Текст книги "Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade"

Автор книги: Diana Gabaldon

Соавторы: Diana Gabaldon,Diana Gabaldon
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Grey nodded, and went to find Hal, unsettled by the news about von Namtzen, but glad to hear that at least Stephan was recovering. Just inside the door of the guildhall, a phalanx of trumpeters raised their horns and blew a salute that ruffled the banners that hung from the ceiling, announcing the ceremonious arrival of Duke Ferdinand.

“Well, now we’re for it,” Hal muttered, watching a servant fill his glass in preparation for the first toast.

“Here is to our glorious victory!” said the man beside him in German, beaming.

“Here’s to us being able to walk out of here without help,” Hal replied in English, smiling cordially.

The overall result of this affair was firstly that desired by the occasion—the introduction of the commanders to one another, and the creation of a sense of joint grandeur and invincibility. The secondary result was what might be expected after three hours of continuous drinking of toasts, during which it would be considered unthinkably discourteous for anyone to leave the table.

Grey was beginning to suffer serious discomfort, and to be sure that Tom had forgotten after all, when he felt the servant who stood behind his chair turn aside for a moment, then lean over. He moved his foot gently and found the empty magnum that had been placed beneath his chair.

“Thank you,” Grey said, in heartfelt relief. He grinned across the table at Hal, who was also looking somewhat tense, though keeping up appearances nobly. “Do the same for my brother, would you?”

It was well past midnight by the time the dinner was concluded, and the commanders and senior officers of the allied Hanoverian army staggered out into the cool spring night, most of them dashing for the nearest sheltering wall or tree.

The Greys, in no such need, strolled with smug insouciance through the dark streets toward the inn where they were quartered, talking randomly of the evening, the personalities encountered, and their private opinions regarding the history, ability, and expected effectiveness of the aforementioned.

Grey was filled with a pleasant sense of well-being, brought on by two or three quarts of wine and spirits, and a sense of anticipation regarding the coming campaign. It was true that he and Percy would not have the sort of intimacy they had been allowed in London—but they would be in each other’s company, sharing adventure and a camaraderie of the spirit. As for that of the body…well, opportunity did occur now and then—and at the worst, they had winter to look forward to, and the privacy and freedom of Rome.

Buoyed by these pleasant thoughts and the brilliant light of a full moon, it was some time before he realized that Hal was not sharing his elation, but was pacing along with his head down, evidently weighed down by some preoccupation.

“What’s the matter?” Grey asked. “Were we slighted in some manner that I didn’t notice?”

“What?” Hal glanced at him, surprised. “Oh. No, of course not. I was only thinking that I wished it had been France.”

“Well, France has its advantages,” Grey said judiciously, “quite aside from the fact that it’s full of Frenchmen. But I think we’ll do well enough here.”

“Ass,” Hal said again, though without heat. “It’s nothing to do with the campaign; that’s all right—we may be in the minority here, but I think we shall have a good deal more autonomy under Ferdinand than we might under Frederick. No,” he continued, frowning at the uneven cobbles in the street, “I wanted France because of the Jacobite exiles there.”

“Oh?” The word “Jacobite” pricked a hole in the soap bubble of Grey’s intoxication, and he put out a hand to ward off a passing tree. “Why?”

He hadn’t told Hal anything regarding his inquiries of Jamie Fraser; no need, unless they came to something. They had seen Sir George and Lady Stanley safely embarked for Havana, the week before their own sailing, and in the frantic rush of embarkation, Grey had not spared a single thought for the puzzle surrounding his father’s death. No more journal pages had surfaced; no further attacks had been made. The whole business seemed to have vanished, as suddenly as it had begun.

“Nothing, probably. Only I had a name or two, from Bath—”

“Bath?” Grey said, stumbling slightly. “What the bloody hell is in Bath?”

Hal glanced at him, then made a small gesture of resignation.

“Victor Arbuthnot,” he said.

For a few moments, Grey could not place the name, but then it came to him.

“Father’s old friend? The one he did astronomy with?”

Hal snorted.

“He may have done astronomy, but his friendship is questionable. He was the man who presumably denounced Father as a Jacobite conspirator.”

“He—what?” Grey came to an abrupt halt, staring. The moon was bright enough that his brother’s face was fully visible. He could see that Hal was at least as drunk as he was, though still able to walk and speak. “You found him—and you let him live?”

Hal waved a hand impatiently, nearly overbalanced, and gripped a tree.

“Arbuthnot swears he did not. He gave a statement, yes, and bitterly regrets it. I might have done it, too, if they’d done to me what they did to him.” Hal’s jaw tightened a little as he swallowed. “He admitted to being a Jacobite himself, to conspiring with Catholics from Italy and from Ireland, thinking it was safe enough to give their names—but he swears he gave no names of men within England; no one who could be taken up and questioned. And definitely not Father.”

Grey didn’t bother asking why Hal believed Arbuthnot. Plainly he did, and Hal was not a fool.

“Then how does he explain—”

“He doesn’t know. He didn’t write the statement himself—he couldn’t.” Hal’s mouth twisted. “He only signed it—with a man named Bowles tenderly guiding his hand, he said.”

“Bowles,” Grey said slowly. His own insides had surged at the name, and he swallowed several times, to make sure they stayed put. “You…know this Bowles?”

Hal shook his head. “Harry does. Small sadist with a face like a pudding, he says. Intelligencer. You’ve met him?”

“Once,” Grey said, and pulled at his stock, wanting air. “Just the once.”

“Yes, well, I don’t know what he is now, and Arbuthnot didn’t know what he was then—an assistant of some kind, Arbuthnot said. I sent Mr. Beasley to look for the original statement,” Hal added abruptly. “Not to be found.”

“Secret? Or destroyed?”

“Don’t know. He couldn’t find anybody who would admit even to having seen the thing.”

And yet that statement was the basis for the warrant of arrest issued for Gerard Grey, first Duke of Pardloe. The warrant that had never been served.

“Jesus.” They had stopped walking, and without the flow of air across his face, Grey felt his gorge rising. “I think I’m going to puke.”

He did, and stayed bent over for a minute, hands on his thighs, breathing heavily. The purging seemed to have helped, though; he was somewhat light-headed when he stood up, but his mind seemed clearer.

“You said, ‘definitely not Father.’ Do you—or does he, rather—mean that Father wasa Jacobite, but Arbuthnot didn’t denounce him? Or that he wasn’t a Jacobite at all?”

“Naturally he wasn’t a Jacobite,” Hal said, angry. “What are you saying?”

“Well, if he wasn’t—and you know that for a fact—why do you want to talk to Jacobites in France?” He stared at Hal, whose face was pallid in the moonlight, his eyes dark holes.

“He wasn’t,” Hal repeated stubbornly. “I just—I just—wait.” He swallowed visibly, and Grey could see the sheen of sweat on his brow.

Grey nodded, and sat down on a low wall, trying not to hear the retching noises; his own stomach hadn’t quite settled yet, and he felt pale and clammy.

A few minutes later, Hal came back out of the shadows and sat down heavily beside him.

“Damned oysters,” he said. “You oughtn’t to eat oysters in a month without an ‘R’ in it, everyone knows that.” Grey nodded, forbearing to point out that it was March, and they sat still for a time, a cold breeze drying the sweat on their faces.

“You could have told me, Hal,” Grey said quietly. They were sitting on the wall of a churchyard, and the shadow of the church itself covered them in darkness. He could no longer see Hal as anything save an indistinct blur, but could sense him and hear him breathing.

Hal didn’t answer for some time, but finally said, “Told you what?”

“Told me that Father was murdered.” He swallowed, tasting wine and bile. “I—should have liked to be able to speak of it with you.”

He felt the shift of Hal’s weight as his brother turned toward him.

“ Whatdid you say?” Hal whispered.

“I said why could you not have toldme—oh. Oh, Jesus.” His bones turned to water, as he belatedly grasped the horror in his brother’s question. “Jesus, Hal. You didn’t know?”

His brother was absolutely silent.

“You didn’t know,” Grey said, voice shaking as he answered his own question. He turned toward Hal, wondering where the words had come from; he hadn’t any breath at all. “You thought he killed himself. I thought you knew. I thought you always knew.”

He heard Hal draw breath, slowly.

“How do you know this?” Hal said, very calmly.

“I was there.”

Hardly knowing what he said for the roaring in his ears, he told the story of that summer dawn in the conservatory, and the smell of the smashed peach. Heard the echo of that first telling, felt the ghost of Percy warm beside him.

At some point, he realized dimly that Hal’s face was wet with tears. He didn’t realize that he was weeping, as well, until Hal fumbled in his sleeve by reflex, pulled out a handkerchief, and handed it to him.

He mopped his face, scarcely noticing what he did.

“I thought—I was sure that Mother had told you. And that the two of you then had decided that I wasn’t to know. You sent me to Aberdeen.”

Hal was shaking his head, back and forth, like an automaton; Grey could feel, rather than see it, though he made out the movement when Hal wiped his nose heedlessly on his sleeve. It occurred briefly to Grey that he didn’t think he’d seen his brother cry since the death of his first wife.

“That…that cunning old…oh, God. That bloody woman. How could she? And alone—all these years, alone!” Hal covered his face with both hands.

“Why?” Grey felt breath beginning to move in his chest again. “Why in God’s name would she not tell you? I understand her wishing to keep the truth from me, given my age, but—you?”

Hal was beginning to get himself under control, though his voice still cracked, going raggedly from one emotion to another, relief succeeded by dismay, only to be replaced by horror, sorrow giving way to anger.

“Because she knew I’d go after the bastard. And, damn her, she thought he’d kill me, too.” Hal brought a fist down on the wall, making no sound. “God damnit!”

“You think she knew who it was.” Spoken aloud, the words hung in the air between them.

“She knows at least who it might be,” Hal said at last. He stood up and picked up his hat. “Let’s go.”

The brothers walked the rest of the way in silence.

Chapter 24

Skirmish

As one of the battalion’s two majors, Grey held responsibility for roughly four hundred troops. When the army was on the move, it was his duty to ensure that everyone turned up in the right place, more or less at the right time, suitably trained and equipped to do whatever they had been sent to do. As Hal’s acting lieutenant-colonel, it was also his work to be actively in the field when the regiment was engaged, managing the logistics of battle, directing the movements of some twenty-six companies, and carrying out—to the best of his ability—such strategy and tactics as his orders gave him.

Through the entire month of April, the forces of Duke Ferdinand and his English allies had been on the move—but not engaged, owing to the cowardly disinclination of the Duc de Richelieu’s French and Austrian troops to stand still and fight.

Consequently, the army had moved up, down, and side ways to the Rhine Valley for weeks, forcing the French gradually back toward their own border, but never managing to force an engagement.

Consequently, Grey’s daily occupation consisted generally of sixteen hours of argument with Prussian sutlers, Hanoverian mule drivers, and English quartermasters, endless meetings, inspecting and approving—or not—each new campsite, housing, and culinary arrangement, dealing with outbreaks of flux and pox, and dictating orders to—and listening to the excuses for not following said orders—of twenty-six company commanders regarding the behavior, equipment, and disposition of their men.

Grey sought occasional relief from this tedium by going out on patrols with one or another company. The ostensible—and in fact the actual—purpose of this exercise was for him to judge the companies’ readiness and the competence of their officers. So far as he was concerned, the principal benefit of such excursions was to keep him from losing either his temper or his mind.

He must rigorously avoid any appearance of favoritism, of course, and was in the habit of choosing which company to attend by dint of throwing a dart at the list hung on the wall of his tent. By the vagaries of chance, therefore, the lot did not fall on one of Lieutenant Wainwright’s companies until late April.

He saw Percy himself often—they shared supper most evenings, whether in the officer’s mess or privately, in Grey’s tent—and of course inquired after his companies in the usual way—but most of their conversation was of a personal nature. He had not yet seen Percy work his men, save for drills, and thus went out on April 24 in a state of mingled anticipation and apprehension.

He rode a gelding called Grendel, whose mild temper belied his name, and the weather had obligingly adopted a similar disposition. The day was sunny and warm, and the men more than happy to be out and active. Percy was nervous, but hid it reasonably well, and everything went smoothly for most of the day. In early afternoon, though, the column found themselves perhaps six miles from camp, progressing along the edge of a bluff over the river.

The terrain was thickly wooded, but with a broad, grassy lip along the edge of the bluff, and a good breeze came up from the silver sheet of the Rhine below—a grateful relief to men who had made the steep climb up the bluff in full uniform and equipment. Then the wind changed, and Grendel’s head came up, nostrils flaring. His ears went forward.

Grey reined up at once. Ensign Tarleton saw his movement and properly signaled the company to halt, which they did in a rather blundering, complaining fashion, muttering and stepping on each other’s heels. Percy turned round to frown at them in rebuke.

“Tell your men to fall into firing order; I don’t like something over there,” Grey said under his breath. He nodded at a copse, a hundred yards away. The wind was coming from that direction; it touched his face.

The other officers’ horses were lifting their heads now, nickering uncertainly. Percy didn’t ask questions but rose in his stirrups, calling orders. The sense of alarm spread like fire in straw; all complaint and disorder vanished in a moment, and the men snapped into a double line, their corporal shouting the orders to load.

A blast of musket fire burst from the copse, a stitchery of bright flashes through the trees and a sharp smell of powder smoke, borne on the breeze.

The men stood firm; Percy gave a quick glance down the line.

“No one hit,” he said, sounding breathless. “Too far!”

Grey took one more fast look—good ground, open to the copse. It was a small copse; no chance of a regiment hiding in it. No artillery; if they’d had cannon, they’d have used it. Retreat or advance? The trail they’d come up was steep and rocky, a sheer drop to the river on one side, thicket on the other; infantry would cut them down, firing from the trailhead.

“They’ll move closer. Charge them before they reload.” Grey had gathered his reins hastily into one hand as he spoke, preparing to draw his sword.

Instead, he was just in time to grab the reins of Percy’s horse, as the latter threw them to him, slid to the ground, and bellowing,

“CHARGE!” at the top of his voice, rushed toward the copse on foot, grappling for the sword at his side.

The company, caught midway in reloading, flung order and caution to the wind, abandoned the openmouthed corporal, and galloped after their lieutenant, roaring enthusiastically.

“Jesus Christ!” Grey said. “Mr. Tarleton—stand fast!” Leaning across, he thrust both sets of reins into the ensign’s startled hands, flung himself off, and ran—not after the charging company, but to the side, circling the copse.

He plunged into the trees, pistol in hand, trying to look everywhere at once. His worst fear—that there wasa large company inside the copse—was dispelled at once; he caught sight of white uniforms, but no great mass of them. In fact, they seemed to have come upon a foraging party; Grey dodged round a bush and nearly collided with the group of donkeys whose scent had disturbed the horses, the small beasts heavily laden with nets of grass.

One donkey, equally startled, put back its ears, brayed shrilly, and snapped big yellow teeth an inch from his arm. He slapped it smartly across the nose and shoved through the brush, cursing his own idiocy, and that of the French commander, whoever the bloody-minded frog was.

What had possessed the Frenchman to fire on them at such distance? Sense would have been to keep quiet, or retreat unobtrusively through the trees. And why had hetold Percy the French were coming toward them? More than likely, they had realized their folly and wereabout to retreat, being outnumbered and lightly armed.

As for Percy’s idiocy…he could hear Percy shouting somewhere ahead, hoarse and wildly elated. He had an overpowering desire to punch Lieutenant Wainwright, and hoped no Frenchman would deprive him of the chance to do so by killing Percy first.

A shriek came from his right and he jerked aside as someone charged him. Something tugged at his coat, pulling him off balance. He stumbled, grabbed at a tree branch to keep from falling, and fired by reflex at the man who had just tried to bayonet him.

The French soldier jerked, struck in the side, and turned the incredulous face of a young boy on him before falling. Grey swore silently to himself, teeth clenched as he reloaded. The boy wore a corporal’s insignia; chances were that this fourteen-year-old nitwit was the commander of the foraging party.

He thrust the reloaded pistol into his belt, and picked up the musket the young corporal had dropped. The boy was still breathing; Grey could see his chest rise and fall. His eyes were closed, but his face was twitching with pain. Grey stood for an instant, hand on his pistol, then shook his head and turned again toward where he had last heard Percy’s voice.

Percy’s tactic had been unorthodox in the extreme—to say nothing of contravening every known principle of order and command—but it was amazingly successful. The dumbfounded French soldiers had been taken completely by surprise, and had scattered like geese. Most of them had fled—he could hear crashing at a distance—and the remainder were being efficiently felled by Percy’s troops, quite off their heads at the ease of their first victory.

This was madness. The French should surrender at once, while there was something left to save—but of course, he’d just shot their commander; there was probably no one to surrender, or to call for it.

Just as he thought this, someone did. Percy, voice cracked from shouting, was yelling, “Surrender, God damn you! You’re beaten, for God’s sake, give up!” He was shouting in English, of course.

Grey dashed aside a hanging branch, and was just in time to see Percy kill his first man.

A large French soldier feinted deftly to one side with his bayonet, then lunged upward with murderous intent. Percy lunged at the same moment, dropping into a perfect Passata-sotto—doubtless by accident, as he’d never been able to do it in practice. He looked completely astonished as the bayonet slid past his ear, and the point of his sword passed cleanly beneath the Frenchman’s arm and into his body. The Frenchman looked still more astonished.

Percy let go of the sword, and the Frenchman took three small steps backward, almost daintily, sat down with a thump, and died, still looking surprised.

Percy walked away a short distance and vomited into a bush. Grey was watching him, and nearly missed the flicker of movement. He whirled by instinct, already swinging the musket by the barrel. The stock slammed the Frenchman—yes, white, he was French—in the back and knocked him sideways as the Frenchman’s own gun went off with a bang and a bloom of black smoke.

Grey threw himself into the smoke and hit the man, shoulder first, fell with him, and rolled in the leaves. Came up gasping, punching, and yelling. Hit the man’s face accidentally and felt something crunch in his hand; a shock ran up the bones of his arm and paralyzed it for an instant. The Frenchman’s hand struck clawing at his face, caught him in the eye, and as he flinched back, the man twisted under him, seized his arm, and flung him off.

He hit the ground on hip and elbow. Eyes watering, he scrabbled one-handed for his dagger and thrust blindly up with all his strength. Cloth scraped his hand, body warmth and the reek of sweat, and he shoved as hard as he could through tearing cloth, hoping for flesh, fearing the jar of bone.

The man gave a gurgling scream, and staggered back. Grey covered his injured eye with one hand and through a haze of tears made out the Frenchman, doubled over, a dark stain in his crotch spreading beneath his clutching hands. Beyond him stood Percy, mouth open, pistol in hand.

“Will you fucking shoot the bastard?” Grey bellowed.

Like an automaton, Percy raised his pistol and did. He blinked at the sound of the shot, then stood, eyes wide, watching as the Frenchman fell slowly forward, still grasping his crotch, curling in on himself like a dried leaf.

“Thank you,” Grey said, and shut his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand hard into the injured socket. Colored pinwheels spun behind his eyelid, but the pain lessened.

After a moment, he took away his hand and rolled onto his hands and knees, where he paused for an instant, steadying himself, before being able to stand.

“Good,” he said to Percy, having got up at last. He sneezed and cleared his throat. “That was good.”

“Was it?” Percy said faintly.

Both Grey’s eyes were streaming and the injured one wouldn’t stay open, but he could see well enough to summon the men back and begin to take stock. The French had fled, leaving six dead. The wounded, including the corporal, had either crawled into the brush or been dragged off by their companions; he was not disposed to spend time searching for them. He had Brett make a quick tally; no one injured, bar a slight wound in the thigh to Private Johnston, who was limping cheerfully round going through the pockets of the dead French.

Grey gave brisk orders for retirement—there was no telling how far the foraging party had been from their main company, nor how quickly they might return with reinforcements—and they collected the weapons and left, heading back to camp.

It was nearly dark when Grey returned at last to his tent, having sent out a scouting party, received reports from the regimental captains, waited for the scouting party’s report, conferred with Ewart Symington, sent Ensign Brett with stiff remarks to the quartermaster regarding a cask of what purported to be salt beef, but which in fact appeared to be the remains of an extremely elderly horse, made his own report to Hal, and written orders for the next day, all with a wad of damp guncotton pressed over his wounded eye. His head throbbed, his hand hurt, and he was famished, but he felt happy nonetheless.

The same sense of anticipation and excitement that rose within his breast flowed through the camp around him; you could hear it in the scraping of whetstones, the clank of kettles and the singing. Soldiers nearly always sang in camp, save when completely exhausted or dispirited, but what they sang varied, and was a good indication of their feelings. Sentimental ballads and mangled bits of music hall were standard camp fare. Marching songs, not surprisingly, when marching.

But when anticipating battle, the songs tended to the comic and the bawdy, and the snatches he heard as he walked through the camp would have made a sailor blush. The news had spread. The French were close, and the troops smelt blood. He whistled under his breath as he walked.

He found Tom Byrd and Percy in his tent, conversing amiably. Both of them sprang up at once when they saw him and there was a certain amount of fuss made over the state of his eye, by Percy, and the state of his uniform, by Tom—who, once having satisfied himself that the eye had not actually been gouged out, seemed more concerned with a large tear in the skirt of the coat he had just shed.

“Look!” Tom thrust three fingers through the rent, and waggled them, looking accusingly at Grey. “Gone right through the lining. What’s done that, me lord—a sword?”

“I don’t recall—oh, yes, I do. It was a bayonet.”

Tom inhaled, as though about to say something, but subsided, muttering, and set the coat aside.

“Sit yourself down, me lord,” he said, resigned. “I’ll fetch a bowl of barley water for your eye.”

Grey sank onto a camp stool, surprisingly glad to sit down. Appetizing smells of stew and hot bread drifted through the tent, and his stomach growled; he hadn’t eaten since dawn. He hoped Tom would bring supper; the eye could wait a little longer.

“Your men—” he began, only to be stopped by Percy’s snort.

“Fed, watered, brushed, curried, and stabled with ribbons braided into their little tails, or rather, getting drunk round the fires—I ordered them an extra ration of beer, was that right?—or slinking off into the bushes with the local whores, but they havebeen fed. Did you think I’d forget them?”

There might have been an edge to this, but it was said lightly, and Grey smiled, tilting his head to look at Percy with his good eye.

“I am quite sure you would overlook no detail of their welfare. I was going to say that they did very well today. They’re a credit to you.”

Percy flushed up at this, but only said, “Oh. Well, they’re a good lot,” in an offhanded way. He cleared his throat; he was still hoarse. “None of them much hurt, at least.”

“No. And you?”

Percy glanced quickly at him, then away.

“I can’t stop shaking,” he said, low-voiced. “Does it show?”

“No,” Grey said, choosing not to add that given his own present state of vision, he likely wouldn’t have noticed had Percy been quaking like egg-pudding in a high wind. He reached out a hand, though, and put it on Percy’s arm, which seemed solid enough. “No,” he repeated, more strongly. “You aren’t. Not to look at.”

“Oh,” Percy said, and took a deep breath. “It’s just inside, then. Good. What did Melton say?”

Most of Hal’s remarks wouldn’t bear repeating, but Hal could convey his own opinions to Percy in the morning, by which time Hal would be considerably calmer, and Percy might have stopped shaking.

“Not a lot,” Grey said. “Just flesh wounds. Don’t worry about it.”

They talked of nothing in particular then, taking no great interest in the conversation, only glad to be in each other’s company. This went on until Tom came back, carrying a flask of brandywine and a bowl of some cloudy liquid, which he claimed was warm barley water with salt, sovereign for sore eyes.

He handed this to Percy, and disappeared again in search of supper.

Grey leaned over the bowl and sniffed it.

“Am I to drink it, do you think? Or pour it over my head?”

“I don’t mind what you do with it, but I strongly suggest you don’t pour the brandy into your eye. It would sting, I expect. Besides, I need it.” Percy poured a generous portion of the latter liquid into a cup and pushed it across the table. He didn’t bother finding another cup for himself, but drank directly from the flask, thus giving Grey an idea of just how much he likely wasshaking internally.

Grey sipped his own. It wasn’t good, but it burned pleasantly, and numbed the annoying pain in his eye a little. Still, he should do something with the barley water; Tom would be offended if he didn’t. He groped for the handkerchief in his sleeve, inspected it critically, and decided it would do.

“You meant it, didn’t you?” Percy said quietly, putting down the flask.

“Meant what?”

“When you said you were a beast.” Percy was looking at him with an expression that seemed somewhere between awe and mild revulsion. Grey didn’t care for either.

“So are all soldiers,” he said shortly. “All men, for that matter. Get used to it.”

Percy made a small huffing sound, which might have been amusement.

“You needn’t tell methat, my dear,” he said dryly. He stood, took the cloth from Grey’s hand, and dipped it in the bowl. “Put your head back.”

His hand on Grey’s neck was warm, his touch delicate.

“Can you open your eye?”

Grey tried, and managed a slit. Percy’s face swam in a haze of tears, dark and intent.

“Not so bad,” he murmured. “Here, relax.” Percy’s fingers spread the lids of his injured eye, and squeezed the liquid from the cloth into it. Grey stiffened a little in reflex, but found that it didn’t hurt much, and did relax a little.

“All I meant is that you are a great deal more honest about it than most.”

“I doubt it is any virtue.” A thought came to him, belatedly. “Are you wondering whether you are sufficiently a beast, yourself? That you acquitted yourself well, I mean? You did. I should have said so.”

“You did.”

“I did?”

“Yes. You don’t remember?”

“No,” Grey said, honestly. “I was rather busy.”

Percy chuckled, low in his throat, and dipped the cloth again.

“I am sufficiently honest as to acknowledge my own inexperience, at least. You were right, about having no idea what you’ll do in battle. Had you not shouted at me to shoot that fellow, I should simply have stood there gaping, until you got up and did it yourself.”

Grey opened his mouth to remonstrate, but Percy bent and kissed him quickly on the lips, his breath warm on Grey’s water-chilled cheek.