“No, he didn’t. Lord Ferson 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 that his voice sounded far from happy. “Did you enjoy the party?” he asked.
She shrugged. “It was better than I expected.”
“I saw you talking to young Macon.”
“He apologized for his boorish behavior.”
“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 behavior 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 unsavory 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 for you to know, and I cannot really explain why. Not even to myself, really. 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 judgments 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. “Dammit, girl, not a tenth of the atrocities can be laid at Macks’ 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 honor, 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 rejected 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. Those 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 had begun.
When Jaim Grymauch had 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 armor, ran at him. Grymauch dropped his staff and drew 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 felt a soaring of the heart as the one-eyed clansman 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 life. It shone like sunlight after the storm.
Then the musketeers pushed through the crowd and shot Grymauch. Huntsekker ran to him, gently lowering him to the ground. There was nothing to be done. The big man was dying. Huntsekker pulled Maev Ring clear, taking 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 had given 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 had had only two dealings with Jaim Grymauch. On the first occasion Jaim had stolen his prize bull. Huntsekker had known 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 had dozed. When he awoke, the bull was gone. Huntsekker and his men had scoured the highlands all night and had found nothing. When they had returned to the farm at dawn, they had 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 the fistfighter Chain Shada. Grymauch had spirited him away. Huntsekker had 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 and 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 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 with no honor, and Grymauch had no reason to trust 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,” Jaim said, softly, moving to stand between Huntsekker and the youth. “Killing shouldn’t be easy, boy. Life should be precious.”
Kaelin Ring had not been convinced, but he had accepted Grymauch’s wishes. Chain Shada crossed the bridge, and Grymauch and Kaelin Ring moved off into the woods.
Huntsekker had watched them go. The boy had been right. The most sensible course of action would have been to kill them both. Still, Huntsekker had thought, maybe Boillard Seeton would justify Grymauch’s faith. That hope was short-lived.
“By the Sacrifice, I’ll see him swing and I’ll piss on his grave,” Seeton had said once Grymauch and the others had left.
“No, you won’t, Boillard. You gave your word.”
“Under duress,” argued Boillard. “Don’t count.”
“Mine does.”
“Well, I’m not you, Harvester. You do as you wish. Nobody shoots Boillard Seeton and gets away with it. Damn, but I’ll enjoy seeing them hang.”
“I don’t think so.”
Huntsekker drew his scythe and sliced it through Seeton’s chest. The man was dead before he knew it.
Just the three occasions: a stolen bull, an ambush by a stream, and a death near the cathedral. A few sentences had passed between them. No more than that. Yet Huntsekker constantly caught himself thinking of the highlander, the thoughts tinged with a massive regret that he had not known him well.
He walked on, cutting down through a gully and clambering up the other side. He was breathing heavily as he reached the top, and the old familiar ache in the lower back had begun.
Huntsekker stretched, then looked for a place to sit. He was still some five miles from Eldacre and was beginning to regret turning down Powdermill’s offer of a night’s lodging. Leaving the trail, he found a small hollow and sat with his back to a tree. His thoughts drifted to the Moidart. Huntsekker had never liked him. He was not a man who would ever inspire devotion. Too cold, too self-contained. Too deadly.
Just like you, Huntsekker, he thought.
Ah, well, we are what we are, he told himself.
The Moidart was troubled. Huntsekker had known the man angry and filled with a cold, murderous rage. Never troubled, though. Always confident in his talent.
After the meeting with Powdermill, Huntsekker knew why.
They float in the air.
Huntsekker shivered and glanced around the hollow. As always when troubled, he tugged at the twin silver spikes of his beard. Thoughts of magic left him uneasy. Twenty years earlier the church authorities had set out to destroy magickers and witches. There had been burnings across the land. Huntsekker had been one of those who had kicked down doors, dragging out suspects for questioning. Dark and bloody times, with many an innocent flayed or put to the fire.
Now there were few who admitted to the dark arts. Huntsekker had come across Powdermill eight years earlier. The man was known as a finder. Huntsekker had been tracking a rapist and a killer, but the man had gone to ground somewhere. In desperation Huntsekker had listened to the advice of one of his men, Dal Naydham, and sought out Powdermill. He had had no expectation of success, but anything was better than returning to the Moidart with news that the killer had escaped him.
Powdermill went into a trance while holding a glove owned by the killer. When he opened his eyes, he told Huntsekker about a cabin in a valley in the shadows of Caer Druagh, some sixty miles south. He described it and the route to it.
Huntsekker found the man, removed his head, and carried it back to Eldacre. He earned nothing for the trip. Powdermill’s price had been exactly the bounty: two pounds, eight chaillings.
He was a canny little bastard.
His back eased, Huntsekker rose and returned to the road. Something was still troubling him, but he could not put his finger on the problem.
The answer came too him just a fraction too late.
Why had Powdermill refused to travel with him?
The first shot struck him between the shoulder blades, slamming him forward. The second shot hit him in the lower chest. Instinctively Huntsekker threw himself to the right and over the edge of a steep drop. He fell heavily, then pitched head over heels, gathering speed until his body
splashed into an icy stream.
The moon disappeared behind thick clouds. Huntsekker, semiconscious, dragged himself clear of the water and crawled into thick undergrowth. There he passed out.
When he awoke, it was dawn. His head pounded, and there was dried blood on his scalp. With a groan he sat up, struggling to remember how he had come to be there. Had he fallen? Then he remembered the shots from the darkness. With an effort he opened his bearskin coat. There was blood on his shirt, which was ripped, and the wooden hilt of his double-shot pistol was dented and split. Huntsekker pulled it clear. The second shot had struck the weapon, then cannoned off across the flesh of his left side, tearing the skin.
The big man scanned the upper tree line, seeking out the assassins. There was no one in sight. Rising, he grunted with pain as he took off the heavy bearskin coat. As he did so, a flattened ball dropped away from the narrow double-mesh chain mail that was expertly fitted to the lining of the shoulders, extending down to his hips. Two of the outer mesh rings had snapped, but the second section had saved his life.
Bruised, bleeding, and angry, Huntsekker donned the coat. He would not go straight to Eldacre. Instead he would go home first.
And fetch his scythe.
9
* * *
Jakon Gallowglass had few friends. A naturally taciturn man, he had little time for socializing, and no inclination at all to sit gossiping around the campfire. Only two activities interested the young southerner: fighting and whoring. Only nineteen, he had been at war now for four years. In that time he had developed a taste for battle. Where most soldiers spent their lives caught between boredom and terror, Jakon Gallowglass enjoyed life to the full. He was neither introspective nor imaginative. He listened as his comrades spoke of their fears of death or mutilation but let the words wash over him. Jakon would wrap himself in his cloak and think of better things. There was a new whore at Mellin’s tavern, a buxom youngster from the eastern shires. Three daens for a swift ride and half a chailling for an entire night. Jakon could not imagine why a man would want a whore for an entire night. He had spent an evening with one once. The ride had been most enjoyable, but afterward all she had wanted to do was talk. Endlessly. There had been a buzzing in his ears for days afterward. It was amazing how many words had flowed out of her. She told him her life story, and by the end of the evening Jakon felt he had lived it several times over.