The Battle of Harmingsdown: Chapter 17

Nothing happens quickly in the military.

In the olden days, word of peace spread like molasses. When word of peace arrived in one town, time was spent celebrating and reveling, sometimes long into the night, before someone remembered they needed to send the message on. Sometimes, whole years would pass between a treaty’s signing and the last arrow loosed.

Eventually, official messengers were assigned the mission to convey the message of peace to pertinent officials. This worked only marginally better, as the messengers often times stuck around for a nip or two, just to keep the chill evening wind out, and ended up staying the night, drunk off their horse.

When newspapers were invented, word passed faster still. The Telegraph made communication almost instantaneous, but even then there were delays as Generals had just one more cigar, a glass for the road, or played one final hand before turning off the lights.

And then there was everything after the war. Equipment needed to be stored, accounts balanced, salaries distributed, temporary housing deconstructed, and every mile of trench filled in again.¹ Even at their fastest, Edmund estimated the army would take several years before every trace of war had vanished from its shores.

And then there were the criminal tribunals.

It is here that historians and scholars of Sir Edmund’s life may breathe a sigh of relief, as a great burden is lifted from their shoulders: The criminal tribunals that occurred after the Treaty of Leyon was signed were carefully recorded, filed, and most likely not touched by Sir Edmund. This means that any uncertainty and confusion about what really happened is only the result of viewing the past from a modern² viewpoint.

What we know is true, is Brigadier Muggeridge was as good as his word. Schtillhart and Edmund were both arrested on charges of cowardice in the face of the enemy and brought back to Brackenburg to be tried in a military court. The Wickes too, having been arrested by a Colonel at the time, could not be released before an official tribunal studied the circumstances and tried them in court as well, regardless of the legality of said arrest. This created what Brigadier Muggeridge was later recorded as calling “a right cock-up.”

The Wickes were tried first, as whether or not they were guilty of treason would go far to proving Schtillhart and Edmund’s innocence or guilt.

It is unknown whether Edmund observed the proceedings. Military Historians refute the idea that he was present, largely because Military Tribunals have never been open to the public, but available records and minutes of his own trial certainly suggest that he was aware of what had occurred during the Wickes'.

As with all military proceedings, there was a large amount of pomp and presentation that Edmund found extravagant. First, to the loud and rapid patter from the Marshal of the Court Martial, the Tribunal of Generals strode into the room. Military records show the Generals of this Tribunal were General Comfort Ramsbutt Esq,³ General Phibeous K Chidesdyle XIII, and —

Edmund’s throat closed involuntarily. The third general was General Pemberly Wight, commonly called Lord Pemberly Wight of Westbrock Grange. He was brother to Matron Wight of the Wight Family, one of the Nine Founding Families of Brackenburg.

Edmund’s stomach sank. The tribunal was about to become Family Business.

Hoping Lord Wight didn’t recognize him — which was likely, seeing as they had never met — Edmund tried to look inconspicuous.⁴

The generals were still talking as they entered the room, chatting back and forth like old friends. They were old friends. How many hours had they spent together? How many years, all told, sharing stories and swapping cards in the back rooms and lounges of the General’s Club? How many times had they laughed together, shook their heads together, shared a quick drink together before getting back to the daily grind of pushing small figurines across maps and signing letters?

After their names, titles, and honorifics had been shouted into the small courtroom, the generals sat down. This was the accepted military signal for the rest of the room to sit as well, which preceded the Wickes’ entry into the tribunal chambers, flanked by plumed and polished guards.

In deference to tradition and custom, the Wickes’ hands were shackled. It was a hold-over from a bygone age when criminals didn’t know how to behave properly, and would either try to escape or attack the guards who were only doing their duty. The Wickes had likely just been cuffed outside.

The Wickes stood, if not proud, than at least defiant as they were placed in the dock and their shackles removed.

Records show that General Ramsbutt was the leading general of the tribunal, so it was he who cleared his throat with the sound of automatic weapon’s fire.

“The Military Tribunal of Court Martial is now in session. The accused stand arrested on charges of treason, aiding the enemy, selling military secrets in an —”

With a loud clatter, General Ramsbutt was interrupted by the door opened again, and a slim figure stepping into the courtroom.

General Ramsbutt blustered, clearing his throat again. “I say! What’s all this, then? We are in the middle of an official Tribunal of the Military! Who are you sir?”

Edmund’s heart raced as the young man stepped into view. “My name is Father Bromard,” the young priest gave a small smile along with a small bow. “Please forgive my interruption. I am here on orders from my superior.”

Father Bromard. He had been promoted, then. Was it his smile that gave complex subtext to the word “superior?” Edmund wasn’t sure.

“Oh…yes?” The bluster began to fade from Ramsbutt’s voice; he was a man who understood and appreciated orders. “And what were those orders, may I ask?”

“Simply to observe,” Father Bromard raised his hands in disarming supplication. “We believe these proceedings may involve Church interests, and as such I am here to sit quietly and watch.”

“Hmm…yes, well…” Ramsbutt hemmed a bit while he leaned to his left and right, listening to the whispers of his fellow generals. “The military has long respected the…the majesty of the Church…/ahem/. So long as you don’t interrupt again. Please take a seat and we’ll get started. Now, where were we…” Ramsbutt sniffed, coughed, and rubbed his chin. “Ah, yes. The charges…You are charged with —”

“We know what we are charged with,” Mrs. Wickes’ voice cracked through the room.

“Not guilty!” Mr. Wickes drove his cane into the floor. “Of course we are not guilty! These charges are nothing more than a slanderous attempt to place the blame of the failures of Harmingsdown on our heads, rather than those rightly responsible!”

“Please,” General Wight raised his hand, “you will have your chance to plead your case.”

“Plead? Plead? We have no need to plead! We have no need for a case! What possible evidence is there that we engaged in anything like a conspiracy to aid the enemies of Britannia?”

“Well,” General Chidesdyle pushed several papers about on his desk, “we have a few diagrams from…ah, here we are. It seems there were a lot of diagrams and formulas in your lab, and I dare say almost half of them were being used by the Spanish army? These ‘scrapnel grenades,’ for example, and ‘sniper rifles?’”

“Reverse engineered, of course,” Mrs. Wickes sniffed. “We were studying the enemy inventor, to learn how he thought.”

“It does seem that several of the Spanish designs incorporate some amount of chrome, is that right? Now how did —”

“Stolen.” Mrs. Wickes interjected. “As geniuses, we are beset by spies and saboteurs.”

“You of course remember the fire that destroyed our first Manufactory in Princebridge,” Mr. Wickes continued. “Just before we joined the army, in fact. A traitor, most likely, who stole some scrap of Chrome and reverse engineered it. The Spanish inventor, obviously.”

“This would be Mr. Forthmore, your previous business manager?” General Wight cocked an eyebrow. “Originally Spanish, and recently arrested and court-martialed by the Spanish army?”

“A troubled soul,” Mr. Wickes shrugged. “We unfortunately missed the warning signs. He was obviously enamored with us and our inventions, and when we joined the army he couldn’t take the abandonment. It is not an uncommon story.”

“Occupational hazard of all genius,” Mrs. Wickes settled back in a self-satisfied sneer. “One is simply surrounded by fools.”

“And these…ah…tactical gasses, you invented?”

“Never used!” Mr. Wickes slammed his cane down again. “Despite our express demand that our inventions be utilized in a battlefield situation! I trust you all understand the importance of following orders as proper behavior for the military?”

“Oh, I say!” General Ramsbutt bristled. “I’ll tell you that no one is more concerned about the Military behaving properly than we are. Obeying orders is how wars are won. There’s nothing more proper than that, when it comes to war.”

“Further evidence of our innocence. Our compatriots — I hesitate to use the word — defied direct orders! I assure you, generals, that had our gasses been used, we would be discussing Harmingsdown as a triumph rather than an embarrassment!”

“I wasn’t aware it was an embarrassment,” General Wight’s smile was faint.

“Of course it was,” Mrs. Wickes snapped. “Soldiers playing like children, sharing food and stories…our army became the laughing-stock of the world.”

Edmund could tell it was not going well. The Wickes had answers to everything. Bad answers, foolish answers, lies and hogwash, yes, but answers. Enough of an answer that the Generals could conceivably let them free with little compunction, if they wanted to.

And it would be in their interest to let them go. Traitors deserved punishment, but being embarrassment was just as bad, if not worse for the military, than being betrayed. They could simply sweep everything under the rug…

“I beg your pardon?”

The room turned as Father Bromard stood up from his seat. Edmund sighed to himself; he hated wild-cards.

“Father Bromard, you were urged to remain —”

“I beg the courts forgiveness, I had no intention of interrupting these proceedings; but we of the Order of the Holy Torch have sworn oaths ourselves, not the least of which is a devotion to the truth.”

General Ramsbutt’s mouth moved slowly for a moment, then: “I say, are you saying the accused have been lying to the tribunal?”

“Nonsense!” Mr. Wickes struck the ground with his cane again, cracking the wood. “We have been perfectly forthright and straightforward with this tribunal!”

“Not lying, sir,” Father Bromard shook his head. “Merely misleading. Mistaken, perhaps, regarding the continued use of the Wickes’ Family Manufactory, in the Farrows district.”

“General Ramsbutt,” Mr. Wickes sputtered, “I demand that this tribunal pay no attention to this priest; this is a military matter, not a religious one! This man is obviously biased against us and our scientific innovations!”

“Oh, I assure you there is no bias there,” Father Bromard’s reply was light and cheerful. “In fact, I find I am quite interested new inventions. It seems they keep coming, day after day. I find it quite important to keep abreast of any new discoveries. I admit, I even took a peak at the blueprints and formulas that were seized from your laboratory in Harmingsdown; especially these ’tactical gasses.’”

Edmund watched as the color drained from the already pale Wickes. Where once had been concern and tentative apprehension, now there was abject terror.

“Generals! I beg you,” Mr. Wickes pointed a shaking finger. “This man is a thief! I demand that he be prevented from speaking, be arrested, and brought up on charges of industrial and innovative espionage under the jurisdiction of the Cliffside Compact!”

“No,” General Wight hid a smile behind his hand, “I don’t think we will be doing that. Please, Father, what is it you wished to tell us?”

“Simply that the Wickes’ Family Manufactory has been closed down.”

“Closed?” Mrs. Wickes gaped. “You have no right!”

“Not as such,” Father Bromard agreed, “but there really was no other alternative, once we freed the children.”

“I say, children?” General Chidesdyle leaned forward. “What are you talking about?”

“Lies!” Mr. Wickes swung his cane with such force that Mrs. Wickes had to duck. “All lies!”

“The Church received an anonymous letter which cast some unpleasant accusations on the Manufactory. After a thorough investigation, we released and relocated some twenty to thirty children, aged six to twelve, who had been chained to the machines inside. They apparently lived, slept, ate when there was food to eat, and worked under threat of pain almost to death in the Manufactory. The Wickes will no doubt be pleased to hear the expense of their care is now the Church’s responsibility, though sadly, with no further labor force, the Manufactory has been closed for some weeks.”

“How did you gain entry? The Manufactory is private property! Spying! Espionage! Burglary!”

“Child labor?” General Wight cocked an eyebrow.

“Of course we use children,” Mr. Wickes rallied. “With so many men and women being sent off to war, well, naturally the only people left to work the factories of Brackenburg were children!”

“Vast untapped source of labor, children,” Mrs. Wickes nodded.

“By Jove,” Ramsbutt’s mouth opened. “Really? Children? I…as young as six?” Ramsbutt pulled nervously on his pipe. “Well, I…suppose Britannia has generally…avoided employing children so young…”

“It’s not our fault no one was willing to hire them,” Mr. Wickes said. “For incredibly low pay, we are able to acquire a satisfactorily reliable labor force. The return on our investment is substantial. There is nothing wrong with that. It’s just good business, and we are Mercantilists, after all, and we have the right to make a profit.”

“Ah…” General Chidesdyle shifted through the papers in front of him. “But…I have a contract here where…somewhere it says…ah! Yes, here it says that you joined the army, and gave the military complete rights and ownership over all inventions that you —”

“Balderdash!” Mr. Wickes slammed his cane down, deepening the divot that had begun to form. “No contract can sign away someone’s right to sell the fruits of their labor! That’s slavery!”

“Of course we joined the army,” Mrs. Wickes waved a pale hand. “But we are Mercantilists first.”

Under attack from all sides, when one master is threatened by another, that’s when you find out who you truly serve. Edmund took a moment to realize, as he stared at the Generals’ faces, that there was little anyone could do to dis-ingratiate themselves from another person faster than telling them that the cause, clique, or hobby that they have devoted themselves to is nowhere near as important as one’s own.

“So,” General Wight coughed gently before resting his fingers on the table in front of him, “You did invent and sell products to the Spanish army?”

“As did countless merchants during the war!” Mr. Wickes swung his cane like a sword. “Where are they? Why are they not in the dock? Why are we prosecuted? I demand that we be released at once!”

“Hardly the point, what?” General Ramsbutt frowned. “And you did this through your employee, Mr. Forthmore, who pretended to have invented the weapons himself after joining the Spanish army?”

“Of course.” Mr. Wickes gripped his cane so hard his knuckles turned white. “If there is a market, we have a duty find it and utilize it. Under the Cliffside Compact, we are given rights of commerce and trade. The free flow of money is paramount! You cannot prevent us from selling our inventions to anyone who is willing to buy them!”

“To be clear,” General Ramsbutt said, pronouncing each word carefully, “You admit that, while having signed a contract and accepting a commission as Colonels in his Majesty’s army, you were operating as Mercantilists, ensuring that your personal wealth and well-being was attended to, even at the expense of the army and its soldiers?”

“All perfectly legal,” Mr. Wickes stood proud. “Terreo Emptor.”

“It is not only legal, it is our duty under Mercantile Law to seek markets in which to sell our products, and ensure the health and longevity of any profit margins.” Mr. Wickes smiled the smile of a terrified man. “Do you not understand the genius of it? Five, ten, a hundred years of conflict, a perpetual marketplace for industry to expand and blossom into new innovations, fabulous creations, a new century powered by the industry of war!”

“If there is to be a future for Britannian culture, we have ensured it,”⁵ Mrs. Wickes spread her charmless smile. “Besides, if we sold anything to the Spanish, do you have any evidence that it worked?”

“No,” General Wight glanced at the papers in front of him. “No, it appears that none of your inventions worked very well at all, considering. I suppose you think we’re all just a bunch of fools, then, sitting here in silly uniforms?”

“Fools and children,” Mr. Wickes spat. “Children playing soldiers! You arrested us when we were the only people in the whole damn war making something; an industry fit for the ages! You were so wrapped up in destroying each other, that you let opportunity slip from your fingers. Now the war has ended and what do you have? Nothing. Your hands are empty, empty of guns, blood, or sweat. Peace is all you have, a fancy word for boredom. We were the only people in the whole damn war making something. You dare, you dare to judge us? I demand we be released at once and given a full apology!”

It had worked before. In countless courtrooms and City Halls across the country — even in other lands and across cultures — there are few things more convincing to lazy thinkers than the rage of the privileged class.

Edmund was not a lazy thinker. He enjoyed thinking. He practiced all the time, and while General Chidesdyle appeared to waver under the Wickes’ fury, Ramsbutt and Wight were not convinced. After all, there are fewer more effective ways to annoy a General than by suggesting they have done something wrong.

Minutes of the Tribunal show that the remainder of the session was, all scholars and historians of the period agree, predictable. The Wickes continued to rant and rail against the injustice of even being brought to trial, and once they had proclaimed themselves to be beyond the army’s jurisdiction, their only hope was that the Generals would believe them.

They did not.

Edmund listened with glee to the verdict: “The Wickes are hereby condemned to exile from the land of Britannia, under punishment of imprisonment,” General Ramsbutt said in his best pronouncement voice. “They are forbidden to engage in any mercantile contract with any representative of Britannia, or its environs. The Crown, and any due representative of such, will provide no aid, benefit, protection, or due consideration. All properties, leases, and contracts owned by the Wickes are hereby dissolved, and returned to the due representatives of the public, to wit, the local Military and Mayorship.”

It was a fairly verbose way of saying “leave and don’t ever come back,” and therefore perfectly suited to the legal mindset.

The Wickes were led from the room, and if Edmund ever saw them again, no historian has found any proof of it. Indeed, there are no credible records that detail any of the Wickes actions after their exile.⁶

“Well now,” General Ramsbutt coughed after the Wickes had vanished. “I think it’s time for a spot of tea, what?”

---

Edmund waited patiently.

He was good at patient. He had learned patience the hard way, though years of powerless-ness in one form or another. He had come to love it. When everything to be done had been done, and all that remained was for the other players to take their turns; when Edmund simply needed to wait, and watch everything unfold like he had planned…

But this time, it was different. He was not playing chess anymore.

The soldiers in the trenches had given him a new way of looking at things. These were not games that Edmund was playing. There were people at the end of his strings, jumping and dancing to his whims. He had acted in their best interests, of course, but they were not pawns. They were humans. They suffered and sang, they danced and cried, they felt the burning kiss of lead in the stomach before they died, the same as anyone else.

But there was always a part, a small portion of himself, that wondered and worried. He was not infallible; what if he had made a mistake somewhere, or overlooked some minor detail that would cause his entire house of cards to collapse in front of him?

The warm and bright comfort of brass and steam had become the dark and cold bite of diesel and Chrome. Machines were not comforting to Edmund the way they had been when he was young. The security of predictability had been soured for him in the trenches.

Brown rust and red blood had mixed in the mud. Cries of pain. Broken men, like broken machines moving to their orders like puppets on strings…

At the moment, Edmund was being patient outside the tribunal chamber doors, waiting to enter.

When was the last time he had done this? That was right; when he was bringing Matron her lunch, that first day when he was eight. He stood outside her door, holding the boiling teakettle on his tiny tray.

No, after that he stood in front of the giant gates of Grimm’s, talking with a strange voice through an even stranger voice-system. He could remember feeling pulled in two directions, quivering with fear and anticipation; eager for knowledge, terrified of the future.

Perhaps there were others he just couldn’t remember at the moment. It didn’t matter. What mattered was here and now. Edmund squared his shoulders,⁷ and waited for the soldiers to allow him entry.

At last, a knock on the door signaled the Tribunal’s readiness. The soldiers opened the doors, and Edmund stepped inside. The room looked different when Edmund saw it for the second time. Smaller, somehow, but bigger too. The small dock where he was supposed to stand looked much further away than it had before, but it took him no time at all to get there.

He held out his hands while the shackles that had been placed on his wrists in the hall were removed again. When the guards moved away, he looked at the tribunal with clear and bright eyes. The concern and uncertainty that had filled his heart was gone. Edmund knew what would happen next. His plan was almost complete. Everything would unfold the only way it could. The way he needed it to.

General Ramsbutt cleared his throat, his mouth opening slowly like the drawbridge of some infernal castle. “All right then, the Military Tribunal of Court Martial is now back in session. The…ahem…the accused stands arrested on charges cowardice in the face of the — Oh for pity’s sake, what now?”

The commotion at the door drew the rooms attention, as a small bowlered man stormed past the guards and into the room. His monocle gripped firmly by his eye, the stocky man waddled through the room towards Edmund, opening his briefcase as he did so.

Edmund’s heart sank. Oh no…please, no…

“Begging your pardon, General Ramsbutt,” the man said, whipping a small collapsible stool out of his briefcase and popping it open, “My name is Mr. Shobbinton, and I am the Moulde family solicitor. I demand the right to protect my client as pertains to section five of the Brackenburg Accord, paragraph three.”

Edmund watched as the small man sat down, opened his briefcase again, and pulled out a small notebook and pencil. He moistened the tip with his tongue, and waited patiently, looking expectantly at the befuddled Tribunal of Generals.

This wasn’t supposed to happen!

“Lieutenant Mauve has already eschewed a Military advocate,” General Ramsbutt said, “I’m afraid it’s too late for him to acquire one…I’m sorry, which family did you say you —”

“Indeed,” Mr. Shobbinton said, scribbling in the notebook, “But I am not here on behalf of Lieutenant Mauve — whose name is on the trial documentation — I am here to represent Edmund Moulde, Heir to the Moulde Estate, who will be directly affected by the outcome of this tribunal. Pursuant to Section Five of the Brackenburg Accord, paragraph six, I have the right to represent the interests of the Moulde Family, including any and all subjects that may slander, besmirch, or otherwise deprive Master Edmund Moulde his due process as a Moulde, including scandalous rumors, unfounded hearsay, and cruel gossip.” The tiny solicitor looked up from his notebook. “This will in no way be connected in any form to any aspect of your disciplinary Tribunal regarding the behavior of one of your Lieutenants.”

Fool Shobbinton! You’re ruining everything!

“I see,” Ramsbutt said, after a long pause. “Well then. Lieutenant Mauve, you are charged with Cowardice in the face of the enemy, how do you plead?”

“If I may interject,” Mr. Shobbinton raised his pencil into the air like a flag. “Charging this man without clear evidence may result in irreparable damage to the reputation of the Moulde Family. As such, pursuant to the Brackenburg Accord, Section Four, Paragraph three, I must insist that this man is not charged unless and until he is found guilty.”

“Oh yes?” General Ramsbutt sniffed. “I see. Well then, Lieutenant, if you were charged with Cowardice, how would you hypothetically plead?”

“I’m afraid I must object.”

The room shifted as Father Bromard stood from his seat as his quiet voice slipped in like an errant guest. “The Holy Church has long since held hypotheticals, hypothesis, theatricals, and philosophizing insufficient methods for attaining the one Truth. As such, were any verdict to be given based on such things, the Holy Church would be forced to proclaim said verdict an abomination and invalid as a lawful decision by his majesty’s army.”

No, no, no!

“Then, without a plea from the defendant,” General Ramsbutt spoke, touching one of the small piles of paper in front of him. “the Tribunal will now consider the evidence.”

Edmund watched as everything fell away. No protest from the tribunal? No counter-claims or arguments?

“Lieutenant,” General Ramsbutt intoned. “Will you please explain the events surrounding the Battle at Harmingsdown, beginning with your reassignment and ending with the treaty of Leyon?”

“I’m afraid,” General Wight interrupted, “Given that Lieutenant Mauve is a member of the Army Bureaucratic Corps, and as such spends more time in dimly lit rooms staring at paper, there is a better than likely chance that his eyes have been damaged and any eye-witness account from the accused will not be considered acceptable evidence.”

This was not a Tribunal. Edmund didn’t know precisely what it was, but he was positive that this was no Tribunal. Had the Generals planned this? Was this all some practiced charade?

“To read, then, from the official record in the Military’s files,” General Ramsbutt glanced at the paper in front of him, “For almost a full month, the front-line trenches at Harmingsdown operated under an unofficial truce with the enemy, a truce that was not sanctioned nor ordered by any high ranking officer.”

“Who was in charge of Harmingsdown during this span of time?” General Wight asked with a relaxed sigh.

“Acting Colonel Schtillhart.”

There was a pause. Edmund felt the blood drain from his face. He could feel, rather than see, the invisible net the room had woven around him fade away. There was no one protecting him, now.

“Lieutenant, can you give us your opinion of Acting Colonel Schtillhart?”

“If I might interrupt again,” Mr. Shobbinton cleared his throat, “my presence here indicates the extent to which the fate of the accused reflects on the Moulde Family. The esteem of anyone connected to the Mouldes in such a manner is coveted by many, and the free expression of any personal opinion might cause repercussions of grave concern to the Moulde Family. As such, pursuant to Section two, Paragraph two, I must insist the defendant does not answer this question.”

“As a soldier in the army,” General Ramsbutt tried again, “Did you see or hear anything that suggested to you that Major Schtillhart was unfit to be an officer?”

“As a subordinate officer,” General Wight interrupted, “it would be improper for the defendant to offer an opinion. That is the jurisdiction of Schtillhart’s commanding officers.”

“As a subordinate, did you ever feel required to perform a duty that conflicted with your oath to the army or any other order or duty given by a superior officer?”

“If I might remind the Tribunal,” Father Bromard’s voice floated like a cloud past Edmund’s shoulder, “That the power of the Subordinate is bestowed by the grace of the Superior.” Edmund couldn’t help but hear the capital letters. “It is the Church’s view that any duty given is a reflection of the chain of command, and therefore cannot conflict with an oath to obey.”

“Then let us move to the next point —”

It was with a profound and heartbreaking realization that Edmund noticed General Ramsbutt’s tone. The General was not speaking with the exasperated sigh of a man denied, but the calm and steady pace of an actor reciting their lines.

This was a performance.

Surreptitiously, Edmund studied the faces of every person in the room. The Generals, Shobbinton, even Father Bromard were all going through the paces, saying the prepared words they had planned on saying. It was little more than a presentation for the benefit of…whom? Not Edmund, surely. Perhaps they performed simply so they could say it had been done?

Edmund closed his eyes, and breathed deeply as the pantomime unfolded around him, the last of his plan unraveling about him. Did they think they were helping him? Or were they salvaging the reputation of the army? Who knew what twisted motivations they had for this charade.

What mattered the motivations? They weren’t letting him speak.

Edmund slowly released the breath he had been holding, ready to say the words that needed to be said to launch the final part of his plan. The words were on his lips, his tongue poised to shape the tone of voice, the inflection, the rhythm…he had practiced.

But his voice was gone. Taken from him by his own solicitor, the generals, and the priest.

His plan, his great scheme to use the war to save the Moulde Family, was ruined.

He couldn’t blame Mr. Shobbinton. Not really. The man was performing his duties as any great solicitor would do. Neither could he disparage Lord Wight; the Founding Families knew nothing of his plans, and would move to protect their own from disrepute.

But Father Bromard…

You asked the Wickes a question. Just one, but in that question you struck them, and they struck back, exactly the wrong thing to do. And now you are trying to help me. Do you think of me as your ally?

Why, for the life of me, can I not see you as anything but my enemy?

Though the answer to this question became clear not one year later, at the time it was a question that caused Edmund great vexation.