At the Queen's Command

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “I have a few personal effects. Journals. Pens.” Owen thought, then shook his head. “Unless you think there is something else. I am sure there will be room in my pack.”

  Woods nodded. “I reckon we’re covered.”

  “And Mr. Woods…”

  “Yes, Captain Strake?”

  “This is my expedition, isn’t it?”

  “It’s all yours, sir.” Woods gave him a tiny salute. “I’m just along so’s you can find your way to the end of it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  May 1, 1763

  St. Martin’s Cathedral, Temperance

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Owen found himself with the luxury of a couple of hours before the grand Sunday dinner Mrs. Frost had promised earlier in the week. Owen had joined the family at services. Bishop Othniel Bumble had held forth in a fiery sermon about duty to the Crown. After the service, the Frosts invited the Bishop, his family, and his aid, Reverend Benjamin Beecher to join them for dinner.

  Owen occupied himself by organizing his journals. He decided one would be a workbook for notes and sketches while traveling. The second would be the mission journal. He would copy and organize things from the workbook to guarantee the information’s accuracy.

  While this was his intent, in sitting down to practice with his metal nibs, he realized his plan would not work. The workbook observations about Mystria expanded beyond their original scope. He found himself evaluating the people and their customs. Commentary required context, so his writing became voluminous.

  He found himself motivated, in part, by Lord Rivendell’s book. That Rivendell’s tome could be taken as the definitive account of Villerupt revolted him. He wanted his impressions of Mystria to educate readers about the people and their true courage.

  This created problems. The assault, for example, did not paint a pretty picture of Mystrian behavior. Owen chose to write things down as plainly as he could. He hoped that his portraits of the Frosts and even Nathaniel Woods would balance any negative impressions gleaned from the actions of people like the Branches.

  Owen had filled several pages with an even hand when one of the younger Frosts tapped on his door. Owen pulled on the plain coat he’d worn to church and descended. The dining table had been set up in the kitchen yard, on a green lawn.

  The rotund Bishop Bumble regarded him with a flash of displeasure before a smile lit his ruddy face to the point of buffoonery. He threw his arms wide and waddled forward. “So good to see you again, Captain Strake. May I present to you my wife, Livinia, and my niece, Lilith.”

  Livinia Bumble suffered in comparison to her husband and Mrs. Frost, being slight of frame and colorless to the point of appearing gray. She did make an effort at smiling, but it exhausted her. Owen would have taken her to be entirely timid, but her blue eyes remained sharp and seemed to miss nothing.

  Owen bowed and kissed her proffered hand, then smiled at the other member of the Bumble party. Lilith was everything her aunt was not. Tall and flame-haired, the young woman smiled dazzlingly, fully aware of the effect. Though she wore a gown styled as simply as her aunt’s, and cut from the same cloth, her bright blue eyes and the spray of freckles across her cheeks rescued her from being drab.

  Lilith curtsied as Owen took her hand. “You honor me, Captain Strake.”

  Owen kissed it, then straightened. “My pleasure, Miss Bumble.”

  He then offered his hand to the fourth member of the Bumble party. “Good to see you again, Reverend Beecher.”

  Beecher, who looked a match for Livinia save for being taller, nodded curtly. “I see you fare better on land than on the sea.”

  “Which is why I serve in Her Majesty’s Army and not the Royal Navy.” Owen shook the man’s hand firmly, resisting the temptation to crush it. Beecher had not been unkind on the ship. More than once he’d joined Owen at the heads, vomiting over the side.

  Mrs. Frost called them all to dinner. The Bishop sat at Dr. Frost’s right hand, in the space Caleb would have occupied had he been present. Owen sat on the left, with Lilith at his side and Bethany opposite her. Beecher sat at Bethany’s right. The children ranged between the young adults and the end of the table where the two matriarchs sat.

  The meal consisted of three courses. It began with a fish chowder containing maize and potatoes in a milk broth. Onions and pepper had been added, the latter in a profligate quantity. Owen’s throat closed with the first spoonful, but eased after a little wine.

  The Bishop noticed. “You will find, Captain, that spices are not as dear here as they are in Norisle. We tend to demonstrate our fortune with their overuse.”

  Doctor Frost snorted. “And we drink very expensive wine to wash spice away.”

  “Praise God you can afford it, yes, Archibald.”

  “Quite, Othniel. To your health, Captain.”

  A steaming haunch of beef came next. Doctor Frost carved, offering a small lecture on the primacy of red meat as he cut. The Bishop got the King’s cut, but the slice that ended up on Owen’s plate nearly matched it. The cuts got progressively smaller, save for the last two, which went to Hettie and Livinia.

  Bowls brimming with green beans and squash circulated. Never having had the latter, Owen watched how much others took. Butter and more pepper had been used in the squash, so when it came his turn, he served himself a conservative portion. His first taste, however, pleased him so much he kept an eye on the bowl in case there was any left over.

  Conversation remained light during the meal. Owen had once been told that a gentleman “is neither a bore nor seated next to one at dinner.” Doctor Frost’s comments ranged on subjects far and wide, while Lilith remained coquettish and flattering. Owen did his best to cope with each, offering a couple of stories of his time fighting on the Continent. For the most part, however, he kept quiet.

  This was not entirely out of manners. Bethany, though she smiled at both men on either side of her, did not appear to be her lively self. From what Owen could overhear, Beecher’s attempts at conversation consisted of repeating selections from the great sermons. His delivery would have taxed the patience of a stone.

  Bishop Bumble did not speak much to Bethany, save for a few mumbled comments during Owen’s tales. Bethany reacted stiffly to the comments. Color drained from her face and she chewed mechanically for a time after that. Though she recovered enough to laugh politely at Owen’s stories, Bumble clearly had upset her.

  To the delight of the children, a pudding with berries and raisins finished the meal. They were served first, then the women excused themselves and herded the youngsters away. Beecher slid down into Bethany’s chair—uttering a sigh Owen would have preferred not to have heard.

  Doctor Frost poured a small cut-crystal glass of sherry for each man, then hoisted his in the air. “To the Queen’s health.”

  Owen quaffed the sweet wine. It burned all the way down, but gently, at least to his throat. Beecher appeared to have more difficulty with it, much to the silent amusement of the two older gentlemen.

  The Bishop refilled their glasses, then set the bottle in the center of the table. “Captain Strake, I would ask you a question.”

  “Please, sir.”

  “Are you not proud of your service?” The question came in a voice that was nine-tenths innocent. “Neither here nor to church did you wear your uniform.”

  “I am very proud of my service.” Owen met the old man’s dark stare openly. “I feared that the bright coat, the gold braid, would seem ostentatious and arrogant on the Lord’s Day. I didn’t wish to disrupt your service.”

  “I wish you had.” Bumble picked up his glass and slowly spun it. Sunlight sparked rainbows. “I would have bid you come forward and sit in the front so my flock could see a proud officer of Her Majesty’s Army. Too many people here are given cause to think poorly of our government. Colonel Langford and others set a frightful example.”

  Archibald Frost smiled. “I think, Othniel, you judge the people of Temperance harshly.”<
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  “I wish I could agree with you, Archibald, but the fact is that our people have lost their way. They have forgotten that we are all children of God, and that He has established an order to the Universe. We are to serve His purpose, and His purpose is clear. Our monarch is His ordained representative on this Earth. We believe that because He has granted us the bounty of this continent, we are somehow superior to the men of Norisle. A ridiculous proposition, wouldn’t you agree, Captain?”

  “I am not a theologian, sir. I pray to shoot better and faster than my enemy.”

  Beecher leaned forward, raising his glass. “And it is a good thing that God grants you that prayer for you are His agent in the war against the Atheists.”

  The Bishop and Dr. Frost exchanged glances at Beecher’s outburst. Frost could not suppress an indulgent chuckle. “Not all Tharyngians are Atheists, Mr. Beecher.”

  “Their revolution overthrew God’s ordained King and established the rule of the Laureates. They refuse to acknowledge God as their superior.”

  Bumble set his glass down. “Mr. Beecher, I have suggested you need more precision in your thinking and words. It is vital for your career. Doctor Frost is correct. The Laureates tolerate worship. Many of them are Deists, and most are Agnostics. Only a select few are Atheists. That is their nature. They assign Science the highest order and acknowledge that Science can neither confirm nor deny the existence of God.”

  “And they shall burn in Hell for that.”

  “Indeed they shall, but this does not make them Atheists, merely wrong.” The Bishop smiled at Owen. “What would you do, sir, if you had a man like Mr. Beecher in your command?”

  “That is what we have sergeants for.”

  Beecher sat back. “I am certain none of them are Atheists, are they, Captain? War not being a thing to promote such nonsense.”

  Though Owen knew better, he rose to the bait Beecher had so carelessly offered. “To be frank, Mr. Beecher, war is the last thing to promote a belief in God. When you’ve seen a man’s head blown open by a musket-ball, with a chunk of his skull missing, and he sits there reciting nursery rhymes or begging for his mother, you wonder what sort of a God could condone war. And I understand and believe that these men will be rewarded in Heaven, but I cannot help but wonder if even an eternity of pleasure is just recompense for sitting with your guts in your lap, or watching a surgeon take your arm off with a saw.”

  Beecher paled. “I only meant…”

  “I know what you meant, sir, and I know the fallaciousness of it. Perhaps, Mr. Beecher, if the opportunity ever presents itself for you to join a military expedition, you will take it. You will learn a great deal about men, war, and yourself.”

  “Quite right.” The Bishop nodded solemnly. “You know, Captain, I offered the blessing before the Mystrian Rangers sailed for Norisle. I gave quite a good sermon but I wish I had heard your words. I would have gone. Perhaps, had I been there, I could have stiffened their spines or, at least, eased their torments.”

  Until his last comment, Owen was prepared to open fire on the Bishop, too. Genuine compassion issued through his voice, checking Owen’s anger. “I believe, sir, both of you would have benefited from that experience. Contrary to what you may have read, the Mystrian Rangers did make you all proud.”

  The Bishop raised his glass. “To their health and salvation.”

  Owen drank, wishing for more of one than the other.

  Talk turned from things philosophical to local, so Owen excused himself. The Bishop promised to invite him to dinner upon his return. Owen accepted in advance and left them in the yard. He fully intended to head to his room, but as he cut through the darkened dining room, he caught sight of Bethany sitting alone in the front yard.

  She looked up as he appeared before her. “Good evening, Captain. Would you like to sit?”

  “Thank you.” Owen looked at his hands. “I might be mistaken, Miss, but did Bishop Bumble upset you during dinner?”

  Bethany sighed. “He has preached from the Gospel according to Rivendell before. While you spoke of the war, he was praising God that Norisle had brave men like you to defend it. You see, most of the Rangers were indifferent about Church and not all of them were sober when he offered his blessing.”

  “Was your Ira among them?”

  She shook her head. “Ira attended every Sunday. At college he was studying for the clergy. The Bishop had offered to go with the Rangers. My uncle put it to a vote. The soldiers said no. They said Ira was the only minister they needed.”

  Things began to fit together more clearly. “I see. And Beecher, was he a bother?”

  “Harmless. A puppy.” Bethany smiled. “He’s enchanted with Lilith. He’ll never win her. Better men have tried.”

  “Better men like Nathaniel Woods?”

  “Woods? Ha!” Bethany shook her head. “The Bishop would have Woods burned for a witch if he came near her. And Nathaniel would gladly jump into the flames.”

  “I didn’t have the impression you disliked her.”

  “I hide things very well, Captain Strake.” She laid both her hands on his forearm. “On your journey you will see many wonderful and dangerous things. But in no greater jeopardy will you be than you were this evening.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You were being measured to be Lilith’s husband.”

  Owen held up his left hand and flicked his thumbnail against the ring. “But I’m married.”

  “Mystria is home to the ambitious, Captain.” Her eyes grew dark. “They find the ends justifying the means, so there are no lengths to which they will not go.”

  “You suggest many horrible things, Miss Frost.”

  “More so than you know, Captain.” Bethany squeezed his arm. “Be careful, please, as you go, and especially as you return.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  May 2, 1763

  The Frost Residence, Temperance

  Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Owen got up before dawn, dressing himself by candlelight in his uniform, from his tri-corner hat with blue cockade, to boots with polished spurs. He filled his pack with extra clothes, rolled his blanket and put that on top, and pulled the pack on. He then donned his ammunition pouches, slid the pistol into a holster at his right thigh, and shouldered his musket—the bayonet for which hung from a sash at his left hip.

  His duty rituals consisted mostly of caring for his weapons. The musket, when placed with the butt on the ground, ended up three inches taller than he was—the bayonet added another foot and a half. The steel barrel alone was forty-two inches long. It ended in a curved brass fitting made of two pieces. The centermost bit could be unscrewed and removed, revealing a narrow hole at the barrel’s base and a hollow in the large brass piece. A firestone would be set in that hollow, then tightened down with the center-bit. A hole in the retention collar allowed a portion of the firestone to protrude, so he could thumb it and magickally ignite the brimstone.

  The long gun he’d drawn from stores had seen better days. He’d cleaned it, washing, swabbing,, and oiling the barrel inside and out. He’d also cleaned and oiled the stock, then tightened down every screw he could find and replaced those he could not. He made sure the ramrod would remain in place while he traveled. Without it, he couldn’t load the gun, changing the musket into a club.

  The Frosts, minus Caleb, had risen early enough to see him off. Mrs. Frost handed him a loaf of bread and some cheese all wrapped up in cloth. Bethany gave him an envelope with two quills just in case of disaster. He thanked them both, his throat tightening.

  His reaction surprised him, and it took him a moment to figure out why. Though they were strangers to him, they’d fed him, repaired his clothes, sewed up his wounds, and otherwise seen to his welfare. They’d done it out of a sense of duty to the Crown. And because they are just nice people.

  Ultimately they had treated him more kindly than his family ever had, and when they wished him a safe journey, he knew they actually meant it.
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br />   Doctor Frost walked him to the gate. “I have enjoyed our all-too-brief association, Captain Strake. I very much look forward to your return.”

  “You and your family have been wonderful. I hope I have not been a burden.”

  “Nonsense, sir, it has been a delight.” Frost drew a small book from his coat pocket. “I know you don’t want extra weight on your trip, but I thought you might find this intriguing.”

  The tiny volume had been bound in black leather with the title “A Continent’s Calling” incised in gold on the cover. Doctor Frost smiled carefully. “It was written by Samuel Haste. It inspired our debate on whether or not Mystria would be better off as its own nation. Some of your countrymen would take it as a work of treason, but I hope you find it to be something else. Mr. Haste truly loves this land and dreams of all it can become. You should understand that, and that many people share his dream.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Owen slipped the book into his coat pocket. “I expect to be back before September. I would call upon you then.”

  “Captain, we insist you stay with us upon your return.” The man smiled. “In fact, I think Major Forest might be heading north around that time, so I shall see to it that you are reacquainted.”

  “Most kind.” Owen gave the man a brief salute. “Until then.”

  Owen headed off along Diligence quickly, planning to meet Woods at Westgate as the sun rose. Out toward the city’s edge, where the prosperous built their stately homes, no one stirred on the broad streets. Down toward the docks the sounds of the city waking echoed through alleys and crowded neighborhoods.

  The day had started with a bit of crispness in the air, but it would burn off quickly. Still, it made for easy walking and Owen couldn’t help but smile. His brief trip out of the city had hinted at how much there was to explore, and he was anxious to get started.

  “Walk your legs clean off at that pace, Captain.”

  Owen spun, leveling the musket. “Woods!”