great lord governor, her feelings cannot dictate your policy any more than mine. Or even yours. You have to do the best for the most. Do you want to be a great lord governor, Leo?’
‘You know I do.’
‘The Union has been at war with the North, on and off, ever since Casamir took Angland. We cannot beat the Northmen with swords, Leo. Not for good. We will always be fighting to keep them out.’ She spoke very softly. ‘Unless we invite them in.’
‘So … I’m a peacemaker now?’
‘You’re a fighter, like your father was. But what separates great soldiers from mere killers is that they know when to stop fighting.’
Wincing at the pain in his side, the pain in his stomach, the pain in his thigh, Leo slipped his feet from the bed and swung them down onto the cold floor. ‘Got to admit, I don’t much fancy fighting right now.’
‘I doubt we’ll keep you away from the swords for long.’ Leo’s mother had a dry smile as she slipped a folded paper from her sleeve. ‘You received a letter. A message from the king. Or from his lord chamberlain, anyway.’
‘Don’t tell me, they’re finally sending reinforcements.’
‘They’ve heard they don’t need to. So, naturally, they overflow with praise for your martial prowess.’
‘Their praise will be quite the salve on my wounds, I’m sure.’
‘They offer more than that,’ she said, looking back to the letter. ‘You are invited to Adua for a triumph. A grand parade, to celebrate your victory over the Northmen! I suspect the Closed Council want the king and his son to bask in your reflected glory.’
Leo rubbed at his slit shoulder through the bandages. By the dead, that smarted. ‘You’re the one who deserves the triumph.’
‘For what? Retreating?’ She put her hand on his. ‘You fought. You won. You deserve the rewards.’ She paused a moment, looking into his eyes. ‘I’m proud of you.’
It was as if those words were another sword-cut, and he shut his eyes, and felt tears stinging at the lids.
He’d never realised how much he wanted to hear them.
It wasn’t easy.
He walked with a stick, every step an aching effort, the Northmen scattered about the vale competing over who could give him the most threatening glare as he struggled past. One was sharpening a sword with a steady scrape, scrape, scrape that seemed to be applied directly to his raw nerves.
‘I’m getting the feeling they don’t like us much,’ murmured Jurand through tight lips.
‘I’m getting the feeling they don’t like anyone,’ whispered Glaward.
‘They don’t have to like us, as long as they don’t kill us.’ Leo was starting to suspect this had been a very bad idea. But it would hardly have been his first. He put his head back and tried to walk as if he was looking for another duel right now.
It wasn’t easy. But if changing the world was easy, everyone would be at it.
There was a house down by the sluggish stream in the valley’s bottom, smoke smudging from its squat chimney. A man was just ducking from the low doorway, with iron-grey hair and an iron-hard frown. Leo recognised him from the Circle. Black Calder. Father of Stour Nightfall, brother of Scale Ironhand. The man who really ruled the North.
‘You’re bold to come here, Leo dan Brock.’ He narrowed his eyes as though he was a cat and Leo an especially reckless mouse. ‘Very bold or very foolish.’
Leo ventured a winning smile. ‘Can’t a man be both?’
It won nothing from Black Calder. ‘The two often go together, in my experience. Have you come to mock my son?’
‘I’ve come to make a friend of him.’
Black Calder raised his grey brows. ‘Even bolder. But if you want to stick your head in the wolf’s jaws, who am I to stop you?’
‘Which leaves only one thing.’
‘Yes?’
Leo nodded towards the glowering warriors. ‘Your men have no business squatting on the Dogman’s land, specially with such warlike looks. High time they went back to their families and remembered how to smile.’
Black Calder looked at him a moment longer, then gave a snort. ‘Defeat makes them surly.’ And he stalked off.
‘You two wait here,’ said Leo to his friends. He’d have liked nothing more than to take them with him. But some things you have to do alone.
It wasn’t much different from the room where he’d been lying the last few days. The sharp smell of healer’s herbs and stale sweat. The smothering warmth from the overbanked fire. The one bed, the one chair.