Honor among thieves

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Through the stout oak door, Croy could hear the voices of men outside the holdfast. He could not tell how many of them there were, nor whose men they might be-they could be barbarians, or bandits, or any manner of evil pursuers.

“I can hear a fire crackling in there,” one man said, quite close to the door.

“Aye-and I heard clanking armor,” another said, fainter.

“So what if there’s someone inside?” the first voice argued. “I’m cold, and tired, and hungry. We’ll make short work of ’em and have the place to-”

Croy wrenched the door open and saw a terrified face staring back at him. He grabbed the man by the throat, then pulled him inside and slammed the door behind him before the others could force their way in. He dropped the bar across the door, sealing it again, then whirled around with Ghostcutter’s point to face the man he’d drawn in.

The intruder fell backward, to clatter on the floor, his kettle hat sliding down over his eyes. He reached up to move the helmet but Croy batted his hand away with the flat of Ghostcutter.

“Who are you?” Croy demanded.

The man seemed too frightened to answer. He was dressed in canvas jack, with iron plates sewn to his elbows and shoulders. He wore a hanger at his belt-more dagger than sword, but deadly enough. The man made no attempt to reach for his weapon.

Croy placed the point of Ghostcutter against his throat. “You wear the harness of a soldier of the king,” he said. “If you’re true to your coat, you’ll find no enemy here.”

“G-G-Gavin,” the man choked out.

“That’s your name, Gavin? Where did you serve?”

“At Helstrow, milord,” Gavin said. He reached up slowly to adjust the brim of his helmet. Croy allowed it. “You’re Sir Croy!”

Croy didn’t deny it.

“Milord, I beg you-have mercy. I only sought shelter here!”

“And you would have taken it from me, by force of arms,” Croy said, nodding.

Gavin’s eyes were wide with fright. “How long have you been in here? Since the battle? You don’t know what it’s like out there! The barbarians harry the countryside. They kill any man they find, take any woman. They burn villages and ravage good crop land. Any place with a roof over your head, any place safe, is worth fighting for.”

“And the king was good enough to give you arms to fight with,” Croy said. He tapped the knife at Gavin’s belt, then the helmet on the soldier’s head. “How many others are with you?”

“Seven. All that’s left of my company. Please, milord-just let me go in peace.”

Croy stepped away from the man on the floor. He unbarred the door and cracked it open. Beyond he could see men peering back at him. They looked more frightened than Gavin. “You’ll come inside one at a time, and drop all your weapons as you enter. At the slightest sign of treachery I’ll cut Gavin to pieces. Understood?”

The men outside nodded eagerly.

Croy allowed them to file inside. They were filthy after days of crawling through mud, and their pale faces had the haunted eyes of men who’d seen too much bloodshed. They obeyed his instructions, dropping even their belt knives. One had a shield. He made to hold onto it, but Croy smacked it with Ghostcutter so it rang. All of the men jumped at the sound.

“A shield’s as good as a mace, in the right hands,” he said. “Drop it.”

The soldier did as he was told.

“Good,” Croy said. “Now. There’s soup in that pot. If you’re hungry.”

Six of them fell on the soup, making cups of their hands in the absence of proper bowls. Only Gavin seemed able to resist. Perhaps because he’d seen something so astonishing he’d forgotten his appetite.

“Sir Croy,” he said, after a moment. “Is that-”

“Aye,” Croy said, moving to stand over the sleeping form of Ulfram V. “This is your sovereign. You see now why I am so careful about what guests I entertain.”

Two of the men at the pot broke away to kneel and make the sign of the Lady on their breasts, the proper form of reverence for men of their station. The rest were too hungry-or not devout enough-to stop their feasting.

“He’s wounded,” Gavin said, his eyes wide.

“He sleeps. I cannot rouse him. Were any of you apothecaries or herbalists, before you became soldiers?”

The men stared up at him in incomprehension. No, of course they hadn’t been healers. Croy knew his luck wasn’t running in that direction these days. They had probably been farmers, like ninety-nine men out of a hundred in Ulfram’s army. Like ninety-nine of every hundred men in Skrae. Farmers conscripted, given a day or two of training, and then armed and put to service before they knew what was happening.

Croy turned away from them. “Eat, Gavin,” he commanded. “What was the last food you had?”

“A bit of bread three days ago,” the soldier told him. “Thank you, milord.”

Croy nodded. While Gavin went to the soup pot, Croy sat down by Ulfram’s head. He placed the point of Ghostcutter against the earthen floor and leaned on it, his forehead resting on the pommel. “What news have you of the war?”

One of the men-not Gavin-answered. “War’s lost,” he said, shaking his head. “The barbarian has all this land for himself, and none dare oppose him.”

“I saw them sending riders toward Redweir. Scouts before an invading force,” Croy said. “They don’t think it’s over yet.”

The soldier threw up his hands. “I never been to Redweir. Don’t know nobody down there. Why should I care what happens to them?”

Croy closed his eyes for a moment. If he could trust these men, if they could stand watch while he slept-but no. Not yet.

“Has any man seen Sir Hew, or Sir Rory?” he asked.

The soldiers looked at each other as if afraid to answer. “Everyone says they perished in the rout,” Gavin answered between sips of lukewarm soup. “Of course, they say the same of you, milord. And-And your master, there.”

“They think him dead?” Croy asked, suddenly looking up. That might actually be the first bit of good news he’d heard. If the general wisdom was that the king had died in the battle, then perhaps the barbarians thought so, too. At the very least that would mean they weren’t actively looking for him.

“Good, good,” Croy said. “We’ll let them think that until we’re ready to surprise them with the truth. When we’ve gathered our men in secret-all those who survived the battle. All those who would stand under the king’s banner. There must be others like you, others who fought and were defeated but not destroyed. Others ready to rise again, true men of Skrae, bloodied but not beaten, and when-”

He stopped because he’d caught the men looking at each other again. Like they shared a secret they didn’t want to give him.

Croy frowned but said nothing for a while. He waited until the men had finished eating. Then he asked, quite carefully, “Where was your company posted, during the battle?”

Gavin looked away as he answered. “We were billeted in the western part of town, in an old almshouse. We didn’t get word that the battle had been joined, not until the barbarian was already inside the gate.”

Croy nodded. “And when word did come, that the fortress was in full distress. Where did your serjeants send you then?”

Another conspiratorial glance.

Croy knew what their shared silence meant. These men had not been part of the fighting. They had probably never had a chance to draw their weapons. If they escaped Helstrow before the barbarians took the western gate, then they must have left even before he himself fled with the king over his shoulder.

These men weren’t battle-hardened veterans. They were deserters.

“Never mind, don’t answer,” he said. There were some things he didn’t want to know. Like whether Gavin and his men had deserted the fortress unhindered-or whether they’d had to fight and perhaps kill their own serjeants before they were allowed to go. Whether they were craven cowards, or, much worse, traitors.

Either way, he knew he would not be sleeping for some time yet. He couldn’t leave the king’s safety in such hands.

Honor-the vows he’d taken-the principles on which his life was built-all demanded that he bring these men to justice, if they were guilty. That he slay them on the spot. That was the penalty for desertion in every army Croy had heard of.

But the fortunes of war could play havoc with honor, he thought. Fear could do strange things to a man’s heart. So he decided to temper his anger with mercy. He would watch Gavin and his crew closely-but he wouldn’t slay them in the name of justice, not yet. Not until they’d had another chance to prove themselves.

“The past is the past. You’re here, now, and that’s what matters,” he said. “Here where you can still serve your king. We’ll need to make a litter for him, something two men can carry. We won’t get far if I have to keep him over my shoulder.”

“Milord, you aren’t thinking of going out there,” Gavin said carefully, pointing toward the door, “when we’ve safety and warmth right here?”

“Just as soon as we’ve all had a chance to rest,” Croy told him.

The war wasn’t over. Not while Ulfram V still lived.