The Battle of Harmingsdown: Chapter 18

Edmund threw himself into the closest chair, and then immediately stood up again. He couldn’t sit. He couldn’t stand. He couldn’t pace. His mind was afire with consternation.

On impulse learned from his time in the trenches, Edmund glanced around the room for a drinks cabinet.

He had been asked to retire to the nearby General’s Lounge to await the Tribunal’s final verdict. Being a place for the upper-class to sit and chat, the absence of any liquor cabinet would be out of character, to say the least. He didn’t particularly care for the taste of alcohol, but he heard that it could ‘steady one’s nerves,’ and was a quite useful prop for looking nonchalant.

Edmund poured himself a glass of gin, and sipped it.

Shobbinton had ruined everything. Not just Shobbinton, but Father Bromard as well. Lord Wight, General Ramsbutt…they had all behaved exactly as Edmund had wished they wouldn’t! They had conspired…yes, they must have conspired to prevent Edmund from ever even being charged for a single crime. As far as the legal documentation would say, there might be questions as to if he had ever been in that room at all!

Laypeople credit the Harmingsdown Truce as a significant influence on the signing of the Treaty of Leyon. Scholars and historians argue that this is likely not the case, as of the few things that influence the rich and powerful, the common folk is not numbered among them.

All of this is to say that Edmund never attributed the eventual Treaty of Leyon to his own actions. Indeed, in the end he hadn’t done much of anything, save adjusting a few lines on a map and lengthening a meter stick by a few centimeters.

But the elegance of it! With a single tribunal, a carefully worded plea, and a few final words before the sentencing, he could have set himself up to leave the army prepared to take Brackenburg by storm. His plans would have worked!

He could still make them work, of course, but now it would be so much harder, so much more complicated…

Perhaps he could content himself with knowing that he had facilitated two regiments of soldiers saving their own lives and the lives of their fellows. Was that enough for him? He sipped again at the gin.

If he could have found an answer, he was deprived of the chance by the door opening with the clatter and creak that only comes from doors of highest pedigree.

“Master Edmund Moulde,” a thick baritone seasoned with oak and tobacco dripped into the room, followed by the entrance of General Wight. Dressed in official colors and hung about with medals like a Yule tree, the General closed the door behind him and graced Edmund with a smile that was less than a grin, more than a sneer.

“General Wight,” Edmund managed to say. He had assumed this meeting was coming, but expectation did not dull his nerves. He had not spoken in person with a member of the other Founding Famlies since he was eight.

“Enough of that,” Wight waved Edmund’s salute away. “I am not here as a General, but as brother to Matron Wight. This is Founding Family business, not a military matter. May I refresh your drink?” Lord Wight gestured almost lazily towards the drinks cabinet as he walked towards it, his causal gait betraying no immediate concern for the situation.

“Thank you, no,” Edmund sat down again. “I find it arresting to drink too much before supper.”

“Indeed?” A hint of humor leaked from Lord Wight’s mouth. “As you were already arrested once today, I shouldn’t think that would matter to you.”

That was a joke, Edmund noted. He decided not to laugh, as he was not certain if the joke was particularly funny, nor if it was intended to be.

“I am surprised you recognized me,” Edmund prodded, curious as to how his masterful disguise had been penetrated.

“Frankly old boy, I didn’t,” Lord Wight stared at the cabinet, thoughtfully. “First clue was that butler of yours, Ung. Can’t forget that chap, can you? Once I saw him hanging around as your Aide-de-camp, I put two and two together. That’s all. That lawyer of yours clinched it. Now…” Lord Wight poured himself a small glass of gin. “I think it’s about time we had a little chat, lord to heir.”

Edmund looked up at the man’s kindly smile. “About what?”

The man’s eyes twinkled. “What would you like to chat about?”

You’re giving me the reins to see where I stumble. You’ve heard that I barely made it out of Grimm’s with a passing grade. You know the military only took me on as a Lieutenant. I’ve shown you I’m a fool, and yet you’re smart enough to wonder if I can be trusted.

“I had a plan,” Edmund admitted with uncharacteristic candor, “and it failed.”

“Hm.” Lord Wight twisted his drink back and forth between his fingers, musing over the glint in the glass like a jeweler inspecting a gem. “Yes, well, the best laid plans and all that. You’re only lucky that I was nearby to help out. Yes, it was a great deal of effort, that. I had to pull quite a few strings to get onto your tribunal, and make sure everyone was willing to play along. I should think some form of thanks is in order?”

“I didn’t expect a Wight to do anything that would help a Moulde.”

“Now we Founding Families may not look very kindly on each other…well, come to it, we fight like snakes and weasels; but when the chips are down, we look after each other, what?”

Never. I’ve read the histories. I’ve seen the letters. I’ve read between every line and noticed every wink. I know the Wights, dear sir, and I know how quick they were to take up arms against the other Families when push came to stab. I know how you sweat in the night, thinking of the Moulde family climbing back up the ladder, sword in our teeth to take back our proper place among the Families of Brackenburg. I know what Matron Wight is afraid of…

“Did I need looking after?” Edmund asked.

Lord Wight’s eyes flashed to Edmund’s. “You overplayed your hand, my boy. Now I know you’re not a fool. What game are you playing, anyway?”

“This is no game.”

Lord Wight sighed, downing the rest of his drink before standing to pour himself another. “No, I suppose it isn’t. I’ll speak plainly, boy, and I hope you will do me the courtesy of speaking plain to me. We needed to do something. That was quite a predicament, wasn’t it, old boy? Brought up on charges of cowardice in the face of the enemy? Actions traitorous to the King and Crown? Disloyalty to the Army? Defiance of your oath? Quite a bit of scandal there.”

“None of the charges were accurate,” Edmund said. “I never ran, nor surrendered, nor sacrificed my men to spare my own life.”

“My dear boy,” The old man laughed, gesturing towards the door with his free hand, “the charges were immaterial. The verdict even less so. It’s the fact you were charged at all that was the problem. It would be one thing if you were a third cousin or even a seventh Heir, but you’re the primary Heir to Moulde Hall! Can you imagine, a member of a Founding Family — an heir or otherwise — subject to a military court? And if you are brought up on charges, my boy, all the Founding Families are on trial. For centuries, we have been our own judges, juries, and executioners. The instant one of us is even permitted to subject ourselves to a lower court, the whole concept of jurisdiction would be threatened.”

Edmund turned back to his drink. “And then they might come for the rest of you.”

“You make it sound personal,” Lord Wight shrugged. “Brackenburg is built on the backs of the Founding Families, and Britannia relies on Brackenburg. To threaten the way of things is to threaten the empire. You’ll be Patron one day, my boy, and it simply won’t do to have a Patron of a Founding Family who was drummed out of the Army for cowardice. That Lieutenant Mauve business was a good yarn, but it wasn’t enough. Being a Lieutenant, a Clerk…and then you subject yourself to a lower court. The Nine Founding Families have never done such a thing. Not since…”

“Since the Mouldes and the Rotledges began our feud,” Edmund finished for him. “I know the history. Is that why we handle everything ourselves?”

“Possibly,” Lord Wight sniffed. “Who knows? I don’t think it matters very much.”

Edmund turned to stare Lord Wight in the eyes. You know. I don’t know how you found out, but you know what I have. How did you find out?

“I suppose in the end it doesn’t matter,” Lord Wight smiled a wan smile, a poor attempt at displaying some form of camaraderie. “The verdict will be something quite benign and unimportant, a nice little fig-leaf for everyone involved. You’re quite the lucky boy to have escaped the war with so little of a scar. Not everyone at the trenches was so fortunate.”

A letter from an old Patron, or historical records of ancient finances? Did you stumble across it accidentally, or did you always know; a terrible warning passed down by word of mouth from generation to generation?

Lord Wight took another drink, licking his lips with satisfaction. “Well, what’s done is done. The war is over, as is your fun and games as a Clerk in the ABCs. You can go back to Matron Moulde, and life can return to normal once again. Won’t that be nice?”

You know, and now you’re trying to fix it.

“Perhaps,” Edmund answered at last. “Goodbye, Lord Wight.”

I don’t know how you found out, Edmund thought as he watched Lord Wight leave, but you know about the writs of investment I have on my desk at the Hall. You know how much money the Mouldes invested in your family, and you know I could cash them in and ruin your family. You’d fight, and you might even win, but you’re not willing to risk calling me out. You’re trying to be my friend in hopes that I’ll forget everything the Wights did to my family.

Edmund stood up, and moved to the drinks cabinet.

Next time, I’ll make sure you know exactly what I plan to do with you. You, and the other seven Founding Families.

---

The Verdict of Edmund Moulde is fertile ground for arguments and debates between scholars and avid readers, as alternative-historical-fictions blossom like weeds from their imaginations.

This is not unique to Edmund. Indeed, all of history is full of these events. “What if,” they wonder, “this battle had gone differently. What if the Messenger had arrived on time. What if the doctor had saved the prince? What if the rain had let up, or the wind had blown northerly instead of southerly? What if the coin had landed on the other side?”¹

As to what actually happened, there is little need to speculate. When the door to the General’s Lounge opened next, it was Mr. Shobbinton.

“What happened in there, Mr. Shobbinton?” Edmund demanded.

“You have been given an honorable commendation for your actions and respectfully denied the offer to re-enlist, or in fact ever volunteer for service again.”

“I wanted a trial.” How else to explain? How to convey the earth-shattering failure that Mr. Shobbinton’s excellent skill had brought upon the very family he was supposed to protect?

“A trial was not in the best interests of the Moulde Family,” Mr. Shobbinton sniffed, “nor in the interests of the army. I am surprised at you, Master Edmund. You always struck me as a particularly clever man.”

I am, Edmund closed his eyes. I am, and I had a plan…

Expectations. Even when he was acting on his own, he ran up against the expectations of others. Who he was, what he wanted, how he was supposed to behave…he was trapped. Even when he took a knife to the net they had thrown over him, they responded by adding a burlap sack.

Edmund exhaled. It was too late now. He would have to salvage his plan later. There were still opportunities, somewhere. He would track them down like some ancient hunter, use every part of the kill, and salvage his shattered plans. The future he saw for Brackenburg was still possible, but for now, he had to finish up things here. “I was not expecting you to be here,” he turned to his erstwhile solicitor

“I almost wasn’t,” Mr. Shobbinton gave Edmund a reproachful glare as he removed his monocle.

“Lord Wight?”

“I am unable to divulge the person in question who informed me of your legal troubles. Suffice it to say that the next time you get it into your head to do anything that might require my services, I ask that you do so far more ostentatiously. If I had known what you were doing, I could have arrived earlier and possibly prevented some of the worst excesses of your behavior.”

“I believe an aperitif is the gentleman’s apology?”

“If I required one, I would accept it. If there is nothing else, I will be leaving now to handle some paperwork.”

He egress was arrested, however, by the sudden entry of General Ramsbutt.

“I say!” The large general stammared as he pulled up short. “Jolly good to see you…again, sah.” He saluted, then yanked his hand down with sudden force. “Jolly good, what? A fine chap. That is, fine sah. Hope you don’t…well…”

Edmund watched as the hapless man fumbled back and forth between the blustering pomposity due to a general, and the obsequious apologetics he felt were necessary.

From reading Mrs. Wappingdale’s Proper Soldiering, Edmund knew that the Military had a hierarchy, from Generals at the top down to Privates at the bottom; but there were other hierarchies in the world. If a Duke were a Colonel, and a Count a General, who would owe deference to whom?² Edmund had wondered if, as in other walks of life, the aristocratic gentry was stronger than any other hierarchy. Did the strength of the Founding Families carry over into the world of pips and salutes?

He could see now how hard the general was struggling. He had presided over the trial of one of the most important people in Brackenburg. At the same time, the boy in front of him was a Lieutenant, the lowest form of officer. Half of Ramsbutt wanted to bow and scrape, the other half wanted to treat Edmund like a newborn pup.

If Edmund felt he had attained any victory, no matter how small, it was this: Remember this moment, General. This moment, when you struggled and squirmed and bit your lip, all over whether you could give respect to a lowly Lieutenant.

“All’s well that ends well, what?” the General finally collapsed into the weakest bon mot he could have chosen.

“General?” General Clidesdyle stuck his head in. “We are about to start the next trial.”

“Yes, I was just saying…saying farewell and…good show. Yes.” The General quickly fell back on the safest topic of conversation; gossip. “Bit of a sticky one, this next one. Your Major Schtillhart’s up, what? Not as easy a verdict, this one.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Well,” General Clidesdyle smirked from the doorway, “He doesn’t have a solicitor, does he?”

“Yes, and there have been some…insinuations made,” General Ramsbutt’s eyes narrowed. “It appears the Wickes were quite insistent about the fact that he is…in fact…not a man.”

Edmund opened his mouth in shock. He had never held the intelligence of the army in high regard, but to even consider the words of the Wickes in face of the clear evidence…Schtillhart wore the army uniform. His hair was cut short. He spoke like a man. He wore a man’s uniform. He acted like a man. His soldiers called him “sir.” He had kept his head when all about him was losing theirs and blaming it on him, and filled each the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds worth of distance run. Even the General had just called Schtillhart “he.” What else was being a man? What did it matter if the Major had been struck with scrapnel and required medical attention? What did it matter he wasn’t perfect?

Then came the chilling truth of it: the military put value on manhood. If the tribunal thought Schtillhart wasn’t a man, they would think Schtillhart wasn’t worth anything.

Edmund took a breath, and forced his grit teeth apart. “After the Battle of the Ironclads,” Edmund said, “I had the opportunity to give a full physical inspection to Major Schtillhart, and I am fully prepared to say and sign any paper to the affect that Major Schtillhart is every inch a man.”

“Ah, yes…” General Clidesdyle frowned, “…you’re not an official medical surgeon, so I hardly think you have the expertise to judge —”

“Good god, man!” General Ramsbutt snorted. “You don’t need a doctorate to tell the difference!” Turning back to Edmund, he stuck out his hand. “Your word as a gentleman is quite enough for us, sah.”

Edmund took the General’s hand, and gave a most gentlemanly shake. There. No document could ever measure up to that.

General Ramsbutt gave a sharp nod and beamed his gratitude. “Thanks very much, sah,” he said, before he remembered their respective ranks. “All well and good. Farewell then, young fella-me-lad. Hope you…that is…well. Dismissed!” A split second later, he realized that it was, in fact, himself who he had dismissed, and left with General Clidesdyle.

Edmund stopped Shobbinton from leaving after them. “Before you go, would you be willing to perform a favor for me?”

“Solicitors do not perform favors,” Mr. Shobbinton glared. “I am kept on retainer and will act as required by any accepted member of the Moulde Family.”

“You were quite an effective Solicitor for me,” Edmund nodded. “I know of another who has every bit as much need of a solicitor as I did. Perhaps more.”

“Are they a member of the family?”

“No. Are you willing to provide Major Schtillhart with the same protection you gave me?”

“I’m afraid,” Mr. Shobbinton shrugged, “that my retainer only goes insofar as the limits of the Moulde Family. As it stands, I will require appropriate payment for my services. My rates are not unsubstantial.”

“I will pay it.”

“You forget, sir, that I have intimate access and familiarity with your family’s finances.”

“A favor, then.”

“Then my services are at his disposal,” Mr. Shobbinton nodded, picking up his briefcase again. “What result would you like?”

“A just one,” Edmund said.

Mr. Shobbinton frowned. “Justice is not the purview of the a solicitor, Master Moulde. Justice, as a concept, has nothing to do with trials, tribunals, mercy, or punishment. There is far more to justice than a simple verdict.”

“Then innocent,” Edmund said. “Or at least not-guilty. Anything…anything that will salvage a career worth saving.”

“Difficult,” Mr. Shobbinton wiped his monocle on his vest before placing it in his eye. “But not impossible.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.”

---

The Generals came back with their decision remarkably quickly. Schtillhart had been found guilty on the charge of “Misinterpreting Orders With Intent to Act Independent of the Chain of Command,” which Edmund took to mean he was guilty of being too clever by half.

“I suppose,” Major Schtillhart scratched the back of his ear, “that everything turned out well in the end.”

Edmund shrugged. It wasn’t over yet. Perhaps it never would be.

For the people who took a holistic view, Lieutenant Moulde had been there. He was in the trenches during the Harmingsdown Truce. Corporal Old Tom Cottonwood was still alive, thanks to him and Major Schtillhart. So were the hundreds of men and women, English and Spanish, who were fortunate enough to have been there that day.

Yes, to the military types, Edmund was a fool and maybe even a coward. For everyone else, he had been brave enough to fight for peace, even if it meant saving the enemy.

For the truly clever, they might wonder who the enemy really had been.³

“Hey,” an elbow found Edmund’s rib.

“I apologize,” Edmund rubbed his side. “Yes, everything turned out well.” He leaned back in his chair, one of two that sat in the lonely hallway outside the meeting room. The Generals had left, and by unspoken agreement, Edmund and Major Schtillhart had both chosen to remain behind. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I told you my name was Mauve instead of Moulde.”

“Believe me,” Schtillhart grinned. “If there is anyone who understands changing their name to enlist, it’s me. Hell, if anything it makes me respect you more.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He really was.

The distant sounds of military bureaucracy whispered in the air as the two sat and stared at everything except each other.

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” Edmund asked.

“Everything. All this. Joined up as a lieutenant and a clerk. Because of your family?”

Edmund thought for a moment of how best to answer. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he didn’t consider whether or not to tell the truth. “At first it was,” he admitted. “I wanted to serve my family and my country at the same time, but I couldn’t really. I had to pick one. Then I wanted to serve the soldiers of Harmingsdown…then the war as a whole…” Edmund took a deep breath. “At the start I wanted to make my Family better, but I can’t do that with more money or prestige or power…I can only do it by making them better.”

“Oh?” Schtillhart frowned. “And how did you do that?”

“By being better,” Edmund said. “I am a Moulde, after all, and if I am better, than the Family will be better.”⁴

“Huh…” Schtillhart shook his head. “I still have a hard time believing you’re a Moulde. I shared a drink with you during the truce. Several, in fact.”

“You gave me orders, too,” Edmund reminded him.

“Ha! How many can say that they ordered around a Moulde?”

“Not many,” Edmund admitted. At least, not many that survived the attempt. “But a lot can say they ordered around a Lieutenant.”

Schtillhart’s smile faded as he gave a thoughtful nod. “I suppose that was the whole point, wasn’t it?”

“I’m also sorry about the tribunal,” Edmund gestured to the closed door. “You may never be a General, now.”

“I will,” the Major’s eyes glittered, and Edmund reconsidered his assessment. “If they’ve got half a pint of sense in their brains, I’ll be a General in less than five years.”

“You’ll have to contest the Tribunal,” Edmund reminded him. “They won’t promote anyone who’s been given an official reprimand for intentionally misinterpreting orders.”

“They will,” Schtillhart smiled. “I’ll be too deserving. They won’t have any other choice. Besides, General Ramsbutt was convicted three times. It didn’t stop him.”

He was rich and powerful, Edmund noted. Schtillhart was neither. Even if he had been willing to use his family connections, the Sillarts were nowhere near as important a family as the Ramsbutts.

But Schtillhart seemed insistent…as insistent as Leeta had been about making her own way in the world. Perhaps he was right, and he would carry on, rising higher into the ranks of the military, to become who he always was.⁵

“So, what’s next for you?” Schtillhart asked. “If you’re not re-enlisting?”

“I’m going to get married,” Edmund sighed.

“No, really?”

“Yes.”

“You?”

Edmund tried to discern the subtext of his exclamation, but it wasn’t immediately apparent. He decided to list facts, instead of comment. “It was arranged almost ten years ago. I marry her, and it ends the blood feud between the Moulde and the Rotledge Founding Families.”

“Well then,” Schtillhart leaned back in her chair, grinning at the ceiling, “she must be very special.”

“Possibly unique.”

“I never pictured you as a romantic,” Schtillhart shook her head. “I guess we don’t know anything about each other.”

I know more about you than I wager most anyone does. If you don’t think you know me, it’s because you haven’t been paying attention.

“I suppose not,” was all he said.

He had expected it to hurt more, saying goodbye and knowing it was final, knowing that he would like as not never see Major Schtillhart again. If it hadn’t been love, it had been a comfort that surpassed what he had felt around anyone else.

“Well,” Schtillhart stood up, holding out his hand to Edmund, “I suppose this is goodbye, then. It’s been an honor to serve with you, Lieutenant Moulde.”

It had to have been love. What else could it have been? Despite all the lack of all socially acceptable cues…or perhaps because of…Schtillhart had become incredibly alluring to Edmund. Fantastically entrancing.

“And you, Major,” Edmund shook his hand. “Perhaps we will meet again.”

“Probably not,” he gripped Edmund’s hand tightly. “I aim to keep on the move, probably be stationed on the continent, somewhere. If nothing else, I’ll try to send you a letter, now and then.”

Letters.

“Thank you,” Edmund said. He meant it. When he wrote letters, it had always been out of obligation or necessity. Letters to Matron that kept her informed. Letters to Junapa to keep himself sharp. Letters…

Schtillhart turned, and with a final salute, walked down the hallway and out the far door. Edmund watched the door close before standing up, stretching his lanky limbs. It would be good to have someone to write too, not out of obligation but out of desire. Genuine interest in how he was doing because of mutual respect and admiration, not because of social etiquette.

Edmund stared out a nearby dirty gray window. The clouds of industry were thick in the air of Brackenburg, promising a new day tomorrow of possibility and anticipation. The Moulde Family was no worse for Edmund’s efforts during the war, and there were several meetings he needed to arrange before the month was out.

Letters.

He had so many he needed to write. There was Matron, of course, and Junapa, and Kolb, and Wislydale…he couldn’t forget the quartermaster, with his business in the early stages; he would need two letters. Pinsnip had vanished, as was his want, but Edmund had promised, so the Sadwicks would need three or four letters. Leeta and the Ressurectionist Guild was likely doing fine, and would only need one letter, if carefully written. Edmund already knew what to write to deal with the Wights. That would take six letters, at least, and not a little care in the sending. Maybe even a dropped word here or there at the next chance meeting…

Edmund turned from the window and began the long walk back down to Filing Room B. There, he could collect his things, send Ung out to finish the arrangements, and start writing the letters on the carriage ride back to Moulde Hall. Back Home.

The verse was still fresh in his mind when he met Ung on the stairs.

Edmund’s life had been shaped by letters. A letter had brought him to Moulde Hall. A letter had admitted him to Grimm’s School for the Erratically Gifted. Three Letters had brought the heads of three Founding Families to witness the arrangement of his future marriage. A letter from Junapa heralded the coming war. A letter had reunited him with an old school acquaintance, and helped save the lives of an entire battalion.

There was a letter in Ung’s hand.

Edmund liked letters. Conversation was difficult for Edmund. It never flowed as naturally or easily as it seemed to for others. Communication was poetry, and poetry required thought, care, and precision. All the problems in the world stemmed from miscommunication of one sort or another, and Edmund had been resolved to never let his failings destroy his adopted family.

Ung’s hand was shaking. Ung’s hands never shook.

Letters were so much better than talking. You had the time to think, to craft, to prepare. You could say everything you wanted to say with a letter. You put the ink to paper, and the words caught the amorphous meaning that drifted around in your head like a cloud.

Ung’s peppered beard glistened, gently, just below his eyes.

Letters were important. Letters meant things were happening. Letters meant change. Letters meant everything.

Edmund took the letter from Ung’s gentle hands. It wasn’t written in Matron’s sharp and biting hand. It wasn’t signed with Matron’s name.

The letter was written, with regret and condolences, from Doctor Hamfish.