'Then how do you overcome this affliction, General Macon? You are a mildly presentable young man, and I would imagine have enjoyed the company of at least a certain kind of woman.'
Gaise was shocked. He looked into her green eyes, and saw that she was mocking him. Yet it seemed to him that her manner was more gentle, and there was no malice in it. 'I have never sought the company of such women,' he said.
Her surprise was genuine. 'Let me understand this, sir. You are unused to the company of polite women, and you do not frequent the company of the other kind. Does this mean, sir, that the legendary Grey Ghost, the dashing cavalry general, is in fact a virgin?'
'I am, lady,' he told her, blushing furiously.
'Do you not know how to lie?' she enquired. 'All men do it.'
'Of course. But why would you wish me to lie to you?'
'It is not about lying to me, sir. In my experience men are boastful and full of vain pride. I can think of no man who would so easily admit to his inexperience.'
'It was not easy, lady.'
She looked into his eyes, then glanced away. 'Perhaps you are one of those who prefer the company of men ... in all things. It would not be surprising.'
Gaise laughed. 'It would surprise me. If I was so inclined, lady, I doubt you would be having the extraordinary effect on me that you are.'
Now it was Cordelia who blushed. She recovered her composure swiftly. 'That was very smoothly said, general. Especially for a man who professes to be uncomfortable with women.'
'I know. I cannot explain it.'
'I understand you come from the north. They say it is pretty there.'
'Aye, it is a beautiful land. Majestic mountains, and lakes of exquisite beauty. Will you be staying long in Shielding?'
'We had expected to stay longer, but my father has received new orders. We leave in four days.'
'I am sorry to hear that.'
'I am not,' she told him. 'I long to return home.'
'Yes, of course.'
'Enjoy your evening, general,' she said, and, with a delicate bow of her head, moved away from him.
Gaise finished his punch - which was over-sweet - and located the mayor. Thanking him for his hospitality he explained that there were military matters to attend to and left the gathering. Jaekel and Bard joined him outside.
Mulgrave was waiting back at the house. 'How did it go, sir?' he asked.
At that moment Soldier bounded from the rear rooms, his tail wagging. Gaise knelt down and patted the over-excited animal. 'Be calm now,' he said. 'Settle down.' Eventually the hound quietened. Gaise sat by the fire, the dog at his feet.
'It was interesting,' said Gaise.
'Was she there?'
'Aye, she was. She is enchanting, Mulgrave. And I barely stumbled in my speech.'
'Will you be seeing her again?' The question was asked too innocently. Gaise looked up at his friend.
'What is bothering you, Mulgrave?'
The swordsman shrugged and forced a smile. 'This is not a good time to fall in love, sir. We are surrounded by enemies.'
'Fear not, my friend. She and the general are leaving in four days. He has fresh orders.'
'I thought he was to stay for a month to establish the depot.'
'So did I. But that's the army for you, Mulgrave.'
'The army,' muttered Mulgrave, with a shake of his head. 'What we are facing here, sir, is not about armies at war. By heaven, you'd be safer if you led the men to join Luden Macks. At least then you'd know the enemy would be in front of you.'
Cordelia Lowen stood patiently as the elderly maid struggled to unfasten the twenty small mother of pearl buttons at the back of her gown. Cordelia loved the gown, but it was definitely impractical. Without a servant to hand she would have been forced to cut the garment clear. She had made this point to her father, when he bought it for her. He had laughed.
'That is entirely the point, my dear. Peasants wear dresses that are easily removed. Only the rich can wear this gown.'
It still seemed stupid to Cordelia. The buttons were beautiful, but they could just as easily have been placed at the front.
'Can't seem to get this one, my dear,' said Mrs Broadley. 'Sorry to keep you waiting so.'
'That's all right, Mara. It is loose enough now.' Stepping away from the woman Cordelia undid the buttons of the sleeves then began to tug the waist upwards. The old woman tried to help.
After a few moments of useless struggle Cordelia suddenly burst into laughter. 'This is not a gown,' she said. 'It is an instrument of torture. Cut the damned button off.'
'Oh no, my lady,' wailed Mrs Broadley. 'It will ruin it. Let me try one more time.'
Cordelia's good humour faded as she heard the terror in the old woman's voice. If the dress was ruined she would be blamed, for being too arthritic to unbutton it. That then might be the end of her employment. She, and old Broadley her husband, had been with Cordley Lowen for almost twenty years, having served his father before that. Cordelia wondered what they would do when their time of service was at an end. Did they have money saved? If they did it wouldn't be much.
'I've got it,' said Mrs Broadley, happily. 'Stand up, my dear.' Within moments the garment was laid upon the bed and Cordelia breathed a sigh of deep relief.
'I could scarcely breathe in that thing,' she said. 'I felt faint the whole evening.'
'I expect you were the centre of attention. All the men there were dumbstruck by your beauty.'
Cordelia moved to the chair by the mirror. Mrs Broadley removed the pins from the young woman's hair, allowing it to tumble to her shoulders. Then the servant took up a silver-backed brush. 'Have you seen General Macon?' asked Cordelia, as her hair was being brushed.
'Unpleasant young man,' said Mrs Broadley. 'I remember Mr Broadley telling me of his rudeness back at the old house.'
'Yes, yes, but have you seen him?'
'Yes, my lady.'
'What do you think?'
'Of what, my lady?'
'Do you find him presentable?'
'It has never crossed my mind. He is handsome, I would say. He carries himself well. Though I don't know why he should march everywhere with an honour guard.'
'There was an attempt on his life. Luden Macks sent two assassins to kill him. He fought them and killed them.'
That is what soldiers do, I suppose. Kill people,' said Mrs Broadley, primly. 'He is a noted duellist as well. He shot that Lord Person.'
'No, he didn't. Lord Person was not shot. Gaise did not kill him.'
'Oh, Gaise is it? Best not to let the general hear you use his given name, my lady. Mr Broadley says the general does not hold this soldier in high regard. He was very rude, you know.'
'I do know, Mara. I was there.'
'Of course, my lady.'
'Would you fetch me my robe? I think I shall join the general in the study.'
Moments later, in a white evening robe, Cordelia Lowen descended the stairs. Her father, having shed his uniform coat, was sitting at his desk, reading. Cordelia entered the room and poured herself a goblet of mulled wine. It was too heavily spiced, but still good upon the tongue. 'What are you reading?' she asked.
Cordley Lowen glanced up. 'Letters outlining the finances of the Southlands Company. Molion sent them by rider this morning.'
'I expect they say you are richer than ever, Father.'
'Indeed they do. It makes happy reading,' he said, though she noted his voice sounded far from happy. 'Did you enjoy the party?'
She shrugged. 'It was better than I expected.'
'I saw you talking to young Macon.'
'He apologized for his boorish behaviour.'
'He is young and impetuous. He did what he believed was right.' Cordley Lowen shook his head and gave a wry smile. 'Indeed, he was right.'
Cordelia was shocked. How could such behaviour be considered right? She sipped her wine, and settled down into a padded leather chair by the fire. Cordley Lowen glanced at her and sighed.
'I don't want to lose your love, my child.'
'You never will, Father.'
'Never is a long time. I have done well for the king's forces, finding food and supplies, ensuring that shipments arrive and that the army is never short of powder and shot.'
'Of course you have. The king could not have found a better man.'
'To do this I have needed to bribe officials, and perform many unsavoury deeds.'
'Such is the nature of the army, Father. Why are you talking like this?'
'To finance those bribes - and to line my own pockets - I have double sold some supplies. Meats and produce paid for by independent officers were - diverted.'
'You did what you had to do, I am sure. Let us not talk about this, Father. Please!'
'I have become a thief, Cordelia. On a grand scale. Macon paid for supplies he did not receive. That is why he came to the house. That was the reason for his anger.'
'Why are you telling me this? I did not need to know.'
'I need you to know, and I cannot really explain why. Not even to myself. I think, perhaps, it is because you are the one true person in my life. You are, indeed, the only object of true worth I will leave behind me.'
'Stop it!' she cried, running to him and throwing her arms around him. 'You are frightening me with this talk.' She kissed his cheek. 'You are just tired, Father. You need rest.'
Taking her hands in his own he kissed them. 'You are right, of course. I am tired, and I am becoming maudlin. But I have been foolish these last few years. My eyes are open now, though. By heaven they are. I don't know how I could have been so blind.' He turned away from her and stared out of the window at the moonlit snow covering the small garden at the rear of the house. Cordelia stood quietly, watching his face, reading the pain she saw there. It was an unsettling sight. The one great constant in Cordelia's life was the power that emanated from her father. He was always sure, always confident. He radiated purpose.
Cordley Lowen sighed and ran a hand through his leonine hair. 'Gaise Macon could have killed me. I would have thought that the child of such a father would have done so without hesitation.'
Glad of the opportunity to change the subject Cordelia asked: 'His father is an earl somewhere in the north, is he not?'
'His father is the Moidart, Cordelia. Tales of his savagery abound - though I would hope that the worst of them have never been repeated to you.'
'I have heard of the Moidart,' said Cordelia, 'and some of the legends surrounding him. I do not believe them to be true. No Varlish lord would behave in so despicable a manner. The king would not allow it.'
'There you are wrong,' said Cordley Lowen. 'The area under the Moidart's rule has a history of rebellion, which is why his disgusting methods were allowed by the king, and his father before him. His treatment of the clans, the tortures, the dismemberments and the hangings, are, sadly, a matter of public record. Though they pale into insignificance compared to some of the atrocities being perpetrated now in this war.'
'Luden Macks has much to answer for,' said Cordelia. 'He will be brought to account for them.'
Cordley Lowen said nothing for a moment. He leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Do not make judgements about matters which are beyond your knowledge, Cordelia. Not all the atrocities . . .' he faltered, then swore softly. This surprised Cordelia, for she had never heard her father use such language. 'Damn it, girl, not a tenth of the atrocities can be laid at Macks's door. Men, women and children have been ruthlessly and horribly butchered by soldiers riding under the king's banner.' He fell silent for a few moments, and she saw that he was struggling for control. He closed his eyes and took several deep, slow breaths. 'Come the spring I shall resign my commission and we will go back to Varingas. Possibly even cross the water and head east to the Middle Sea. You always liked the estates there, I recall.'
'I thought you were happy in the army, Father. Only recently you said you had been invited to join a select order of knights. It was a great honour, you said.'
'We will talk no more of it. Do you like Macon?'
'Yes, I do,' she admitted.
'He is doomed, Cordelia. He has enemies in very high places. His death is assured.'
She stared at him. 'There must be something we can do.'
'Aye, there is,' he said, sadly. 'We can leave. And that is what we will do in four days.'
'No, that is not what I meant. We must warn him.'
'These are forces far beyond our ability to tackle. We cannot save him", Cordelia. I will be hard pressed to save myself.'
'How can you talk this way?' she cried, stepping back from him. 'It is contemptible.'
'As I said but a moment ago, never is a long time,' he told her, sadly.
.Huntsekker had never been what he would describe as a deep thinking man. His needs were simple, and he rarely bothered with concepts or philosophies that required dedicated thought. Conversations revolving around politics bored him. Talk of religion mystified him. Love? Well, that was totally baffling. He had seen grown men, tough men, reduced to whimpering dolts because some doxy refused their attentions.
For Huntsekker the world was essentially a remarkably simple place. A man should earn enough to fill his belly, build a home to keep out the cold, and survive for as long as he could before death took him. Then he was worm food. These were the basics. If a man was lucky he would also find a little happiness. Even that, however, was not guaranteed.
But as he trudged on through the melting snow he found himself thinking about life. This was no longer unusual and all the more disquieting for it. It had tended to happen more frequently in the last four years. Huntsekker even knew the exact moment it began.
When Jaim Grymauch died saving Maev Ring. Huntsekker had been there, and had watched as the huge highlander stalked across the cathedral square, scattering the guards with his quarterstaff. Then the four Knights of the Sacrifice, in full silver armour, had run at him. Grymauch had dropped his staff and drawn a huge, old-fashioned broadsword from a scabbard between his shoulders. He killed two in swift fashion, threw the third into the execution fire, and left the fourth unconscious. In the crowd Huntsekker had felt a soaring of the heart as the one-eyed clansman had cut his lady free.
It was a moment of joy unmatched in Huntsekker's long life. It was pure and unselfish. It spoke of something beyond the Harvester's narrow vision of existence. It shone like sunlight after the storm.
Then the musketeers had pushed through the crowd and shot Grymauch. Huntsekker had run to him, gently lowering him to the ground. There was nothing to be done. The big man was dying. Huntsekker had pulled Maev Ring clear, taken her through the cathedral and out across the back fields. He had done this in a moment of reckless passion. Not for her. But for the memory of the hero who gave his life to save her.
His actions had surprised him. Not since the long ago days of his youth had such absurdly romantic notions touched him.
Now, as he walked through the winter night, he could no longer summon the precious feeling he had experienced.
One fact was sure, though. Huntsekker's world had been subtly changed by Jaim's death.
Not just because life was more interesting while Jaim prowled the highlands, stealing cattle. The man had style, and more than that. He had heart. Huntsekker had not even realized that he himself lacked that quality. Not until he met Jaim.
In all the years Huntsekker had lived in the north he only had two dealings with Jaim Grymauch. On the first occasion Jaim stole his prize bull. Huntsekker knew he would try, and had set traps around the paddock. Then he had sat for night after night, his blunderbuss loaded, waiting for the raid. One night he dozed. When he awoke the bull had gone. Huntsekker and his men scoured the highlands all night and found nothing. When they returned to the farm at dawn they found the bull back in the paddock, a sprig of heather tied to its horn. That memory still made Huntsekker smile.
The second occasion had been more deadly. The Moidart had demanded the death of th
e fistfighter Chain Shada. Grymauch had spirited him away. Huntsekker guessed their destination and set a trap.
It had not worked. Jaim took to the river and swam behind the ambushers. The first moment Huntsekker realized he had been tricked was when a knife blade pricked at his throat. He was holding his blunderbuss, but there was no way he could turn it.
'Best be putting that dreadful thing down, Harvester,' came the voice of Jaim Grymauch. 'I'd hate to be cutting your throat on such a fine night as this.'
Huntsekker smiled at the memory. He had carefully laid the gun down then looked at Grymauch. The man's clothes were drenched.
'You'll catch a chill, Grymauch,' he said. 'You're not as young as once you were.'
'Maybe I'll take that bearskin coat,' replied Jaim. That'll keep me warm.'
'It's too big for you, son. Takes a man to wear a coat like this.'
Huntsekker had thought his life would be over that night. As well as the massive Chain Shada there was a youth with Grymauch, dark-eyed and carrying two Emburley pistols. Huntsekker looked into his eyes and saw the ferocity there. Kaelin Ring was a killer. Huntsekker knew the type. Hell, Huntsekker was the type. There was no doubt about it. Death waited for Huntsekker, and the only one of his men still conscious, the sharp-featured Boillard Seeton.
But instead Jaim had asked them their intentions. Huntsekker had offered to say nothing about the encounter. Seeton was quick to agree. Huntsekker did not expect Jaim to believe the promises. Boillard Seeton was a man without honour, and Grymauch had no reason to believe in Huntsekker's word.
'Well, that's it, then,' said Grymauch.
'The hell it is!' stormed Kaelin Ring, his voice shaking with anger. 'I say we kill them.' Huntsekker saw the pistol come up. It was pointed at his face. He stood very still.
'We'll kill no-one!' said Jaim.
'We can't trust them. They'll betray us as soon as they get to Eldacre.'
'Aye, maybe they will. That's for them to decide,' said Jaim softly, moving to stand between Huntsekker and the youth. 'Killing shouldn't be easy, boy. Life should be precious.'
Kaelin Ring hadn't been convinced, but he had acceded to Grymauch's wishes. Chain Shada crossed the bridge, and Grymauch and Kaelin Ring moved off into the woods.