Of Limited Loyalty: The Second Book of the Crown Colonies

  “Very well, Mr. Frost.” Bumble seated himself. “Mr. Beecher, you will proceed.”

  Beecher stood. “We would call our first witness. Colonel Ian Rathfield.”

  Rathfield stood and raised his right hand.

  “Colonel, do you swear to tell the entirety of the truth, and only but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do.”

  Beecher moved piles around so one was centered before him. “Colonel Rathfield, when you found Ephraim Fox in Happy Valley, did you see evidence that his settlement there practiced plural marriage, in defiance of the Church’s 1567 prohibition against same?”

  “I had no opportunity to make that determination.”

  Beecher looked up. “Is it not true you saw evidence of men living in homes with more than one adult woman?”

  “I did not enter any such homes, nor did I speak with any of the people, so I do not know what their living circumstances were.”

  Bumble pounded a fist on the bench. “Need I remind the witness that he has sworn to tell the truth?”

  Ian met Bumble’s angry stare openly. “I have taken an oath before God to do so. I can tell you only what I know to be fact and still abide by that oath.”

  Beecher flipped one sheet over, and then back. “Very commendable, Colonel. Did you ever hear the Steward deny that plural marriage was practiced in Happy Valley?”

  “No.”

  “And did the living arrangements strike you as unusual in Happy Valley?”

  Ian hesitated. “There are many things in the west, Mr. Beecher, in all of Mystria, which seem unusual to me.”

  “You need to answer my question. Did the living arrangements there, or in Piety, seem unusual to you? A simple yes or no.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good.” Beecher shifted to another pile. “Did you find the Steward employing Rufus Branch as a trusted aide?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the Steward prevent him from being brought to justice for crimes he had committed in the Colonies?”

  “Yes.”

  Caleb rose from the pew behind the Steward. “I object.”

  Bumble’s head came up. “On what grounds?”

  “Ephraim Fox’s association with Rufus Branch might have broken a law, but there are no church prohibitions against such an association. The Good Lord lived among thieves and fallen women, and prison chaplains actively work to redeem same. This line of questioning is immaterial.”

  Bumble’s nostril’s flared. “Mr. Beecher.”

  “Yes, your Grace.” The slender man nodded solemnly. “Did you, Colonel, see Mr. Branch working to translate golden tablets which the defendant said they had taken from a ruin in the mountains?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he describe these tablets as having been written by God in His own hand?”

  “Yes, he did.” Ian’s eyes narrowed and he glanced at Fire. Ian had never mentioned that detail to Beecher or Bumble, and he was certain neither Woods nor Strake would admit it. Fire must have told that to them, but why? Then he looked more closely at the man, the way he hunched down. He’s been beaten. He is protecting ribs. I wonder if the gauntlets hide more wounds?

  “Colonel?”

  Ian’s head came around. “Please repeat the question.”

  “In Piety, did you see Ephraim Fox offer an invocation to his Satanic master, then burn the Church.”

  “What? No.”

  “He did not burn the Church?”

  “Yes, yes, of course he did. The entire congregation was in there. It was the only thing to do.”

  Beecher nodded, his finger trailing down lines on a sheet. “So you just did not hear the invocation to diabolic forces?”

  “I wasn’t near enough to hear what he said. None of us were.”

  Beecher smiled easily, his brown eyes narrowed. “No one but Ephraim Fox and the people who had sacrificed themselves under his influence. Colonel, you were present when he used magick to kill Becca Green’s mother?”

  “He tried to save her.”

  “Are you sure, Colonel? He used magick on the girl, didn’t he? But did nothing for the woman?”

  “He used magick to save me.”

  Beecher’s head came up. “To heal you from a head wound, of which you have no memory receiving, and of which there is no mark on your head, isn’t that right?”

  Ian frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Not that you are not a hero, Colonel. We all know you are.” Beecher smiled toward the defense table. “The Frost Weekly Gazette made that very clear in its last issue. No, sir, it is the contention of this court that Ephraim Fox knew you were incorruptible, therefore he used magicks, proscribed magicks learned from the same Satanic source which produced the tablets, to alter your memory so it could contain no memory that would convict him of heresy. Moreover, we contend that he did this with each of your companions, in turn, as opportunity allowed while they brought him here.”

  Caleb stood again. “I object.”

  Bishop Harder leaned forward. “On what grounds?”

  “On the grounds that the Colonel is being asked to speculate about events of which he has no memory. On the grounds that Mr. Beecher contends that the Colonel’s lack of memories proves that Ephraim Fox used magick to steal those memories. In short, lack of evidence becomes proof that a crime was committed. By that logic, one could conclude that because the Tribunal is not wreathed in flames and reeking of sulphur that you all have been raised to the bench directly from Hell.”

  Beecher slowly clapped his hands. “You would be correct, Caleb, save for one thing.” He raised a thick sheaf of documents bound with twine. “We have a witness to all of this. Ephraim Fox himself has confessed to doing it all, and Colonel Rathfield has just revealed how insidiously thorough he truly was.”

  Ian reached his apartment by midday and drew all of the blinds. Though he had desired to stay at Strake House just to be close to Catherine, he could not tolerate knowing that she and Owen shared a bed just down the hall from his rooms. He had to get away, so he’d found furnished rooms in Temperance and hid himself away there.

  The rooms were not much, and he could have afforded better, but he settled for two small rooms, shabbily painted and floored with dark wood. Most people would have found the rooms quite spare, despite their being furnished with a table, two chairs, a wardrobe, and a bed. For a man used to living in a tent on campaign, the rooms seemed a bit full.

  On his trip from the Cathedral he ventured all the way to the docks and procured a bottle of whiskey from a tavern chosen at whim. He carried it home inside his coat, then set it on the parlor table. He sat across from it in the near dark, aching to drink himself into oblivion and yet not daring to risk the consequences.

  He had never imagined the trial to be anything less than a sham. From the very first, when Bumble had charged him with the added duty of finding a pretext through which the Steward could be dragged back and put on trial, he understood the danger Fire presented. The man’s preaching could lead people astray, and as a man who knew well his own sins, Ian recognized the threat to their souls. He had not thought far enough ahead to imagine that Fire might be killed, but he did realize that separating the man from those he might influence was important.

  But the trial was not being conducted to convict Ephraim Fox. Bumble had extracted a confession from him, so conviction was a formality. The trial was about Bumble being able to display himself as a leader protecting the people. He’d had Ian there merely to show that even an officer of the Queen’s Army had to answer to him. Had Caleb Frost not offered himself as a focus for Bumble’s ire, Ian’s reticence to openly condemn the Steward would have had terrible repercussions.

  Though he had tried to do the honorable thing, Ian felt soiled. His leg throbbed, and it was from more than just having stood to give his testimony. Bumble had turned Ian’s mission to his own advantage, sullying a duty which Ian had performed to the best of his ability. The trial mocked him, and thoug
h Bumble had backed away from extorting his cooperation this time, Ian had no doubt that Bumble would use him ruthlessly in the future.

  He reached for the bottle, thinking to uncork it and let the amber liquid burn down his throat. It had been nearly two years since he’d drunk any hard liquor—not since the night his wife took her own life. In that time he’d only ever drunk wine, and only if it was diluted with water. But he wanted the whiskey for its ability to steal memories—of the trial. Of more.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  Ian almost ignored it, but his visitor rapped again. He forced himself up and limped to the door. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the knob, then he opened it. Only one person knows I’m here.

  “Thank God, Ian!” Catherine Strake pushed passed him, then turned and embraced him. “I was there. I saw.”

  Ian pushed the door closed, but could not escape her grasp. He knew she shouldn’t be there, and he knew he should set her back at arm’s length, but he felt hollow. He felt as if he would collapse, save for her holding on to him. So he slipped his arms around her.

  “I wish you had not seen.”

  “Why?” She took his face in her hands, her brown eyes brimming with tears. “You were magnificent, Ian. You were more a hero in there than you were killing dire wolves or at Rondeville. You stood up to that tyrant, Bumble. I have never seen a man so brave.”

  Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed him full on the mouth. Her hands slipped into his hair, pulling him down to her, and he crushed her to him. He held on tightly, kissing her hotly, fiercely. She moaned into his mouth and ground her body against him. He felt himself begin to respond, and then they drew apart only enough for four hands to make quick work of buttons and bows, belts and garters. He lifted her in his arms and carried her to the room’s small bed, laying her down there on a quilted coverlet.

  She drew him to her, shaking her head to loosen her hair. With nibbles and playful licks, quick caresses, and the long slide of her legs against his, she enflamed him. She rolled him onto his back and grasped him, sliding him into her. They moved together, their hips rising and falling, she a vision of loveliness, her breasts swaying with the fluid rhythm of his thrusts. Her eyes closed and back arched, her mouth falling open, her hands clawing at his shoulders. She cried out, sharply, her body shaking and then, with him still hard inside her, she lay forward on his chest and licked at his neck.

  “Let me catch my breath, lover, and then…”

  Ian thought, just for a moment, to push her away. I should not have done this to Owen. He even grasped her shoulders to do that, but she ducked her head and licked at one of his nipples, then kissed him. And as she brought her head up, he saw in her eyes the light he had once seen in his wife’s. In that instant, though he knew himself damned, he also knew himself to be loved. To trade one for the other seemed a wise bargain, and one from which he could not depart.

  He smiled. “Yes, lover, catch your breath, and then I need you to show me how much you love me.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  29 June 1767

  Temperance

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Miranda squeezed Owen’s hand tightly as they reached the docks. She stopped moving forward. He looked down and saw fear flash over her face. Then the little girl’s eyes began to well up with tears.

  Owen snatched her up in his arms. “What is it, Miranda?”

  “Mama says that if you don’t want to go to Norisle, we shall go anyway.” The girl looked at him, her eyes wide. “Don’t you love me anymore, Papa?”

  Owen’s throat immediately thickened. He felt as if his belly had been slashed open and his guts had spilled out. He hugged his daughter tightly. “Miranda, I love you. I have never stopped loving you. I will always love you.” He stroked her back as she sobbed, her tears wetting his neck. “Everything shall be fine, princess.”

  He didn’t need to ask what had made her think he didn’t love her. Not but an hour earlier Catherine had stormed from their apartment, shouting, “I don’t think you’ve ever loved anyone but yourself, Owen Strake!” He wanted to go after her, but he couldn’t leave Miranda alone. He’d looked back and had seen his daughter huddled in the doorway to the bedroom, crouching down so she’d not be noticed.

  “Mama said you would go to Norisle, Papa. You said you won’t.”

  Owen found a bench and sat, then placed his daughter beside him. “Miranda, before I went away, I told your mother we would go to Norisle, all three of us. When I got back, the Prince asked me to stay, just a while longer.”

  “Why?”

  “Some of the things I saw while I was gone are scary.”

  The little girl thought, then nodded, dark ringlets bouncing. “Like wolves and jeopards.”

  “Exactly.” Owen settled his arm around her. “If your papa goes off to Norisle now, many little boys and girls like you and Richard and Rowena could be hurt.”

  “Then why does Mama want you to go?”

  “Do you remember how much you missed me when I was gone?”

  Miranda spread her hands as far apart as possible. “More than a hug.”

  Owen kissed the top of her head. “Your mother misses Norisle more than a hug.”

  “Then Mama should go.”

  “But then she would miss you.”

  Miranda shook her head. “She told me I’m a big girl now. I am big enough to stay with the Princess while she takes care of Uncle Ian.”

  Owen tipped her head up so he could see her face. “You know your mama loves you.”

  “I know.” Miranda looked down. “I don’t want to go if you don’t go.”

  “I don’t want to be apart from you, either, Miranda.” He gave her another kiss on the top of her head, and they sat there watching the ocean and the ships gently bobbing in the harbor. Owen found himself wishing that, indeed, his wife was onboard one, heading toward Norisle. He regretted it instantly, but her refusal to be sensible left him stuck. She made most vociferously plain her desire: that he should honor his pledge that they would go to Norisle as a family. Yet no matter how clearly he explained why he could not go, she came back to the point that he was a liar.

  And I cannot argue with that. He had agreed with the Prince that he would keep a secret from her. Given her irrationality, the Prince was right in extracting that promise from him. And he might also have been right that forcing Owen to keep a secret would kill his marriage. It occurred to him that the last time he was truly happy in his marriage was when Catherine had come to Mystria, right before the Anvil Lake campaign. When we conceived our beautiful daughter.

  “Miranda, do you like Mystria?”

  “It’s home, Papa. I love you and Mama and Uncle Ian and Agnes and Richard and Rowena and even Peregrine even though we can’t get too close and he’s stinky.” She giggled as she counted on her fingers. “And the Prince and Princess and Becca but not Mugwump. He’s stinky, too.”

  “You should like people even if they are stinky, Miranda.”

  She looked up, her hazel eyes bright. “I love That Bastard Woods.”

  “Miranda!”

  “What?”

  “We don’t call people bastards. Where did you hear that?”

  Miranda poked out her lower lip, then shrugged. “Mama called him that when you went away.”

  “Does she mention Kamiskwa?”

  The girl nodded. “She calls him ‘the heathen.’”

  Owen looked her in the face. “Nathaniel and Kamiskwa are very good friends of mine. They have saved my life many times. You will call them Mr. Woods and Prince Kamiskwa. Do you understand.”

  “Mr. Woods and Prince Kasmirka.”

  “Kamiskwa.”

  The little girl screwed her face up with determination. “Kasmirkawa.”

  “One more time, Miranda…”

  “Captain Strake, if I might be so bold.”

  Owen looked up. “Please, Miss Frost.”

  Bethany sat on the other side of Miranda. “Miranda, try
it slowly. Ka-mis-ka-wa.”

  “Ka-mis-ka-wa.” Miranda immediately looked at her father. “Is that right, Papa?”

  “It is, very good.” Owen gave the girl a squeeze. “Thank you, Miss Frost.”

  “My pleasure, Captain Strake.” Bethany, clad in a modest dress of grey with a white collar visible from beneath, tucked an errant wisp of blonde hair under her grey bonnet. “I would have expected to find you at the Cathedral for the trial.”

  “I’d much rather spend time with Miranda.”

  “I can see why. Miranda, you are a very pretty little girl.”

  “Thank you, Miss.” Miranda, all of a sudden, became very shy and buried her face against Owen’s side.

  “And why are you not at the trial, Miss Frost?”

  “Caleb forbid me to go.” Bethany shook her head. “Normally I should not obey, but I believe he has some deviltry in mind. My mother would wonder why I did not stop him.”

  Owen laughed. “Your brother doesn’t seem to mind getting himself into trouble.”

  “The same can be said of you.” Bethany glanced toward the ocean. “I set the type for the story my brother published about Colonel Rathfield. The battle with the dire wolves was quite harrowing.”

  “The Gazette story livened things up a bit.” Owen stood and took Miranda’s hand. “Come, let us walk, shall we?”

  They began to stroll through Temperance, with Miranda between them, holding her father’s hand. Owen thought back to a similar walk he had taken with Bethany, before he’d gone on his first expedition. The recollection brought a smile to his face.

  She glanced sidelong at him. “The story might have been hyperbolic, but it sounded as if you got away without injury.”

  “Not entirely, but mostly.” He shook his head, understanding the question implied by her comment. “We got gnawed more than bitten. I truly don’t remember a single scar from the incident.”

  “But that reddish line beneath your ear, that’s new.”

  “We ran into trouble in Happy Valley.”

  Miranda looked up. “Becca is from Happy Valley.”