The Lords of Kendal Manor

Chapter 1

~ Valenciennes, France, January 1815. ~

Light filtered into the grime filled space, announcing the frigid morning in subtle hues. The hand-blown glass rippled the mornings' rays across the opposite wall while frost ferns further softened the glare upon the surface of the window for his eyes. Nonetheless, the morning beckoned him from sleep and returned him to the harsh reality of the crude room he now occupied.

Originally, he'd been a guest of France's Emperor, Napoleon Bonaparte, although now he was just another lunatic.

He'd likely die here, of course, for prisoner exchange did not include those entombed within an asylum. Hardly fair, but when had life played fair? Even following the French defeat, Napoleon had merely been sentenced to his birthplace, whilst those such as he remained interred. However, objectively the British had not likely sought him out due to not knowing where he was. He was a man considered of little consequence.

The comfort of a single room was hardly an honest luxury. Lachlan had deconditioned in the years following his capture, and he likely held no resemblance to his former self. Of course, he remained tall and broad of shoulder, but this merely highlighted his gaunt, bony appearance. Even his knees resembled cannonballs held between two rammers, now serving as his legs.

Happily, his teeth remained intact, although for how much longer he was unsure, he was subjected to regular altercations and supremely poor nutrition. Finally, during the last confrontation he'd been forced to defend himself through, it resulted in him accidentally killing the crazy man who'd started it, ensuring placement in isolation.

Even the guards had given him a wide berth following that event.

He felt his frame groan as he awkwardly uncoiled to await the guards while perched upon the edge of his bedding, his body sore and tired, even though his original injury obtained during the battle for Burgos no longer burdened him, even if it did leave a formidable scar.

The musket ball obscurely entered his body between his spine and left shoulder, at an angle that may have seen it shatter the ball joint at the top of his arm. Yet, because it was fired from relatively short range, the momentum carried it forward to ricochet instead off the apex of his scapula, where it proceeded to exit beneath his clavicle, within the hollow below his collar bone.

The French surgeon who attended him had marvelled that the subclavian artery remained intact and that the bullet had not diverted to his lung. Regardless, the exiting shot had caused an impressive bloom of claret to form across his chest.

Another soldier, whom to this day he'd not uncovered the truth of, tore his officer's tunic from Lachlan's shoulders to investigate, peeling it from him completely whilst Lachlan remained conscious. This quick thinking likely saved him from bleeding out, for the man subsequently removed his own tunic, lay Lachlan upon it to wad the rear wound and then shoved Lachlan's officer garb into the gushing wound before him.

It was the last image of the battle he held. A young, common soldier, kneeling on his shoulder to staunch the blood as he continued to fire at the French with Lachlan's pistol.

When he awoke, he found he'd been captured.

Lachlan was from that day a captive, numbered among the many while not afforded his rank.

Lord Lachlan Alford was the fifth son of the Marquess of Kendal. He'd explained his peerage to the French, but he was without identification and in this way afforded only a fraction of leeway. This leeway led to the initial and proper treatment for his wound, for undoubtedly, the French had the best battlefield surgeon's. But, when the battlefield reports finally emerged announcing the losses on both sides, his name was amongst the dead.