old Grumblers of the Imperial Guard and British Dragoons to see one of the British officers, a young ensign of not more than eighteen years, being driven in circles by the relentless hammer-blows of a trooper of her own regiment. Her lips thinned as she regarded the sloppy swordsmanship on display, particularly on the part of the French cavalryman. He was a farmboy, built to wrestle hogs and saw trees, called to the colours in the days following the disastrous retreat from Russia, strong and angry.
The ensign on the other hand was slender and youthful, likely as not an aristocrat's get, technically proficient but unable or unwilling to take the initiative, and withering under the assault, finally driven to his knees by a wild overhead swing. Regarding the red face of her own trooper, Fleur grabbed a spare blunted sword from a rack and was about to vault into the sand-strewn ring to try and instal some much-needed discipline when another person nearly sent her sprawling as they shoved past her.
Fleur's eyes widened in recognition of the tall, broad figure with the shock of messy hair. The Colonel of the British Dragoons had been unusually reticent in interacting with her since their first meeting, instead confining himself to drilling the escort squadron and reporting periodically to the Duke of Wellington. He periodically observed the sparring between his troopers and the cuirassiers, but never intervened or partook in the fighting or the inevitable gambling. That seemed to be changing.
"ENOUGH!" he boomed, vaulting the wooden wall of the ring to a look of relief on the face of his sand-stained ensign, finally able to safely let up his defence, a sharp crack of his commanding officer's sword whipping across the back of the Frenchman's cuirass. "Someone translate! If you want a fight, pick someone who'll return it in equal measure, or be measured a coward!"
Fleur made quick work of translating the Englishman's words, only for her trooper, rather than backing down, to bellow like a wounded bull and charge. She wanted to hold her head in her hands at the idiocy. The Englishman had the measure of his opponent, and, despite having the sword in a seemingly relaxed grip low at his right hip, he whipped it up in a cut she recognised from fighting Cossacks, with the hand a full turn at the wrist from the usual French and British rising cuts, lending enormous strength as the blade swung up. It struck with a dull impact right in the charging Frenchman's groin, his breeches offering little padding, but, despite the keening whine from the farmboy's mouth, that wasn't the end of his troubles.
The Englishman had brought his sword up into a high hanging parry on his left, the cuirassier's sword connecting with a sharp crack, then the redcoat's scarlet-clad arm reached out and wrapped first over the blue cloth of the cuirassier's jacketed arm, then under with the forearm. Unable to move, the Frenchman had no answer forced him to turn and present his temple right for a thunderous blow of the sword's pommel cap, a dully echoing thud that rendered him immediately limp and unconscious.
It was a shockingly fast and brutal defeat that garnered utter silence for an even dozen long moments, before the British soldiers, led by the bruised ensign began cheering, to furious mutterings and anger from their French hosts as their champion was dragged from the ring by several of his comrades, beaten, unconscious and bleeding profusely from an abrasion to his head.
"Delacour!" the British Colonel barked, startling Fleur. "Tell them that any more grudges they want to resolve, they can, here and now. With me." he tore his scarlet uniform jacket and cast it over to one of his troopers and picked up the sword from where he'd cast it in the sand.
Fleur glanced across her soldiers. She suspected none of them could speak more than a few words of English, but the tone of challenge was pretty universal, and that was a problem. However much she loathed the Fat King, discipline in her regiment was ironclad, and now it was breaking down.
"No need. You stand for your regiment, and for Britain. I stand for France, the Empire and my regiment." she replied, "Acceptez-vous?"
"So be it." he nodded shortly.
She glanced at two of her reliable companions of old, a Marechal-des-Logis and her Adjutant, who recognised the request and set about unstrapping her cuirass, leaving her in a jacket, lightened by seven kilograms of steel cuirass faced in bronze and gilding, and another kilogram-and-a-half of helmet. After a moment of thought, regarding her opponent who had chosen to fight in his loose cotton tunic, she unbuttoned and shrugged off her jacket, leaving her similarly attired. In the process of climbing into the ring, she missed the look of confusion, stupefaction and shock that passed across the English colonel's face.
-x-
"What do you mean you did not know I was a woman!"
"Shut up. I never said that! Only that I was surprised when you pulled that cuirass and jacket off..." Harry protested as led Fleur up to a lifesize bronze statue of a maille-clad warrior with a greataxe grounded in front of him, his face half-obscured by a helmet with spectacle plates. "Fafnir." he pronounced, the bronze warrior nodding in acceptance, the whole wall including the statue swinging back to reveal a passage with an iron-bound door at the end. "I tend not to bring many girls up here, not least because with someone of my mental age, it would be wrong."
"You mean you were surprised when you discovered I had breasts?" Fleur's acerbic retort was lost on Harry as he led her through the short hallway and lifted the heavy iron latch on the door.
The door swung open, and Fleur had a brief moment to examine a small study with a dark-stained wooden desk, much in the keeping with the rest of the chamber's furnishings including a pair of wing-backed armchairs and a sofa of wine-red leather, a broad hearth big enough to roast a pig on a spit - she was sure that was what those pieces of ironwork were for, anyway. However, before she could do more than glance over it, Harry had pulled her through to an adjacent room.
It seemed that this room was little more than a glorified wardrobe, hung with cloaks, some woven with silver or gold thread depicting unfamiliar emblems, some were Hogwarts robes, others dress or 'civilian' wear robes, some were 'muggle' long coats, greatcoats, frock coats and dusters. She was distracted from examining what appeared to be a brace of old-fashioned cavalry pistols hanging in a leather bandolier by a mothball bouncing off her boots and rolling off into the darkness, leaving a slightly musty scent behind, though it was far from unpleasant.
"You know, 'Arry…" Fleur purred, "You could 'ave asked and I would not 'ave said no, wizout ze secrecy. Besides, with your own suite of rooms- actually, you have your own suite of rooms?"
"Thank you luv. However, perhaps tomorrow… after the feast anyway." he gave her a roguish grin. "And yes, I didn't entirely come away unscathed from life, so these chambers keep me from waking my peers in the dorms. Besides, rooming with children might not be entirely appropriate. Now, I'm here for… aha, this!" he produced a cloak of silver fabric so fine as to look like rippling water in the low light, and whipped it over himself, vanishing into nothingness.
"Zat, now zat is remark'able." she pronounced, reaching out to reassure herself that he was still there.
"Right. Now, are you going to help me make sure that nobody gets near that bloody Goblet who shouldn't? Hermione reckons that it's too good an opportunity for someone to pass up an attempt to off me… again."
"I think you have a few stories to tell me." Fleur raised an eyebrow, but let him drape the cloak over them both. "And if we're staying up until tomorrow night's feast, we're going to need coffee. Lots of it."