last.’
‘And here you are, who has never lied to me in his life.’
‘You acknowledge that now?’
‘I do.’
She looked into his eyes, and a minute of silence stretched by between them, while the horses stamped and cropped at the grass edging the road.
‘How was the war, Emily?’ he said at last. His voice, speaking her name, grabbed at her. ‘Tell me, if you can. Tell me everything. You cannot conceive the scenes, the thoughts that have bedevilled me, since you left for the front. You cannot imagine how I have pored over every word you wrote, and how I have racked myself when no word came. Please, Emily, I have to know how it was.’
She swung herself out of the saddle and led her horse to one side of the road, confident that he was following.
‘Sit,’ she suggested. ‘Let us sit and feel the sun, and know that it is all over, and I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you more than you could ever want to hear about that damned war – and every word of it true.’
So he sat down beside her under the shade of a beech tree, and she told him it all. She told him about Gravenfield and the Levant, Resnic and Pordevere and Mallarkey As the afternoon moved on, she spoke with feeling on the Survivors’ Club, which had kept her sane, and she heard her voice waver as she described Marie Angelline; her bravery and her end. She told him of the Denlanders’ savage assault on them, the grenades, the sacrifice, the piling bodies of the dead on both sides.
She told him about everything except Giles Scavian, and she wondered if he could not guess that story, too, from the gaps she left. He made no interruption though, injected no sarcastic commentary. He let her tell the story in her own words, at her own pace.
She told him about her capture, and how she had really felt and what she had feared: all those things she had told no other.
And she paused there, because it was something she had to know and, of all people, he might have the answer.
‘Doctor Lam said something to me then,’ she explained. ‘I don’t know what to make of it still. He said that the war wasn’t started by the Denlanders overthrowing their king . . . He claimed that . . .’
‘That we did it?’ he suggested gently. ‘That our sainted Luthrian the Fourth had his men hire worse men to kill his cousin, and so expand his realm by claiming himself to be the rightful heir of Denland’s throne? Did he say that to you, Emily?’
‘He did.’ This was her last chance to remain ignorant, but she swallowed her qualms and continued. ‘You’ve always, always been truthful with me. Tell me, Cristan, is that true?’
He was smiling at her, which seemed quite out of place, and it was a moment before she realized that she had spoken his name – his personal name – to him for the first time. ‘Cristan,’ she repeated, carefully, surprised at how natural it sounded. ‘Tell me, Cristan, please.’
His face grew sombre. ‘I cannot be sure beyond all reckoning, Emily. I am not privy to the royal court. And even if I were, there’s no guarantee I’d know. But . . . I have many people who tell me many things. Yes, this I have heard, and I do believe it, that our grand and glorious king, by the grace of God, is a murderer. I’m sorry.’
She remembered that golden-haired and laughing man she had danced with at Deerlings House. With his face in her mind, she could not believe it but, looking on Mr Northway’s altogether more ordinary features, she found she could.
‘Did you know before I enlisted?’
‘Emily, I knew it before war was declared.’
‘But . . . ?’
‘Why didn’t I say anything? Why didn’t I say anything to you? What on earth would you have done, Emily, had I made such an accusation? Why, you’d probably have shot me dead.’
‘I suppose I might have done.’
‘I notice that you are not currently reaching for your gun,’ he added.
‘My . . . ?’ She realized with a start that she had her pistol thrust through her belt, a decision while dressing that she had not even thought about. ‘No. I have fought so hard not to believe this. Ever since I heard it, I have been furiously telling myself that the King of Lascanne is a man of honour, and that we