The Forgotten War (6 page)

‘No!’ She spoke with false indignation. ‘I was going to say, “Of course I am not, he is my mentor,” but then that didn’t stop us, did it?’

He looked thoughtful. ‘But you going away will though, won’t it?’

She stared at him, her eyes amazed but knowing. ‘Don’t you dare tell me that you will miss me, or that you will keep it in your robes until I return. I wasn’t your first, or
even your
twenty
-first. The second I leave you will be after somebody else. My guess is Elsa – pretty, quiet, needs a firm hand...’

He returned her smile. He had already spoken to Elsa that day; she was coming up for an extra tutorial on the morrow. ‘I suppose I made my nature clear to you from the outset, although in
my defence I was hardly
your
first either. I will miss you, though; that is the truth. There is nothing I like more than feeling the sharp edge of your tongue... Now, wait a second, where is
it?’

He got up and pulled out a chest that was concealed under his bed. He opened it and rummaged through various scrolls and papers until he found a small leather pouch. Opening it, he pulled out
two gold coins as well as some pennies. ‘Two crowns, take them and here are some ducats. Money can be useful; you never know when you might need it. Oh and take this too.’ He threw her
a separate pouch. ‘Spell components, iron filings, nitre and other stuff ... just in case.’

‘Thank you.’ She was surprised; altruism was not a notable characteristic of his. He sat back down.

‘Not used to seeing money, eh?’

‘Well, we don’t need it here. I doubt if I have ever had more than a few pennies. Where did you get it?’

‘My last trip over. I have been to the mainland three times now. I did a favour for someone. Anyway, do I get a reward?’

She looked uncertain. ‘I should go back downstairs; you know how the knights prowl.’

‘Then you had better stay here till dawn. I wonder how we will fill up the time?’

Her uncertainty seemed to dissipate immediately. Smiling, she walked up to him and kissed him gently on the forehead. ‘I am sure we can think of something.’

He blew out the candle.

‘Time to wake up, my Lady; your bath is ready.’

‘Five minutes, Doren, just five more minutes.’

‘As you wish, my Lady.’

Lady Ceriana Hartfield, buried under finest silk sheets, invisible save for a tousled mass of nut-brown hair, turned on her side and fell asleep again.

Five minutes later. ‘My Lady, your bath is getting cold. I have fetched more hot water but even that will cool shortly.’

‘All right, Doren, I will be there presently.’

‘Thank you, my Lady.’

Ten minutes later she was reclining in a bath strewn with rose petals and heavy with the aroma of scented oils. Doren, a dumpy lady of early middle years, was gently pouring more hot water from
a ewer on which the symbol of the House of Hartfield, a rearing white deer, was emblazoned. Lady Hartfield was tapping on the water with her big toe, looking idly at the rings the water was making.
Then her leg started to ache so she sunk it back under the surface again. ‘Is Father back yet?’ she enquired.

‘He has sent word that he intends to arrive on the morrow, just after dawn. It is a time I am not sure my Lady is aware of, though I can always call you then, if you desire it.’

Lady Ceriana’s sharp features became even sharper. ‘I swear by all the Gods you are the most insolent handmaiden a woman could have! I absolutely insist that you call me the second
he is sighted from the Archer’s Tower. Once you have done that you may leave my service; I am sure a more obedient girl can be found among the kitchen staff.’

‘As you wish, my Lady, although I am not sure one could be found with the patience to stand idly by while my Lady decides on the dress she shall wear, or the perfume she shall put behind
her ears, or what colour ribbons go best with crushed red velvet, while all the time the sun rises towards noon and her stomach rumbles ever the louder.’

‘You think not? Oh well, I will keep you on a little longer then. Let it not be said that I am unkind to the elderly and infirm. Now, what dress shall I wear today?’

Doren grimaced, pouring out the rest of the water in one go.

The Hartfields were one of the oldest, most revered noble houses in Tanaren. They had been among the closest advisors of the Grand Duke for centuries and before that had even held that august
office themselves, which only reinforced their reputation for justice, temperance and piety. Their estates comprised much of the land surrounding the great, seething mass of humanity that was
Tanaren City itself, and all of the land was productive and fertile, bordering as it did both sides of the mighty river Erskon. Its rivers and lakes were full of fish, the fields full of golden
corn and grazing cattle, and its woods full of deer. The Hartfield estates, then, made them possibly the wealthiest old family in the country.

They owned several houses, too. There was Loubian Hall in the capital city, not a thousand paces from the ducal palace. There was Erskon House on the river, which regularly entertained the Grand
Duke with regattas and great feasts held on the Duke’s own golden barge, but the spiritual home of the Hartfields was Edgecliff Castle, occupying a high promontory on the coast from which
Tanaren City could be spied in the distance. It could be supplied from the sea at times of siege and had never fallen to its enemies, not in the half a thousand years of its existence. From its
many towers, with the Archer’s Tower being the highest, flew the Hartfield pennants, a white deer on a green background, all of them snapping and flapping in the wind. This was the place
Ceriana counted as home.

She had one brother and two sisters. Her brother, Dominic, was First Commander of the Knights of the Silver Lance, the Grand Duke’s own personal bodyguard. He had married into the Felmere
family out east, slightly beneath himself if truth be told, although it had helped to strengthen ties with the ever surly eastern baronetcies. Her sisters, Giselle and Leonie, had married into
wealthy families nearer to home. All three siblings had children, ever strengthening her family’s political hand, and so the only eligible Hartfield remaining was herself.

She was quite the prize.

She sat down at the top table in the great hall. It stood on a low dais and was covered in a rich red cloth filigreed in gold. The other tables on the lower floor faced it at
right angles. There were some thirty to forty people at these tables, including a number of young men, many of whom looked at her intently. Sitting next to her was her mother, the Lady Margarete.
They were the only two people at the high table. Bread and meat was brought along, with fruit both fresh and stewed. Wine was poured. Once everything was ready, Lady Margarete broke some bread,
dipped it in the wine and ate it. This was the signal for everyone to start eating. A lively conversational hubbub started to fill the room.

‘Why do they all stare so?’ she moaned to her mother. ‘They look as if they are catching flies.’

‘You know exactly why, girl.’ Her mother was a no-nonsense sort; if Ceriana was being honest with herself she still found her intimidating. ‘Every unmarried man here wants you
for his wife. And you have been promised to most of them at one time or another.’

‘I really have no say at all, do I?’ she sighed resignedly. ‘I suppose I have been lucky to remain single until now.’ She chewed absently on a rind of hard bread.

‘Yes, you have been lucky not to be married off at thirteen; thank your father for that. And no, of course, you have no say, The very idea is preposterous. Anyway, your father is
discussing this very question with the Grand Duke even as we speak. He will confirm your betrothed when he returns tomorrow. Personally speaking I would like you married off before the end of the
year; you would make your mother very proud if that was to be the case.’

‘As you wish, Mother, as long as it isn’t “Baron Cuthbert of the missing teeth” I will be content.’

But, of course, she wasn’t really content at all.

Later on that day she sat in a windowed alcove overlooking the sea in the Sailor’s Tower. She had embroidered for a while before tedium had overtaken her and now she was pretending to
read. Megan, the castle harpist, was playing for her and her young companion, Lady Catherine of Nevenn, was embroidering next to her.

‘Do you know what she is playing?’ Catherine asked.

‘Yes, it is the Lay of Fair Isabel who was forced to send her true love away so that she could marry her father’s choice, the fat and old Baron Magrin. Rather than submit herself to
his lechery she cast herself into Lake Winmead and even today on moonless nights you may still hear her song of sorrow among the whispering rushes.’

‘That is ever so sad,’ said Lady Catherine. ‘But surely by taking her own life her soul is condemned to walk the void between the heavens and the furnace of the
underworld.’

‘And that,’ said Ceriana, ‘is why you can still hear her.’

Catherine nodded knowingly and Ceriana thought of telling her that she hadn’t a clue what Megan was playing and that she had made it all up, but decided that it wasn’t worth the
effort. She picked up her book.

Later, as evening drew on, she decided to clear some cobwebs and walk the battlements. She passed the occasional guard each of whom acknowledged her with a polite ‘My Lady’ and
continued to walk until she came to the great barbican at the front gates. Before heading indoors, she looked out over the battlements, first at the motley collection of buildings close to the
gates that comprised Edgecliff town itself, and then at the ground directly beneath her. Could she do it, she wondered? Could damnation of the soul be any worse than damnation of the spirit? It
would be quick after all. Her mother would claim it as an accident; people did fall from such places surprisingly often, so she had been told. The world would go on without her. She stared at the
ground intently for a while, wondering what it would be like to fly through the air, but then, suddenly, she turned away. Biting her lip slightly, she went through the doorway in the gate tower and
headed down the stairs, all the time cursing herself for her abject cowardice.

‘What is it, my Lady? Another black mood?’ Doren had just made up the bed and was scattering fresh rushes on the floor as her mistress sat facing her mirror idly running a comb
through her hair. A pale moonlight gleamed weakly through the leaded window. ‘It is nothing,’ she replied weakly.

‘I know a lot will be changing for you, going to a place full of strangers and marrying a man you may not know at all, but...’

‘No, it isn’t that,’ she interrupted. ‘I am a nobleman’s daughter; I have been prepared for this all my life – a marriage to further my family’s
interests is what I was born for. It is just...’ She seemed to be searching for the words for a second before continuing.

‘Remember my aunt, Augustine.’ Doren’s face fell at that name. ‘I just remember it so vividly. I was seven at the time and was playing in the dayroom with my sisters when
Mother came and told us to go to our rooms. We knew something was wrong but we did as we were told. I was sat on my bed when I heard the screaming. I remember my throat tightening, but there was
something that compelled me to go towards the sound. I went down the stairs as quietly as I could. The sound had stopped but I knew where it had come from. By chance, a servant had gone into the
room and left the door open, so I followed her in.’ She stopped and swallowed hard. ‘I swear by Camille and Artorus the almighty, there was not a square inch on that bedsheet that was
not soaked in blood. Doctors, midwives, the Sisters of Meriel, were swarming around the bed but I could still see Augustine’s face, bathed in sweat and white, ghostly white. I think she had
already gone; she looked ... peaceful, if that was at all possible. Then someone saw me and shooed me out. It was ten years ago but it is still crystal clear in my mind. Both Augustine and the
child died. Blessed Elissa did not help them on that day.’

Doren looked at her sadly. ‘We all remember it, child; it was a terrible day. But these things do happen; it has happened in my family, too.’

Ceriana looked contrite. ‘I am sorry, I was being selfish ... but ... when you had your children were you not frightened, too? We all die someday obviously, but I just don’t want it
to be ... like that.’ She walked over to a table in a corner of the room. On it was a small carved figure of a woman in a cloak and small cape holding a swaddled bundle in her arms. On either
side of it were two lighted candles. She touched the figure gently. ‘Blessed Elissa protect me.’

Doren broke her reverie. ‘Look at your sisters, my Lady, turning out children like rabbits. You have nothing to fear – the Gods will always look after the Hartfield girls, believe
me.’

Suddenly the young girl laughed as if embarrassed by her sadness. ‘Will you just listen to me! I remember there was a merchant, in the square, selling trinkets and ribbons. I had to look,
so I went down there with Catherine. For some reason I started to debate with him the merits of temporal power over the supernatural, or rather the lack of them, and do you know what he
said?’

‘No, my Lady.’

‘He gave me the strangest look and said. “You know, my Lady, beautiful and clever you may be, but I do feel that you may have too much time with nothing of substance to fill it. Most
folk I know are too concerned with putting food on the table and only think of the Gods on a Sunday, or when something bad happens.’ He is right though, isn’t he? I am luckier than
most. So do I then have the right to feel unhappy?’

‘Yes, you do, my Lady; everyone has the right to feel every emotion the Gods have gifted to us. It is what separates us from the common beast, after all. Now, are you ready for bed? You
are being called at dawn, remember?’

Ceriana climbed into bed, affecting a yawn. ‘Dawn it is. Call me any later and...’

‘“You will be released from my service”,’ they both said together. The girl laughed as Doren blew out the candles, bathing the room in the thin light of the moon.
‘Good night, my Lady. The Gods keep you safe.’