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Sam looked at the other man, wondering at the choice of subjects. Perhaps Vale was only making small talk. “Thank you. You didn’t shoot yourself, I noticed.”
A small muscle jerked in Vale’s jaw. “I had enough of guns and gunfire in the war.”
Sam nodded. That he could understand. Aristocrat or common soldier, there had been far too many experiences in the war that didn’t bear repeating.
Vale glanced at him. “I expect you think me a coward.”
“Far from it.”
“Kind of you.” The other man’s horse shied at a leaf, and for a moment, he tended to the reins. Then he said, “It’s odd; I don’t mind hearing gunfire or smelling the smoke. It’s just holding a gun in my hands. The weight and the feel. Somehow it brings it all back, and the war is real again. Too real.”
Sam didn’t reply. How could one reply to such an observation? At times the war was too real for him, too. Maybe the war still lived for all the soldiers who had returned home—the wounded and the ones who only seemed whole.
They’d turned into the road now, following an ancient hedge along one side, the other side bordered by a drystone wall. Beyond these barriers, the brown and golden fields rolled away into the distance. A party of haymakers was working one field, the women with their skirts gathered to their knees, the men in smocks.
“Did you know Hasselthorpe was in the war, too?” Vale asked suddenly.
Sam glanced at him. “Indeed?” Hasselthorpe didn’t have a particularly military bearing about him.
“Was an aide-de-camp to one of the generals,” Vale said. “Can’t remember which one now.”
“Was he at Quebec?”
“No. I’m not sure he saw any action at all. I don’t think he was in the army very long, anyway, before he inherited.”
Sam nodded. Many aristocrats sought soft commissions in His Majesty’s army. Whether or not they were suited to army life had very little to do with their choice of career.
Their conversation ceased until they’d entered the outskirts of Dryer’s Green some minutes later. It was a bustling little town, the kind that would have a thriving market every week. They passed the smithy and a cobbler’s shop, and an inn came into sight.
“I’m told Honey Lane is just here.” Vale indicated a small road just past the inn.
Sam nodded and turned his horse down the lane. There was only one house here—a mean little cottage, the thatching blackened with age. Sam looked at Vale, his brows raised. The viscount shrugged. Both men dismounted their horses and tied them to low branches near the stone wall that separated the cottage from the road. Vale unlatched the wooden gate, and they marched up the brick walk. The place might’ve once been nice. There were signs of a garden, long neglected now, and the cottage, while small, was well proportioned. Evidently Craddock had fallen on hard times. Or he’d lost the ability to tend to the house.
On that uneasy thought, Sam knocked at the low door.
No one came. Sam waited a moment and then knocked again, this time more forcefully.
“Perhaps he’s out,” Vale said.
“Did you find where he’s employed?” Sam asked.
“No, I—”
But the door creaked open, interrupting Vale. A woman of middling years peered at them through a hand-span crack. She wore a white mobcap but otherwise was all in black, a shawl wrapped across her bosom and tied at the waist. “Aye?”
“Pardon us, ma’am,” Sam said. “But we’re looking for Mr. Craddock. We were told that he lives here.”
The woman gasped softly and Sam tensed.
“He did live here,” she said. “But not anymore. He’s dead. He hung himself a month ago.”
Chapter Eleven
Six years went by in wedded happiness—for what man wouldn’t be happy to be rich and married to a beautiful woman who loved him? In the sixth year, Iron Heart’s happiness reached a new peak, for the princess found she was expecting their child. What rejoicing there was in the Shining City! The people danced in the streets, and the king showered the populace with gold coins the night the princess gave birth to a son. This small baby was the heir to the throne and one day would wear a king’s crown on his head. On that night, Iron Heart smiled down on his son and his wife and knew that soon he would be able to speak aloud their names. For this was the third day before the end of his seven years of silence....
—from Iron Heart
“Capers,” Lady Hasselthorpe said.
