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Re: FILL 5/10 Re: Norrell sent to Penninsula war instead of Strange

[(Anonymous)]

Mr Norrell did not like being woking when the sun was the merest suggestion of brightness on the horizon and he liked it still less when there was a long journey ahead of him. Of this and many other things which he did not like about mornings, journeys and Portugal he told to Childermass at great length while they readied themselves to leave Lisbon.

Mr Norrell looked even more unhappy once upon his horse than he had when he had first realised he was to have to ride. He rode every part as poorly as Childermass had feared he might and no suggestions or observations that he had made had caused Mr Norrell to sit easier on his mount. Indeed he managed to look both hunched and painfully stiff in the saddle at one and the same time as they made their way through the quiet streets, him clinging to the reins as if he feared the docile grey might suddenly run wild.

The common soldiers who would make the journey to the Lines on foot had already departed from where they had been garrisoned by the time Mr Norrell and Childermass arrived. A small group of officers remained, although they were now readying themselves to leave.

“My word, what have we here?,” said a young captain by the name of Westerton, who swung himself easily into the saddle of his grey, who was much larger beast than Mr Norrell’s own. “Do not tell me Lord Liverpool has sent another of his bean counters to discern the cost of this war.”

“He is the magician, Mr Norrell,” said Westerton’s friend, a stocky fellow called Lieutenant Philpps. “Woolicombe spoke of him at dinner.”

“Woolicombe spoke of little else,” the third officer, whose name was Mountford remarked with amusement backed up by the firmly held self-belief that he was exceedingly witty. “I had thought he had exaggerated. But I see he was quite correct, and in his view of the servant too.”

“Tell me, sir. How do you usually travel?” Philpps asked as he trotted his horse over to Mr Norrell. “Does a man of your abilities really need such a mundane thing a horse? Surely a flying carpet or perhaps a magic door that opened wherever you wished should be more suitable.”

“If he has such a door he may give it to me,” Mountford remarked, “For I have been without my wife more than two months now, and I greatly need a visit.”

“I cannot and will not make such things,” Norrell replied horrified that they should suggest such a thing. “It would be unseemly and so dangerous that I cannot even begin to imagine the circumstances under which one would attempt such a thing. Although there was an instance of an enchanted door in one of the Durham Chronicles which I think illustrates perfectly why one should have nothing to do with such vulgar magic.”

“Take no heed of them,” Childermass said, knowing that a lengthy lecture on the peculiarities of magical transportation was imminent and that it would do little to endear Mr Norrell to them. “They do not know you or magic.”

The three young officers, all of whom were in possession of newly purchased commissions and had in reality had little more idea of the rigours of war than Mr Norrell himself continued in this vein both about Mr Norrell and a number of other people they felt worth of jest, until a more senior senior joined them.

The man was one of Wellington’s most carefully chosen exploring officers, Major Colquhoun Grant who had been in Lisbon on a pressing matter for his General. He looked at Mr Norrell with rather less surprize or amusement, but a deal more resignation. He was polite, and made introductions to them all.

“If you are quite ready, sirs,” he said to the young officers, “We shall be off.”

“You may wish to sit a little easier, sir,” he said to Mr Norrell as he trotted his horse past them, ready to lead them from the gate. “Or otherwise sitting maybe prove somewhat uncomfortable later.”



They first broke their ride around two hours after they had left Lisbon to rest and water horses. It had not been an unpleasant thus far, the road wide and relatively well maintained as it cut a dusty path through the farm land. Fields of pale green shoots of spring wheat, vineyards with their regiments rows of vines and groves of gnarled olives trees made a patchwork landscape, amongst which was dotted farm houses and the occasional windmill.

It was at this point, a little over ten miles from Lisbon that they joined with the soldiers were to reinforce the 58th foot on the Lines. The Lines themselves were a most remarkable construction, which had been ordered by General Wellington himself and brought to life by the talents of Sir Richard Fletcher. Constructed in ten short months, the three lines of ravelins, redoubts, cannon emplacements and blockhouses had provided an near impenetrable barrier to the French. Childermass looked at the sharp, jutting outcrops that were crowned at frequent intervals by forts and semaphore towers with wariness. Magic was a far greater part of his life than even Mr Norrell was permitted to know and being so close to these new technologies seemed to drive magic further into the past in a way that made him worry for the future of it.

Mr Norrell did not look at them at all, as by this point his thoughts had narrowed to only two things, staying on his horse and the utter discomfort of being in the saddle for hours when one is unused to such things.

Wellington's headquarters on the Lines at Pero Negro was a most unremarkable building, but so grateful was Mr Norrell at the prospect of finally ending the journey he found it a most welcoming sight.

“I feel bruised to the bone,” Mr Norrell complained as Childermass easily dismounted and made his way over to him. “How is it that you seem no worse for it?”

“I am used to it,” Childermass replied as he approached him. “Today’s ride was far less than the distance I travel from London to Hurtfew on your business. You will grow used to it in time.”

“I do not wish to become accustomed to this,” Mr Norrell said a definite whine in his voice. “I hurt in places I dare not even mention. This has been intolerable and I refuse to travel in this way ever again."

Childermass gave him an exasperated look, but did not share his thoughts that Mr Norrell would indeed have to get used to riding for he would have little choice about it unless he wished to return to England with the admission that he could be of no use. Admitting that he had made a mistake was not something that Childermass had ever seen or heard his employer to do. Neither did he have any great wish to see Mr Norrell return home in defeat, so despite the irritations that remaining would bring he had already decided that He would see to it that Mr Norrell would return to England a welcome and respected figure for the magics he had done.

Getting Mr Norrell down from the horse, who regarded him with look that suggested it was as happy to be rid of him and he was of it, proved difficult. Finally he all but fell sideway off the horse to be caught by Childermass, who mostly by luck managed to keep his feet and not be tumbled to the ground with Mr Norrell on top of him.

The proved to be of great amusement to a group of young ensigns, who laughed and pointed until Childermass glared at them and Mr Norrell was quite red with embarrassment. After this they were shewn into what had at one point been the drawing room and asked if there was anything that they might require while they awaited Wellington’s return.

The wait was rather longer than Mr Norrell thought was polite and he was considered whether to send Childermass to find out what was happening when the door opened and Wellington and a group of officers, none below the rank of Major and some much above, entered the room.

“I do not wish to be told that you cannot follow a simple order,” Wellington said sharply to a Colonel, who looked as travel weary as they. “I need solutions to problem, not further problems.”

He looked at Mr Norrell and then at Childermass. “And who may you be, sir? I have no need for an accountant.”

Stiff and sore, Mr Norrell stood as straight as he could and said, “I am Mr Norrell, sent by the Admiralty. I am to be your magician.”

“I have no need of one,” Wellington said, voice short as his day had been wearisome and filled with the kind of news that those in command find most troubling. “What I need is more men, more horses and more cannon and the means to get them to where I need them to be and to feed them while they drive the French before them. Tell me, sir, can you do any of those things?”

“No, but I do have some ideas,” Mr Norrell said quite taken aback at Wellington's curtness of tone.

“Well let’s have them, man,” Wellington said. “I do not have the luxury of time to spend guessing what passes through the mind of a modern day Merlin.”

Flustered and not a little overawed by Wellington’s commanding presence, Mr Norrell replied, “I believe given time I could replicate my sea beacons to form a similar warning system on land.”

“I already have that by way of the lines, the semaphore towers there on have proved far more reliable than conjuring tricks.” Wellington turned his back on Mr Norrell and moved to inspect the large map that had been placed by Major Grant onto the table in the centre of the room.

“I could make it rain on the French,” Mr Norrell suggested even more uncertain of himself now that his best idea had been dismissed out of hand. “It would be most disheartening to be wet every day and quite ruinous to health one should think given enough time.”

Wellington considered this briefly before answering, “And where should this deluge go? Into the rivers that I must cross to rout the French from the cities they have taken? Should it continue to fall while our own troops advance, soaking our powder and turning the ground to mud? No, no, I do not see the use of this at all, sir.”

“I could shew you what Napoleon is doing at this very moment. I should just need my polished bowl and some clean water,” Mr Norrell said increasingly desperate to prove that he and his magic could be of practical use. “I can have Childermass bring them to us.”

“It is late. I should suspect that he is sleeping or with his wife or mistress; sights I have no wish to see or hear,” Wellington said with a finally that those who knew him meant any further suggestions would be less than well received. There was a murmur of agreement and a muffled laugh from the officers who had come in with him.

“You should not be able to hear it, one can only view such things,” Mr Norrell said. He looked then at Childermass in a mute appeal for help, before turning his gaze to the floor, uncomfortable both in body from the ride and in mind from the dismissive attitudes of those around him.

“Then that is quite useless to me unless you are also proficient in reading minds or at very least lips,” Wellington replied, his mind already in other far more pressing matters such as the how best get Colonel Beresford to Badajoz, lay siege to it and take control of it back from the French and thereby secure the Portuguese border with Spain, while still having enough troops to take walled city Almeida and to keep the Lines defended. He shook his head dismissively and said, “I confess I have no idea what to do with you, although Lord Liverpool will not take kindly to me returning you to England upon the first available ship, and Lord knows I need the support and goodwill of those in the Admiralty if I am to beat the French. So Mr Norrell, you will stay and perhaps in time I may find use for you, until then do try to stay out of the way.”

So shocked at this treatment Mr Norrell found he could not even form the words to reply and nodded forlornly. At this point Childermass intervened, and after telling Wellington that Mr Norrell was exhausted and would be able to better answer question tomorrow, he escorted his employer away.



TBC





A/N sorry for the delay, this part got so long that I've had to split it in two, so here his 2000 words now and hopefully the next 2000 in a day or two as it is mostly just editing to be done on it.

Re: FILL 6/10 Re: Norrell sent to Penninsula war instead of Strange

[(Anonymous)]

There was little accommodation to be had, but after Childermass had impressed on an ensign that Mr Norrell answered only to Wellington and Lord Liverpool himself, and should therefore be regarded with respect, a room was quickly found and their luggage taken to it.

It was not the kind of room that Mr Norrell was used to staying in. It was sparsely furnished, with little more than a bed, a desk and a chair, while the walls were roughly rendered with white plaster and the single window bore a wooden shutter rather than glass. The lack of even a single bookcase he found terribly upsetting and made up his mind to ask one to be found first thing in the morning. For Childermass himself he was given the option of billeting with the soldiers or taking a straw pallet and making a bed for himself in the corner of Mr Norrell room. He little liked either option, but Mr Norrell had insisted that he stayed with him as it would cause him great inconvenience should not be able to find him when he required something.

“Wellington does not want me here,” Mr Norrell said unhappily, as he eased himself down to sit on his bed, a look of discomfort crossing his face. “I do not know why he has taken so against me. What have I ever done to him to deserve such treatment?”

Childermass knelt to remove his employers shoes and stockings. “He will come to see your uses in time.”

Mr Norrell did not look at all comforted or convinced of this. “I wish that I could believe you were right.”

“I have never told you falsely before,” Childermass replied, “I should not begin now.” It was something of a half truth, as while he had never answered a direct question from him with an outright lie, it had to be said that he was very often economical with the truth.

Mr Norrell had then asserted that it was certainly too late for him to eat or else he would not be able to sleep. Although, he had added miserably, he did not believe he would be able to sleep for he could not find a position that did not after a few short minutes cause his legs and back to ache intolerably.

There was, Childermass was certain, some exaggeration on his employer’s part, for Mr Norrell coped poorly with any form of discomfort whether it be from cold, heat or stiff and tender muscles caused by a long ride. Despite the knowledge that a great deal of his employer’s troubles could have been avoided had he taken Major Grant’s or his own advice about how to sit and to take frequent breaks to walk along side his horse, he had no wish to see him remain in discomfort. [1] So after readying Mr Norrell for bed, Childermass sought out the kitchens, before returning to him.

“What is this?” Mr Norrell asked suspiciously and peered into the mug as if expecting to see some vision of doom it.

“Warmed milk with a little brandy,” Childermass said placing it into Mr Norrell's hand. There was rather more than a little in it and while he was well aware than his employer usually eschewed harder spirits and even wine on most days and as such his tolerance for drink was embarrassingly low, he was of the opinion that tonight it would do him far greater good than it ever it had at parties [2]. “It will help easy the soreness and you will sleep a little easier.”

“Or give me indigestion I shouldn’t wonder.” Despite this complaint Mr Norrell drank it as he had long trusted Childermass to help him in such things. It occurred to him later that he should be left wanting for a great many things were he not to have his man of business there to attend to him. For all Mr Lascelles had complained of Childermass and his rough ways, Mr Norrell remained of the opinion that he couldn’t have found a finer man to have in his employ and as such he would never replace him for he should never be able find another who understood his needs so thoroughly.

As Childermass took the empty cup from him and placed it on the desk, Mr Norrell asked, “Will you sleep now also?”

It had been a long and wearisome day, but Childermass knew where his next course of actions lay and he said. “No, I have other business to attend to.”

Surprized and a little hurt by what he saw as his servant’s desire to leave him at the first opportunity, he said sharply, “And what business may that be? Has some maid caught your eye?”

Childermass gave him a disbelieving look. “You know I do not trouble myself with such things. No, it is your business as ever. If Wellington wishes you to be of use then you must know what he needs and know it before he realises he requires it. So I shall do as I have always done, I shall seek out that information for you,” at this point he paused to pick up his hat and coat, “I shall speak to the common soldiers, maybe a sergeant or two and find out what it is they know and what they might need.”

Mr Norrell did not feel reassured by this and said, “How should they know better than a General what is needed in this war?”

“They are the ones fighting and dying. They will know.” He stood Mr Norrell's bedside, a tall dark figure next to his employer’s slight, seated and nightshirt clad form. “Do you have need of anything more from me before I go?”

There were a great many things which Mr Norrell wanted, but he found himself unable to give voice to a single one. It was not that his requests would have been startling or even particularly inappropriate, rather that he did not wish to appear weak, foolish or ungentlemanly asking for such things as advice on how to easy the burn in his legs and back or how he did not feel at all safe in this strange, bare little room it the French just a few short miles away and how more than anything he really didn't want to be left alone. Cross with himself for feeling this way and Childermass for not spontaneously knowing what he needed, he said with tired irritability, “Do not remain out late and do not wake me on your return, you know I find it terribly difficult to sleep again if I am wakened.”

“I shall be like a shadow, sir. Have no fear.”


Leaving Mr Norrell to rest, Childermass left their accommodation and made his way to where fields of tents stood in regimented rows, the white canvas as pale as oddly angular ghosts in the dark night.

Although he was not familiar with the art of warfare it seemed to Childermass that there were a great many soldiers present for such a small place, even if it were General Wellington's head quarters. Some looked fresh and bright in their scarlet coats, new recruits lately arrived from England. Others were travel worn, their clothes dulled and much repaired after months of service in the harsh conditions of an Iberian winter. They were being gathered there, of that much Childermass was certain, although for what purpose he could not be certain. However, what he had seen and knew of Wellington he suspected that they may soon be taking the war to the French rather than defending against their advance.

It made the need to gather information all the more pressing and Childermass moved in the shadows listening to the common soldiers, seeking out those who looked most worn by campaign.

“Speak and be recognised,” called a private, a musket held ready in his hands as Childermass approached.

“A fellow Yorkshireman, in search of a little warmth on a cold night,” Childermass said, moving a little closer, knowing that he had chosen well who to approach. Voice lower, he said, “By bird and book, I offer no harm.”

“You’re him, the wizard’s man,” Private Greenwood said, rather in awe of what was happening on an otherwise unremarkable night. Greenwood then called over his Sergeant, who after looking at Childermass had confirmed that he was welcome to warm himself at their fire, provided he in return gave them news of England.

There was something about the flickering of the firelight, the sharp tang of woodsmoke and the songs of love, longing and home the men sang that that resonated with him. It was something that echoed down the ages, these men were as those that had come across the sea in ages past, bringing names and myths with them in their longships, they were as those who served the barons and marcher lords when England warred with itself and the Raven King held the North under his protection. They were soldiers of King George as he was, in his way, one for the Raven King.

There was a common ground between them and soon he was information flowed to him as letters from home that the men couldn't read were proffered, drink was shared, news of England related and tales were told. All that was said Childermass’ suspicions that they troops were being mustered to leave were confirmed, and although none of the men knew to where they would be sent all were certain that it would happen soon and that it would be a hard and bitter war, which would be fought as much with the French as with the landscape of jagged peaks, wide rivers and tangled woods that lay in front of them.

It was late when Childermass returned, although none saw or heard him as he silently slipped through the still and dark passages of the house like a wraith, leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of woodsmoke, tobacco and rum.

Mr Norrell was asleep when he softly left himself into their room. Curled tightly under the coverlet, a nightcap pulled firmly over his shortly trimmed hair, he snuffled in his sleep like a hedgehog seeking its way in a darkened garden. Childermass had always found it fitting that his employer should sound like such a small and prickly creature, and one whose defence in life was to turn inwards and hide in the hope that what troubled them would considered them not worth bothering with and go away. With a faint smile, that contained rather more fondness than he would have allowed to be seen had Mr Norrell have been awake, he lit himself a small stub of candle and placed it by his bed.

It had been an illuminating evening, if a little concerning that they might soon be forced to travel once again. Now that he had information and suspicions about what would happen he turned to his cards for greater understanding. They had served him well in the long years since they came into his possession, and although he would never admit it he found a comfort in holding their worn forms that he rarely encountered elsewhere.

Tonight however they were far from comforting, the answers they gave him seemed a nonsense as they were contradictory even between one card and the next. Concerned that perhaps the questions he was asking of the were too imprecise, although it was not a problem he had thereto encountered, he tried to discern the best course of action Mr Norrell should take. Instead the answers it gave him were by turns both deeply unnerving and utterly preposterous when applied to Mr Norrell.

Childermass looked at the last two cards he had turned, The Lovers and the Ace of Cups and sighed before pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. There surely were not more unlikely cards to relate to any aspect of Mr Norrell future. It could not be correct, he thought, deciding that he would gather more information in the morning and try again when weariness was tugging at him like a particularly large and persistent dog on a lead.

Placing the cards under his pillow, Childermass lay in the dark, feeling more uncertain about the future than he was accustomed to. Despite his body's need for rest his mind remained unquiet and it was deep into the small hours of the morning with the sound of rain falling heavily outside and the hedgehog snuffles of Mr Norrell in the far corner of the room that he finally fell into an uneasy sleep.


[1] For not only would Mr Norrell fail to learn from the experience he would remain in a disagreeable mood for sometime afterwards. And from experience Childermass knew that he was most likely claim that it was all the fault of the advice he did not followed that it had been the cause of his discomfort in the first place.

[2] There had been a small number of occasions soon after Mr Norrell’s arrival in London, when needing to secure a reputable image he had been required to attend a number of social functions, all of which he had found most taxing. A drink to steady his nerves became three or four, and he then found himself quite able to talk at considerable length about a great many things relating to the history and practice of respectable magic with fear of what people might think. It was a topic which seemed to bore his hosts immensely, which once he realised it made him require another drink to ease his nerves and for Childermass to have to assist him out to his carriage.

Parts 7+ Re: Norrell sent to Penninsula war instead of Strange

[(Anonymous)]

posting rest on AO3 as will run to 15 parts plus sequel

http://archiveofourown.org/works/4298031