The Painting (Rise of the Witch Guard Book 2) Read online

  “We have a duty to our people,” Ernest said.

  “What is this really about, Ernest?” Falon shouted in her friend’s face and then a thought occurred to her…a terrible, horrible thought. She quickly re-mastered herself and gentled her voice, “Did something happen, Ern?” she said softly. “You know…to Duncan?”

  Ernest’s lower lip trembled and he lowered his head, his shoulders hunched and he quickly shook it in silent negation.

  “Then what is it, Ern?” she asked quietly.

  “Duncan almost died, Fal,” Ernest all but wept, “and we thought ye were dead! We really did—I did. Please forgive me, but he’d lost so much blood.”

  “It’s okay,” Falon said reaching forward and clutching him by the upper arms, “you did what you had to. I blame no one.”

  Tears were now flowing down his face. “There was so much blood, Fal,” he pleaded, “we had to get him back. They almost didn’t save him in time. Please don’t be angry that we left ye,” he whispered, “we really didn’t know ye were still alive.”

  “I’m not angry,” Falon assured him, not exactly sure what she was feeling. Hurt, maybe, but whatever it was it certainly wasn’t anger.

  “When I think of the wolves and what they could have done…” Ernest shuddered.

  “Ernest, stay focused,” Falon snapped her fingers in his face, “look at me. In the eyes,” she patiently waited until he had, “now tell me: did something happen to Duncan?”

  “He almost died…I was so scared Falon. Ye have no idea how much,” Ernest repeated and then took a deep shuddering breath, “or maybe ye do. Left out there all alone with the dead,” he seemed to gather himself and then met her gaze evenly, “Duncan’s going to be okay.”

  “Are you sure?” Falon demanded, feeling something inside her start to unclench. Ernest nodded, and that set her at ease.

  “It was touch and go for almost a day but the Wench says he’ll be fine,” Ernest explained as he released a shuddering breath.

  Falon closed her eyes in relief. “Then I don’t understand what the problem is, Ernest,” Falon said firmly. “Your family needs you; your brother is still alive, and he needs you. Why this business of heading back off to war? It sounds crazy…or am I projecting my fear onto you and you never had any intention of…?” she trailed off slowly.

  “No, you’re right,” Ernest’s voice broke on the admission, “if he’ll have me, then I’m joining the Captain. They say he’s recruiting men from the entire army for the Prince’s expedition.”

  “By the Lady…why, Ernest?” Falon pleaded, trying to understand. “Let’s go home and live our lives in peace. We can be neighbors and come over to visit during the winter when there’s no work in the fields left to do. We earned this peace!”

  Ernest’s mouth twisted. “Duncan was hurt bad, Fal—” he said but Falon cut him off.

  “You just said he’ll be fine!” she couldn’t help but exclaim.

  “He was hurt bad,” Ernest repeated doggedly, “but like you said, he’ll make a full recovery…he’ll be fine.”

  “Exactly,” Falon declared with obvious exasperation.

  “I wasn’t hurt near as bad,” Ernest said his face pale. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before leaning over and tapping his left knee. “Not nearly as bad, Fal,” he repeated, as if by saying it again something would be different than what it was.

  “At least you still have a leg,” Falon barked, “I’ve seen you walk on it. Others have it a lot worse.”

  “His Lordship said that because we stopped the Cavalry, our entire village will be exempted from taxes for the next three years,” Ernest said, changing the subject abruptly, “that’s in addition to the time we’d already earned.”

  “What does any of this have to do with you going and trying to throw your life away?!” Falon demanded, her voice becoming high and shrill with emotion. She could feel herself losing her friend with each and every word he spoke.

  “She shattered my knee, that maid she did,” Ernest said, “they almost had to amputate.”

  There was a pause between them. “I’m sorry, Ern,” Falon said, swallowing twice so that she was able to show the proper empathy the situation required, instead of harping on him like an angry fishwife—like he deserved!

  “I have both legs and I can walk,” the farm boy said firmly.

  “But?” Falon sighed feeling her shoulders slump. He wasn’t listening to her, and what was worse he seemed to think he had already thought the entire affair through.

  “But there’s no way I can walk behind a plow all day with this leg. I don’t qualify for the Lord’s pension like this,” Ernest said with determination, “not that a few coppers a month would be enough, even with the tax break, to take care of the family. I could never get a wife and start my own…not without risking starvation during a harsh winter.”

  “There’s got to be another way,” Falon insisted. Then she decided to throw caution to the wind; who cared about future repercussions down the road, a boy’s life was at stake, “Maybe I could hire you to work my family’s estate?”

  “Your family couldn’t afford it,” Ernest denied, “you try to hide it but we could tell.”

  Falon couldn’t say anything to that, although she wanted to.

  “Besides, it’s not like ye’re the Squire and I saved yer life. I have my pride, and this is a way I could support myself and remove a burden from my family,” Ernest said firmly. “And o’ course, Duncan can do the job of helping Father run the farm, until our younger brothers are old enough to help.”

  “But if you can’t walk for long, how do you imagine you can march and keep up with the army?” Falon pointed out.

  “I’ve been talking with the Healers,” Ernest said with a weak smile, “I can’t bend it far enough right now, but they say with a little work I could probably get to where I could sit a horse.”

  “You want to join the Cavalry?!” Falon was shocked. From crippled, to riding a horse with the nobles all in one breath, Ernest certainly didn’t dream small.

  “I can drive a wagon until the swelling goes down, and I can start working on making my leg more limber,” Ernest said with determination. “After that, well, I still have some spoils from my share of what we lifted off the field. With what I’m not planning to send home to my parents, maybe I can afford to get a horse? Or at least a donkey like your Bucket—not that I’m in any way askin’ to buy yours!” he added hurriedly. “I know how important he is to your little brother. I’m just talkin’ a donkey in general until we win a few skirmishes with the barbarians and I can afford something better.”

  “Oh, Ernest,” Falon said with a feeling of pity for the boy, then her face firmed up. He didn’t need her pity; if anything he needed her support, what little she could give him before she went home. “What do you want me to do?” Falon asked, holding herself still.

  Ernest smiled weakly. “Maybe you could approach the Captain for me? Fame, glory and money those are things I don’t have. So there’s no reason he should want to take on a half cripple. But if you put in the good word and tell him how good I can ride a horse normally, then maybe he’ll let me sign on.”

  “Ernest, you don’t ride…I mean, at all; you’re worse than—” Falon bit her tongue. “And then?” Falon asked neutrally, waiting for the shoe to drop, “What else can I do?”

  “Just ask if there’s room in his new Company for me Fal, that’s all,” Ernest replied, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

  “I can do that for you, Ernest,” Falon said, feeling as if her heart was being ripped out of her at the promise to help the boy go off to get himself killed. Maybe there’s a chance he would make it, she thought to herself. Then she shook her head as she realized that was beyond improbable.

  “Thanks, Falon,” Ernest said softly.

  “What are friends for?” Falon shrugged. Feeling as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders, she turned away and pointed herself in the direction of
the Captain’s tent.

  Soonest begun was half done, as Mama Patience had used to say. So steeling herself for another stomach-twisting journey, Falon set off. Besides, she told herself, I still need to let the Captain know I’m alive…if only so I can formally take my leave.

  The last thing she needed was to go back home only to be accused of cowardice and running away from the battlefield, especially when she had actually stood tall in the face of the enemy.

  Chapter 2: Mustering Out…or is it Mustering In?

  When Falon approached the Captain’s tent, she was surprised to see her Valet standing outside the entrance rolling a twig around in his mouth and whistling tunelessly. Or, perhaps more accurate than calling him ‘her’ Valet, he should be called John the Page. He was once again proudly wearing the Lamont colors on a tabard across his chest.

  “Mister Lieutenant,” John acknowledged, and then stopped short. The twig fell out of his mouth and hit the grass under his feet, “B-b-but…you’re dead!”

  “Do I really look bad enough to qualify as a ghost?” Falon asked, arching an eyebrow.

  John just gaped at her.

  “Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated,” she said, drawing herself up to her most stiffly noble pose, quoting a line from one of Papa’s old books. After a few seconds, the strain this put on her belly and flank wounds was too great to bear, and she slumped down again. When it was obvious that John was just going to keep staring at her, Falon rolled her eyes at the guards standing behind the boy and to either side of the entrance.

  The guards laughed and snickered, causing the Page to snap his mouth shut. He still stared at her with the wide-eyed gaze of a rabbit that had just seen the shadow of a hawk pass over it.

  “How are you doing, John?” she sighed. It was clear the teenage boy, at least, wasn’t seeing the humor in the situation.

  “I’m f-fine, Mister Lieutenant Falon,” John stuttered.

  “Just ‘Falon’ or ‘Lieutenant’ will do,” Falon said, shaking her head, “it’s good to see you’re alive and well.”

  “Thanks,” John replied, regaining his composure.

  “I lost track of you sometime after we broke their lines,” Falon said curiously, “how did you make out?”

  “Fine…” John said, looking like a possum caught in the lamp light.

  “Were you there when we received the Cavalry? I’ll admit I was too busy with forming up the lines to pay much attention to…” she trailed off at John’s rapidly shaking head.

  “I was running messages,” he said faintly.

  “Messages,” Falon said with rising surprise, then stopped herself. If he’d been running messages, they certainly hadn’t been sent by her.

  “Between a Sergeant and the Captain, and then back and forth between the Captain and his Lordship,” John said weakly, “I even ran one between Lord Lamont and His Highness.”

  “Right,” Falon said pursing her lips. He had been running errands and messages safely back behind the lines. Well, perhaps it wasn’t exactly safe, but still…

  She didn’t know why she felt like this was somehow a betrayal, seeing John wearing his Lordship’s colors and admitting to have ‘wandered off’ doing one of the official jobs she had given him: messenger boy. Even if he hadn’t been running those messages for me, she thought as she gritted her teeth.

  Then she forcibly smoothed out her features. There was no reason to take out her frustrations on the boy. It wasn’t fair to expect him to stand and fight like a man twice his size, nor to be mad at him when he found a way to keep himself useful.

  She realized she had been unconsciously discriminating against him, and had been doing so because she was a girl. If she could stand in the line against full-grown warrior men, then why couldn’t he? That kind of thinking was just, plain, wrong.

  So even though it hurt her face muscles, she forced a smile.

  “Right,” she repeated just for something to say, “well, it’s good you found a way to keep yourself useful after we advanced behind their militia lines.”

  John looked almost pathetically grateful for her not shouting him out and causing a scene.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Falon,” John said and then drew himself up his full height, such as it was. “Let me announce you to the Captain and his Lordship. It’ll just take a second; I’m sure they’ll be happy you’re still alive!”

  “His Lordship is here?” Falon said taken aback.

  John started for the tent flap, seemingly oblivious to her query.

  “Wait!” Falon called out. “There’s no need to announce me, it can…wait,” she sighed. Her former Valet hadn’t paid her any attention in his eagerness to enter the Captain’s tent and announce her.

  A moment later he came back out the flap. “They’re ready to see you, now,” John said with a half grin that quickly faded away.

  “Sure,” Falon replied, but then thinking that might be a touch too lackluster, she forced a smile, “thank you, John.”

  “My job,” John, the once-again-Page said, holding up the flap and stepping aside.

  Walking into the large campaign tent, Falon saw three men inside: the Captain, Lord Lamont, and his lordship’s Valet, a man she had seen once before and hadn’t much cared for.

  “Lieutenant Falon reporting in, Captain, your Lordship,” she said, schooling her features into what she hoped was a stiff, professional mask.

  “Lieutenant Rankin, now this is a pleasant surprise,” Richard Lamont said, shaking his head slowly from side to side and smiling.

  “Back from the dead, eh, Lieutenant?” Captain Smythe said with a serious expression.

  “Thank you Captain; your Lordship,” Falon said with a bow.

  “What happened, lad?” the Captain asked. Glancing at Lord Lamont, Falon could see that Smythe was speaking for both of them.

  “We were holding position with the wounded,” Falon explained, “when the Princess and her entourage came upon us. The men were eager to capture her for the honor of the Prince and…” she trailed off and closed her eyes, “they rode right through us. The Princess was wickedly effective with her arrows, while her household Knights had at us with their swords. We were being overrun at the point, and they had just reclaimed a fallen Lady Maid when I was incapacitated. For the rest, I’m sure the Captain is as well or even better informed than myself; I’ve been laying in a healing tent with a wound that’s taken longer to mend than expected.”

  “Oh?” Lord Lamont inquired raising a single eyebrow.

  Falon winced and lifted the hem of her tunic, exposing the sewn together exit wound in her belly, and then she shifted to the side to display her flank.

  The two men winced. “Can’t they just seal that thing up like they usually do?” his Lordship asked.

  “They said not,” Falon replied truthfully, “something about the nature of the wound makes it difficult or impossible. I don’t really understand it.”

  “Well,” Richard Lamont said after a brief pause, and Falon couldn’t help but admire the way he was able to close the subject and move on all in one single word, “it seems you are fortunate to have survived such a wound.”

  “Thank you, your Lordship,” Falon said, somewhat at a loss for what else to say.

  “I am satisfied,” Richard Lamont continued, cutting his eyes briefly to meet the gaze of the Captain, who nodded in agreement.

  “A brave stand against superior forces,” Smythe agreed.

  Falon’s breath almost whooshed out of her when she realized that they had been questioning her as much to determine if she’d turned coward and run, as to discover what had happened to her.

  “I couldn’t really say,” she finally bit out when it became clear a response was expected from her.

  “Breaking their lines and then holding firm against the Raven Cavalry were both worthy deeds,” Lamont assured her, drawing himself up. “I am pleased to say that my faith in your being a true member of your bloodline was not in any way misplaced.
It is in no small part thanks to your actions that the Captain here was able to break their Right Wing, which in turn allowed his Highness the Prince Marshal to smash the Ravenguard Army.”

  “I did the best I could, but it was really the men under me who made whatever I did possible,” Falon said, wide-eyed at being acknowledged, at least in some small part, as having directly contributed to the success of the battle. “And I had a great Corporal.”

  Lord Lamont raised an eyebrow and turned ever so slightly toward the Captain while still keeping his gaze firmly rooted on Falon.

  “A foreigner who has been offered retention in the army, as well as a promotion to Sergeant,” Smythe said hastily.

  “Excellent, then combined with the boon granted to the militia band itself, nothing more needs to be said on those two matters,” Lord Lamont said, bestowing a smile on the Captain.

  “Yes, Sir,” said the Captain.

  “Thank you for the tax reprieve, Lord Lamont,” Falon said, actually feeling appreciative of the gesture. “I know the families of the men who were killed or crippled will both need and appreciate it.”

  “I have agreed to pension a number of your militia men,” Richard Lamont allowed, “but as I said, it has been taken care of and is of no further matter as far as it relates to our discussion here. As of now, we must turn our thoughts and attention to the future.”

  “Yes,” Falon agreed with such reverence that she could see the looks the men gave her, and she colored in response. She hadn’t meant to show just how eager she was to go home—at least not yet!

  “For his services to the Crown, Prince William has decided that Captain Smythe, the man who led the battalion that crushed the enemy’s Right Wing, must be elevated to the status and station of a Knight of the Realm,” explained Lord Lamont.

  “Congratulations, Captain Smythe— I mean, Sir,” Falon said, turning to Smythe with a genuine grin. Despite everything else that might have happened, this was one thing she could be genuinely happy about.

  For the first time since she had met him, Falon got to see the Captain’s balding head start to turn red with embarrassment. Seeing him also having to bite his tongue on a few choice remarks was just extra toppings on the moment.