accept that and hope. But why send that message? You know it is false, but will someone else hear it as true?”
“You’re suggesting her lover is here?” Owen’s guts knotted. “She can’t send him a note since someone might wonder what my wife is doing writing to someone else. So she hopes that her lover learns that she’s carrying his child through camp gossip about this message?”
“That could be, but who…?”
The hope that Catherine’s lover lay dead on the battlefield flashed through Owen. He hated that joyous spark. It would be too easy for him to be dead. Then another idea occurred to him. Owen ran a hand over his face. “No, no, it can’t be. It can’t.”
Bethany lifted her chin. “General Rathfield.”
“No. No, it couldn’t be.” Owen wanted to feel certain in his denial, but as he thought back, it did seem that they spent a great deal of time in each other’s company. But his thinking did not stop there. It continued back yet further, to when he had returned from captivity and lay helpless in the Frost household. It had been Bethany who had tended to him- as Catherine tended to Rathfield. Bethany had literally brought him back to life and had he not been married… Do not kid yourself, Owen, even in spite of being married, you had feelings for her.
Anger smoldered within him. I respected my vows, as did Bethany.
His fist balled. “Is General Rathfield…?”
Bethany grabbed his wrist. “Owen, you can’t do anything. You don’t know that your wife has a lover, or that her lover is General Rathfield. You don’t know and you have no way of knowing.”
“Quite true, of course. She’s likely slept with hundreds of men here.”
Bethany slapped him, hard, snapping his head around. “Stop it, Owen. I will not have you speak that way.”
His left cheek felt hot to the touch. “I beg your pardon.”
“You are a gentleman, Owen Strake, a man of honor. You always have been honorable.” Bethany half- laughed, then turned away, choking back a sob. She brushed a tear from her cheek. “Too honorable, sometimes, but a man like you should never speak ill of someone else, not when you do not know what is happening.”
“Bethany…”
“No, Owen, this is not a problem that requires fixing or attention now. We will be moving forward soon. We don’t know how things will turn out, if we will live or die.” She turned and caressed the cheek she’d slapped. “Do not think on this, for it serves no purpose.”
Owen glanced at the floor, shame burning its way onto his face. Here they were, on the brink of attacking a superior foe, and he was allowing himself to become embroiled in emotions which had no use in the current situation. His frustration at wondering why the message had been sent had opened him to directing darker emotions at Rathfield. Owen never had taken to the man, but Rathfield had been respectful and showed great courage on the battlefield. He had to respect him for that.
He took Bethany’s hand in his. “Thank you. I shall not go looking for ghosts where none may exist.”
“Good.”
His brow furrowed. “There is the other possibility, and this is one we cannot ignore.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone else believes there is a way to move messages quickly, and believes that message would involve magick that we know would be considered heretical. That person puts pressure on Catherine to find out about it and she goes to the Princess with this outlandish tale, knowing it will be sent. My reply, or even just an assurance by the Princess that things will be handled, would be enough to confirm suspicions.”
Bethany nodded. “Bishop Bumble.”
“That’s my thinking.” Owen shook his head. “The Prince needs to be informed. No matter what happens out here, I have a feeling the real battle resides in Temperance Bay.”
Chapter Fifty-eight
28 May 1768 Fort Plentiful, Plentiful Richlan, Mystria
Prince Vlad eased his left arm out of the sling and worked it up and down. It’s didn’t hurt as much as feel tight. He couldn’t lift much with his left hand-at least nothing heavier than the locket his wife had given him, but he didn’t want the limb to get stiff. He smiled as Mugwump twitched his wing sympathetically. Vlad patted him on the muzzle, then turned to Count von Metternin.
“I am sorry, my friend, to be leaving the most dangerous part of this campaign to you.”
The smaller man smiled, waving away the suggestion. “No, it makes perfect sense. And you do me credit to say you are saving the mission for me, but I know you are leaving Mugwump in charge of it.”
“I am leaving both of you in charge.”
Mugwump snorted confidently.
In forming a campaign that would surprise Rufus, Vlad had broken down all those things which Rufus knew about how war was waged. The Prince had no doubt that, in his own mind, Rufus saw himself as a grand hero. Whatever possessed him would have no basis upon which to judge otherwise. Because of this, Vlad needed to fashion the sort of campaign that Rufus would not expect him to fashion.
The greatest part of that plan was to use the foresters to cut a road that ran directly from Fort Plentiful to Octagon. Rufus had not been part of the road-building crew during the Anvil Lake campaign, but he had returned along their road on the way to Hattersburg. He’d certainly gotten an earful about how hard it had been, and yet how vital it was to have such a road built. Vlad had every reason to expect Rufus to allow them to waste their time building the road. This would let him know they were coming, and he would have time to prepare his defenses.
Toward this end, Vlad would have von Metternin and Mugwump lead a small group of soldiers and foresters to build the road. The soldiers would be the wounded men and women left in Fort Plentiful, and they would wear the uniforms of General Rathfield’s Fifth Northland Cavalry. Meanwhile, ranging widely, troops would swing south and north, converging on Octagon, to strike before the Norghaest were prepared to repel them.
The Count rose from his chair and leaned heavily on a cane. “We will go slowly, Highness. A mile or two a day, no more. At that rate, it will be mid-June by the time we would arrive.”
Vlad massaged his temples. “If he strikes at you quickly…”
“There is no preventing our deaths, save by the success of your attack.” Von Metternin glanced west. “It is you I pity. You must all have cold camps so that smoke cannot be spotted. You have to move slowly, always alert. You need to prepare the battlefield and haul things with you. You’ve done much to prepare, but what comes will be the worst.”
The Prince exhaled mightily, his breath steaming. “So many elements for which I cannot account. The Shedashee and Msitazi being sent to their death, Ezekiel Fire along with them. Owen, Ian, and the Fifth likewise doomed.”
“If you do not succeed, Highness, we all die.”
“And even if I do succeed, many of us will die.” He looked from the Count to Mugwump and back. “Is this why my father never wished to wear the crown? Having to make plans, knowing men will die, there is a weight to it, you know. A crushing weight. Knowing I might not see my wife, my children, my coming child. I wonder if the pain of Hell is just eternity spent with the gravity of your regrets plaguing you.”
“Not quite hellfire, but quite devilish enough.”
Vlad nodded. “Joachim, I have a small casket in my tent. In it are papers. There is letter for my wife. There is a packet of papers I wish to go to Laureate du Malphias.”
“Indeed.”
“What I have learned about magick and the Church cannot be allowed to vanish. I know giving it to du Malphias is a terrible thing, a treasonous thing, but I am reminded that he destroyed his own pasmortes. It may be that he did not want us to learn from them. He told Owen he was bored with them. I fear that my aunt and Duke Deathridge would find them endlessly fascinating and of a utilitarian nature.”
“I shall, should it come to that, be certain it is delivered.” Von Metternin smiled. “I was thinking of sending Mr. Dunsby back with similar packets. He intends to marry soon, and I would not have him die here.”
