At the Queen's Command (54 page)

“Princess Gisella, I cannot promise I will remain constantly out of harm’s way. I do not know the enemy’s mind. I do not know God’s mind. I could as easily be struck by lightning as I could a ball fired from ambush. Such a fate would be a matter of chance. But I also cannot tell you that if a man is wounded, I will not run to help him. Those decisions are made not with the mind, but the heart. While I promise you I shall always think, I do not believe you wish me to close my heart.”

She brushed a lock of brown hair out of his eyes. “No, I would not have that.”

He took her hand in his and kissed her palm. “I need you to promise me that you shall remain here. I need you, though you are not yet my wife, to act bravely and give others courage. You and Mrs. Frost, Mrs. Bumble, Owen’s wife: you will be the heart of Temperance. Others will look to you for hope. They will need you as much as I do.”

Gisella nodded, then pulled her hands back over her head. “I shall be quite the sight with my hair so short.”

“No. You will tell them you cut a lock for me. You wished it to be the most beautiful lock, and found none suitable until the last.”

She glanced up at him. “You have the soul of a poet, my love.”

“No.” He turned from her and pulled a small pair of thread snips from his desk. He handed them to her. “Take a lock of my hair, please.”

She slipped behind him and snipped one. Then she ran her arms around his middle and hugged him fiercely. “You will come back to me, Vladimir, a hero, I am certain.”

He turned within her arms and kissed her. “I will count the days, the hours, the seconds. I love you, Gisella. Nothing will stop me coming back.”

Vlad finished sealing the second of two letters as Chandler showed Duke Deathridge into the office. He rose and smiled. “Good to see you this morning, Duke Deathridge.”

“And you, Highness. And when it is just us, please, call me Dick. So much easier, don’t you think?”

“Quite.” He handed the man the two letters. “One to my father and one for my aunt. The letter to my father is just our normal correspondence. The letter to my aunt is requesting immediate permission to marry Princess Gisella.”

Deathridge raised an eyebrow. “She’s not…?”

“No.” Vlad shook his head. “Despite our affection and attraction, neither of us wished to spark an international incident by proceeding without sanction.”

“Very wise, Highness.” Deathridge tucked the letters inside his frock coat. “I shall see these are delivered immediately upon my landing.”

The prince’s eyes tightened. “You’re determined to go, then?”

“I really have no choice. I would much prefer to go with you. Since Rivendell will most likely not fight your troops, you should use them to build the fort at the Tillie outflow. He can retreat to it and winter there. I will argue in Parliament that we need more troops to smash the Tharyngians. And you can gather proof of these
pasmortes
which even the most obstinate minister will have to recognize.”

“You’ll have that proof, I guarantee it.”

“Excellent.” The smaller man nodded. “I will remain in Temperance to see to the shipping of supplies up to Hattersburg. I may even travel up to Margaretstown before catching a packet ship to Norisle.”

“I expect us to be in Hattersburg a month from now.” Vlad ran a hand over his chin. “We’ll be carrying forty days of rations, so we shall need our supplies.”

“More than enough time to get them there. Two weeks at most.” Deathridge smiled. “Supplies in first, then the cavalry. Everyone should be there and waiting for you.”

Vlad glanced at the model. “We need twice the number of regulars, and more than a company of artillery to destroy that place.”

“And next year we will have it.” Deathridge folded his arms over his chest. “Rivendell’s retreat will destroy his coalition in Parliament. He’ll be relieved. I would hope I am appointed in his place.”

“What if Rivendell takes the Fortress of Death?”

“I do not believe he can. For him to succeed would require our enemy to be a fool. Guy du Malphias may be any number of things, but fool is not numbered among them. I expect Rivendell to mass troops to the north, get his cavalry destroyed and, in a sulking fit, retreat to your fortress. Have you decided on a name?”

“I was thinking ‘Hope.’”

“Auspicious. Excellent choice. From Fort Hope we will sweep the Tharyngians from Mystria.”

Vlad nodded. “I just wish we did not have to wait a year.”

Deathridge’s dark eyes narrowed. “The price of haste is blood. Quick action, when successful, crowns heroes. When unsuccessful, it creates unimaginable slaughter. For every hero, there are ten thousand victims. Never tempt those odds.”

The Prince joined Count von Metternin at the head of the First Colonial Regiment. Of the five infantry battalions, three had been recruited solely from single colonies: Fairlee, Blackoak, and Temperance Bay. The other two were the Southlands Battalion and the Battalion of the North. They split all the other recruits between them. Each had its own regimental flag, and Blackoak had actually brought along a band including bagpipers, fife-players, and drummers.

An elderly tuba-player had tried to join the Temperance Bay Battalion, but he could barely walk carrying his instrument. The men voted him a corporal’s commission and bought him a cap. He stood at their staging area, ready to play them off. And he was not alone in wishing the troops well.

Mounted on a grey mare, the Prince surveyed the crowd. Families had turned out, all dressed in their Sunday-best. Fathers stoically embraced their sons. Mothers and sisters wept while forcing cloth-wrapped bundles of food on the soldiers. Small children ran about, little boys snapping to attention when the soldiers were given orders. Dogs barked. The Prince even saw some Twilight People watching the assembly—Blue Hand Lanatashee if he read the markings on their clothes correctly—and wondered what they were making of it all.

A rotund man made his way through the crowd to the Prince’s left foot. “Care to make a comment for
Wattling’s Weekly,
Highness?”

“I could, Mr. Wattling, but wouldn’t you be more comfortable making something up yourself?”

“Highness, I…”

The Prince smiled. “You’ve carried two interviews—
long
interviews—with Lord Rivendell. Is there anything more to be said on this matter?”

Wattling’s face puckered. “Lord Rivendell says you will smash the Godless Ryngians and be back the first of August.”

Count von Metternin laughed. “Rivendell is more of an optimist than he is a geographer.”

Wattling scribbled.

The Prince tapped him with his foot. “Please quote me: The bravest men in Norisle and Mystria will see to the safety of all. We will miss our families and cannot wait to rejoin them.”

Wattling wrote, then frowned. “Not very encouraging, Highness.”

“Reality seldom is, Mr. Wattling. Good day.” The Prince nudged his horse forward, making his way to the head of the column. Rivendell and his troops would leave later in the day, allowing the Mystrians to head off first and cut roads where necessary. The Norillians would pick up any stragglers and keep things organized.

Once he and the Count reached the mounted officer corps, a captain gave a signal. The Blackoak band began to play a stirring march, and the column, marching four abreast, moved out. Down the line the tuba bellowed, and a few men fired muskets into the air. Applause and shouts filled the city and the Prince’s heart swelled.

The determined expressions on the Mystrians’ faces made Vlad smile. “I think, von Metternin, if du Malphias had a look at these men, he might abandon his fortress right away.”

The Kessian smiled. “Long marches drain the hero out of every soldier, alas. But these men, they have heart.”

“And we will give them more.” Vlad set spurs to his horse’s flank, and von Metternin joined him. They raced ahead to the Prince’s estate to prepare their surprise for the Mystrian militia.

Bright and early the next morning, Prince Vlad sat astride Mugwump on the road near his estate, waiting for the militia troops to march past. Ribbons of red and green fluttered in the breeze from the wurm’s tack. The Prince rode on a saddle at the wurm’s shoulders; Count von Metternin was mounted at the wurm’s hips. Bulging oilskin satchels lined the beast’s flanks, stretched between the saddles, each one of them decorated with more ribbons.

The soldiers, whose line of march drifted toward the other side of the road, smiled and laughed. A few shouted: “He’ll be having the Ryngians running,” or “He’ll win us the war all by himself!” Others just nodded as if a wurm was something they saw every day—those being more of the northerners than the men from the south. The Prince figured the northerners would have also gaped, but the Blackoaks had seen Mugwump first, and no northerner was going to let a southerner believe he was surprised by anything.

The Prince could not help but smile and wave. “You still think the march will drain the hero from them?”

The Kessian laughed aloud. “Half of them do not have shoes, most of them are ragged, and clearly they have not been trained. But, that fire in their eyes. These are men, sir, with which I should be willing to assault the gates of Hell itself.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, my lord.” The Prince smiled as more men passed. “Alas, I think it may.”

Chapter Fifty-Five

May 31, 1764

Temperance

Temperance Bay, Mystria

"W
ho is she, Owen?”

Catherine’s question took Owen completely by surprise.

He’d been laying on his left side and his wife had snuggled in behind him, her naked body molding itself to his. She’d kissed his shoulder and the back of his neck, then licked at his earlobe.

And then the question.

“Who is whom?”

She grabbed his shoulder, pulling him onto his back, then threw her right leg over his hip. She loomed over him, her face warded by shadows as the first tendrils of dawn lightened the white curtains. “You know who.”

Owen frowned. “I really don’t.” He raised his head to kiss her, but she pulled back.
This is serious
.

“You do, Owen. The woman who wrote those letters for you.”

“Bethany Frost?”

“Yes.”

Owen pulled himself up against the headboard. “I was billeted at her family’s home. She wrote you at my request, when I could not write. You know that.”

“Yes, but who
is
she?” Catherine’s voice rose and her eyes sharpened. “Who is she, Owen?”

“I don’t understand the question, Catherine.”

She whirled away from him, dragging the sheet after her. She wrapped herself in it, then sat in a chair, hunched, weeping. “You’ve stopped loving me, haven’t you?”

Owen stared after her, completely puzzled. The past week had been nothing short of fantastic. They had enjoyed Temperance and the surrounding area. She had taken immediate charge of his life. Their first stop had been to a tailor who fashioned for him a brand new uniform of the Queen’s Own Wurm Guards, including two sets of breeches, three shirts, two waistcoats, and a heavy oilskin coat to cover the uniform jacket.

After that they had spent their time exploring both the city and each other intimately. She had always been curious, inventive, hungry, and insatiable. She wanted him fiercely—even when they’d ridden into the countryside for a picnic, she had wanted him. Right there, under the sun, in the open, wanton and brazen, she had reminded him that he was her husband.

Her ardor erased memories of their separation. She laughed heartily and lustily, reminding him of the girl he’d fallen in love with. She was full of plans—things they could do with his estate in Mystria, things they could do upon his return to Norisle. She knew of dozens of societies that wished him to speak to them, and dozens of others that wanted to give him honors. Her face glowed as she spoke, and the way she clung to his arm and smiled proudly as they walked through Temperance had stoked the fire in his heart.

He climbed from bed and went to her, standing over her, his hands on her shoulders. “Catherine, I love you completely. You’re my whole world.”

“I am such a fool. Oh, Owen, I forced you into her arms. I should have been brave enough to come with you. And then, when I got word that you were hurt, I wanted to come. I begged your uncle to arrange my passage. I wanted to be here, to nurse you back to health, but then your letter arrived, the one telling me not to come. Telling me you would send for me when the time was right. And I waited.”

Owen frowned. “What letter? I never said that.”

“Yes, Owen, you did.” Her hands came away from her face and she looked up. “In that first letter, in her hand, you told me not to come.”

He shook his head. “I never said that.”

“It was there, Owen.” Her tears began anew. “I would show you the letter, but, oh, I am such a silly girl. I carried it with me and was reading it on the ship. The wind tore it from my grasp. I thought God was giving me a sign that you had been torn from me. I was inconsolable. I did not leave my cabin for days.”

Owen went to his knees and took her in his arms. “Hush, Catherine. You have not lost me. I am yours, and yours alone.” He stroked her hair and kissed her cheek.
Bethany wouldn’t have added that, would she?

“Oh, Owen.” She pressed her forehead to his. “When you did not mention her to me, or introduce me to her, when she was not present when her parents had us to dinner, what was I to think? Have I been silly, Owen? Please tell me I have been silly.”

He took her face in both hands and kissed her. “You have been silly, Catherine, but that is no vice.”

She sniffed. “Then the reason you want me to remain in Temperance is not because
she
is going off on campaign?”

“What? No.” Owen shook his head. “If she
is
going—and I do not believe she is at all—I know nothing of it and want nothing to do with her.”

“Then why don’t you want me to go with you? You let me come to war on the Continent.”

Owen rose and scooped her in his arms, then deposited her on the bed. “On the Continent, my lovely wife, there were comforts like this bed; and other women to organize balls and social events. On this campaign all those things shall be here, in Temperance.”