by Celia Rees
THE SERGEANT HAD HIS ARM across Augusta’s throat and was pushing her back against the wall.
There was a roar as Keeper leapt for him, but the man was already going down gargling and choking on his own blood. He plucked feebly at the feathered flight of the arrow, no bigger than a dart, buried in his neck as he fell forward into the mud.
His men were dead before they could help him. Stuck with arrows in eye and throat, and one with a pike in his back.
Roberts went to retrieve his pike from the dead man, while Webster plucked the Fairish arrow from the neck of the sergeant. He looked up at Augusta and grinned.
“Canny little fellas, them Fairish. Can hit a sparra’s eye.” He stood up and dusted his hands. “The Summer Lord sent Robin and his men to see you safe. We came with ’em.” He looked round. “Like as not they’ve gone now.”
Augusta called her thanks anyway, to Robin and to the Summer Lord and his sister for their protection. The Fairish were touchy about such things, and who knew when she might need their help again.
“Webster, Roberts—” Augusta looked at them with tears in her eyes.
“No need to say more, my lady. We come past Tranter’s Field,” Roberts said. “Seen what they done. The bodies…”
Webster bowed his head. “A sorry sight.”
He looked away with a shake of his head; those lying there had been friends, neighbours, kin.
“They are holding the rest of the people captive in the tithe barn,” Augusta said. “I don’t know if it’s guarded…”
Webster drew his sword and Roberts brandished his bloody pike.
“Don’t matter if it is.”
“Once they’re out, get them away, as far and as fast as you can. Go back to the Fairish, up on to the moors, join the Dark Lantern Men and the rebels who have fled from Sneachiesland and Rogue.”
Webster and Roberts nodded. Sneachiesland lay to the north of them. Its lairds ruled in Rogue’s name and they were as cruel as their master. They knew why folk had fled.
“When you are ready, get a force together and come back and fight to free our land. I put you in charge until my return.”
“We won’t let you down, my lady,” Webster said.
“That we won’t.” Roberts grinned. “We’ll make you proud. We’ll get some good lads together.” He nodded to the house. “Knock seven bells out of yon.”
Augusta held out her hands to both of them. “God speed and good luck!”
“And to you, my lady.” Webster looked to Tom. “You look after her.”
They made their way to the barn, moving quietly and stealthily. The guards had fled or lay dead with a flint arrow protruding from eye or neck. Webster lifted the length of wood that barred the double doors. Roberts beckoned those inside to come out quickly.
Rogue was behind this, Augusta thought as she watched her men shepherd the people out of the village and towards the moors. Even though she hadn’t seen him yet, she could sense his presence, feel his malice. Like brimstone in the air. He would make her people suffer, and delight in it, just to hurt her. Those he hadn’t killed he would enslave.
Augusta sighed her relief as the last of the villagers disappeared into the trees, then she turned at the clatter of hooves on stone and pulled Tom back into the shadows as a man came riding out of the gateway to the house.
He was mounted on a black stallion and rode with one hand on the reins, the other on the sabre that swung by his side. Dark chestnut hair curled to the wide silver epaulettes of his midnight-blue jacket. His high boots and white breeches were splashed with mud. He was followed closely by other horsemen, some in uniform, others not.
“What’s this to-do?” he said as he rode towards the village. He looked round at the officers accompanying him. “Where are your men? Why is the barn door open? Go and see what’s happened!”
One of his men rode over to the barn and back again.
“It appears to be empty, my lord. There’s been some sort of attack. Someone has freed them.”
“And the men who were supposed to be guarding them?”
“Dead.”
“Let me see.” He dismounted next to the first body, knelt to touch the feathered arrow flight protruding from the man’s eye. He stood up with a look of distaste, brushed his hands together and dusted specks of dirt from his breeches. “Fairish arrows. It’s about time we cleared out that nest of adders.”
His men looked around, apprehensive. Guns to the ready. Hands on swords.
“They’ll be gone now, you fools. They won’t stand and fight. Their way is to shoot from the shadows like cowards.”
“Flint against flintlock?” Augusta stepped out. “Who can blame them?”
“Augusta. My lady.” He swept off his hat and gave an elaborate mock bow. “I might have known. You were ever their friend, as I recall. Who else could it be?” He looked her up and down. “Even dressing like them now.” At her side, Keeper growled. “Get that beast under control or I’ll have him shot.”
He pushed back his chestnut curls and smiled. He was undoubtedly handsome. He was known for his fine eyes: large, dark blue, almost black, under arching brows and the exact same colour as the sapphire pin, as big as a pigeon egg, that fixed his snowy-white neckcloth. Vain, too. His side whiskers sculpted to show off his high cheekbones. His nose was long and narrow with a patrician hook to it. The cruel twist to his mouth made him even more attractive in some eyes, less so in others. Augusta was of the latter mind.
“Rogue. I could say the same thing.” She looked about her. “A trail of destruction and senseless killing. I might have known it was you.” She echoed his words. “Who else could it be?”
“Any one of a number these days, I’d have thought. We live in murderous times and you have many enemies. And it’s ‘my lord’ to you. You have the honour of addressing the new Duke of Northangerland.”
“Since when?”
“Since I was given the title.”
“Gave it to yourself, more like.”
“I’ll ignore that. And who is your esquire?” Rogue’s scrutiny intensified. “Who, or what, do we have here? Dressed like one of the Fair Folk but without their… peculiarities.”
“He’s with me.”
“Is he? We’ll see about that. He looks a wrong ’un to me.” Rogue turned to the officer at his elbow. “Take him away and have him questioned.”
“No.” Augusta put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “He stays.”
Rogue’s blue eyes stayed on Tom. “For now, perhaps,” he said after a long moment, “I’ll indulge you.” He nodded towards the house. “Shall we? I marvel that you can live like this, Augusta. You could have palaces and yet you choose to live in a hovel, this perfectly dreadful place, surrounded by all these boring little people. You are letting the side down.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Augusta said. “So why try? All I ask is to be left in peace.”
“That will not be possible. Let’s continue our discussions up at the shed that you like to call home.”
Tom followed them up to the house. The afternoon sun winked on rows of small leaded windows under pointed gables. It wasn’t a mansion but it was pretty big. It looked all right to him.
There was a date above the portal, so eroded that Tom couldn’t make it out. The front door was weathered oak, studded and banded with iron. It was opened by a youngish woman dressed in a white cap, with a white apron over her plain blue dress.
“My lady! We’ve been that worried! What with these coming…” She flashed a look at Rogue, anger and defiance in her brown eyes.
“Don’t fret, Annie. I’m perfectly safe and well.”
“Bring us some refreshment,” Rogue ordered. “Wine if you have it.”
“You drank all that,” Annie answered back. “We’ve good ale and cider.”
“Less of your lip, woman,” Rogue rapped out. “Bring us what you’ve got and be quick about it.”
He led the way into a large room, oak panelled, with lo
gs burning in a fireplace big enough for a man to stand in.
“Not you,” he said to Tom. “This is to be a private conversation. Nor that dog.”
Keeper was still growling. Tom took him by the collar. He hesitated, reluctant to leave Augusta.
“It’s all right.” She smiled and touched his arm. “I can look after myself. Take Keeper outside.”
Tom left reluctantly, dragging the dog with him.
The hand on the arm, the easy closeness that there seemed to be between them, was not lost on Rogue.
He went over to a long, polished table littered with maps.
“My orders were to subdue your lands, which, you have to agree, I’ve done most effectively, and to bring you to Glass Town. When that woman comes back, tell her to find suitable attire. For him, too. I’m sure one of your menservants will have something for him to wear. You’re not going to Glass Town dressed like that.” He studied his fingernails then looked back at Augusta. “You may want your maid with you, and whoever else you require. You will need your women, I suppose.”
Augusta studied his face. There was something suspicious about the way he was looking at her, gleeful and mocking at the same time.
“Why would I need them particularly?” she asked.
“You are to prepare for your wedding, madam, so you will need women about you.”
“Wedding?” Augusta couldn’t disguise her shock.
“Yes. You are to marry.”
“Who says so?”
“The Duke, of course. If you hadn’t run off to start this futile rebellion, you’d know all about it.”
“To whom, may I ask? Not Douro!” Augusta held on to the edge of the table as the dawning horror of it threatened to overwhelm her. “He loathes me and the feeling is mutual. It would be worse than—”
“Marrying me?” Rogue grinned. “Infinitely.”
“Besides,” Augusta said, frowning, “I thought he already had a wife.”
“Passed away, sadly.” Rogue examined his fingernails again. “He doesn’t have much luck in that respect.” He looked up. “So, you see, both of us are free.” He came towards her. “Which is it to be? The Duke has yet to decide between me and Douro. You know how capricious he can be—changes his mind as often as he changes his uniform. But on one thing we are all agreed. It was decided in Council. You are in need of a master.” He took her chin in a hard grip. “And I’m to bring you back to Glass Town, willing or no.”
Annie came in and banged the tray of cider down on the table. Augusta used the interruption to pull away from him.
“You both have mistresses aplenty,” Augusta said. “Women are queuing up. And I don’t want either of you, so why me?”
“For myself?” Rogue laughed. “That would be a good enough reason. But the real answer is simple.” He spread his fingers like bat’s wings across the map on the table. He looked up at her. “Whoever marries you gets all your land, all your property. All your wealth.”
Augusta turned away from the greed she heard in his voice, saw in his eyes. Rogue or Douro. The devil or deep water… He wants to win this contest, she thought, and what he wants, he generally gets.
“What if I refuse? The Duke and the Council can’t make me.”
“Oh, I think you will find that they can.” Rogue’s smile widened, showing sharp, white teeth. “If you refuse, or make any kind of fuss, your lands will be forfeit and this will happen. The choice is yours.”
Where his fingers touched the map, the paper began to smoulder, tiny flames eating outwards from the lettering of Parrysland, until there was just a scorched hole, fringed with black.
“Here, lad.” Annie came out to Tom sitting on the steps outside. “I brought you a bit o’ summat. You must be hungry. Thirsty, too.”
She set a plate of crusted bread and crumbly white cheese on the step beside him and passed him a mug of ale.
Tom took a long drink and put the tankard down. He was struggling to keep his temper. He didn’t like Rogue and he didn’t like being sent out like that, as if he was no different from Keeper. The dog seemed to know how he felt. He whined and licked his hand.
“Don’t mind Rogue,” Annie said. “And don’t worry about milady—she’ll give as good as she gets.”
“What are they talking about in there?”
Annie sat on the step beside him. “Marriage.”
“Marriage? Augusta is to be married?”
Annie nodded.
Tom was shocked. Augusta seemed so young—too young; his age or younger. Marriage was a thing older people did.
“She’s too young, surely?”
“That’s the way wit’ gentry. Some of ’em married off by fifteen, fourteen even. Promised even younger.”
“Is she to marry Rogue? She loathes him.”
“Rogue or Douro—they ain’t quite decided. She ain’t too keen on t’other one, either, but feelings don’t come into it. It’s all about land and property. Whoever marries her gets everything.” Annie paused, looking around. “They might have all this, lands and houses, but I don’t envy ’em. Not one bit.”
“It seems wrong. Barbaric.”
“’Appen.” Annie stood up. “But that’s the way of it. Now eat yer bit o’ bait, young fella, keep yer strength up.”
Tom didn’t feel hungry any more. He drained the tankard and gave the food to the dog. He stood up and walked along the gravel path below the big bay window, treading softly so as not to draw attention, and watched them through the distorting glass in the little diamond panes. He saw Augusta turn away; saw how Rogue looked at her as he spread his big hands over the map of her lands. All the time wondering: What am I doing here?
Why should he even care who she married, or if she married? But he did.
THEY TRAVELLED in a long column, Rogue at the front, his escort behind him and then a line of carts and wagons carrying what he had plundered. Augusta and Tom followed, under guard. They rode along with two soldiers, one in front and one behind, with Keeper loping alongside.
Augusta’s servants walked beside the cart that held her luggage; her maid, Annie, riding on the trunks and cases, guarding her things.
“I don’t trust them soldiers, milady. Thieves to a man.”
Tom liked Annie. Fierce in defence of Augusta, she bowed to no one. Even Rogue felt the rough edge of her tongue. She had particular contempt for the men he had around him, calling them murdering scum to their faces, telling Rogue he should be ashamed to be associated with such as them. Only Augusta’s intervention prevented her from making the journey over the back of a mule, gagged and bound.
As they began to descend into a wide, undulating plain, they were joined by another column. A line of captives straggling along, all roped together by the neck. Slaves for Glass Town.
The change in the landscape was abrupt, the country here painted with a different palette. Green hills gave way to pale fields of wheat, barley and rye; the soil milky sienna between rows of vines and small fruit trees. A wide, meandering river showed silver, its course marked by a dark-green line of willow, alder and ash. The people working in the fields were burnt brown and wore wide straw-brimmed hats against the sun. It was suddenly much hotter. Tom’s shirt was sticking to his skin. He loosened the fastening and pulled his neckcloth higher against the dust being thrown up from the white road they were travelling. Its margins punctuated by tall pine and poplar, it crossed the plain, straight as an arrow, to a vanishing point on the horizon.
When the sun began to set, Rogue brought the column to a halt. They would camp here for the night.
Augusta was invited to dine in Rogue’s pavilion. She was reluctant to go, preferring to stay with her own people, but she would learn more if she joined him and his officers. Tom wasn’t invited; neither was Keeper. The dog stayed with Tom and both of them felt a pang of jealousy as Augusta strode off in her grey riding habit to Rogue’s pavilion. It was more than a tent. Tom watched servants and soldiers unpacking wagons, running backwards and forwar
ds, creating a home from home—if your home was a palace. Bare ground was covered in thickly patterned carpet. Canvas walls hung with tapestries. Big wooden chests, that took two men to carry them, were unpacked for plates and glasses, linen, lamps and candelabras. Batmen in white gloves set the polished mahogany table for a banquet; Rogue travelled with his own chef.
Tom and Keeper went off to collect firewood. Their meal would be a simple affair. Bread, cheese and bacon eaten round the campfire. He ate with Annie, Lizzie, Isaac and Amos from Augusta’s household, who were friendly enough—Annie gave him a generous platter of food and Amos passed him a flagon of beer—but they seemed shy of him and talked together in a dialect that Tom found hard to understand. They didn’t understand him too well, either. It was easier to keep quiet.
Tom drank deep when the flagon was passed to him. He was thirsty from the ride and hungry now, too, although he shared his food with Keeper. When the camp broke up to go to their tents, he stretched out by the fire, a blanket over him, his coat as a pillow. As the fire died to embers, the dog yawned and settled down next to him. He wondered what they thought of him. Perhaps they accepted that he was from the Fairish. Maybe that was why they were wary of him. That could be good. It would stop them asking questions he couldn’t answer, like, where exactly had he come from and what was he doing here?
Tom woke later feeling cold. He threw more wood on the fire and sat watching the flames, the blanket round him. From somewhere came the fluttering hoot of an owl; another answering. By his side, the big dog snuffled and whined softly, his long legs tensing, paws twitching as if he was dreaming of running, hunting or being hunted. Tom leant down and stroked his tawny fur until the dog quieted. He looked up at the sky. It was a mass of stars. No light pollution dimmed the thick diamond dusting; there were millions and billions, so many and so bright, giving off their own light, set in strange constellations he didn’t recognize. Keeper’s warm skin and smooth hair felt real enough but these were no stars that he’d ever seen.
