Mulgrave went down and rolled, coming up like an acrobat to plunge his saber into the chest of a musketeer. A second man ran at the officer. Taybard downed him. Jakon fired into the crowd of enemy musketeers, then charged, screaming at the top of his voice. The noise was shrill.
More shots rang out from the surrounding buildings. Enemy musketeers fell. Jakon stabbed a man. The bayonet broke in the musketeer’s body. Taking the musket by the barrel, Jakon wielded it like a club, smashing left and right. Lanfer Gosten and twenty more Eldacre men charged in, and the town square seethed with fighting men, some grappling, some holding on to their bayonets, some with daggers, and others fighting with fists and feet. It was hard and brutal, and there was no give on either side.
Then came the thunder of hoofbeats on the stone road, and Gaise Macon and his cavalry rode into the town. No more than eighty of the attacking musketeers were still alive and fighting, and at the arrival of a new enemy a lull began. The fifty surviving Eldacre men paused and stood, staring with weary malevolence at the enemy.
“Put up your weapons,” said Gaise Macon. “No harm will come to you. You have my promise on it. Your general is dead, your cavalry in retreat.”
A bearded officer, his face bloody from a saber cut, stepped toward where Gaise Macon sat his horse.
“There will be no escape for traitors, General Macon,” he said.
“I agree with you,” Jakon heard Gaise reply. “The sad truth is that there are no traitors here. You have been lied to, Lieutenant. There was never any intention of joining Luden Macks. You have my word on that, too. There is no victory here. Only defeat for all of us. Good men have died here for no cause that I can understand. You talk of treachery. What must I call it when, while doing my duty for my king, I am attacked by forces in our own army? I tell you this—and I speak from the heart—I wish I was the traitor you think me to be. Then there would at least be some merit in this action of yours. At least these poor dead souls all around us would not have died in vain. Gather your men, Lieutenant. Leave your weapons behind. They will be here when you return.”
“What of my wounded, sir?”
“The townsfolk will tend to them as best they can. My wounded I will take with me, for they would be treated far more harshly, I fear, when Winterbourne sends in his Redeemers.”
“And will you now join Luden Macks?”
“No, Lieutenant. I shall take my men home to the north. I may have been forced to become an outlaw, but I’ll not fight willingly against the king or his men. Lay down your weapons and depart this place.”
“We will do that, General. I thank you for your chivalry.”
Gaise swung his horse. Mulgrave moved across to him. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but there’s something you must see.”
The swordsman moved away across the square. Gaise rode after him, and Jakon Gallowglass, curious now, followed them.
Gaise dismounted and walked alongside Mulgrave to the house beside the supply depot. The two men entered it, and Jakon Gallowglass eased himself up to the doorway. He glanced inside. There were two bodies there, a man and a woman. The man was wearing a bright red tunic, the woman a traveling dress of green wool edged with satin. In her hand was a small pistol.
Gaise Macon knelt by the woman’s body and lifted her hand to his lips. His head bowed. Mulgrave stepped in and placed his hand on the general’s shoulder. “I am so sorry, sir,” he said.
“I asked her to give me an hour, Mulgrave. It cost her life.”
Jakon Gallowglass saw the Gray Ghost begin to weep. Quietly he moved back from the doorway and out into the street. He found Taybard Jaekel sitting on the wall of a well. He was cleaning his Emburley.
“Well, we survived,” said Gallowglass.
“Some of us. Kammel Bard won’t be needing his tunic back. My friend Banny died in a back street. Told him to stick with me. He did, and he died anyway.” Taybard let out a sigh and then went back to polishing the ornate hammer of his Emburley.
All around them were the wounded and the dead of both sides.
“I’m sorry about your friends,” said Jakon.
He could see that Taybard was suffering, and he wanted to put his hand on his shoulder the way Mulgrave had for the Gray Ghost. But he could not.
Instead he stood and walked away.
It was then that he realized the tunic no longer stank.
“Now there’s a thing,” he said aloud.
The Pinance was a handsome man, tall and broad-shouldered, his features rugged. He was a fine rider and was enjoying immensely the feeling of power as he rode his favorite black stallion and gazed at his marching army.
He had longed for this moment for some twenty-five years. He and the Moidart had never been friends. Their parents and their ancestors had ruled adjoining lands for centuries, and there were always squabbles and ill feeling. The hatred the Pinance felt for the Moidart was not, however, born of ancestral disputes. It had come to life the day Rayenna Tremain had married the Moidart. Even thinking about it now, on this day of looming triumph, caused his stomach to tighten.
Though he would never admit it to others, Rayenna Tremain had been the love of the Pinance’s life. He had adored her to the point of worship and had come to believe that she felt the same way.
Looking back from the vastness of his fifty years, the Pinance knew now that Rayenna had been a feckless and unreliable woman given to small acts of spite and larger acts of betrayal. But back then she had been a goddess and the center of his life. The Moidart’s lands and tax revenues were far in excess of those enjoyed by the Pinance and his family, and she had chosen her husband on that basis. And so the gorgeous Rayenna had become the mistress of Eldacre Castle.
Two years later she was dead, slain, it was claimed, by assassins seeking to kill the Moidart. What nonsense.
By then many of the northern noblemen had heard of her disgusting affair with a clan chieftain and had wondered why the Moidart did not put her aside. When the news came that she was dead, the Pinance knew in his heart that the Moidart had killed her. He had voiced those feelings to his father, who had dismissed the idea. “The Moidart himself was stabbed and is close to death. No, my son, put the thought from your mind.”
In the years that followed the Pinance had gathered information about the attack. None of the guards had seen the attackers. Not a single servant had glimpsed men running from the manor house. All they had seen was the strangled Rayenna and the stabbed Moidart. One piece of information, from a surgeon who had attended the stricken lord, brought the pieces of the story together. He said there was blood on the right hand of the murdered woman, though there were no cuts to her flesh. The Pinance had guessed the truth then. The Moidart had not been attacked by assailants. He had been stabbed by his wife as he murdered her.
Now, twenty-five years later, he would pay for that sickening crime. He would pay for robbing the Pinance of his one true chance at happiness.
Five thousand musketeers were marching at the head of the column, flanked by outriding scouts seeking signs of enemy defensive lines. There were none. As the Pinance had expected, the Moidart had drawn back into Eldacre Castle, secure in the knowledge that the Pinance had no cannon yet. They were coming, however, and within days he would have the Moidart in chains.
Rarely had the Pinance experienced such sweetness of anticipation.
Twelve thousand men now marched under his command, and soon he would be the most powerful earl in the north. It was a shame they would have to breach the walls of Eldacre, for it was a fine castle and would have made an excellent seat of government. I will have it rebuilt, he thought.
A horseman cantered his mount along the column and drew in alongside the Pinance. The earl felt his good mood begin to evaporate as he glanced at the red-cloaked Redeemer. He did not like the man.
“The Moidart has left Eldacre,” said Sir Sperring Dale.
The Pinance glanced at the man’s thin face. “He is coming to meet us on the field?”
r /> “No, my lord. He is fleeing to the north with five thousand men.”
The Pinance was amazed. “You said he would hold Eldacre. You said that Eldacre was the key to the north and he would not give it up.”
“Indeed I did, my lord,” answered Sir Sperring. “It was the logical course of action. We have been watching him, and we were led to believe this was his plan. However, he has hired a vile and demonic creature who casts evil ward spells which prevent our mystics from seeing within the castle. This creature has obviously witnessed the power of your forces and has prevailed upon the Moidart to withdraw. Our belief is that he intends to seek aid from the Rigante.”
“Then Eldacre Castle is mine without a fight?” The Pinance laughed. “I hate the man, but I have never before seen him as a fool or a coward.”
“He is not a military man, my lord. He is a schemer, skilled in the art of politics and treachery.”
“It seems to me that those two beasts are one and the same,” said the Pinance.
“Perhaps so,” agreed Sir Sperring. “Yet there is some small merit in the retreat. Had he attempted to hold the castle, we ourselves could have sent men north to engage in dialogue with the Rigante.”
“For what purpose?”
“Much as they may be despicable barbarians and lacking in all civilized virtues, they are also fighting men, numbering close to four thousand. Better to assuage any fears they might have than to allow them to link with the Moidart.”
“The clan would never fight for the man,” said the Pinance. “Sweet heaven, he has hanged, tortured, and murdered them for twenty years and more.”
“Aye, he has been a rock for the Varlish people. It is shameful that such a man has become an enemy to our race.”
The Pinance glanced at the Redeemer, seeking some indication that he was making a small joke. He was not. His expression, as always, was one of earnest seriousness.
As the army closed on Eldacre town, the Pinance, with his five senior officers, rode to the head of the column. He still could not quite believe that there would be no fight. They passed through the village of Old Hills and down onto the main road. Citizens came out to watch them, their eyes curious. Some of the children even waved at the soldiers, who grinned and waved back.
A tall, spindly man in a black frock coat emerged from a shop and stood staring at the marching soldiers.
“He should be taken now and hanged,” said Sir Sperring Dale.
“Who is he?” replied the Pinance, staring hard at the man.
“Alterith Shaddler. A traitor and a defamer.”
“Ah, yes, the schoolteacher who defended the woman accused of witchcraft. I have heard of him.”
“There is evil in him. I can feel it.”
“I am not in the mood for a hanging today, Sir Sperring. Once we are established in Eldacre, you can bring a troop back here and deal with him then.”
“Thank you, my lord. A wise decision.”
Much of the snow on the hills had melted, and the sky was bright and clear, the sunshine warm. There were clouds building to the east, and it was likely that by evening there would be rain. It was a comfort to the Pinance that this night he would sleep in the ancestral home of his retreating rival.
They reached the castle two hours after noon, and the Pinance left the junior officers in charge of billeting the men. Many of the soldiers were moved to the deserted barracks buildings. Others pitched their tents on the open fields beneath the castle’s southern walls.
The Pinance entered Eldacre Keep with two squads of twenty soldiers each. Sir Sperring Dale remained outside. “I will enter when our people have found a way to remove the foul spells. They are a pain to me even at this distance.”
It took more than an hour for the soldiers to search the building. There was no one there. Not a servant, not a stable boy. Even the dungeons were empty.
The Pinance ordered food and drink brought to the main hall, where he and his senior staff settled down at a long table. The three generals with him were relatives: cousins, reliable men with little imagination or ambition. The fourth was his nephew, Daril, a large clumsy boy with little wit. To be honest, thought the Pinance, I wouldn’t trust any of them to fight a battle. That was why he had acquired the services of Colonel Garan Beck. The man was low-born and therefore could not be offered high rank, but he was a skillful soldier.
“There’ll be no fighting then, Uncle,” said Daril, disappointment etched in his broad, flat features.
“Not today, Daril. Tomorrow you can take a troop out toward the north and see how far the enemy has run. For today we will rest and enjoy the fruits of our first victory. After we have eaten, we will take a little tour of the castle.”
“You are in a good mood, Uncle.”
“Indeed I am. My enemy has fled before me. I am sitting in his chair as lord of his castle. From today his tax revenues will be mine and all of his belongings and lands. My mood is golden, Daril.”
The golden mood lasted less than an hour.
Apothecary Ramus closed the door of his shop, clipped a padlock in place, and then walked slowly down the cobbled street, a small package in his hands. It was a little lighter in the evenings now that spring was approaching, and the weather was definitely improving.
He wandered on, stopping to watch the new lambs in the field that were snuggled down with their mothers. Several people called out to him, and he smiled politely or bowed.
It had been a strange day. Almost everyone who had come to his small apothecary shop had wanted to talk about the coming of the Pinance and his army and the departure of the Moidart. Ramus had no understanding of military matters, but he was glad the Moidart had gone. Ramus had no wish to gaze down upon a battlefield or walk among the mutilated and the dead.
He remembered his father’s words, said so long ago but still apposite: “All wars are started by angry old men, but they are fought by young men who die for reasons that are beyond them. In the end, the same old men sit around tables and the war ends. Nothing is achieved. Nothing is gained. New faces move into old castles, and the sons of the dead build families ready to feed new battleground graveyards.”
Ramus had tried to ignore the southern war. People spoke of it when they came to his shop, and he gave the appearance of listening politely, but he let the words roll over him. He concentrated on the preparing of medicines, the drying and mixing of herbs, the sunshine on the hills, and the condition of his patients. For the last few days he had enjoyed the new lambs immensely. New life, experiencing the sun and the wind, scampering about the fields on spindly legs. The lambs raised Ramus’ spirits.
He walked on, stopping at the house of Tomas Cantinas, the tanner. He tapped at the door. It was opened by Kellae, the youngest daughter, who called back to her mother that there was a man outside. “What’s your name?” asked the child.
“I am Ramus.”
“He says he is Ramus,” she called out.
The tanner’s wife, Lyda, came from the kitchen. Ramus bowed. “How is he today?”
“He’s sleeping better, Apothecary, but the weight is dropping away from him.”
And from you, thought Ramus, looking at her sunken features and red-rimmed eyes. “I have some more herbs. They will dampen the pain and enable him to sleep.”
“Won’t cure him, though, will they?”
“No. Nothing will cure him now. I have written instructions on how to administer the herbs.”
“I have no coin, Apothecary,” she said, reddening.
“Pay me when you can,” he told her. “How are you sleeping?”
Lyda forced a smile. “Not well. The nights are the worst for him. He cries out.”
“I will bring a sedative potion tomorrow. Good night to you.”
Ramus stepped back into the street, and the door closed. He sighed. Life was hard in these highlands, but death was harder. Tomas Cantinas had six children, a small business, and cancer in his bowel. His oldest son was only fourteen and would not be able
to carry on the business. Ramus decided that tomorrow he would visit the local butcher and prevail on him to supply meat for the family.
He walked on to his home. There was light shining through the lower, leaded windows and smoke drifting up from the chimney. He opened the door. His housekeeper, Shula Achbain, came out to greet him, helping him remove his heavy black topcoat.
“Sit you down by the fire,” she said. “I’ll fetch you a glass of mulled wine.”
Murmuring thanks, the little apothecary sank gratefully into his favorite armchair. Shula was a good housekeeper. Several years earlier she had worked for Maev Ring, but before that she had been a herb gatherer for Ramus. Her life had been harsh. She had fallen in love with a highlander at a time when such couplings were frowned upon. Frowned upon? Ramus smiled. Shula had become a pariah to her own Varlish people. When her husband left her, she and her son, Banny, had all but starved to death.
Shula returned and handed him a goblet of warmed mulled wine. He sipped it. “Excellent,” he said. “Have you heard from Banny?”
“He doesn’t write much, sir. He is in a town called Shelding, and there is a truce. So that is good.”
“Perhaps the war is ending at last.”
“Aye, that would be wonderful. I miss him so.”
Shula walked to the coat rail and lifted her shawl clear. “There is a stew on the stove, sir, and freshly made bread in the pantry.”
“Thank you, Shula. Good night to you.”
Once alone Ramus settled down in his chair and dozed for a while. He found himself thinking of the Moidart. He would miss him and their meetings to discuss painting. He had even begun to dabble himself, attempting not the awesome landscapes so enjoyed by the Moidart but more simple compositions of flowers and herbs. They were not good, but he had noticed a small improvement during the past year. He had shown none of them to the Moidart.
After a while he grew hungry. He was about to prepare his stew when he heard the sound of horses’ hooves on the street outside. Then came a hammering at his door.
Ramus opened it. Several soldiers were standing there.