When the Ambassador learnt the truth and realised what was happening in the hospital, he did all that he could to provide for the wounded.

More houses were turned into hospitals, including one of the Sultan’s Palaces and the Turks were forced to provide a Steamer to carry provisions every day across the Bosporus.

Finally Lord Stratford had even demanded accommodation for the sick and wounded Russians, a human touch with which not everyone was in agreement.

It was his insistence that had changed the whole medical situation since last year, although Lord Castleford was aware that it would be a long time before people forgot the horrors, the privations and the unnecessary deaths that occurred in the first months of the war.

But what he did not expect was to find a Frenchwoman looking like Yamina, who had almost challenged him on the subject and had forced him into defending the position of the British Ambassador.

He was used to the English in Constantinople fawning like the Turks on Lord Stratford, speaking about him as if he was an angel sent from Heaven to stand at the door of the East with a flaming sword, maintaining order for the rest of Europe.

Alternatively he would listen to the scarcely veiled jealousy of the French.

Their Ambassador was not so effective and they were always complaining that they were being slighted or not kept completely in the picture as regards the conduct of the war itself.

This was not surprising.

Lord Stratford had said to Lord Castleford the night before,

“Great Britain and France are a difficult pair to drive together in harness, for France regards it as a tandem in which she is the leader!”

“Surely Sebastopol should fall soon?” Lord Castleford replied, “and then perhaps honour will be satisfied as far as France is concerned.”

Lord Stratford smiled a little wryly.

“Success in the field is what Napoleon III needs as a halo of glory to hide the tawdriness of his diadem!”

He sighed before he continued,

“The French want the battle to be theirs and they do everything they possibly can to hamper the Turkish troops from achieving a victory before they can claim one for themselves.”

“What a mess!” Lord Castleford exclaimed.

“Is war ever anything else?” Lord Stratford asked bitterly.

Entering the British Embassy, Lord Castleford had heard that his host was alone and joined him in one of the magnificent rooms overlooking a garden filled with flowers and in which a fountain was playing.

“Have you enjoyed your ride, Vernon?” the Ambassador asked, looking up as he entered.

At sixty-eight Lord Stratford was one of the most handsome men Lord Castleford had ever seen.

His hair was already white, but his earnest, astute, grey eyes seemed to penetrate into a man’s inner thoughts and a broad, massive, overhanging brow gave him an air of profound wisdom and sagacity.