but for the appearance of elegance it would have offered. With the furnishings and the pavilion he could have shaped a Cathedral that would have been suitable for holding a service to honor the men who had fallen.
The Fifth Northland Cavalry Regiment had started west with a full complement of four hundred and fifty men. He’d left the fifth battalion with their supplies, and sent the first to Fort Plentiful. That gave him two-hundred and seventy men-three whole battalions-to throw into battle, and that is exactly what he had done. He had tossed them into danger and thirty-seven of them had emerged from it.
It did not matter that he had little choice. He could not have done things any more wisely. His choices were to do nothing and watch the trolls slaughter the Volunteers, Foresters, and Rangers, or to send his men in to do what they could. Even in Tharyngia an action such as the one he took would have left his troops vulnerable to a counter-charge by heavier cavalry.
But the destruction, so complete. Ian opened his eyes, then closed the ledger book on his camp table. He’d written down the names of every man who had died. He remembered about half the names, and had faces to go with one in twenty-mostly officers. He recalled the drills before St. Martin’s Cathedral, and that out of the three battalions that had performed so smartly, only three dozen men remained.
The thing that galled him the most was that people would make excuses for what happened. The horses they were riding had no training for combat, so the counter-charge could not be avoided. Yet, had there been no counter-charge, and had the trolls all been slaughtered, no one would have mentioned the horses’ lack of training. Instead his men would have been praised for their horsemanship, since that would have held the key to their success.
The Mystrians-at least, those who had not run off-had been full of honest praise for the cavalry. In the days since the battle men had whittled and planted hundreds of little wooden crosses. Others had gathered flowers to sprinkle over the dried field. People, alone or in the small groups, tended to drift toward where the cavalry had died, offering prayers. Even the Shedashee leader had sung a lament for the dead.
Ian had walked out there alone, and no one had seen fit to interrupt him. He supposed they thought he was praying, commending men to God, perhaps hoping to spot something that he could identify and carry back to a widow or grieving parent. He appreciated the solitude, less than because he wanted to be alone, than he dreaded trying to explain what he was doing out there.
He’d not gone out to pray to God to deliver the souls of his men but to beseech his men to forgive him. He had no doubt that his soldiers had been destroyed because of his moral failing. Their deaths were God’s punishment for his sleeping with Owen’s wife. He couldn’t deny that, couldn’t escape it. His weakness had doomed them.
And the most terrible thing about that realization was that he could not give her up. Though he had walked for hours across the fields where men who had trusted him had been trampled into gobbets of flesh and splinters of bone, and though he tried to use the horror of their deaths as a wedge, he could not conceive of a life apart from Catherine Strake. God might have punished him here by killing his command, but He had allowed Catherine to bring him back from the dead for a purpose.
Ian bowed his head and clasped his hands together in prayer. “Dear merciful God, peer into my heart. Know I am Your servant. Do with me as You will but, please, let me fulfill a purpose which is pleasing unto You. This is all I ask, in Your name.”
He sat there for a moment, holding his breath, hoping God might send an immediate sign. He neither saw nor heard anything. So he opened the ledger again and, confident that he was, somehow, doing God’s work, he started down his list and made notes.
Gisella could not help but notice Catherine Strake’s agitation. She immediately took the older woman’s hands in hers and led her to a couch. “Madeline, please make some tea. And see if we have biscuit, not the ones I brought back from Mrs. Bumble. Something fun.”
The servant nodded and withdrew.
Gisella immediately reached out and tipped Catherine’s face up. “What is it, my dear? You’ve been crying.”
Catherine shook her head and looked down again. “No, Highness, I’m just being silly. And I do not wish to bother you. You have so much on your mind already.”
“Catherine, please, we are friends. You were the first, after my husband, I told I am pregnant. I would not have any secrets from you.”
Owen’s wife squeezed her hands. “Thank you, Highness. I just… you will think me silly but… well, I went to Temperance and took your message to Mr. Peas. The order will be filled and shipped. Tomorrow morning we will see the flatboats go up the river with it.”
“Well, then, that’s good news.” Gisella made no effort to hide her smile. The message from Plentiful that had come in the night previous had been short and spare, even terse. Bethany had sent it; Gisella recognized that much. The message contained no casualty lists, but the requested supplies left no doubt that a battle had been fought and that people had been badly hurt. She’d immediately sent back a request to know how her husband was, but it would not arrive until tomorrow, and she would not hear until Friday.
“Yes, it is.”
“Then why the long face?”
Catherine sighed, her shoulders slumping. “In town, I felt faint. I went to our townhouse and, well, do you remember four years ago, that awful summer?”
“Yes, the Anvil Lake expedition.”
“Well, do you remember, I fainted then?”
Gisella did distantly recall Catherine having been under the weather, then the cause came to her. “Oh, Catherine, you’re pregnant! Oh, that is so wonderful!”
Catherine glanced at her, then burst into tears. “I don’t know what I shall do.”
“What do you mean?” Gisella hugged her and stroked her back. “You will have another beautiful child, Catherine. Maybe a son. Owen would like that. I know Richard would rejoice in having a playmate. This is wonderful.”
The weeping woman drew back. “No, you don’t understand. You see, when I lay down, I fell asleep, and I had a dream. A nightmare, a horrible nightmare. I would think nothing of it but Owen and the Prince had set store by those visions. And I saw Owen hurt and dying and he didn’t know he has a son. He lay there and I know it’s impossible but, I was certain that if he knew he had a son, he would fight harder, he would come back to us. Please don’t think I’m crazy, Highness, I could not bear it.”
“No, no, Catherine, no, never.” Gisella stroked her hair. “What we are going to do is to write a letter and when the shipment to Plentiful comes up the river, we shall give it to Drayman to take to Owen.”
Catherine collapsed into Gisella’s arms. “I thought of that, but it will be too late. It’s probably already too late. I’ve prayed, all the way back in the coach I prayed, but I am undone. My Owen will be dead.”
Gisella held her and rubbed her back. She would, of course, immediately send a message to Plentiful to let Owen know the happy news. That she could do and then later say she had gotten a message from someone passing through about how Owen had survived a battle and was looking forward to the addition to the family. The delay would torture Catherine, and Gisella would have avoided that at all costs.
Even though it would cause her friend pain, Gisella would not share the secret of the thaumagraph with her. She’d thought her husband perhaps just a bit over-cautious in forbidding Owen to tell his wife about the Mystrian magick. Owen understood the why of the prohibition. Catherine’s upset over a dream proved she was silly enough to accidentally reveal a secret. Gisella decided to honor her husband’s wishes, but she would not let her friend go uncomforted.
Gisella took her by the shoulders and set her back, then clasped Catherine’s hands in hers. “I make you a promise here and now, Catherine, that Owen will know about his child. He will know before the supplies arrive. I shall get that message delivered even if I have to throw a saddle onto Peregrine and ride him all the way west myself.”
Catherine sniffed and brushed tears away. “Are you certain? You’re not just saying that because you want me to stop crying?”
Gisella smiled. “No, darling, because I know when I cry, you do not think ill of me. Our men are at war, so we must take care of each other. So, I shall handle this problem for you, and we shall have no more tears, agreed?”
“Oh, Princess, I cannot tell you how great is my relief.” Catherine smiled sheepishly. “I may yet write a note
