Michael Stackpole - Of Limited Loyalty

While Rathfield had attended church services in Temperance with Owen and his family, on the trail he’d not seemed particularly religious. He’d not discussed the Good Book with Makepeace, nor paid much attention when Makepeace offered a lesson. At least once he’d heard Rathfield refer to a village Shepherd as a simpleton-a sobriquet commonly used by Norillians to ridicule Virtuans for the way they had simplified worship ceremonies.

Rathfield replaced Shepherd Faith at the pulpit and lowered his eyes. His lips moved, but Owen couldn’t make out any words. Then the man rested his hands on the lectern and glanced up briefly. “I asked Shepherd Faith to allow me to speak with you. Though I am very far from home, here I feel at home. Your simple settlement, clearly created with love and devotion for each other and Our Lord, feels like home. Not my home specifically, you understand, but a place where I am welcome. I feel welcome because we share something very dear: our faith. And I wanted to share with you part of my journey in faith.”

Again he looked down, drawing in a mighty breath as if setting himself in the traces to drag an incredible burden along. “I am a simple soldier in service to our Queen. It has been my honor to serve her. Prior to being sent here to you, I fought for her in Tharyngia, against the godless Laureates. You’ve likely never heard of the Battle of Rondeville which, not even two years ago, ended the long war we’d fought with our ancestral enemies. Some people have even referred to me as the hero of Rondeville-but you should know, Friends, that the true hero was Our Lord.

“Duke Deathridge had positioned his men around the town of Rondeville such that the slaughter the coming day would be frightful. Imagine an ocean of blood and fire just sweeping through this valley. It would have been a terrible, terrible thing. Victory was assured, but Duke Deathridge did not want to take any chances in case the Ryngians had somehow set a trap. He sent me to infiltrate their position. It was my pleasure to serve my Queen and Our Lord on so dangerous a mission.”

Rathfield sighed. “I was proud. I admit to that sin, and Our Lord saw fit in his wisdom to chasten me for my pride. I was discovered and brought before Laureate-General Philippe de Toron, the Tharyngian commander. The man had me clapped in chains, then beaten and tortured so I would reveal what I knew of our plans. I said nothing. Did not modesty prevent it, I would show you my scars. The one on the right side of my face is the first among many I received that night. And when they saw I would not be broken, they threw me into the wine cellar beneath their headquarters. They promised they would return after they crushed our army, and would execute me along with any other survivors.

“So there I was, locked in a dungeon. The only light came from the full moon, just as it comes tonight, through these narrow windows. And I knelt in the moonlight and prayed, Friends, prayed fervently. I begged forgiveness for my sin of pride and rededicated my life to the service of Our Lord. I told Him that if it was His will for me to die there, I would go happily. But if He had another mission for me, He should show me a sign and I would do whatever He required of me.”

Rathfield allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “And, yes, Friends, I thought that even my prayer might be prideful. Contemplation of the consequences worried me, but Our Lord did have another mission for me. I shant go into the sordid details. Suffice it to say I emerged from the dungeon as Our Lord’s avenging angel. I stalked through the tavern that morning and killed every man I could find-including the Laureate-General. By the time I escaped, the battle had commenced, but in slaying de Toron I had struck the head from the serpent. He never got to spring his trap. Our men were saved and the atheists were sent to Perdition.”

He hung his head for a moment as if exhausted, then looked up, his blue eyes bright. “I did not share my story so that you would know who I am. I am but a sinner who is unworthy of Our Lord’s favor. I merely wished to show you that though we come from distant places, though the role Our Lord asks of us can be anything and different, we are the same. Our hearts beat by His Grace, to be full of His Grace. Though you may find yourself here, thinking you are at the edge of the world, remember that He has placed you here so that no matter how far a man has traveled, he will forever be reminded that Our Lord blesses his life daily.”

Owen leaned heavily on the railing. He wanted, very much, to believe Rathfield was a fraud. In Restraint, Makepeace had similarly given his testimony about the bear who attacked him and the Lord healing him. That had shifted attitudes toward them. He wanted to assume that Rathfield, having studied Makepeace’s performance, sought to duplicate it here.

He would have been happy to think ill of Rathfield, but the man’s voice had rung with sincerity. The story’s details seemed largely consistent with versions he’d heard before. Catherine had regaled him with several retellings. And Rathfield’s humility came through so strongly that Owen found himself disarmed by it. The man might be arrogance personified on the trail-and had been so in Wisdom and Contentment-but here he shrank back.

Hodge and Makepeace descended to join the congregation in thanking Rathfield and resetting the main floor. Owen, shaking his head, looked at Nathaniel. “What do you think?”

The lean man shifted his shoulders. “Seems as like he tells a good story. I reckon if he did what he said he did, it would be easy for men to call him a hero.”

“Little doubt of that. I seem to recall that troops found him half dead in de Toron’s headquarters. They expected him to die and someone even sent a dispatch back to the main army reporting his death. His wife took the shock badly and never recovered. I believe my wife said she died several months later-and hinted she may have taken her own life.”

Nathaniel leaned his hip against the rail. “That so.”

“If you choose to believe gossip.” Owen smiled. “So do you believe what you just heard?”

“When exactly did this here battle take place?”

“16–17 July, 1765.”

Nathaniel frowned. “Well, I reckon things must have unfolded pretty much as he said, what with other folks being around to save him after, but I do believe I’ll puzzle about one thing for a mite.”

“Yes?”

“He amembers praying in a puddle of moonlight, which makes a powerful image, specially on a night like this.” Nathaniel shook his head. “Fact is, however, mid-July two years ago, weren’t no moon in the sky that night.”

The call to supper precluded Owen thinking too much about Nathaniel’s revelation. He couldn’t be certain if the people of Plentiful regularly set such a wonderful table, did it in honor of their visit, or simply in recompense for the venison. Shepherd Faith had said fare might be meager, but Owen found it generous by most any standard-and he’d eaten often at Prince Vlad’s table. Even Count von Metternin praised the meal, comparing it to the best he’d ever eaten on the Continent.

Venison stew formed the central portion of the meal, with some potatoes and beans added in. The Virtuans hadn’t used any spices in the stew. Not only would they be expensive and difficult to obtain, but they might prove to excite the blood more than was good for a healthy spiritual life. Maple sugar sweetened the baked beans. Honey had been whipped into butter and then spread on bread and biscuits, which were proof enough to Owen that there was a God and that Heaven would be a place of many delights. Pickled beans and cucumbers rounded things out, and apple pies finished them off.

All of the travelers restrained themselves. They lingered over their food, knowing it would be a long while before they’d likely enjoy such a meal. Makepeace commented about stopping back through as they returned, and Owen was willing to grant the wisdom of that idea.