The Forgotten War (108 page)

‘We need all the men we can get,’ Morgan interrupted.

‘But they are unreliable and are just more mouths to feed.’

‘They get barley rations and extra duties as punishment. They are not being treated as kindly as you seem to think.’

‘Very well.’ She sighed, obviously unconvinced. ‘I defer to you in military matters. If the enemy moves to besiege us, though, I do not know how long we can resist.’

‘There is no need for us to be too concerned about that at present. I think Fenchard expected simple capitulation from everyone, but it hasn’t gone as easily for him as he expected.
The elves have been a nasty surprise, as have the riots in Athkaril. He has enough on his mind for now. Kraven, how did your weapon practice go?’

‘Well enough,’ said the boy, ‘though I would rather use an unblunted sword.’

‘One day soon.’ said Morgan. ‘Technique must be mastered first or you’ll chop your own head off. I am going to see Sir Dominic shortly and you can come with me. It will
be boring for you, more news of troop movements, no doubt, but you need to understand all this before you can become Baron and I can go back to my farm in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Yes, Morgan,’ said the boy. ‘It is not that boring, not as boring as theology lessons.’

‘That is good to hear; I have also been told you are doing well in history. That is important. What you will come to learn is that every triumph, every mistake, every good and bad decision
you will ever make, has already been made by someone else in the past, and to a much larger extent. Learn your history and you are already halfway there.’

‘Did Father forget his history? Is that why he died?’

‘No, Kraven, he died because he was betrayed by those he trusted. It is now the job of you and me to put right what these people did to him and to correct the damage they have caused. Are
you with me?’

The boy stood to a mock attention, aping the soldiers drilling in the courtyard.

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Good,’ Morgan said, smiling. ‘Now to the dining room with you; I will be along shortly.’ The boy ran off, leaving Morgan and Mathilde alone.

‘Well,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘It has not taken you long to get used to castle life again. Kraven is happy to see you – that much is obvious.’

‘He needs toughening up, though; you and his tutors coddle him too much. He can come with me next time I ride out into the country.’

‘That might be a good idea; I have heard about how you ride. Perhaps he can put you right on a few things.’

‘Artorus’s teeth, does everyone know of my shortcomings on a horse? Fine. He can go out with the Silver Lances instead.’

‘You are funny when you are angry.’ Mathilde was enjoying herself. ‘You know that in the past, when a protector baron was appointed in the selfsame circumstances as you have
been, you could have the same conjugal rights over his widow.’

‘The important phrase there I believe was “in the past”. There let it remain. There is much mourning to do before either of us can move on.’

She saw her little joke had fallen flat. ‘I was not being serious,’ she said haughtily. ‘Come, I would be honoured if you could accompany me to the meal.’

‘Of course.’ The moment of awkwardness had passed. ‘Please, lead the way.’

He followed her out of the throne room, where the late-afternoon sun shone softly through the west-facing windows.

After he had dined Morgan retired to a small room overlooking the courtyard and the east wall. It was lit by fiery torches, the sun having long since sunk into darkness. The
keep, the courtyard, the castle walls, the town itself and then the city walls. This had been his world since leaving the elves and hearing of the burdensome honour Felmere had placed upon him in
death. Dominic was with him and young Kraven sat quietly in a corner not saying a word. Dominic was clad in riding leather, having forsaken his armour, and his boots were caked in mud; he had after
all just returned from the field where he had been journeying for some days. It was he who was speaking now.

‘Fenchard has finally taken Athkaril. The rioters had formed some sort of collective army and it was they who destroyed the bridge and who, by using a storm of missiles, thwarted his
initial attempts to rebuild it. Finally, though, under mantlets and shields it was rebuilt, and the rioters, fearing his wrath, fled west. Fenchard though has inherited little more than a city of
cinders. And the Grand Duke is on his way; I wonder if he knows that?’

‘He will soon enough, I am sure. No matter what happens there, he is still in a very strong position. It is only here and nearby towns such as Shayer Ridge that he doesn’t control in
the north and, with Garal rebelling in the south, Esric will be too busy to send aid. All we have are the men within this city and the elves until the Grand Duke gets here. I assume he will be
taking over operations from me when he arrives.’

Dominic laughed. ‘I wouldn’t count on it. I am led to believe he plans to take Athkaril and stay there until spring. He is no field general and by all accounts compensates for his
lack of experience by being very, very cautious. I can’t see him wanting to impose his authority over you for a while yet. You can’t get out of this that easily.’

‘Worth a try though, wasn’t it? When he arrives maybe a two-pronged attack on Tetha Vinoyen will be a good idea. The only problem is that Fenchard, and particularly Trask, will see
that coming from leagues away.’

‘And will try to forestall it, by attacking here or by attacking the Grand Duke, before we attack him.’

‘Well, if he attacks us, he will have to be prepared for a siege. And the longer that takes, the greater the chance of Leontius marching on his rear. As ever in this war, we seem to have
another stalemate.’ Morgan looked thoughtful. ‘Actually, it may even be a good idea to invite him to attack us; while he is here he cannot damage anywhere else and he will have to split
his forces between here and Tetha Vinoyen. If Leontius can take the town, we have a great chance of retaking all the ground that Wolf Plain cost us.’

‘And Fenchard will no longer be of use to the Arshuman king. It would be interesting to see what happens to him then.’

‘Yes, it would, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The situation in Athkaril is interesting but we cannot affect it either way from here. For now it is still a case of building up
our army and raiding their supply lines, something the elves are happy to do. Find this interesting, Kraven?’

‘Of course, sir.’ Kraven spoke with little conviction, stifling a yawn as he did so.

They left the room and entered a wide hallway busy with servants, scullions and cleaning maids, busy carrying pewter plates and goblets from the dining room or sweeping dust off the faded carpet
into the room’s darker corners. A series of portraits looked down on them as they strolled towards the throne room, Felmeres from centuries past. Cedric was there looking at them. He leaned
stiffly on his walking stick as Morgan came up to him.

‘It is sad to see him here on the wall, now a man of the past just as all the others are.’ Cedric was staring at the portrait of Lukas, looking as belligerent on canvas as he could
in life. ‘Notice the changes in art style over the years. Some two centuries ago everyone looked the same; see the oval faces and high foreheads on them, idealised representations all. Today,
of course, realism is everything as with Baron Lukas here.’

‘And with our family portrait over there,’ said Dominic.

‘What!’ said Cedric. ‘There is a painting of you here?’

‘The entire family. I am related to the Felmeres by marriage; it was a gift for the wedding, well, one of them. I suppose, Morgan, we are technically related now – any plans to sit
for a portrait in the near future?’

‘I would rather yank all my teeth out with a hot iron,’ said Morgan, not cracking a smile, ‘Portraits indeed!’

‘Morgan,’ Cedric called, with a degree of suppressed excitement. ‘Come over here.’

Morgan did so and found Cedric looking at the Hartfield portrait. He was pointing at one of the figures. ‘Recognise anyone?’ he asked.

Morgan looked at the painting. On its right side were a distinguished-looking couple clad in expensive finery who Morgan guessed was Nicholas Hartfield and his wife. Dominic was standing next to
him with a lady who had to be his betrothed sitting on a divan just to his left. Then, all seated, were three young women: two handsome girls with slightly chubby features were next to each other,
definitely sisters; then, slightly apart from the two of them, was another girl, brown-haired, thin, freckled and clad in a beautiful dress of red silk with an exquisite green emerald brooch pinned
to her breast. The brooch struck a chord with him. He had seen it before, but where...?’

‘The elves.’ said Cedric. ‘Terath’s lake – the vision in the water?’

‘By all the Gods,’ said Morgan softly. ‘A coincidence, surely?’

‘A brooch like that? A slight, dark-haired girl? I am good with faces and I am certain it must be the same girl.’

‘What is it?’ Dominic joined them. ‘Admiring my little sister? Too late for you I am afraid. She married some months ago. A northern baron, from Osperitsan island. That is
good, she likes the sea’

‘Close to the elven ruins?’ asked Cedric.

‘Yes, why do you ask? Why is little Ceriana so important?’

Cedric put his arm around Dominic’s shoulder. ‘This will take some explaining, but right now your little sister might be one of the most important people in Tanaren...’

Cheris stood alone in the small square room. Its four walls were of naked stone and its only light came from a small grille less than a foot square high in the west wall,
through which flowed a chill winter draught. Behind her the iron-bound door was locked, something she had checked three times just to be sure. In front of her was a tin bath full of steaming water
freshly filled by the chambermaid. A chair stood next to it covered in towelling cloths and a tablet of fat soap. The girl had prepared everything beautifully. Cheris looked at the tub and
sighed.

She had travelled with Cedric, Dominic and Morgan to Felmere. The town itself was smaller than Tanaren City but a lot more stone had been used in the construction of its buildings, giving it an
austere but more durable air. There was something reassuring about the place, a sense that whatever happened outside its walls didn’t matter. This city was indefatigable, permanent, immune to
war and its travails.

The castle and keep epitomised this feeling of security; everything was bound in iron, stone and wood inches or feet thick. The flagstones were smooth, massive and greened at their edges; the
doors were studded with metal and frequently panelled with leather, and the gated portcullis was protected by arrow slits and murder holes.

From the high tower of the keep flew the blue-and-white flag of Tanaren and the mace of the House of Felmere, something that could be seen from many miles around – another statement of the
Felmeres’ hegemony – and it was in the keep that Cheris was now standing, not in its tower but in a small room in the western wing, next to the private room she had been granted. The
room was sumptuous compared to what she had been used to – a wide bed with a feather-down mattress, carpets, a sofa that was even more comfortable than the bed; she was being treated like a
princess. The lady of the castle had even gifted her some dresses, crushed velvet, pearls, sleeves and collars trimmed with lace or fur. She had yet to wear any of them; she just felt so
undeserving.

What troubled her the most, though, was the utter freedom she had been given. Morgan and the other men had been too busy to notice her, and the women of the castle, knowing what she was, kept a
wide berth. There were no Knights of the Thorn here, so she could not be policed as the law stated, and Morgan seemed to have no interest in organising some sort of replacement for them. For the
first and probably only time in her life she was being treated like a normal person.

And that was why she hardly ever left her room.

She had a maid, a beautiful room, expensive dresses, she could go into the town, talk to anyone, do whatever she wanted and she had no idea how to deal with any of it. She had heard tales of
caged birds fed and looked after all their lives whose owners had died. Their cages had been opened to give them their freedom – they could fly free whenever and wherever they desired –
and yet none of them did. They stayed in the cage, with the security they understood and felt safe with. And if somebody caught a bird and tried to lift it to the sky, it would die, terrified by
the enormity of what it was being offered. Freedom could be just as much of a prison as a cage.

She did not really know anyone here either. Now more than at any other time she realised how much she had depended on Marcus; he had guided her in most things for over half her life and with
every passing day she missed him more and more. She was lonely here, was not sure whom to confide in and yet she needed to talk to somebody badly.

She had hoped the memory of her assault by Trask would slowly diminish but her hopes regarding this had been in vain. Every night she would wake up screaming, her sheets soaked with sweat. Every
quiet moment she had in the day, and there were many, she smelt him, felt his hands on her, his overbearing strength crushing her remorselessly. And as she stood looking at her bath, it was coming
back to her again. As if coming out of a dream she shook her head briskly and spoke, though no one else could hear her.

‘Snap out of it, girl. Carry on like this and he will beat you. He mustn’t beat you.’ She undressed swiftly and climbed into the bath without testing the water; it was hot but
it barely registered with her. She pulled her knees up to her chin as if trying to hide herself, grabbed the soap and started to wash herself vigorously. Too vigorously, it seemed, for she was
rubbing herself raw. ‘Must ... clean ... myself,’ she repeated over and over again and once every part of her body had been cleaned she started again. Her face reddened, not just from
the steam, and her eyes started to water. At last she over-exerted herself and the soap slipped from her hands, skipping over the stone floor. She watched it go and slapped the water in
frustration, sending suds flying everywhere. It was the last straw for her. A loud racking sob escaped her and she buried her head on her knees and started to cry. This time she had no control over
her tears: her sobs grew louder and more hysterical as the seconds passed. Seconds became minutes and still she wept. Her lungs hurt her as she howled again and again and again – beyond
consolation, beyond redemption, beyond salvation. She was in the darkest place she had ever been and escape seemed hopeless to her.