Ashamedly, I followed those orders, knowing they were wrong. It had been the first of the small cuts to my honour, Bairstow. Over the years, you and I have suffered longer and deeper cuts and now I wonder what honour remains to me. As General of the Lord Protector's Guard, I have accepted and carried out far too many orders that I should have disobeyed. I'm not alone in this. You've suffered too! We find ways to justify it with false arguments about the greater good, and so we carry on doing the best we can, eh? Despite the growing shame that lingers in our hearts."
He could see how his brother started at these words. He was putting to words the shame they both carried and surely it pained him to hear it. He could hear his own grief in his voice. The words are pouring out of me like pus from a wound. Brent shook his head to clear his thoughts. Best to just press on.
"Anyway. I lay at the end of that tunnel and stared at the traitor, as he lay before me, a mere shell of a man and so close to death. I made to finish him but something stayed my hand. I felt the Realm owed him at least some small comfort and so I tended his wounds, all the while thinking that he would soon pass to the afterlife. A return surely to the pits of Hell that he had only just escaped. When my men returned, I said nothing of him and I kept him hidden by leaving him in that tunnel and keeping them clear from the river entrance, lest he cry out and expose himself. I had covered over the trapdoor with debris and told my men that I had cleared that area. If they suspected anything they gave no sign.
At night, during my watches, I would quietly return to Redgrave through the brambles by the river and force water and soaked oats down his throat. I could do little else but I did clean him up and tend the burns on his back, hands and arms but mostly, I just left him lying on one side, propped up against the wall of the tunnel and covered with a spare horse blanket. Thankfully, he remained unconscious the entire time and his breathing was so shallow that he often seemed but a corpse to me. Many a time I thought to best end it quickly and I was ready to provide him mercy but something always stayed my hand. I think now that perhaps it was remembering his cries as he was thrown into the house to burn with his dead wife and children. His were not the cries of a man desperate to claim innocence at any cost – they were the cries of man wrongfully accused and knowing he had failed in some significant regard. The anger, the despair and the helplessness in that cry still haunts me to this day."
Brent looked up at the disbelief etched in his brother's face and he raised a hand and patted the air to reassure him.
"Aye, I know how it sounds, but hear me out. I was not wrong, as it turned out." Bairstow leaned back in his chair and tried to relax his pose but Brent could see he was as taut as a tent rope. Brent mimicked his posture but then raised his eyes to the ceiling and closed them as he continued.
"He lived despite the odds. Imagine that. I suppose his anger fuelled his recovery. But now I had a man who would clearly live when I had expected him to die and be done with it. I knew not what to do. My first duty was clearly to the Protector but, Bairstow, believe me, I had to know what had caused such anger in the Protector that he would kill this man's wife and children and then burn him alive with their bodies.
You heard the tale of his treason. Hearing it and seeing the man accused of it and you could immediately sense the wrongness of it. Think, brother. You and I had discussed the Protector between us in private back then. We know now what a horrible, evil man he is. We started to see the cracks in the facade. Those discussions came from what I discovered in that tunnel. You know the Protector for what he is, correct?" Brent watched as his brother considered his words and then nodded once and he continued. He paused, sorting the scenes in his memory before he continued.
"And so I waited by that river, dividing my time between overseeing my men and examining the ruins and escaping for a few hours each night to see if he still lived. I was exhausted at that point, I remember. All day we would struggle to lift heavy beams and clear what remained of the upper floors. I staggered around like a drunkard. My men were finding it harder and harder to shake me for my watches. They tried to get me to sleep through a night but I forbade it. They're good men, those two. My closest sergeants. You know them?"
Bairstow murmured yes.
"Bill had been given a title, lands and wealth as reward for his actions during the Revolution and so his house had been more a mansion than anything else. It used to be Archbishop Greigsen's, ha! Two stories and all solid brickwork. Solid. But it had burned like kindling in mere hours. The Archbishop was so irate when he heard that his beloved manse had been burned to the ground. He had always hated Redgrave for moving in." Brent chuckled.
"The examination of the ruins was extensive but it kept us in place at any reckon and gave me time to care for Bill until he recovered enough to speak to me. My night watches were when I would sneak down to the river and tend to him. It shames me to this day that I left my men unguarded by that house, the air foul with that horrible reek of oily smoke – so thick it was! All to care for this man – this known traitor. And my lies to them, as well. That shames me, too."
Brent looked to his brother for a moment to see his reaction but only saw a crafted, blank expression.
"Don't judge me yet, brother!" he implored and pushed forward with his tale. "When he finally gained consciousness after about five days, he wept. He wept for a long, long time and nothing I could say could console him. I sat in silence, watching him cough and when he was not coughing he wept. Finally, he was able to speak. His first words were to ask me why he still lived and when I told him he cursed me and told me he wished for nothing more than to join his wife and children in the afterlife and that he could not remain in this world where all he would have was the memory of his pain and suffering at their loss. This talk of an afterlife surprised me, as I had not thought him a man of the Church, but I was wrong. He did not follow the Word, mind you, but he had an odd belief in God – I'll share it with you one day if you want but that is not for today. Anyway, after a time, he calmed down and we spoke."
Brent paused here and considered something.
"It was a strange thing for him to do, you know. To curse me for saving him. He had been the one who clawed his way through a burning house and struggled down that tunnel to fresh air. Afterwards, he told me he had no memory of that and I believed him. I think he had lost a significant amount of who he was in that house. He was broken – shattered. His mind shards of what it once was."
Brent grew quiet and lowered his head, opening his eyes to stare at Bairstow.
"Brother, I am thinking that perhaps, maybe...yes, maybe first you should tell me what you know of this man? It would be easier, I think. You'll be surprised at what he told me but I want to be certain you heard the common tale of the treason Bill Redgrave committed. It will be important when I explain what really happened. You'll see the twists and lies that much clearer. What say you?"
Bairstow seemed surprised at this request and sat in silence while clearly pondering a response. Brent could see the simmering glare of anger from his brother. Or was it disappointment? I can't blame him. Not really. Surely he feels some measure of rage at me. Rage that I could sit there so calmly and admit to my compliance in the crimes of the traitor Redgrave by keeping him alive. Brent knew that his brother was an honourable man and until the full tale was exposed he would keep his mouth firmly shut when all he probably wanted to do was scream in his face.
Everyone thought they knew the tale. It had happened some twelve years ago while both of them were still junior officers. But the tale had spread quickly from the men in the barracks and from fellow officers, many who bragged on having been there in hopes of claiming some glory in Redgrave's defeat.
It was the tale of the rise of a hero and the sudden fall from grace. It had all the markings of a fairy tale, only one with a foul ending. And it was often used as a tale to warn others of the price to pay for treason. His brother had likely known little of Redgrave at the time, only that he had been the Marshall and h
ad been above familiarity or common gossip. They had often seen him in the Officer's Sword Room during social events but they had never spoken and they had never once been noticed in return as both of them were lowly and with Bairstow recently promoted to major.
His one clear memory of Redgrave when he was the Marshall was seeing him with an elbow raised and resting on the corner of the bar with the senior Army officers surrounding him and hearing him laugh in that easily recognisable laugh of his: a loud clear laugh that would bring a smile to anyone who heard it. When word came out of his acts of treason, the Army suffered the loss more than anyone. One of their own, a hero of the Realm and their leader, had been a traitor. Today, at all formal mess dinners, a plate of food is laid out for Redgrave. At the end of the meal the plate is lifted by the youngest officer in the room and then ceremoniously tossed into the fireplace to burn with his memory. Lest they all forget.
Brent waited patiently for Bairstow to sort out what version of the tale to tell. There were a few, to be certain but they all ended the same way. And now I would head south to pick up Redgrave's belongings and learn of his final end. There was some level of closure there but Brent couldn't figure out what it was. God's will, I suppose. A thought occurred to him then. The Protector knew he had been at the manse and now Redgrave turns up alive. Had he put it all together? Was that why he was heading south?
Bairstow stretched his legs out under his desk and leaned back in his chair, closing his hands over the flat of his stomach. That didn't seem to suit him and Bairstow shifted again in his seat, crossing his legs and finally settling himself.
"Redgrave. You know the tale but I will humour you, Brent. I had been in country when the events happened and missed witnessing them myself. Afterwards, there were many closed sessions with the Protector that resulted in harsher laws and then the brutal enforcement of those laws across the country. It was a terrible time, you'll remember," Bairstow grimaced as the memories of the more terrible events returned to him. "Those events called into question our integrity and honour and the guilt of those times, well, they haunt me still,"
Bairstow paused to glance briefly at his brother, who merely looked back at him and he continued, haltingly.
"Redgrave had been stealing. Stealing money from the Realm for years. Ever since the Revolution, it was said afterward. He had contrived with the Senior Accountant – I forget his name now, but no matter – and even had what – two, three of his own men involved? You'd know better. It was the Guard's mess to clean up here in the castle." Bairstow looked up, trying to remember more details. "Marshall Ran Pawley had been the one to expose him, he was his second at the time, the General of the North. Pawley discovered that Redgrave and the accountant had been skimming money from the treasury accounts, sneaking it away to some other account. Later he had his own run–in and met a bad end.
When Redgrave suspected he had been found out he had the accountant arrested and then murdered in cold blood in the gaol. To cover it up, he killed his own men and framed them for the murder of the accountant. The horror of it all was that he didn't stop there. Afraid they knew too much he killed the families of the men as well. He killed the wives and children and even the newborn of one his men by burning their houses to the ground. That was the true horror of his acts. And hence his own manner of death.
Ran Pawley exposed it all and was promoted to Marshall the same day. They hauled Redgrave off to his house, executed his family and burned him alive. Harsh punishment, but the Realm needed to see that treason would not be tolerated. Especially not after such heinous crimes. It was all almost too much to believe."
Brent nodded at the words. "Yes, you have the tale correct. That was the story that was spread to the Realm by the Protector. Remember how it swept the Realm? The hero of the Revolution, the man who had arrested the King on that horrible day? Then exposed as a thief and a murderer. But the truth is a much more evil tale than that. I've proven what Redgrave told me. God Himself knows it took me many months to unravel the truth of his tale and I had to be so very careful. Redgrave taught me that. Trust no one, he told me. He made me swear to never share this tale with anyone. I swore it on my honour and have regretted that decision ever since. With Redgrave dead, I am free to discuss it now. Listen, here's what truly happened..."
Thirteen
Munsten, 888 A.C.
MARSHALL BILL REDGRAVE entered his office and dismissed his guards as he strode through the doorway. He quickly sat and opened the right drawer and pulled out two glasses scratched with age and a heavy crystal decanter, depositing them unceremoniously on his desk. He grabbed the stopper off the decanter and tossed it onto his desk then poured a healthy amount of the amber liquid into one of the glasses. As he lifted it, he was chagrined to see his hand was shaking. He brought the glass to his lips and drained half of it in one swallow, suppressing a shudder when the liquor hit his throat and burned on its way down to his empty stomach. As he went to swallow the last of the amber liquid, he heard a knock on his door frame and looked up to see General Ran Pawley standing morosely in the doorway, gauntlets twisting in his hands.
"Get in here," he ordered gruffly. "And shut the door." He grabbed the decanter and filled the second glass and refilled his own. He cursed as some of the precious liquid sloshed onto the paperwork strewn across his desk.
The General shut the door and stood just inside watching the Marshall as if unsure of what to do. After a moment, Redgrave looked up, frowned and jutted his chin at the empty chair across his desk. He took another large swallow of whiskey and watched over his glass as the General eased his large frame into the chair and sat with a straight back.
"Oh, relax, for fuck's sake, Ran! And take your drink like a man."
General Ran Pawley was Redgrave's second in command of the Army of the Realm and had been with him ever since the Revolution. Ran had been the first one to join him when he overthrew the King so many years ago and he was the only man he trusted in the entire Realm. But he can be a self–righteous prig sometimes, he thought to himself. As if proving his thoughts, he watched Ran eye the glass with some disdain and noted he failed to take the drink. "Don't be such an ass, Ran," he growled. "You'll need this drink. Believe me, duty or not. Now drink up, that's an order!"
Ran slowly reached out and took the offered glass but held it with only a thumb and one finger as if it might burn him with the sacrilege of drinking while on duty. Ran looked once at Redgrave and seeing his accusing eyes on him, lifted the glass and pretended to take a small sip and faked a shudder. Not fooled, Redgrave growled and then looked at his own glass in some surprise to see it already empty. He refilled it and set the glass down. He knew that northern whiskey was a rare and expensive treat and should be slowly drunk in order to enjoy it all the more. Lord knows, the peat it is made from is hard to find in the northern territory, he thought. At least I drink it neat like my father taught me. Keeping myself supplied in the stuff is turning out to be an expensive habit, even for a man of my wealth.
Redgrave was not only the highest–ranking officer in the Realm; he was also a Knight of the Realm and had been bequeathed a large tract of land just outside the city of Munsten. Knighthood also came with a rather large salary that paid for the upkeep of his manse, servants and lands. Archbishop Greigsen once owned his manse and not a day went by that the Archbishop didn't make his displeasure known. It used to make Redgrave laugh but now it only angered him. That man, he thought, holds onto grudges stronger than a mastiff in heat. His Knighthood had been his gift from the Lord Protector for siding with him during the Revolution. Many thought he wore the title with honour, but those that knew him truly, knew he wore it with no little amount of shame, for it reminded him of his role in the Revolution. A role that was pivotal in the success of the whole war. He often wondered what his life would be like had he not overheard that simple conversation between the former King and Archbishop Greigsen. Probably not much better, he admitted to himself. Not much better at all.
Redgrav
e watched while Ran took another faked sip of his whiskey. He thought over what he had called Ran to his office for. He needed to bounce this off him; he had to hear the words out loud and gauge Ran's reaction before he took any steps. Ran wasn't truly a friend. He was more a colleague, but he was a damn good tactician and he would find holes in his own logic when and where he failed to see them. Together over the years they had forged an efficient and effective military following the chaos of the Revolution and without Ran, he would never have succeeded. A hero, they called him after all that pain. 'Friend of the Revolution' was another title they threw on him. He could only grin and accept the accolades while gritting his teeth and swallowing the shame he carried with him daily. He had broken his vow to the King. He had turned on him in the worst possible way and handed the Realm over to a House of Representatives that was made up of spineless bastards and then watched as they elevated that asshole Healy to that of Lord Protector. Redgrave picked up his glass and swirled the liquid inside with precision, watching as the whiskey just missed spilling over the rim. Ah, he was a talented man, he thought and took a large swallow.
Redgrave's arm, seemingly of its own, grasped the bottle and poured another stiff drink from the rapidly emptying decanter. He knew he had a drinking problem. His wife berated him all the time about it. And that made him want to drink more. Redgrave glanced at the look of disapproval on Ran's face and ignored it. Fuck him. He hasn't the worries I have.
Duilleog (A New Druids Series Book 1) Page 22
