Jin slapped a heavy hand down on Leo’s shoulder. ‘It was Leo who led the—’
‘You can go.’
Jin scratched sheepishly at his beard, showing a lot less warrior’s mettle than he had down in the valley. Jurand gave Leo the slightest apologetic wince. ‘Of course, Lady Finree.’ And they slunk from the tent, leaving Leo to fiddle weakly with the fringe of his captured standard.
His mother let the withering silence stretch a moment longer before she passed judgement. ‘You bloody fool.’
He’d known it was coming, but it still stung. ‘Because I actually fought?’
‘Because of when you chose to fight, and how.’
‘Great leaders go where the fight’s hottest!’ But he knew he sounded like the heroes in the badly written storybooks he used to love.
‘You know who else you find where the fight’s hottest?’ asked his mother. ‘Dead men. We both know you’re not a fool, Leo. For whose benefit are you pretending to be one?’ She shook her head wearily. ‘I should never have let your father send you to live with the Dogman. All you learned in Uffrith was rashness, bad songs and a childish admiration for murderers. I should have sent you to Adua instead. I doubt your singing would be any better but at least you might have learned some subtlety.’
‘There’s a time for subtlety and a time for action!’
‘There is never a time for recklessness, Leo. Or for vanity.’
‘We bloody won!’
‘Won what? A worthless farm in a worthless valley? That was little more than a scouting party, and now the enemy will guess our strength.’ She gave a bitter snort as she turned back to her maps. ‘Or the lack of it.’
‘I captured a standard.’ It seemed a pitiful thing now he really looked at it, though, clumsily stitched, the pole closer to a branch than a flagstaff. How could he have thought Stour Nightfall himself might ride beneath it?
‘We have plenty of flags,’ said his mother. ‘It’s men to follow them we’re short of. Perhaps you could bring back a few regiments of those next time?’
‘Damn it, Mother, I don’t know how to please you—’
‘Listen to what you’re told. Learn from those who know better. Be brave, by all means, but don’t be rash. Above all, don’t get yourself bloody killed! You’ve always known exactly how to please me, Leo, but you choose to please yourself.’
‘You can’t understand! You’re not …’ He waved an impatient hand, failing, as always, to quite find the right words. ‘A man,’ he finished lamely.
She raised one brow. ‘Had I been confused on that point, it was put beyond doubt when I pushed you out of my womb. Have you any notion how much you weighed as a baby? Spend two days shitting an anvil and we’ll talk again.’
‘Bloody hell, Mother! I mean that men will look up to a certain kind of man, and—’
‘Like your friend Ritter looked up to you?’
Leo was caught out by the memory of that riderless horse clattering past. He realised he hadn’t seen Ritter’s face among his friends when they celebrated. Realised he hadn’t even thought about that until now.
‘He knew the risks,’ he croaked, suddenly choked with worry. ‘He chose to fight. He was proud to fight!’
‘He was. Because you have that fire in you that inspires men to follow. Your father had it, too. But with that gift comes responsibility. Men put their lives in your hands.’
Leo swallowed, pride melting to leave ugly guilt behind as pristine snow melts to show the world rotten and bedraggled. ‘I should go and see him.’ He turned towards the tent flap, nearly tripping on the loose strap of one of his greaves. ‘Is he … with the wounded?’
His mother’s face had softened. That made him more worried than ever. ‘He’s with the dead, Leo.’ There was a long, strange silence, and outside the wind blew up and made the canvas of the tent flap and whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’
No corpses, no glory. He sank onto a folding field chair, captured standard clattering to the ground.
‘He said we should wait for you,’ he muttered, remembering Ritter’s worried face as he looked down into the valley. ‘So did Jurand. I told them they could stay with the ladies … while we handled the fighting.’
‘You did what you thought was right,’ murmured his mother. ‘In the heat of the moment.’
‘He has a wife …’ Leo remembered the wedding. What the hell was her name? Bit of a weak chin. The groom had looked prettier. The happy couple had danced, badly, and Whitewater Jin had bellowed in Northern that he hoped for her sake Ritter fucked better than he danced. Leo had laughed so hard he was nearly sick. He didn’t feel like laughing now. Being sick, yes. ‘By the dead … he has a child.’
‘I will write to them.’
‘What good will a letter do?’ He felt the stinging of tears at the back of his nose. ‘I’ll give them my house! In Ostenhorm!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Why do I need a house? I spend all my time in the saddle.’
‘You’ve a big heart, Leo.’ His mother squatted down before him. ‘Too big, I sometimes think.’ Her pale hands looked tiny in his gauntleted fists, but they were the stronger then. ‘You have it in you to be a great man, but you cannot let yourself be swept off by whatever emotion blows your way. Battles may sometimes be won by the brave, but wars are always won by the clever. Do you understand?’
‘I understand,’ he whispered.
‘Good. Give orders to leave the farm and pull back towards the west before Stour Nightfall arrives in force.’
‘But if we fall back … Ritter died for nothing. If we fall back, how will that look?’
She stood. ‘Like womanly weakness and indecision, I hope. Then perhaps the rash heads on the Northmen’s side will prevail and pursue us with manly smiles on their manly faces, and when the king’s soldiers finally arrive, we’ll cut them to pieces on ground of our choosing.’
Leo blinked at the floor and felt the tears on his cheeks. ‘I see.’
She had her soft voice, now. ‘It was rash, it was reckless, but it was brave, and … for better or worse, men do look up to a certain kind of man. I won’t deny we all need something to cheer for. You gave Stour Nightfall a bloody nose, and great warriors are quick to anger, and angry men make mistakes.’ She pressed something into his limp hand. The standard with Nightfall’s wolf on it. ‘Your father would have been proud of your courage, Leo. Now make me proud of your judgement.’
He trudged to the tent flap, shoulders drooping under armour that felt three times heavier than when he arrived. Ritter was gone, and never coming back, and had left his weak-chinned wife weeping at the fireside. Killed by his own loyalty, and Leo’s vanity, and Leo’s carelessness, and Leo’s arrogance.
‘By the dead.’ He tried to rub the tears away with the back of his hand but couldn’t do it with his gauntlets on. He used the hem of the captured standard instead.
In battle, a man discovers who he truly is.
He froze as he stepped into the daylight. What looked like a whole regiment had gathered in a crescent, looking up towards his mother’s tent.
‘A cheer for Leo dan Brock!’ roared Glaward, catching Leo’s wrist in his ham of a fist and hoisting it high. ‘The Young Lion!’
‘The Young Lion!’ bellowed Barniva as a rousing cheer went up. ‘Leo dan Brock!’
‘I tried to warn you.’ Jurand leaned over to mutter in his ear. ‘She give you a roasting?’
‘Nothing I didn’t deserve.’ But Leo managed to smile a little, too. Just for the sake of morale. No one could deny they all needed something to cheer for.
It grew louder as he raised that rag of a standard, and Antaup swaggered forwards, throwing up his arms for more noise. One of the men, no doubt drunk already, dragged down his trousers and showed his bare arse to the North, to widespread approval. Then he fell over, to widespread laughter. Glaward and Barniva caught Leo and bundled him high into the air on their shoulders while Jurand planted his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes.