‘I’m sorry about your friends,’ said Jakon.
He could see that Taybard was suffering, and he wanted to put his hand on his shoulder the way Mulgrave had for the Grey Ghost. But he couldn’t. Instead he stood and walked away. It was then that he realized the tunic no longer stank.
‘Now there’s a thing,’ he said aloud.
The Finance was a handsome man, tall and broad-shouldered, his features rugged. He was a fine rider, and was enjoying immensely the feeling of power as he rode his favourite black stallion, and gazed at his marching army.
He had longed for this moment for some twenty-five years. He and the Moidart had never been friends. Their parents and their ancestors had ruled adjoining lands for centuries, and there were always squabbles and ill feeling. The hatred the Finance felt for the Moidart was not, however, born of ancestral disputes. It came to life the day Rayena Tremain had married the Moidart. Even thinking about it now – on this day of looming triumph – caused his stomach to tighten.
Though he would never admit it to others, Rayena Tremain had been the love of the Finance’s life. He had adored her to the point of worship, and had come to believe that she felt the same.
Looking back from the vastness of his fifty years the Finance knew now that Rayena had been a feckless and unreliable woman, given to small acts of spite, and larger acts of betrayal. But back then she had been a goddess, and the centre of his life. Unfortunately for him, the Moidart’s lands and his tax revenues were far in excess of those enjoyed by the Finance and his family, and she had chosen her husband on this basis. And so the gorgeous Rayena had become the mistress of Eldacre Castle.
Two years later she was dead – slain, it was claimed, by assassins seeking to kill the Moidart. What nonsense.
By then many of the northern noblemen had heard of her disgusting affair with a clan chieftain, and had wondered why the Moidart did not put her aside. When the news came that she was dead the Finance knew in his heart that the Moidart had killed her. He had voiced these feelings to his father, who had dismissed the idea. ‘The Moidart himself was stabbed and is close to death. No, my son, put the thought from your mind.’
In the years that followed the Finance had gathered information about the attack. None of the guards had seen the attackers. Not a single servant had glimpsed men running from the manor house. All they saw was the strangled Rayena and the stabbed Moidart. One piece of information, from a surgeon who attended the stricken earl, brought the pieces of the story together. He said there was blood on the right hand of the murdered woman, though there were no cuts to her flesh. The Finance had guessed the truth then. The Moidart was not attacked by assailants. He was stabbed by his wife as he murdered her.
Now, twenty-five years later, he would pay for this sickening crime. He would pay for robbing the Finance of his one true chance at happiness.
Five thousand musketeers were marching at the head of the column, flanked by outriding scouts seeking signs of enemy defensive lines. There were none. As the Finance had expected, the Moidart had drawn back into Eldacre Castle, secure in the knowledge that the Finance had no cannon as yet. They were coming, however, and within days he would have the Moidart in chains.
Rarely had the Finance experienced such sweetness of anticipation.
Twelve thousand men now marched under his command, and soon he would be the most powerful earl in the north. It was a shame they would have to breach the walls of Eldacre, for it was a fine castle, and would have made an excellent seat of government. I will have it rebuilt, he thought.
A horseman cantered his mount along the column, and drew in alongside the Finance. The earl felt his good mood begin to evaporate as he glanced at the red-cloaked Redeemer. He did not like the man.