Bernard Cornwell - Rebel

‘Call me Anna, please. I want to be friends. And I tell you, secretly, of course, that I don’t believe poor Ethan went anywhere near Truslow’s lair. I think Ethan is much too frightened of Truslow. Everyone’s frightened of Truslow, even Father, though he says he isn’t.’ Anna’s soft voice was very portentous. ‘Ethan says he went up there, but I don’t know if that’s true.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

‘I’m not.’ She put her arm back into Starbuck’s elbow and walked on. ‘Maybe you should ride up to find Truslow, Mister Starbuck?’

‘Me?’ Starbuck asked in horror.

A sudden animation came into Anna’s voice. ‘Think of it as a quest. All my father’s young knights must ride into the mountains and dare to challenge the monster, and whoever brings him back will prove himself the best, the noblest and the most gallant knight of all. What do you think of that idea, Mister Starbuck? Would you like to ride on a quest?’

‘I think it sounds terrifying.’

‘Father would appreciate it if you went, I’m sure,’ Anna said, but when Starbuck made no reply she just sighed and pulled him toward the side of the house. ‘I want to show you my three dogs! You’re to say that they’re the prettiest pets in all the world, and after that we shall fetch the painting basket and we’ll go to the river and you can hang that shabby hat on the willows. Except we don’t have willows, at least I don’t think we have. I’m not good at trees.’

But there was to be no meeting with the three dogs, nor any painting expedition, for the front door of Seven Springs suddenly opened and Colonel Faulconer stepped into the sunlight.

Anna gasped with admiration. Her father was dressed in one of his new uniforms and looked simply grand. He looked, indeed, as though he had been born to wear this uniform and to lead free men across green fields to victory. His gray frock coat was thickly brocaded with gilt and yellow lace that had been folded and woven to make a broad hem to the coat’s edges, while the sleeves were richly embroidered with intricately looped braid that climbed from the broad cuffs to above the elbows. A pair of yellow kidskin gloves was tucked into his shiny black belt, beneath which a tasseled red silk sash shimmered. His top boots gleamed, his saber’s scabbard was polished to mirror brightness and the yellow plume on his cocked hat stirred in the small warm wind. Washington Faulconer was quite plainly delighted with himself as he moved to watch his reflection in one of the tall windows. ‘Well, Anna?’ he asked.

‘It’s wonderful, Father!’ Anna said with as much animation as Starbuck suspected her capable. Two black servants had come from the house and nodded their agreement.

‘I expected the uniforms yesterday, Nate.’ Faulconer half-asked and half-accused Starbuck with the statement.

‘Shaffer’s was a day late, sir’—the lie came smoothly—‘but they were most apologetic.’

‘I forgive them, considering the excellency of their tailoring.’ Washington Faulconer could hardly take his eyes from his reflection in the window glass. The gray uniform was set off with golden spurs, gilded spur chains and golden scabbard links. He had a revolver in a soft leather pouch, the weapon’s butt looped to the belt with another golden chain. Braids of white and yellow ribbons decorated the outer seams of his breeches while his jacket’s epaulettes were cushioned in yellow and hung with gold links. He drew the ivory-hilted saber, startling the morning with the harsh scrape of the steel on the scabbard’s throat. The sun’s light slashed back from the curved and brilliantly polished blade. ‘It’s French,’ he told Starbuck, ‘a gift from Lafayette to my grandfather. Now it will be carried in a new crusade for liberty.’

‘It’s truly impressive, sir,’ Starbuck said.

‘So long as a man needs to dress in uniform to fight, then these rags are surely as good as any,’ the Colonel said with mock modesty, then slashed the saber in the empty air. ‘You’re not feeling exhausted after your journey, Nate?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then unhand my daughter and we’ll find you some work.’ But Anna would not let Starbuck go. ‘Work, Father? But it’s Sunday.’

‘And you should have gone to church, my dear.’

‘It’s too hot. Besides, Nate has agreed to be painted and surely you won’t deny me that small pleasure?’

‘I shall indeed, my dear. Nate is a whole day late in arriving and there’s work to be done. Now why don’t you go and read to your mother?’

‘Because she’s sitting in the dark enduring Doctor Danson’s ice cure.’

‘Danson’s an idiot.’

‘But he’s the only medically qualified idiot we possess,’ Anna said, once more showing a glimpse of vivacity that her demeanor otherwise hid. ‘Are you really taking Nate away, Father?’

‘I truly am, my dear.’

Anna let go of Starbuck’s elbow and gave him a shy smile of farewell. ‘She’s bored,’ the Colonel said when he and Starbuck were back in the house. ‘She can chatter all day, mostly about nothing.’ He shook his head disapprovingly as he led Starbuck down a corridor hung with bridles and reins, snaffles and bits, cruppers and martingales. ‘No trouble finding a bed last night?’

‘No, sir.’ Starbuck had put up at a tavern in Scottsville where no one had been curious about his Northern accent or had demanded to see the pass that Colonel Faulconer had provided him.

‘No news of Adam, I suppose?’ the Colonel asked wistfully.

‘I’m afraid not, sir. I did write, though.’

‘Ah well. The Northern mails must be delayed. It’s a miracle they’re still coming at all. Come’—he pushed open the door of his study—‘I need to find a gun for you.’

The study was a wonderfully wide room built at the house’s western extremity. It had creeper-framed windows on three of its four walls and a deep fireplace on the fourth. The heavy ceiling beams were hung with ancient flintlocks, bayonets and muskets, the walls with battle prints, and the mantel stacked with brass-hilted pistols and swords with snake-skin handles. A black labrador thumped its tail in welcome as Faulconer entered, but was evidently too old and infirm to climb to its feet. Faulconer stooped and ruffled the dog’s ears. ‘Good boy. This is Joshua, Nate. Used to be the best gun dog this side of the Atlantic. Ethan’s father bred him. Poor old fellow.’ Starbuck was not sure whether it was the dog or Ethan’s father who had earned the comment, but the Colonel’s next words suggested it was not Joshua being pitied. ‘Bad thing, drink,’ the Colonel said as he pulled open a bureau’s wide drawer that proved to be filled with handguns. ‘Ethan’s father drank away the family land. His mother died of the milksick when he was born, and there’s a half-brother who scooped up all the mother’s money. He’s a lawyer in Richmond now.’

‘I met him,’ Starbuck said.

Washington Faulconer turned and frowned at Starbuck. ‘You met Delaney?’

‘Mister Bird introduced me to him in Shaffer’s.’ Starbuck had no intention of revealing how the introduction had led to ten hours of the Spotswood House Hotel’s finest food and drink, all of it placed on the Faulconer account, or how he had woken on Saturday morning with a searing headache, a dry mouth, a churning belly and a dim memory of swearing eternal friendship with the entertaining and mischievous Belvedere Delaney.

‘A bad fellow, Delaney.’ The Colonel seemed disappointed in Starbuck. ‘Too clever for his own good.’

‘It was a very brief meeting, sir.’

‘Much too clever. I know lawyers who’d like to have a rope, a tall tree and Mister Delaney all attached to each other. He got all the mother’s money and poor Ethan didn’t get a thin dime out of the estate. Not fair, Nate, not fair at all. If Delaney had an ounce of decency he’d look after Ethan.’