Chapter One

Blood-Stained Soul

William’s sword dropped from his hand, landing hilt first in a pool of half-dried blood. He suppressed the urge to retch as he reached down and picked it up, wiping it off as best he could before returning it to its scabbard on his belt. With a soldier’s practiced eye, he surveyed the field. The dead and dying lay scattered over the grass; black, white, and green uniforms all stained the same shade of red. He could have wept were he not caked head to toe in it, drying dark on his clothes and hair. He knew help would never reach the men that could still call for it, and looking around once more to make sure no more green uniforms were rushing at him, he turned on his heel and headed for his camp.

There was already a celebration in full swing when he arrived. “Captain! Captain!” It was Paul. He was headed over to William with a drink in hand, smiling, dirty uniform still on. “Captain, good battle, eh?”

William sighed, walking past him and making his poor lieutenant follow. “Paul, first of all, how many times to I have to remind you to call me Will, damn it?”

“But you outrank me.”

“I’m your friend.”

“You’re my commanding officer and a nobleman to boot. And your father the colonel was quite insistent that we call you by your rank and not your name.”

“All right, all right.” He sighed. No point arguing anymore. “Secondly, what do you think you’re doing with that drink?”

“Aren’t you going to celebrate with us?”

William stopped walking. He turned to Paul in shock. “I’m covered head to foot in blood. My uniform is black with it.”

“So?”

“It was white this morning!” He was practically shouting. “It’s caked in my hair and right down into the soles of my boots, Paul. Would you mind if I bathed first?” He didn’t wait for a response from the similarly blood-covered lieutenant; he simply walked away, sighing. Paul could be quite stupid sometimes. Friendly lad, but stupid nonetheless.

Nearing his tent, he noticed a young corporal had followed him. He turned gently, and the young lad stopped as he did. “Yes, Corporal? What is it?”

He snapped to attention, and William sighed. “Is there anything you’ll be needing, sir?”

“You should be celebrating, soldier. Go and join the merriment.”

“All due respect, sir, I’d much rather help you, if you’ll be needing it.”

Well…maybe he’d prove useful, after all. Will turned to him fully. “Very well, then. Run along ahead to my tent and draw me a bath, will you? No need to warm the water, I’m in rather a hurry, Corporal…ehh…” He faltered for a moment, trying not to glance at the nameplate.

“Gibbons, sir.” The boy couldn’t have been more than sixteen; the pout made him look even younger.

“Gibbons, then.” Gibbons saluted quickly and ran ahead to the tent. William stood for a moment, thinking. Two medals gleaming on the boy’s chest; he’d probably pinned them on himself, and he couldn’t remember the boy’s name. He couldn’t even remember to look at the nameplate before starting to speak to them. This was becoming a nasty habit. He nearly ran his hand through his hair; one look at his hand stopped him.

It was still stained bright red. He shuddered, remembering what he’d done. He turned and hurried to his tent. It was high time he washed away the stain. When he reached his tent, he looked around and saw the tub in the corner; it was full enough, and Gibbons was adding one final bucketful of water. “Sorry, sir, I know you said ‘don’t warm the water,’ but I warmed one bucketful anyway. Figured it was the least I could do for you, sir.”

He smiled. “Don’t apologize, Corporal. I appreciate the thought.” The boy smiled as he put the bucket down at the foot of the tub, saluted, and made to leave. William stopped him. “Just one quick thing, Corporal. How…how old are you?”

The boy kept smiling, like it was an honor to be talking to William. “I’m fifteen, sir.”

Fifteen…even younger than he’d thought. “What are you doing here at fifteen?” He nearly whispered it.

“Same as the rest of us, sir. I wanna fight.” He said it, still smiling. William released him with a small salute. Thinking for a few moments, he started to strip away the disgusting uniform, and was finally able to climb into the tub. The clean, nice water didn’t last. The moment his hand touched it, it turned to a pool of blood. He nearly retched, but maintained his composure once again and bathed quietly. He put on a fresh uniform; the stark white now contrasted his dark hair. He looked at himself in the mirror; there was no more blood on him, but he still felt like his soul was blood-stained. Reaching for his shaving things, he grabbed his razor and sat down.

He’d killed two men in cold blood. Granted, his duty as a soldier was to kill, but what he’d done was well outside the realm of duty. One of his best friends, and the other – for the other, he’d pay dearly and he knew it. He’d pay with his life for what he’d done to the other. He was vaguely aware that he had the razor blade open and aimed at his bared wrist, but he didn’t care. Better to die here than at the hands of those Gledhill bastards.

He heard the sound of the tent flaps snapping open, and then Paul and Devon’s voices. Paul Anderson and Devon Allan – his two lieutenants and his closest friends – they’d come to check on him, but why? Why did they care so much? “Will, for the love of God!” Before he could speak, they’d dived on him and wrestled the razor away.

“Get off me!” William grunted. “That’s an order!” They obeyed, Devon holding onto the razor. “Give it back, Lieutenant.”

“No, sir.”

“That’s an order!”

“Sir, no, sir.”

“I’ll have you arrested for insubordination.”

“It would be gross insubordination to Colonel Morrisson if I gave this back to you, sir.” Devon grinned. “So, fuck it, Will Morrisson. Arrest me.”

“Fine.” He turned to Paul. “Do it.”

There was a lengthy pause. “No, sir.” William punched his bedding. He took a shaky breath as he heard his friends approach him. “Will,” Paul said quietly, “what’s the matter with you? We came in here to bring you out there to celebrate and instead find you in here, trying to kill yourself. What happened?”

“I killed him,” William said quietly. “I killed the son of a bitch.”

“What, Greg? He had it coming.” Devon patted his back, kneeling down by him.

“I slashed his throat. We could have just tied his hands.”

“He’d never have come quietly, Will.”

William nodded. “But there’s not just that. I…” He ran his hand through his hair. “The other one, the…the noble…”

“Oh, come on,” Paul said. “You really think they’re gonna find out it was you?” William nodded, a tear beginning down his cheek. Paul handed William his handkerchief, and the young captain quickly composed himself. “Will, they never even saw you pick up the gun. They never saw you fire. They’re never gonna find out it was you. Not unless you tell them.”

“They know,” he said. “They already know. They shot at my father first. They did see me fire. I had to kill six or seven of them after the fact just to get away with my own life.” He sighed. “If they ever catch me, I’m a dead man.”

There was a long pause. The three boys sat there for a few minutes, Devon and Paul simply comforting William. It was Paul who finally broke the silence.

“I think you need some time off, Will.”

He turned and looked at Paul. “Time o… What? Now? In the middle of a fucking war?”

“Yes. You need it or you’re going to end up getting yourself killed. And you, my friend, are twenty years old. You’re unmarried and don’t have an heir yet. Your father would be fairly displeased if his only legitimate heir died without a son to carry on the name, don’t you think?”

“I don’t need to think, I happen to know he would be.”

“Then you need to take a break. Just two weeks. Go up to Salem; the war’s not there and that’s about as …”

Devon gasped “Salem? Go up to the north of Gledhill and straight into enemy territory?”

William looked between them both. “I’m with Dev on this one. Have you lost what was left of your senses?”

“Will, I’m serious. You go back to Winslow and they’ll call you a coward, a deserter. You’re a baron. You’re supposed to be in the thick of it with us and able to handle it. You go up to Salem, into Gledhill, you may have to use a cover story to avoid trouble, but at least they won’t call you a coward and a deserter.”

“There’s that, but if I’m found out, there’s one other little problem.”

“What?”

“I’ll be hanged!” Paul backed away, covering his ears, as Devon laughed at him silently. “You eager to get me killed, Lieutenant?”

“N…no, Will. You just…”

“Paul, stop it, all right?” He sighed. He thought for a few minutes; he’d lost his temper so easily with his closest friend. Maybe he did need a break. Sure, Salem couldn’t possibly be the safest place to go, but Paul was right. It was better than heading back to Morrisson. He couldn’t go back to his stepmother and half-sister, even for two weeks. Being called a coward, a deserter…hell, he could take being hanged over being called Billy for two weeks. “Look, I’ll go. Maybe…”

Devon clapped his hand on William’s shoulder. “Wait. You’re not seriously going to Salem? Will, they’ll kill you there.”

“It’s two weeks, Devon. What harm could it do?”