Bethany smiled. “Is she your friend?”
“Yes. She is almost grown up. I let her play with my dolls.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“You could play with them, too.”
Miranda’s offer broadened Bethany’s smile and pasted a similar one across Owen’s face. In an instant he could see the three of them walking along, not a man, his daughter and a friend, but as a family. For just a moment his heart sloughed off the melancholy of the fight with his wife.
“You are very kind, Miranda.”
Owen gave his daughter’s hand a squeeze. “Miss Frost, once the Prince is finished with them, I would appreciate your transcribing my journals of the last expedition. Whilst I was in the wilderness, I noted a number of things that I thought you might find interesting.”
“It would be a great pleasure, Captain, and an honor.” Bethany held her head up a bit. “I have always found your stories enjoyable.”
“My Papa tells me stories, sometimes, when I go to bed.” The little girl marched along happily. “Not scary ones. Well, except the one about wolves on the night I was born. But he rescued me and Mama.”
“I should be scared of wolves unless I had someone brave like your father around.”
“And yet, Bethany Frost, you never seem to attract a man, brave or otherwise.”
Owen turned and found his wife not six feet behind them. “Catherine, there you are. We chanced across Miss Frost by the docks.”
“Waiting for a ship full of sailors to come in, was she?” Catherine held her hand out. “Miranda, come here, this instant.”
Miranda looked up at her father. “She has her angry voice.”
“It was nothing you did, Miranda.”
“No, Miranda, nothing you did at all.” Owen’s wife glared at Bethany. “You failed to steal him once, dear. I tolerated your editing his dreadfully boring prose before, but I am not of a mind to be so tolerant this time.”
Bethany bowed her head. “Believe me, Mrs. Strake, when I tell you that the last thing I should wish to do in this world would be to cause you or your family any discomfort.”
“Then perhaps you will just find yourself your own man, Miss Frost.”
Owen reached out a hand. “Catherine, Bethany is a friend, an innocent friend.”
“A friend. Interesting use of the word, husband. You might protest your innocence, but I already know you to be a liar, Owen Strake.” She glanced hotly from Owen to Bethany and back, then snorted. “You have made it plain that you are not going to honor your word. At least now you have abandoned the pretense of hiding behind the Prince in this regard.”
“Catherine…”
“No, Owen, I do not want to hear it. Miranda and I shall use the apartment this evening, then return home tomorrow morning. I should appreciate advanced word when you will be coming to Strake House so I can make proper arrangements.” His wife spun on her heel and dragged Miranda around with her. “Come, Miranda, we are leaving.”
Owen covered his face with a hand. He said nothing as Catherine stalked away. Shame burned through him, first at how his wife treated Bethany, and second at his relief when she departed. He sighed heavily, then looked toward Bethany. He found her hand extended hesitantly toward his shoulder. “Please, Bethany, forgive, forget that. She did not mean…”
Bethany’s hand returned to her side. “Captain Strake, she meant every word of it—the words spoken and unspoken.”
“She’s angry.”
“Apparently.”
Owen glanced toward the sky. “I promised to go to Norisle. After the trip west, I can’t.”
Bethany regarded him with cool, blue eyes. “Captain Strake, if you believe that is all which prompted her words, you are far too kind and far too naive. For her, being in Mystria is being made to lay down in a bed of nettles. She has been here going on four and a half years. She has hated every second of it. Each year she has wanted to return, and each year she has been thwarted.”
“I know.” Owen shook his head. “But there is nothing I can do about it, Bethany. My home is here. My life is here. She may have left her heart in Norisle, but for me to go back would be to tear my heart out and leave it bleeding on these shores. She thinks she will die if she stays. I know I will die if I leave.”
“Have you told her that?”
Owen half-laughed, throwing his arms open and letting them flap limply to his sides. “How could I? When could I? When she is angry, even acquiescing does not make her listen. And in those times she is calm, to address this would set her off. When I take her down to the river, where we can watch the water flow and moose grazing, all I see is beauty. What she sees are all the ways in which our home is not a Norillian estate.”
He glanced down, pressing his hands together fingertip to fingertip. “Perhaps she is right. Perhaps I do have a mistress.”
“Owen…”
“She thinks it’s you, I know, and I am sorry her suspicions threaten your reputation.” He shook his head. “What she doesn’t understand is that Mystria is my mistress. Where she sees a primitive, uncivilized land, I see unspoiled majesty. As Catherine offers me less and less, Mystria offers more and more. When the Prince prepared the expedition west, and I agreed to go, he asked if I was doing it for my duty, or to get away from my wife. I guess now I know that I was doing it to spend time with my mistress.”
As Owen shaped his emotions into words, he felt as if he was uncovering a treasure which had lain buried for eons. His father had been Mystrian, born of a family cast out of Norisle ages ago. A sailor, he met and married a Norillian noble’s daughter. Owen had been born in Mystria, but when his father died at sea, he and his mother had moved back to Norisle, and she had been wedded to Lord Ventnor’s youngest son, a wastrel. Owen had grown up thinking that all Norisle hated him for the land of his birth, and in returning he recaptured the life he had been meant to have.
While it was easy to see Catherine as part of Norisle, and recognize the wellspring from which her angry bitterness arose, he could not dismiss her. He had loved her and had exchanged vows with her. Though countless men ignored those vows, Owen would not count himself among them. If he could not be true to his word, then he could never be true to himself or anyone else. The price of being honorable might be pain, but worse would be the price of faithlessness.
Bethany nodded slowly. “You, Captain Strake, are not alone in your love of the land and its people. You should realize that there are people here, many people, who love you for who you are and what you have done. The story in the Gazette may have been about Colonel Rathfield, but there was not a man who heard it who did not wish he had been there standing shoulder to shoulder with you. That your wife does not seem to appreciate you is seen by many as a great tragedy. Though no one would ever say a word to you about it, they recognize it and believe you a better man than they for how you deal with it.”
Owen nodded. “And probably not a few who think she should get the rough side of my hand.”
“Those are the idiots who get supper cold and their beds colder.” Bethany graced him with a simple smile. “I must be away, Captain. I apologize for the discomfort I caused. I assure you, I shall do my best never to put you in that situation again.”
“Bethany…”
“No, Owen, I made a decision a long time ago, and I have let my resolve erode.” She smiled as she backed away. “For the best of all concerned, I must again abide by my previous choice. To do otherwise, to see you in this situation again, would break my heart. I do not imagine it could ever be mended again.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
2 July 1767
Government House, Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
Prince Vlad’s mouth soured as Ezekiel Fire shuffled and clanked his way along toward the throne. Two large men, each dressed in the somber black clothes favored by a Virtuan funeral cortege, marched behind him. Fire remained bound as he had been for trial, from mask to the gauntlets and shackles
that hobbled him. To the collar had been added a stout chain which one of his keepers held.
Vlad glanced at the man standing beside him. “Yes, Caleb, they do treat him as if he is an animal.”
“It is inhuman, Highness.”
At trial Fire had been dressed well, but in custody he had been given dirty, ragged clothes and deprived of stockings and shoes. He’d clearly not bathed and given the redness of his eyes, had not been allowed to sleep much, either. Dirt blackened his toenails, proving at least that he still had them. Vlad suspected the same was not true of the fingernails, hidden within the steel gauntlets.
Prince Vlad looked past Fire to the men guarding him. “Remove his mask, remove the collar, unbind his hands.”
The man holding the chain shook his head. “Bishop Bumble agreed to bring the prisoner to you, but said, under no circumstances, was he to be released.”
“I am the Colonial Governor-General. This prisoner is being kept in a facility by my command. Those chains are government property. I will determine how they are used.”
“Bishop Bumble said…”
“If Bishop Bumble wishes this man to remain restrained, he can waddle his way down here and tell me that himself.” Vlad knew he’d overplayed his hand at that moment, but he was prepared to pay the price for it. Both men looked shocked. “Go, the both of you, and report to him exactly what I said. The prisoner shall remain in my custody until then.”
The two guards exchanged glances.
Vlad thrust a finger toward where the Cathedral stood. “Go. You do not want me summoning troops to enforce my wishes.”
The two men bowed and withdrew.
Vlad waved Caleb forward. “Remove the mask.”
Caleb unbuckled it and slid it off, revealing Fire’s badly bruised face. The knot on one side of his jaw suggested it had been broken. The area around his mouth appeared somewhat clean, as if someone had wiped away blood from his swollen and clearly broken nose.
The Prince approached. “Can you open your mouth?”
Fire nodded and, wincing, complied.
Fewer teeth than I remember. Vlad shook his head and stepped back. “Steward Fire, I am very sorry you have been mightily abused. Bishop Bumble will be made to answer for his treatment of you.”
Fire glanced down and shook his head. His teeth remained clenched. “No, Highness.”
“I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation, Steward. Later today Bishop Bumble and his confederates will pass judgment upon you. You will be found guilty. They will sentence you to be burned at the stake. They need to have me agree to this. I am given little choice in the matter because, as Mr. Frost tells me, you have resisted every effort at mustering a defense. If you had any mitigating circumstances, anything I could use to put pressure on Bumble, I could ask him to commute your sentence to life. You’d be sent to Fairlee, to the prison at Iron Mountain.”
“I thank you and Mr. Frost, Highness.” Fire’s words came slowly, and his breath shallow, as if breathing pained him. “God has showed me what I must do.”
“Caleb, for your own good, you might wish to retire to my office. What gets discussed from this point forward might leave you open to charges of heresy yourself.”
Caleb laughed. “What makes you think, since I decided to defend Steward Fire, that I’m not already facing that charge?”
“Fair point.” Vlad clasped his hands behind his back. “Steward, I need you to understand that I understand. I’ve read your work. I have studied the King Robert version of the Good Book, and I have seen what you have seen. I have, furthermore, used what you saw and have determined that you are right. I know, therefore, why Bishop Bumble wishes you to be silenced. And I know why Mystria cannot afford to have that happen.”
Fire stared at him, then staggered a step forward and fell to his knees. He tried to raise his hands to cover his face, but the chains prohibited him. Tears ran down the man’s cheeks. “You understand? You know?”
Vlad nodded.
“Then I’m not mad?”
“No.”
Fire hunched forward, sobbing.
The Prince dropped to a knee before him, resting his hands on the man’s shoulders. “I can imagine you thought you were. You saw things no one else did. When you spoke to your peers, they couldn’t or wouldn’t see. When you spoke to your superiors, they were surprised, then told you that you were seeing things. Men like Bumble did things to unsettle you, to undercut your confidence, to make you question yourself and your sanity. But you knew you were right, and knew that to deny what you had seen was to work against God. So you headed west with a select band of followers, to do God’s bidding.”
The crying man nodded.
“What you failed to see is why I know you’re an honest man. You failed to see that Bumble and the Church had to silence you. You were so pleased to be helping others, and you wrote to Bumble to show him a way to join you—not viciously to lord over him the error of his ways, but in fellowship so that he, too, could be saved. But that same motivation convinced Bumble that you could not be bought off or trusted to remain silent. This is why it was important to find you and bring you back for a trial, so that others would be frightened into silence.”
Fire looked up, sniffing. “The Good Lord did not resist His prosecutors.”
Vlad stood and, with Caleb, helped Fire to a chair by the wall. “I won’t argue theology with you, Steward, save to suggest that whatever Bishop Bumble is doing, it’s not found in Scripture.”
“I know what God has asked me to do. He wants me to share His gifts.” Fire smiled weakly. “You have told me that I have succeeded.”
“Not nearly enough. You cannot let Bumble destroy you.”
“But you have already said he has not.”
Vlad sighed and took a step back. Beaten and exhausted, likely starved and crushed by the destruction of his settlements, Fire couldn’t muster enough rational thought to resist Bumble, much less aid Caleb in defending himself. And it would make no difference if he did. Even if Fire were able to present himself in a favorable light, the tribunal would still convict.
“Caleb, do you have a sense as to public sentiment in this matter?”
“Half again as many shun me as offer praise, and most of the latter are veterans who remember Bumble poorly. I don’t get the sense that anyone believes they could be prosecuted next, so they believe what Bumble is doing will protect us.”
Prince Vlad chewed his lower lip for a moment. “I’m not going to be given any choice but to sign off on the death warrant. I can buy time, but little more than that.” He thought for a moment, then frowned. “Steward Fire, do you know of any enemies Bishop Bumble might have?”
The prisoner shook his head. “He has always seemed to me to be a well-loved man.”
Another question had begun to form itself in Vlad’s head, but the slamming open of the doors to his chamber prevented its completion. Bumble burst in, flanked by the two guards, and hurried his way along toward where the Prince stood. Bumble’s face had taken on the purple of raging apoplexy.
“What is the meaning of this?”
“I wished to speak to Steward Fire.”
Bumble’s eyes became slits. “That is not what I refer to, Highness. How dare you have beaten the prisoner!”
Fire slumped in the chair and Caleb gasped. Vlad stared. “I beg your pardon?”
The fat cleric pointed a finger straight at the Prince. “My men are witnesses to the fact that the prisoner was not injured when they brought him here.”
“You go too far, your Grace.”
“Based on our previous discussion, Highness, I would have thought you know that your accusation is a lie.” Bumble snapped his fingers. “Get the prisoner back to the armory.”
The guards came forward and took custody of Fire. One grabbed the leash while the other buckled the steel muzzle back in place. The one holding the chain yanked it, and Fire staggered toward the door.
The Bishop’s eyes never
left Vlad’s as he pointed at Caleb. “And you, Frost, be gone. And beware what you print in your Gazette. Heresy takes all forms, and will be stamped out in these Colonies. I can and will ruin you and your paper.”
Caleb laughed. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Would you, now?” Bumble’s voice dropped into an icy register. “Were I to preach against it, were I to fund Mr. Wattling to reestablish his paper, and then contribute to it, I think you would find your readership greatly reduced. And if my people were to comb through your archives, I am certain there are things there which could be considered seditious, treasonous, or heretical. You are very free in your thinking, Frost, and contributors like Samuel Haste do not help you. So do not test me or tempt me.”
Vlad held up a hand. “Thank you, Caleb, but I think you should leave now.”
“Yes, Highness, as you wish.” Caleb bowed to the Prince and, as he headed for the door, turned back just long enough to stick his tongue out at Bumble.
Vlad waited for the doors to close behind him. “Bishop Bumble…”
“I thought, Highness, I honestly thought, we had an understanding, you and I. I thought I made my wishes clear. I shall be forced to write a letter to the Archbishop in Launston all about your conduct. You give me no choice.”
Vlad cocked his head. “I do not mean to sound impertinent or disrespectful, but are you truly that stupid?”
Bumble’s pig-eyes widened.
Vlad opened his hands, but let his shoulders slump a bit. “You made it very clear to me that I was to sign off on Fire’s being burned at the stake. Now, I ask you to consider Scripture. The Good Lord, once convicted by his own people, was brought before the Remian Provincial Governor, since only he had the authority to put a man to death.”
Bumble shook his head slowly. “And you wish to cast yourself as Pilate, and me as one of the High Priests. Do you think I am a fool?”
“No, because that scenario would cast Fire as our Savior. You know that I cannot do that, both because of the pressure you bring on me and because Colonel Rathfield was sent from Launston to deal with Fire’s having broken the law in establishing his settlements beyond chartered land. You have tried him for heresy. I called him here, clearly, to examine him on the matter of treason—a matter which you were not allowed to address at your trial.”
Of Limited Loyalty: The Second Book of the Crown Colonies Page 31
