1 June, late: a sleepless night

Night had fallen over the French camp, and most of the captured had settled down into small groups - huddled together for comfort more than warmth. Polly sat close in to a small group of women she somewhat recognized from the baggage train. In normal camp life they did not know each other well, but a group of familiar faces kept terror at least slightly at bay. A few of the children had settled down and fallen asleep rather quickly - tired from the excitement of the attack and the long march that had followed. Many of the women remained awake, and Polly could hear the soft sounds of crying from many of the figures scattered through the camp.

Polly felt rather like crying herself, and could feel tears pricking hot and insistent at her eyes. She bit her lip, looking in the direction of the guards. It had been hours since they had taken Jenny and the other woman off to have supper with the officers, and there had been no sign of them since. Polly's imagination, combined with the whispers one heard around camp, had filled her head with any number of things that could have happened to her new friend and she hoped against hope that they would be coming back.

If nothing else, Jenny seemed like the sort to take charge and Polly had no idea what to do.

Janet watched the silhouettes of their guards shifting in the darkness like chthonic shades. "D' you reckon they got any food on 'em?" she wondered allowed.

Polly flinched, startled by the other woman's question. She looked towards the dark forms of the guards and shrugged.

"I don' know," she replied, tentatively. It was not something she would want to ask, though. The Frenchmen were scary. And they probably would not share food, even if they did have it.

"Well. Only one way to find out." Pushing herself brusquely to her feet, Janet turned to the younger woman. "C'mon."

"Wha'?" Polly stared for a long moment before her brain caught up.

"Go over t' 'em, ye mean?" she asked, aghast.

"Well, we ain't gonna get anywhere standing 'ere, are we?"

"I s'pose no'..." Polly said, trailing off uncertainly. She did not think that she particularly wanted to get somewhere if it meant going up to the soldiers. Still, she supposed, food sounded very tempting. As if on cue, her stomach rumbled, and Polly flushed.

"Alrigh'," she agreed, twisting her hands nervously in her apron.

Janet flashed the girl a grin. "Tha's better. You won't need to say nothin', I promise. Just sorta look pathetic an' 'ungry. Like that, yeah. Maybe limp a little... I'll take care o' any talkin' what needs to be done."

Reaching for the girl's hand, she started toward a nearby soldier. He looked young and possibly impressionable and otherwise prime game for this sort of scheme.

Roux stopped pacing to glance around the camped prisoners, biting at his thumbnail. Guarding the English women and children was far from being his ideal duty. The sounds of crying in the dark made him uncomfortable. Enemy soldiers were one thing. Women were another entirely.

He was surprised to notice two of the women were headed his way. They seemed young, and the smaller of the two looked positively wretched. Roux swallowed hard. Dealing with tears was even more uncomfortable than listening to them.

"What do you want?" he asked as they came close.

Janet, her entire frame limp with suppliant humility, raised a timid, tearful gaze to the young soldier. "Monsieur, doux monsieur..." she began in broken French, "We are hunger. Very, very hunger. My sister," she drew the younger woman up closer beside her, "She is sick. See? She is sick in the foot. And she walks all the day. She is..... not strong, very very she is not strong. Please, monsieur. Pitié."

The woman's broken French was, at first, rather confusing for Roux to follow. After a moment he began to get an idea of what she was saying, and shifted awkwardly. They certainly looked pathetic and in need of food.

He truly did not have much food to share, though. A bit of stale bread that he had hidden away for himself, maybe. It certainly would not be enough to share with every unwell-looking woman in the camp.

"I - well - that is," he stuttered, glancing around in the hopes that one of the other guards would come over and help him out. Hopefully someone who could withstand the tearful looks on the women's faces.

"Oh ho, what's all this?" demanded Quentin, swaggering up behind Roux. He looked the two women up and down with an approving leer.

Roux frowned at Quentin, not liking the look on the other soldier's face. Clearly the two women were equally discomfited by it as well, and the younger shifted to stand slightly behind her sister.

"Nothing," he said. "They're hungry, is all."

Quentin all but licked his lips. "Well, that makes three of us." Grinning, he slapped the younger man on the back. "Planning on keeping them all to yourself, were you?"

Janet felt her entire body tense and she cursed mentally, every foul word in every language she knew. This was not part of the plan. And now she'd gone and got someone else mixed up in it. She kept her eyes on the younger man, trying to read his face. He did not seem pleased with the new arrival, but that meant little enough.

"Ain't doing anything with them," Roux told Quentin with a scowl. "They're just looking for a bit of food is all."

He knew full well what the intentions of a lot of the men were towards the captured women, and he wanted no part of it.

"Excellent," he laughed, his hand shooting out and seizing the front of Janet's dress. "Then you won't mind if I help myself." With a deft yank, he pulled her past him, out of the way and made a grab for the smaller figure behind her.

Polly gave a shriek of surprise and fright, pulling away from the soldier. She had known that this would be a bad idea. In her hurry to back up, she tripped, falling hard to the ground.

Like bloody hell! Janet lunged for the man's arm, her feet slipping in the damp grass as she struggled to find some kind of purchase. But the man merely wrenched his arm forward, dragging her with it and, seizing a fist full of her hair, twisted her in front of him and thrust her at the younger soldier. "Keep her warm for me, will you?" he grunted at Roux, then reached once more for the girl on the ground.

Roux steadied Janet momentarily, then hastily grabbed Quentin's arm in the hope of stopping him.

"You should leave them alone," he said. "That girl doesn't look well. Maybe you'll catch something."

"Oh, should I?" Quentin laughed, but there was an edge in his voice. The next person to touch him was going to get hurt. Jerking his arm free of Roux's grasp, he advanced on the younger woman.

"No," Polly whimpered, scrambling away from the oncoming Frenchman. "No, no. Stay away!"

Roux swallowed, feeling a little ill watching the pitiful sight, and grabbed again at Quentin's arm.

"You really should leave her alone," he said more firmly.

That did it. Checking abruptly, Quentin twisted, bringing his fist up sharply under Roux's chin.

The blow caught Roux unprepared, and he stumbled back a step, jaw snapping shut hard.

"Bastard!" he growled at Quentin. He lunged at the larger man, punching at his gut.

Quentin grunted in pain and grabbed for Roux's crossbelts. "You're dead," he snarled, snapping his head forward into the other man's face.

Polly took advantage of the two men's distraction to push herself to her feet. Grabbing Janet's hand, she tugged her back towards the rest of the women.

"C'mon," she pleaded at a whisper. "Le's go."