He did like his men—the ones he’d gone to Fort Cuivre with and then brought down on the ship. The others, well, they’d gotten it into their minds that a lucky shot that had killed someone trying to kill them had come from his rifle. Pure nonsense, and he’d tried to convince a few of the absurdity of their notions, but they weren’t having it. Their belief connected them to him—same as men were connected to the Prince through what he did.
Nathaniel sighed. He’d been willing to accept the responsibility of leading men into battle, but he’d not figured that the responsibility would extend beyond that. He’d made a lifetime commitment, and it wasn’t one that would go away just because it would make his life easier.
The Mystrian made his way into Gates’ Tavern, shaking hands and getting his back slapped. He smiled, nodded to men, called a few by name. Someone shoved a mug of ale into his hand and he took a gulp. It surprised him. He figured Gates must have gone and gotten a new, young horse for pissing into his casks, and he hoped it was one of the best stolen from Captain Percy Abberwick.
He moved deeper into the room, raised his mug toward the Bone brothers. The three of them had come through things without a scratch, though Makepeace was still nursing his bruised arm. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with the swivel-guns on the sloop, even after the Summerland boys offered to teach him the proper spell. When he learned of what the Prince and Count had done on Mugwump, he’d been in absolute awe.
The Prince and the Count book-ended Princess Gisella. The rest of the men took note of her, of course. As they told their stories, they played up to her and were certain to let her know that Prince Vlad and Count Joachim had been the heroes. She seemed to delight in every story, even though it was the same story told over and over again. She looked up at Vlad with pure worship on her face at the end of each one.
Wasn’t a man in the place who wouldn’t have killed a whole Tharyngian regiment to have a woman look at him that way.
Me, included. Nathaniel smiled, thinking of Rachel. The cavalry would arrive in Temperance long before the rest of the soldiers. She’d know he survived. Word would get to her somehow, despite her husband’s doing his best to hide it from her. That had worked once, and she’d vowed that it never would again.
Nathaniel would see her when he got to Temperance. She’d be there, somewhere, in a crowd, and he’d see her. Her husband would be watching her like a hawk, but it wouldn’t matter. He could have all the Branches and Casks in the world set between Nathaniel and his wife, and it couldn’t keep them apart.
He laughed to himself. Nathaniel never had been much of a one for whatiffing, but Zachariah Warren had done him more of a service than he could have imagined, and likely had saved many lives. Had he not tricked Rachel into marrying him, she would have married Nathaniel. He would have moved to town and probably would have gotten fat. He’d have learned a trade, turned his back on the wilderness and hunting and trapping and exploring.
I’da become one of them men what looks up to me. He shivered and felt a bit of an ache in his belly. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure that he’d have been saddle-broke so easily, but the prospect scared him. Both because of who it meant he would have become and because his inability to be broken meant he’d be denied certain pleasures in his life.
It struck him that here he was, in a room jammed with people, and yet he found himself utterly alone. They thought sure they knew him—and some did, far better than most. Yet men like the Bone brothers had a bond with each other that he really didn’t have with anyone else. Maybe Owen, there near the Prince; sort of with the Prince, but otherwise, his closest connection had headed off to Saint Luke as the sun went down.
Realizing he was alone among many didn’t provoke melancholy. Nathaniel wasn’t inclined that way, and certainly wasn’t going to tolerate that sort of a mood. A man gave in to melancholy, he figured, if he wanted to, or he wasn’t smart enough to figure out what it was that made him happy.
Right now that would be getting some fresh air, relieving my bladder, and figuring out where I’m going to bed down for the night. He wasn’t really feeling that tired, but it was getting to the time in August when shooting stars would pour through the night sky. He’d enjoyed watching that ever since he was a boy, when his father had shared that wonder with him. Even with the full moon and thin clouds, the show would be grand.
He squeezed back through the crowd and went out the back door. He headed toward the privy, but all of a sudden the ache in his belly stabbed front to back. He doubled over and dropped to a knee. His guts had gone liquid and he clenched his teeth against the pain. Then something slammed hard against his head and he pitched forward.
He blacked out, but for how long he couldn’t really tell. Couldn’t have been long because his stomach still hurt and he stank. His bowels had let go and his arms and legs trembled. He’d been poisoned. In the ale. He tried to remember who had given it to him, but it was just a hand through the crowd.
Rough hands jerked him into a sitting position against a wall. A dark silhouette backlit by the full moon hovered above him, then a stinging slap snapped his head around. “Wake up, Woods.”
Nathaniel forced himself to focus. “Rufus.”
“Mr. Warren, he don’t want his wife mooncalfing after you no more. Kinda hoped you’d get it in the fighting, but you is damned lucky. Have to do it myself.” Rufus straightened up, swimming out of focus. Two more silhouettes stood center and off to the right. “Now you die, sitting in your own shit. Make it easy to forgit you.”
Nathaniel tried to get to his feet, but Rufus hit him with the butt of his musket square in the chest. Nathaniel sank back, smacking his head on the wall. “You hurtin’?”
Nathaniel spat. “Not ’specially.”
“Too bad.” Rufus reversed the musket and pressed the muzzle to his belly. “Mr. Warren, he wanted you to die in pain.”
Nathaniel forced a smile onto his face. “When I get my hands on you, I’m going to learn you all about pain. Him, too.”
“Ain’t gonna happen. Your time on this earth is up.”
Nathaniel’s vision began to dim as Rufus dropped his thumb on the firestone. The pain in his stomach spiked. Nathaniel screamed. The musket boomed, and Nathaniel’s world went black.
Nathaniel had never attended much church, and when he had, he’d not paid particular attention to what was being said from the pulpit. Most of it involved Hell and damnation, so as he returned to consciousness, he was expecting demons to be stabbing him and lakes of fire and the unending cries of souls in torment.
What he got was the creak of a bed and the crunch of fresh straw. He opened an eye and while the preaching hadn’t much talked about Heaven, what he did remember gave him cause to be thinking that it wouldn’t much look like a room in Gates’ Tavern.
And Justice Bone, he wasn’t looking much like an angel. He sat at the foot of the bed, a small pistol in each hand, watching the door. He glanced over when Nathaniel shifted his weight, then nodded. “Water there in the mug iffen you is thirsty.”
Nathaniel groaned and rubbed his hands over his belly. “I ain’t shot.”
“Nope.”
“Mouth tastes like I been eating burned leather and bitterroot.”
“Yep.”
Nathaniel eased himself on to his right side and took the mug of water. He sipped, ready for his guts to protest, but they tolerated the water well enough. He took a mouthful but let it slowly trickle down.
He rolled onto his back again. “Morning?”
“Afternoon.”
“Want to be telling me what happened?”
Justice nodded. “Noticed you going out. The weaselly little Branch followed. Time I got out, you’d been drug off a-ways. Rufus was a-jawing at you. He went to shoot you, but I shot him first.”
“Kill him?”
“Hit him in his sit-down parts. He done run off while I took care of his brothers. The weasel’s dead. Gutted him. Other one will probably live, but ain’t going to be
using his right arm none.” Justice shrugged. “Men choosing up a squad to be going after Rufus.”
“Tell ’em no.” Nathaniel had to catch his breath. “I will be finding him.”
“I reckoned you’d say that. Trib told them all we was having to wait for you to give your blessing.” Justice smiled. “The Prince, he done figured what they poisoned you with. Make you drink a tea of crushed charcoal and bitterroot. Stunk to heaven. You threw up a bit. Got you cleaned up and put to bed.”
“Thank you.”
“I told you I would be watching out.”
“You did.” Nathaniel nodded slowly. “You hear what Rufus said?”
“Didn’t need to. I seen enough to know. What you want to do about it is your business. Want help, I’m in.”
Nathaniel nodded. He could lay charges against Zachariah Warren and most all folks would believe him. But a jury would hear Warren deny he had ever hired Rufus to do anything. Some would think that Warren was defending his wife’s honor against Nathaniel’s advances. Even those who knew the true story would still be thinking Nathaniel had brought this on himself.
“I reckon I will be thinking on that for a bit.” He smiled. “Which cheek?”
“Left.”
“I once shot him in the right.” Nathaniel laughed. “Next time, more to the center, and a lot higher.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
September 17, 1764
Temperance, Temperance Bay, Mystria
With their desire to be home swiftly, the Mystrian troops set out from Hattersburg on the fourteenth and made very good time along the road they had previously hacked out of the wilderness. The wounded—including Caleb Frost and escorted by Princess Gisella—traveled ahead down the river on barges and then by ship to Temperance. The wounded reached Temperance before the bulk of the Norillian cavalry, though Rivendell and his staff joined them on board.
Owen remained in Prince Vlad’s party, on orders from Rivendell. Rivendell even gave him Hodge Dunsby as his aide, as the bantam soldier had been by his side constantly. Rivendell clearly intended to write up reports casting Owen in an extremely negative light, but Owen had moved past caring.
He had come to Mystria in hopes of doing his duty and perhaps winning enough fame and glory that he and his wife could become free of his family. He had accomplished his goal and more, but not in the way he had hoped. He realized this as he walked with men—some of whom, though wounded, refused to admit they were hurt—and sail home. These men had taken up arms against an enemy even though fighting was neither their profession, nor had they trained at it. They responded to a call to handle a situation that threatened everyone. For them, it wasn’t a quest for personal glory or treasure or fame. That wasn’t to say that some hadn’t also hoped to prove something to themselves or others, but those personal motives had been subordinated to the betterment of all.
What struck him most strongly was the affection he felt for these men. The Mystrians had accepted him and Dunsby not because of Owen’s connection to the Prince, but because of what they had done in the fight. He and Dunsby had bearded the lion in his den. They had forced du Malphias to surrender. And Owen had done it dressed like one of them, not some arrogant, no-good Norillian officer!
My future, if it is anywhere, is here, in Mystria.
That realization filled him with dread. Catherine loved him, but he wasn’t sure she could come to love Mystria. The land demanded more of its people than she could ever give. If he wanted to keep her, he would have to return to Norisle and a life he hated. It would tear his heart out. Here I am home.
The idea that he had to choose between his wife’s happiness and his own filled Owen with melancholy. He feared she was slipping away—and the haunting vision he’d had of her while on the winding path seemed likely. While letters from their loved ones in Temperance had caught up with soldiers in Hattersburg, she had sent him nothing. Does she know what I am thinking?
Nathaniel caught up to him, still looking gaunt. “Bit of a long face you have there, Captain.”
Owen forced a smile. “Never a good moment when a man’s on the horns of a dilemma. No matter what choice I make, it will hurt.”
“My pap said them choices is what puts hair on your chest.”
“And white into your hair.” The Norillian frowned. “My wife will never stay in Mystria. I don’t want to leave. I see now what you see in this land, Nathaniel, thanks to you.”
Nathaniel snorted. “You’da gone done and see it for yourself, Captain. You’re a smart fellow.”
“But not smart enough to make this choice.” Owen sighed. “What would you do?”
“I wouldn’t be so damned foolish as to ask romantical advice from me.” The man’s eyes tightened. “You love someone and you love this land. I love this land and another man’s wife. Don’t knows I could make a choice ’tween ’em. Tough choice.”
“That isn’t much help.”
“Iffen you don’t mind me asking, why is it you love your wife?”
That question gave Owen a start. “She’s my wife.”
“That’s saying a fish likes water on account of he’s wet.”
“Why do I love her?” Owen smiled. “Her smile. The way she makes me feel wanted and included. She loves me, makes me smile when I think of her.”
“All positive points, I reckon. And you think she won’t take to Mystria?”
“She might eventually come to see its beauty.” Owen shook his head. “But that would require her getting out into the country. That will never happen.
“Might not. But I reckon you need to ask yourself if she would ever want to see the beauty. Nothing against your wife, but iffen she can’t see it, or won’t see it, yours ain’t a fight can be won. Most all us redemptioneers came here because we had nothing back there.” Nathaniel shrugged. “Iffen her life is back there, ain’t never she gonna be happy here.”
Owen chuckled. “That’s fairly insightful romantical advice.”
“Just talking about human nature.” Nathaniel pointed to the men marching in front of them. “They all went and fought Queen Margaret’s war here. They figure they done earned some praise and a reward. Ain’t gonna get it, on account of the Queen and men like Rivendell have their lives over there. What we see they cain’t. They don’t want to. You have seen, and you is going to have to decide where your life is.”
The Norillian nodded. He wanted to stay, and divorce wasn’t an option. At best he could send her back to Norisle and visit, but what kind of a life would that be for either of them? If he remained he would never take another wife. He would never dishonor Catherine that way.
Owen signed. “I made my commitment to Catherine before I ever came to Mystria. I shall hate leaving this beautiful country.”
Nathaniel patted him on the shoulder. “Leastways your wife is nearly as pretty.”
“Yes, she is.” Owen sighed again. If his uncle had been telling the truth about the land grant and title, he’d opt for a place in Temperance Bay, as close to the Prince’s estate as he could get. He’d keep it as a preserve and every three years or so would come for a season or two. Catherine would doubtlessly choose to remain in Norisle. But I can bring my children, and they can grow to love Mystria.
That thought brought a smile to his face. He had come to win glory, and yet in Mystria had found something else to love. The sheer physical beauty and fecundity of the land could not be matched anywhere in Norisle. The people’s spirit had a positive nature. Half the troops were barefoot, wearing clothes that were worn through at knees and elbows despite multiple patchings. Their condition didn’t bother these people at all. They honestly believed, one way or another, that better times and a brighter future were around the corner. They marched toward it with a child’s wide-eyed curiosity and sense of wonder.
And even if he would have to absent himself from Mystria, the thought that his children, and his legacy, would be here, pleased him. The Old World, hidebound as it was, would smother him.
&n
bsp; Owen took a deep breath, filling his lungs with fresh air, and fought to memorize every detail, so even in his dotage, he wouldn’t forget the time he truly felt free.
On the sixteenth the troops returned to the camping ground they’d occupied on that first day out. They re-created their camps and spent one last night together. On the morrow they’d march into Temperance and would never again assemble as one unit, so they sang songs and spun stories and extracted promises of correspondence and visits.
Many men wished Owen well. They assumed that on his return to Norisle he’d run for Parliament. They said he’d be their representative “...being as how you know Mystria, Captain, sir.” They offered him lodging were he ever to visit, and promised to find him if they ever traveled back to the mother country.
And they said it with sincerity and a bit of deviltry.
The Prince brought Mugwump back to his wurmrest and the beast seemed content to return. Vlad then spent the evening circulating among the troops, thanking them all for their service. On the trip home, Vlad had made a couple of side-trips searching for things on Owen’s list. Many men picked up on that and promised him a fine hunting expedition whenever he chose to visit them.
The next morning they marched early for Temperance. Folks from farmsteads came out to greet them. Huge smiles blossomed all around. And then, when only a half-hour outside the city, the troops gathered themselves into the same column in which they’d marched onto the battlefield. Solemn and proud, with heads high and steps in unison, they gave their people a look at the warriors who had defeated the Tharyngians at Anvil Lake.
Everyone had come out to line the parade route. The troops threaded between thick, cheering throngs. Someone had created a flag of green, with a black and red wurm claw at the heart of it. The talons pointed down, transforming it into an M for Mystria. Copies fluttered from hands and hung from windows. Owen’s uncle would have seen it as a sign of incipient rebellion, and he vowed there would be no mention of it in his reports.
The column wended its way to the city green, where the troops assembled. The Lord Mayor took his place, welcoming the Prince. Doctor Frost and other local luminaries joined him on the stage. Frost wore a green armband, marking him as someone who had a relative who served on the expedition.
At the Queen's Command Page 54
