From the private diary of Lady Charlotte, Duchess of Carlisle.
10th of January, 2011.
We have been involved in some rather singular training over the last couple of days. And, indeed, the ‘we’ in question- the ‘hand picked force for The Northern Defence Volunteers’- are a singular bunch. Our commander is, of course, Sir George (who has been distant, yet polite, with me since that evening), and then there is an American lady, another English lady, a terribly uncouth sergeant who does not get on with Sir George at all, an Australian fellow and a medic who seems to be from Eastern Europe, and Welsh gentleman…
Well, today was mostly spent jumping off things; an assault course, then jumping from a wall, then jumping from that wall in the dark, then jumping from the back of a moving steam tank in the dark. Am a tad tired now, and my legs hurt, but no doubt I am now jolly good at jumping from things.
Yesterday started with French lessons (I already speak the language fluently, but the sergeant and the Australian seemed to struggle), and ended with close combat practice.
I do not know what we are going to be doing, but I think we shall be doping it soon.
11th of January, 2011.
We were briefed today.
We are to embark upon an Airship at midday tomorrow, and land in France at dusk by a castle somewhere on the outskirts of Paris. The airship is not to land, but to fly very low, and we are to jump out (now all becomes clear…). Then we are to kidnap That French Lady as she is escorted back to the castle from evening prayer at the neighbouring church. Then the airship is to return and we are all to board it by means of harnesses and ropes, and make good our escape. (Apparently once an airship is on the ground it can take hours to get it back in the air and up to speed. My childhood memories of a time consuming trip to The American Common Wealth confirm this.)
The intention is to lower French moral by taking the daughter of That Evil Count who rules The French Empire. They say she lives more as a prisoner than as a Lady, so really it is a rescue mission. I see the logic in this, and hope she may be of use as a hostage, but still I hope that Sir George’s motives are not all together selfish. Some of us shall surely die, so his passions had better not take command of his reason and duty…
We shall be the first Englishmen (or, in fact, People of The British Empire) to have set foot in France for decades. Nothing of this type has ever been attempted, not even by our finest Commandoes. It shall be terribly, horridly, shockingly dangerous.
I am jolly excited!
From the War Diary of Countess Fiona, Princess Royal of The French Empire.
11th of the First, 2007 P.N.
My finest spy (that German- is he really German?- double agent with the silly name) has informed me that that Sir George- that foolish, self righteous dog- intends to kidnap me tomorrow evening.
Father is not to be informed.
I tire of it in this wretched fortress, and believe that I shall serve France better by bringing The British Empire down from the inside.
Shall ensure that my guards are intoxicated and off their guard. Still it shall be dangerous to cross The Channel. But if anyone can pull off anything so ridiculously stupid- it is George.
From the Diary of Sir George Jackson, MBE, Commander of Her Britannic Majesty the Queen’s Forces in The North, in The Year of Our Lord 2011.
12/01/11
11OO HOURS
In an hour we shall depart for France.
My dagger is sharpened, my pistols loaded.
If all goes well, I shall hold my lady in my arms before the night is through. If not, I shall die for my country- which is the best a man can ask for in life.
May God have mercy on us, and bring justice to our enemies.
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!
From the private diary of Lady Charlotte, Duchess of Carlisle.
12th of January, 2011.
We fly.
I write from this fine RAF flying ship, the HMS Valkyre, as it sails over The English Channel. The sun begins to set. The sea below us is so utterly beautiful.
We are each in our own worlds. Sir George and that sergeant sit opposite each other, staring balefully. The medic checks and rechecks his ghastly kit. The Welsh gentlemen polishes his revolving pistols…
I do hope that this diary falls not into the filthy hands of the French, as it surely would if I were to die. But I am sure I shall not die; not with so many gentlemen and my stoutest armoured corset and favourite sword to protect me.
There cannot me much time left.
13th of January, 2011.
We live.
All wounded, but we live. And we have taken her.
Thank God.
From the Diary of Sir George Jackson, MBE, Commander of Her Britannic Majesty the Queen’s Forces in The North, in The Year of Our Lord 2011.
13/01/2011.
0900 HOURS.
Victory!
We disembarked from the airship with no more damage than a few twisted ankles, then promptly made our way to the church, disposing of a sentry on the way. There, hidden behind gravestones, we waited. A light rain fell, and we could hear the faint sounds of organ and song from within.
Then the doors flew open, and we saw them. The countess Fiona- a vision of beauty, so mild, so serene. Her escort was around her; a cruel governess with a sabre at her belt, a serving wench, and six stout and heavily armed guards.
I led the charge, shooting down one guard, and testing my dagger against the sword of another. Lady Charlotte was at my side, bravely cutting down the governess then fencing with a guard. I blocked a sword with my dagger, then shoot the Frog down with a pocket pistol. That done, I took my lady in my arms, shielding her with my body against the tempest around us.
It was over in moments.
We gathered ourselves and retreated.
As we approached the hovering airship, the alarm was raised. A handful of sentries charged us, but we shot them down like dogs.
With the greatest haste were we pulled aboard the ship, ladies first of course.
French airships pursued us, but those poor craft were no match for the revolving muskets and cannon of our vessel.
We had suffered only minor wounds. I think I shall be missing my right thumb, and my best shirt is stained and torn beyond repair. Lady Charlotte’s battle-corset was badly dented. The sergeant took a few cuts, but he shall live. Lord John of Cardiff took a musket ball to the leg to the leg, but that was a fair exchange for the many he gave to the enemy.
All is well.
From the War Diary of Countess Fiona, Princess Royal of The French Empire.
13th of the first, 207 P.N.
I think I shall like it here.
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