That was that. They never spoke of it again. Caroline’s attitude convinced him, too, that his mission of the heart had been entirely superseded by a more patriotic one. It was a moment of sadness, but he knew better than to dwell on it. Events moved on without consulting Aubrey Fitzwilliam and Caroline Hepworth.
Immediately, keeping things brisk and professional, Aubrey suggested that some extra intelligence gathering would be worthwhile. Caroline and George greeted this with enthusiasm, so after a fine breakfast (Eggs Benedict and fresh fruit) they took their bicycles out to inspect the fortifications on the north-eastern edge of the town.
They weren’t alone. ‘Don’t they know there’s a war on?’ Aubrey murmured as they drew up outside the fortress.
‘I’m sure they do,’ Caroline said. She was wearing a flat straw hat with a black ribbon. Aubrey thought it highlighted her face wonderfully. ‘But people have a habit of ignoring anything that’s more than a few miles away.’
Many sightseers were strolling about the earthworks not far down the road from the fortress. The rampart was thirty feet high in places, and stretched for miles, north and south, protecting the city from attack from the east.
People swarmed over the earthworks, taking photographs and generally having a splendid time. Grown-ups and children were climbing the heaped-up earth while a horde of dogs circled aimlessly, barking at the wind, the ground and that bird over there that really needed a good chasing. Several groups had spread chequered cloths and were picnicking amid the barbed wire, while donkey carts went backward and forward between the town and the formidable rampart – or the superb viewing point offering an unparalleled vista of Divodorum and surrounds, if the hastily printed postcards were to be believed.
Naturally, a gathering like this couldn’t be allowed to happen without opportunists appearing, pushing barrows and selling everything from apples to cool drinks to parasols, and they were hard at work on this bright, sunny morning.
Aubrey glanced at the fortress that faced the earthworks. In the tower, three soldiers were lounging about, surveying the carnival scene. Only one of them held a rifle. On the battlements either side of the tower, artillery peeped through the embrasures, but these weren’t manned, as far as Aubrey could tell, unless sleeping draped over the barrel was a new and exciting way of being on guard.
‘A mixed bag,’ Caroline said. ‘Serious preparations side by side with complete nonchalance.’
‘I don’t think the picnickers are serious about war,’ Aubrey said.
‘Seems not.’ George took out a pad and sketched the scene – the river, the road, the fortifications stretching away to where Holmland loomed in the distance. ‘I can see this as “Chapter One – A Fool’s Paradise”. With a little bit of imagination.’
A laugh, then a distinctive voice came from behind them, in delightfully accented Albionish. ‘Imagination, George Doyle, is one of your best qualities.’
George nearly dropped his sketch, fumbled for it, then whirled, open-mouthed. ‘Sophie! What on earth are you doing here?’
Aubrey thought that question a little unfair. Sophie Delroy, being a Gallian, had more right than George to be in Divodorum. ‘Hello, Caroline. Hello, Aubrey,’ she said. She was neatly turned out, as usual, in a jacket and skirt combination with a bold blue stripe. ‘I cannot wait to hear why you are here, in Divodorum.’
‘Steady on, Sophie,’ George said, and Aubrey couldn’t help noticing how his friend was straightening his tie and adjusting his jacket as he spoke. Ever since George had been introduced to Sophie while they were on their Gallian adventure last year, they had been what George was candid enough to admit were special friends. Petite, perpetually smiling, and stunningly golden-blonde, Sophie had been corresponding with George ever since. Despite few chances to meet, George’s admiration for Sophie hadn’t waned.
Aubrey had wondered how much of George’s enthusiasm for journalism and writing was inspired by Sophie, who had a fierce ambition to work for the greatest Gallian newspapers, exposing corruption, investigating government scandals, and generally doing good.
Aubrey was ready to admit he was pleased to see her as well. Sophie and Caroline got on famously, and he enjoyed Sophie’s disarming good humour – as well as her charming way of pronouncing his name so it started with ‘Ow’.
She didn’t look like someone whose family was experiencing difficulty, as his grandmother had put it. Perhaps it was just something with her parents?
‘Sophie,’ Caroline said warmly. ‘It’s good to see you. Are you with The Sentinel on this trip?’
‘But of course! It is the duty of the press to bring the truth to the people.’ She smiled, and Aubrey heard George grunt as if punched in the stomach. ‘With so much happening, they are calling on all their writers, no matter how inexperienced.’
Sounds familiar, that, Aubrey thought.
‘But it’s dangerous, Sophie,’ George protested. ‘Jolly dangerous.’
‘It is? Then why are you here?’
‘Vinegar,’ George said gamely. ‘Divodorum has the best vinegar in all Gallia.’
‘And you, all three of you, had a yearning to sample vinegar? You are making fun of me, George.’
‘No, honestly, Sophie,’ George said. ‘It’s not like that at all.’
A distant rumbling noise made Aubrey look to the heavens. Thunder? ‘Are we expecting rain?’
‘Aubrey, you try to distract me, to help your friend,’ Sophie said, shaking her head. Then, laughing, she had to tuck her curls back under her bonnet. ‘But I will not be diverted so easily. The son of the Albion Prime Minister, visiting Divodorum unannounced? This could be a story of great interest to Sentinel readers.’
‘I don’t think so...’ Aubrey began, but the distant rumbling rolled toward them again.
‘Smoke.’ Caroline pointed to the north-east, past the earthworks and past the ridge toward the hilly country that lay beyond.
Caroline wasn’t the only one who had noticed the plume of black smoke. A spirited argument was going on in the tower above their heads. Aubrey shaded his eyes and saw that it was over who had the use of the single pair of field glasses.
‘A lightning strike?’ George suggested. ‘How far away do you think it is?’
‘Not lightning,’ Sophie said. Her face was pale, and she jumped when an unearthly howl rose from the fortress. One of the guards in the tower was cranking away for all he was worth on a large siren. ‘We have troops stationed over there, a forward post near the village of Remerci.’
George quickly unfolded a map he produced from his bicycle basket. ‘Fifteen miles away?’
More thunder, and a second tower of smoke rose, to the north of the first. Suddenly, the party on the earthworks was over. People scrambled to pack up hampers. A man rushed about, ending the donkey rides and leaving children crying. An accordion player, high on the rampart, stopped playing and gazed to the northeast. Then he slung the accordion over his shoulder and ran, barely keeping his balance, down the long, sloping face of the earthworks. When he reached the road back to the city he didn’t stop, but kept going, panting and huffing as he loped past.
Aubrey finally said what everyone was thinking, but dared not utter. ‘Artillery.’
‘But they said the Holmlanders would never attack through Divodorum,’ Sophie said. She gazed at the horizon. Three plumes of smoke were now rising.
‘Ah,’ Aubrey said. ‘And these would be the same people who said that Holmland would never invade the Goltans?’
‘You have a good point,’ Sophie said, but she looked troubled, far from the sunny Sophie Delroy that Aubrey had known.