"And we will give them more." Vlad set spurs to his horse's flank, and von Metternin joined him. They raced ahead to the Prince's estate to prepare their surprise for the Mystrian militia.
Bright and early the next morning, Prince Vlad sat astride Mugwump on the road near his estate, waiting for the militia troops to march past. Ribbons of red and green fluttered in the breeze from the wurm's tack. The Prince rode on a saddle at the wurm's shoulders; Count von Metternin was mounted at the wurm's hips. Bulging oilskin satchels lined the beast's flanks, stretched between the saddles, each one of them decorated with more ribbons.
The soldiers, whose line of march drifted toward the other side of the road, smiled and laughed. A few shouted: "He'll be having the Ryngians running," or "He'll win us the war all by himself!" Others just nodded as if a wurm was something they saw every day-those being more of the northerners than the men from the south. The Prince figured the northerners would have also gaped, but the Blackoaks had seen Mugwump first, and no northerner was going to let a southerner believe he was surprised by anything.
The Prince could not help but smile and wave. "You still think the march will drain the hero from them?"
The Kessian laughed aloud. "Half of them do not have shoes, most of them are ragged, and clearly they have not been trained. But, that fire in their eyes. These are men, sir, with which I should be willing to assault the gates of Hell itself."
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that, my lord." The Prince smiled as more men passed. "Alas, I think it may."
Chapter Fifty-Five
May 31, 1764
Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
"W ho is she, Owen?"
Catherine's question took Owen completely by surprise.
He'd been laying on his left side and his wife had snuggled in behind him, her naked body molding itself to his. She'd kissed his shoulder and the back of his neck, then licked at his earlobe.
And then the question.
"Who is whom?"
She grabbed his shoulder, pulling him onto his back, then threw her right leg over his hip. She loomed over him, her face warded by shadows as the first tendrils of dawn lightened the white curtains. "You know who."
Owen frowned. "I really don't." He raised his head to kiss her, but she pulled back. This is serious.
"You do, Owen. The woman who wrote those letters for you."
"Bethany Frost?"
"Yes."
Owen pulled himself up against the headboard. "I was billeted at her family's home. She wrote you at my request, when I could not write. You know that."
"Yes, but who is she?" Catherine's voice rose and her eyes sharpened. "Who is she, Owen?"
"I don't understand the question, Catherine."
She whirled away from him, dragging the sheet after her. She wrapped herself in it, then sat in a chair, hunched, weeping. "You've stopped loving me, haven't you?"
Owen stared after her, completely puzzled. The past week had been nothing short of fantastic. They had enjoyed Temperance and the surrounding area. She had taken immediate charge of his life. Their first stop had been to a tailor who fashioned for him a brand new uniform of the Queen's Own Wurm Guards, including two sets of breeches, three shirts, two waistcoats, and a heavy oilskin coat to cover the uniform jacket.
After that they had spent their time exploring both the city and each other intimately. She had always been curious, inventive, hungry, and insatiable. She wanted him fiercely-even when they'd ridden into the countryside for a picnic, she had wanted him. Right there, under the sun, in the open, wanton and brazen, she had reminded him that he was her husband.
Her ardor erased memories of their separation. She laughed heartily and lustily, reminding him of the girl he'd fallen in love with. She was full of plans-things they could do with his estate in Mystria, things they could do upon his return to Norisle. She knew of dozens of societies that wished him to speak to them, and dozens of others that wanted to give him honors. Her face glowed as she spoke, and the way she clung to his arm and smiled proudly as they walked through Temperance had stoked the fire in his heart.
He climbed from bed and went to her, standing over her, his hands on her shoulders. "Catherine, I love you completely. You're my whole world."
"I am such a fool. Oh, Owen, I forced you into her arms. I should have been brave enough to come with you. And then, when I got word that you were hurt, I wanted to come. I begged your uncle to arrange my passage. I wanted to be here, to nurse you back to health, but then your letter arrived, the one telling me not to come. Telling me you would send for me when the time was right. And I waited."
Owen frowned. "What letter? I never said that."
"Yes, Owen, you did." Her hands came away from her face and she looked up. "In that first letter, in her hand, you told me not to come."
He shook his head. "I never said that."
"It was there, Owen." Her tears began anew. "I would show you the letter, but, oh, I am such a silly girl. I carried it with me and was reading it on the ship. The wind tore it from my grasp. I thought God was giving me a sign that you had been torn from me. I was inconsolable. I did not leave my cabin for days."
Owen went to his knees and took her in his arms. "Hush, Catherine. You have not lost me. I am yours, and yours alone." He stroked her hair and kissed her cheek. Bethany wouldn't have added that, would she?
"Oh, Owen." She pressed her forehead to his. "When you did not mention her to me, or introduce me to her, when she was not present when her parents had us to dinner, what was I to think? Have I been silly, Owen? Please tell me I have been silly."
He took her face in both hands and kissed her. "You have been silly, Catherine, but that is no vice."
She sniffed. "Then the reason you want me to remain in Temperance is not because she is going off on campaign?"
"What? No." Owen shook his head. "If she is going-and I do not believe she is at all-I know nothing of it and want nothing to do with her."
"Then why don't you want me to go with you? You let me come to war on the Continent."
Owen rose and scooped her in his arms, then deposited her on the bed. "On the Continent, my lovely wife, there were comforts like this bed; and other women to organize balls and social events. On this campaign all those things shall be here, in Temperance."
"What about this Hattersburg?"
He snorted. "You would hate it. Social life is a tavern and if you can find a bed, you're sleeping three or four to it."
She rested a hand on his hip. "I would endure it gladly, Owen, to be close to you."
"And I would not put you through that."
She sat up, the sheet falling away, and licked his stomach. "Come, Owen, be my husband one more time. One more time before you are away. Show me how much you love me, and give me reason to believe you will return."
Owen took leave of Catherine privately, in their rooms. She had insisted on dressing him while remaining naked. She said it was a duty she owed him as his wife. Then she kissed him and clung to him, finally letting him go, her hand in his until he descended the stairs.
He made his way to the green before Government House, where the Fourth Foot was assembling. Because he was not a member of the Regiment, he found himself in a curious position. His rank entitled him to command a battalion, but the Regiment had no need for him. Ostensibly he was attached to the unit's command company as a liaison with the Colonial forces, but he and Rivendell wanted little to do with each other. Rivendell had made this apparent by denying him a horse. Rivendell likewise showed his disdain for the Colonials by refusing to allow Owen to march with them.
He found Lieutenant Palmerston and picked up his pack and musket. The Lieutenant gave him a wink, and Owen smiled. Despite having had a new uniform created for him, Owen had arranged that his Altashee kit would be packed for his use in the field.
"Gone native, have you, Nephew?"
Owen turned. "What, sir?"
Deathridge pointed to
the tomahawk hanging from his pack. "Not standard issue."
"No, sir, but useful." Owen smiled. "There are a lot of things that we consider standard that won't be here."
Deathridge nodded solemnly. "I am aware of that, and aware that Rivendell will studiously avoid anything that requires thought. He really has no idea what he will find out there."
"Agreed."
"Owen, I need to ask a favor."
He'd never heard that tone in his uncle's voice before. "Yes, sir."
"I need you to refrain from doing more than requested."
"I am not sure I understand."
"It's really rather simple. I've told Prince Vladimir the same thing. Our best outcome here is for Rivendell to realize conquering the Fortress of Death just is not possible. I would prefer he build Fort Hope and go no further. I hope just getting to Anvil Lake will take the fire out of his belly. If this happens, please, let it be so."
Owen nodded. This was one of his uncle's political games. Owen loathed that sort of thing, but agreed with the goal. "Yes, Uncle, I understand."
"Good." Deathridge embraced Owen. "Go with God. Fight with honor and return home safely."
Owen, quite thrown off guard, retreated from the embrace, then tossed his uncle a crisp salute. The older man returned it, added a quick nod, and made his way off toward where Rivendell was speaking with his officers.
Owen shook his head. Before seeing his uncle, he had been feeling isolated. He did not fit in with the Regiment. Wearing a Norillian uniform, he no longer felt as if he fit with Mystria. People did not look at his face, just his coat, and based their reaction to him on it alone.
And now he asks me to work against the wishes of the Crown.
"Captain Strake."
Owen turned and smiled. "Doctor Frost, good to see you, sir."
"And you, looking very fierce in your uniform."
"Thank you." Owen looked past him for any sign of his wife or daughter. "And thank you for seeing me off."
"Had to. My wife wished to be here, but seeing Caleb off yesterday…"
"I understand, sir."
The older man smiled. "And Bethany, I think she would have been here, but she is a very stubborn girl. She's made her mind up about you and is unbending."
"Please remember me to her."
"I shall. Were she here, she would wish you Godspeed and safety, as do I." The man dug into his pocket and produced a small book. "It is a journal. I hope you will keep it as you did the others. I should be happy to read of your expedition."
"Very thoughtful, sir."
Frost laughed. "Not me, sir. I had thought to give you another copy of Haste's A Continent's Calling. My daughter took my coat for a brushing, and I found this in my pocket instead. I suspect I shall not be alone in reading about your adventures."
"I shall be happy to share them." Owen tucked the book in his coat pocket. "If I might impose on you, sir. My wife, she will be remaining here in Temperance. She knows no one save…"
"Say no more, my boy. I will arrange introductions." Doctor Frost offered his hand. "Godspeed, sir, there and back again."
"Good health to you and yours, sir."
Up and down the line, whistles blew. Owen shook Dr. Frost's hand, then found his position in the rear of the formation. A drummer set a pace, and the Fourth Regiment of Foot set out for the Fortress of Death.
Deathridge found Rivendell in a gaggle of officers and caught his eye. The mission's commander excused himself and drew back into an alley. The man made an elaborate charade of being cautious which guaranteed that he, being clad in red satin, would draw attention.
Idiot. Deathridge followed and hissed at him. "My lord! Discretion, if you please."
"Of course, Dick, of course. Are things set?"
"Completely. I've issued the necessary orders." Deathridge smiled. "Provided these Colonials can do anything at all correctly, you will have what you need to complete your mission."
"Oh, I shall, and return showered in glory." Rivendell raised his face to the sky, stretching his throat, and Deathridge imagined the satisfaction of drawing a razor across it. "New Tharyngia shall be a thing of the past."
"Very good. I have instructed my nephew to do nothing helpful on this expedition. I expect you will give him the most onerous duty, find fault with him whenever possible, and produce scurrilous reports about him."
Rivendell clapped his hands. "He'll be digging every slit trench between here and La Fortresse du Morte."
"No, you fool, you can't do that. He is an officer. He is a skirmisher. Use him as a messenger to the Colonials. Have him scouting ahead. Use him as he is meant to be used. Give him the impossible to accomplish and he will fail."
"Of course, Dick, absolutely." Rivendell's eyes narrowed. "I'll work him to death, then get him killed, as you desire."
"Make sure he dies bravely. We don't want his wife disgraced."
"No, no, of course not."
"Good." Deathridge offered the man his hand. "I would wish you luck, but I know you need none of it."
"No, sir, Dick. It's all about brains and courage, ain't it? Ain't it? No need for luck when you have both of those."
Deathridge shook Rivendell's hand, then retreated down the alley and back between buildings. Whistles blew and drums rattled. Shouted orders faded into the distance, then the thunder of marching feet rumbled through Temperance.
For Deathridge, it had been almost too easy. The Mystrians were simple to beguile. Approach them with confidence, speak openly and honestly and they believed everything you told them. Validate ideas they had suggested, like the building of Fort Hope, and they took it as a sacred duty that such a thing should be done. They treated with him with the avidity of a younger brother trying to appease an older brother. And with more facility than Francis ever showed.
Rivendell, on the other hand, had been easier. The product of an inferior family, sent to inferior schools, his vanity was the key. His father's publication of self-congratulatory books, the son's desire for ostentatious clothing, his overweening pride: these were traits Deathridge had seen in countless of his peers. Play to their fears that conspiracies exist and invite them to participate, and you had them. To doubt what you told them was to be excluded, and since they sought inclusion above anything else, they would comply no matter how outrageous the task given to them.
Rivendell's entire expedition had been Deathridge's doing. All he needed to do was to let slip to friends that he could destroy du Malphias' fortress with two regiments of foot and one of horse, and Rivendell was forced to suggest he could do the same thing with even less. Influencing which units would go had been even easier. Before Rivendell had even felt the first sea breeze, his fate had been sealed.
Deathridge returned to his apartments and smiled as Catherine opened the door. "And how did it go, dearest Niece?"
"Exactly as you predicted, dearest Uncle."
"You are a wonder." He kissed her fully on the lips. "You make it so I almost wish that Owen would live to see you once more."
"So do I." She draped her arms around his neck. "After all, the fool still loves me, and would easily believe our child is his."
Chapter Fifty-Six
June 26, 1764
Hattersburg
Lindenvale, Mystria
"S ee, Nathaniel, see? What did I tell you?"
"I see, Seth." Nathaniel wasn't quite certain what he was seeing, but it wasn't right. It wasn't the Hattersburg he'd last seen. "Been here two weeks, have they?"
"Two and a half, more like." Seth looked at him with pleading eyes. "I love my wife, but iffen her kin gots to stay with me another day longer, I'll kill them all."
"You run on home. Tell Gates come back to his tavern." Nathaniel, standing at the center point of the bridge spanning the Tillie, waved Caleb forward. "Lieutenant, I reckon second, fifth, and sixth squads need to come up and hold this bridge."
Caleb, dark circles under his eyes, nodded. "Three ranks, lying, kneeling, and standing?"
"Aim low. Don't let Rufus give you no trouble."
"No, sir."
"Makepeace, Justice, bring the first and fourth up, on me." Nathaniel waited for the two squads to assemble. "Casual like, but have your guns clear."
The Bone brothers arrayed the squads into three smaller groups, with Tribulation guiding the third. They wandered into Hattersburg, walking along the muddy North road. Two hundred yards further on sat Gates' Tavern.
Nathaniel had never liked Hattersburg, but he'd always found something to look at on the streets. Not so this time. Some folks would be out at their summer homes, farming, so it made sense that half the homes should have been empty. The fact that they all had smoke coming from chimneys surprised him. Likewise that three dogs lay dead in the street with visible gunshot wounds, and that civilians were nowhere to be seen. From between houses the breezes produced flashes of scarlet coats hung on drying lines. Even the docks appeared empty and the stockyard didn't have but one scrawny old dairy cow in it.
Nathaniel wandered into town and right up to Gates' Tavern. He made a hand signal and Justice took the fourth squad around toward the back while Makepeace brought the Bookworms in tight. He pulled open the door and entered, but got only four feet in.
A blond-haired young man in the 31st Horse Guards uniform barred his passage. "This headquarters is off limits to your kind." Beyond him a squad and a half of men sat at tables drinking and playing cards. From above came sounds of laughter, giggles, and creaking beds.
"I reckon I best speak to your commanding officer."
"I reckon," the man began, slowing his speech to affect a Mystrian accent, "you'd best sod off."
Nathaniel smiled, then drove his right knee into the man's groin. The cavalryman jackknifed forward, clutching himself. Nathaniel grabbed a handful of his hair and slammed his head into the wall, then pitched him back into the room, upsetting a table. Cards flew and before a one had fluttered to the floor, Nathaniel had his rifle's muzzle nestled between the downed man's chin and silver gorget.
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