08 A Little Hatred: Book One (The Age of Madness)

She put gentle fingertips on Savine’s cheek. ‘What’s your name?’ She didn’t recognise her. No surprise. Savine barely recognised herself.

‘Ardee,’ she whispered. Her mother’s name was the first she could think of, and she felt a burning pain building at the back of her nose, and gave a great snotty sob, and started to cry. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried. She wasn’t sure she ever had. ‘Thank you,’ she blubbered. ‘Thank you—’

The girl was frowning down at her chest and Savine realised her foul coat had fallen open. Ruined though it was, one of the bones poking from torn silk, there was no mistaking the quality of her corset. Only a fool could doubt this belonged to a very rich lady, with servants to get her into it. And one look in this girl’s sharp eyes told Savine she was no fool.

She opened her mouth. To blurt some story. Puke some lie. But all that came out was a stuttering croak. She had nothing left.

May’s eyes moved up from that ruined embroidery that had been a month of some poor woman’s labour. Then she calmly pulled the coat closed over it.

‘You’re safe now,’ she said. ‘I’ll take her inside.’ And she helped Savine to her feet, and towards a doorway. ‘Reckon she’s had quite a day.’

Savine clung to her and blubbed like a baby.

The Man of Action

The Steadfast Standard snapped majestically, such miraculous needlework that its white horse rampant seemed to rear upon the breeze against a sun of cloth-of-gold, the names of glorious Union victories glittering about its edge. The very flag under which Casamir the Steadfast had conquered Angland, now held perfectly straight in Corporal Tunny’s gnarled fist, martial prowess distilled into a square of cloth.

There was a rousing rattle of arms and armour as the men spun towards Orso, stomped down their left heels and saluted in perfect unison. Five hundred soldiers, moving as one, sun glinting from their freshly forged equipment. A mere tenth part of his newly raised expeditionary force, fully prepared to sail north and give Stour Nightfall a resounding kick up the arse.

Orso probably shouldn’t have said it himself, but it was quite a stirring spectacle.

He returned their salute with a flourish he had been perfecting in front of the mirror. He had to admit he liked wearing a uniform. It gave him the novel feeling of being a man of action. Furthermore, as well cut and starched as this one was, no casual observer could have suspected his paunch had been on the increase lately.

Colonel Forest grinned as he looked the soldiers over. That open, honest grin that seemed to represent the very best of the Union common man. Earthy, dependable, loyal. A stout yeoman if ever there was one, with his stocky build, and his pronounced facial scar, and his lustrous grey moustaches, and his campaign-worn fur hat.

‘As fine a body of fighting men as I ever saw, Your Highness,’ he said. ‘And I’ve seen a few.’

They had chosen to call themselves the Crown Prince’s Division. Well, Orso had let them choose the name and Forest had no doubt suggested it. Or more likely insisted on it. Even so, Orso was hugely pleased by the compliment. Perhaps because, for once, he felt he had done the slightest something towards deserving it.

‘What d’you think, Hildi?’ he asked.

‘Very shiny,’ she said. With characteristic enterprise, she had wangled an embroidered drummer-boy’s uniform to go with her battered cap and now looked quite the soldier. Why not? She had, after all, no less military experience than Orso.

‘What d’you think, Gorst?’ he asked.

‘A fine body of men, Your Highness.’ Orso had to stop himself wincing. However often one heard that piping voice, one never quite got comfortable with it. ‘You are to be congratulated.’

‘Nonsense. All I did was stand here.’ And spend Savine’s money, and smile, and develop a top-quality salute, anyway. ‘You’re the one who did the work, Colonel Forest!’

‘Colonel bloody Forest,’ muttered Tunny, shaking his head as if at unbearable affectations, while Yolk, always keen to follow his leader, gave a sneer to match.

Forest ignored them. At ignoring Tunny, as at so many things, he appeared steeped in experience. ‘They’ve all served before, Your Highness. Some fought in the North. Most fought in Styria. All I did was remind ’em how to go about the business, and that’s no more than my job.’

‘Men can do their jobs badly but you’ve done yours bloody well. I’m lucky to have you.’ And Orso gave Forest the special smile. The one he reserved for moments of actual happiness.