Chapter 23
Fitzwilliam woke before first light. He dressed without sound, then left his chamber and took the back stairs. He veered from the main passage. The kitchen lay dark and cold. He crossed it without pausing and passed into the scullery. The back door stood shut. He drew it open and stepped out.
Hard ground rang beneath his boots. Winter pressed close. Frost waited.
He set his course for the stables.
The stable doors stood open. A man blocked the threshold. Small. Rope in hand. Feet planted wide. The eyepatch turned toward Fitzwilliam before the rest of him did.
The man lifted his hand. Palm out.
From within, a horse whinnied.
Fitzwilliam stepped forward.
The man shook his head and pushed his palm closer.
Fitzwilliam stopped. “My horse.” A beat. “Mein Pferd.”
The man shook his head. “Nein.”
Fitzwilliam stepped to pass him.
The hand came fast. Fingers locked at his sleeve. Grip hard.
Fitzwilliam turned into it. He took the wrist. Twisted.
The hold broke. The man dropped to a knee.
Fitzwilliam released him.
The man lurched back a pace—his hand went to the strap at his temple—then surged. “Schwein!”
The rope snapped low. It took Fitzwilliam behind the knees. His feet went out from under him.
His back struck first. Air left him in a single, soundless burst. The sky spun. Cold bit through wool and bone.
Boots came fast. Fitzwilliam rolled. The heel missed his face by inches and sank into mud.
He was up before the man recovered balance.
One hand took the rope. The other drove forward—knuckles to the throat—then back.
The man folded.
Fitzwilliam knelt, one knee planted on the man’s chest. He held there. He listened as the air thinned in his lungs.
“Berühren Sie mich nie,” he said, teeth clenched.
The man nodded.
Fitzwilliam rose. Looked down. Offered his hand.
The sound came first. A snap. Leather cracked the air.
The man flinched—then screamed. A slash opened across his tunic.
Fitzwilliam turned.
The whip lay slack in Szarca’s hand. Leather still hummed.
The man screamed again. Blood showed through linen.
Szárcza did not look at him. His eyes rested on Fitzwilliam.
Keller stood several feet off. Hands behind his back. Boots clean of mud.
“He attacked you.” His voice carried without effort. He did not move closer. “That makes him your enemy.”
A pause. “Defeat is not enough. An enemy who rises remains an enemy.”
Keller inclined his head.
“An enemy must be vanquished.”
Something in Fitzwilliam settled—not memory, not thought, but the certainty of having stood in this place before.
* * *
They ate outside. Two chairs stood drawn to a small round pedestal table, white linen. Pewter chalices. Silver cutlery. Woollen greatcoats rested over shoulders.
Bread broke clean. Cooked eggs kept under cover. Meat lay sliced and cooling. A jug stood between them, its lip darkened, steam lifting from the coffee.
Keller took his portion without comment. Fitzwilliam followed. Cutlery sounded.
Beyond the table, the post remained—leather loops hung loose, wood scored, the ground beneath it trampled flat. Iron and copper sat heavy in the air.
Szárcza tossed crusts towards the fence. A bird lifted, circled, and then settled again.
Keller wiped his knife on bread before cutting again. “You eat early,” he said.
Fitzwilliam inclined his head.
“Good,” Keller said. “Men who hesitate at table hesitate elsewhere.”
* * *
Fitzwilliam followed Szárcza through the kitchen, past the scullery, and down the back stair. A large key appeared. The door was unlocked.
Szárcza stepped aside. He gestured.
Fitzwilliam entered.
The door slammed shut behind him. The bolt slid home—loud.
He went to the door. Tested the latch. It held.
He turned then.
The room stood bare.
Whitewashed walls. A bench set to one side. A bucket in the corner.
A window set high.
He did not sit at once. He waited.
The bucket filled.
He squatted once.
The smell changed.
He paced the wall. Eight steps. Turn. Eight back.
Light thinned at the window.
He closed his eyes. Opened them. A bowl of water stood on the floor.
Light returned. A rooster called. Then another. The day thinned again.
He closed his eyes again. Bread lay on a towel. He ate. Drank. Folded the towel and laid his head upon it.
He stopped counting.
A rooster crowed. Grey lifted at the window.
He touched fingers to thumb. Sluggish.
The door opened. Szárcza held a candle. He gestured.
Fitzwilliam scrubbed his face with the towel. The skin rasped back. He stood, stepped past the threshold, and past the man.
His mouth was dry. He blinked once. Then again.
He stood in the yard. The stable lay to his front. A man waited by the door, half-seen.
He stepped forward. Shirt torn. Torso bound. Dried blood dark at the seams.
A knife sat low in his hand. Not raised. Ready.
He came in fast.
Fitzwilliam saw the movement. He caught the wrist—missed the blade. His fingers failed the first close. The man pulled away and struck high. Fitzwilliam caught the forearm between his wrists. His fingers found purchase on the second.
He twisted. The man shrieked.
He twisted more. Ligament gave. Bone popped.
He looked down. Tears rolled down the man’s face. “Nein,” he whispered. “Gnade.”
Fitzwilliam pressed his boot on the neck. The sky lightened.
A rooster crowed.
He did not release.
* * *
Fitzwilliam returned to his sitting room and lowered himself into the leather wingback. He closed his eyes. Chin tipped forward. He welcomed the darkness.
The floor creaked. He opened his eyes.
Leather shifted. He slid his boot forward.
Szárcza stood where the light failed.
Fitzwilliam rose. He followed. Same stairs. The same open door.
Fitzwilliam took a breath.
A man sat in a chair. Bound. Gagged.
Fitzwilliam glanced at Szárcza, who gestured.
“Join me,” Keller said from within.
Fitzwilliam stepped past the threshold. He did not look down.
Keller sat at the table by the window. Papers lay squared before him. A cup steamed at his elbow.
“Close the door,” Keller said.
Fitzwilliam did. The latch settled.
Keller lifted his cup. He drank. Set it down.
“Tell me what he knows,” he said.
The man in the chair made a sound. Muffled. Sharp.
Keller did not turn.
“Who is he?”
Keller smiled once. “A poacher.”
Fitzwilliam said nothing.
“Do as you would if at Ashdale,” Keller said.
Fitzwilliam did not look at the chair. “Does he have a family?”
Keller’s smile did not change. “Yes.”
“That will do.”
Keller crossed to the door and rapped his fist twice. He returned to his chair. “You have chosen a dangerous path.”
“How so?”
“Family are non-combatants.”
Fitzwilliam looked at the prisoner. Ratty, stained clothes. Boots of a quality suggesting theft. Defiant eyes above a mouth stretched silent.
“Theft is not war,” Fitzwilliam said.
Keller inclined his head. “Then why does it require organisation?”
The door opened. Szárcza entered, gripping a woman by the arm. He threw her forward. She hit the floor, curled in on herself, and shuddered without sound.
Fitzwilliam waited. He did not look at Keller. Light lay steady at the window. It crept, then stalled. Dust shifted in the beam and settled again. The woman lifted her head. Her eyes found him. They slid past him—to the chair.
To the man bound there.
The light thinned. A shadow climbed the wall and lost its edge. Something crossed her face. Fear. Recognition. Calculation. The room held its breath.
She looked back at Fitzwilliam. She spat. It struck his boot and ran dark on the leather.
Fitzwilliam took the woman by the arm. Firm. Exact. She stiffened. She did not cry out. He drew her upright and turned her so the man could see.
Fitzwilliam reached behind her head and gathered a lock of hair. He held it once. Tested the weight. He drew the knife. The blade slid through without sound, clean and exact.
Loose strands slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor.
The man made a sound through the gag. Not loud. Broken.
Fitzwilliam let the woman go. She staggered back a step, hands flying to her head.
He did not look at her.
He held the cut lock at eye level, where the man could see it.
Keller lifted a hand.
“Knebel ab.”
Fitzwilliam stepped in and yanked the gag free.
The man dragged air. Once. Twice.
Keller did not raise his voice. “Genug.”
The man’s eyes dropped to the floor. His shoulders folded inward. Words spilled out—fast, breathless German, names and places running together.
Keller listened without interruption. He did not write.
Fitzwilliam stood where he was, the dark lock, cut short and uneven, still in his hand.
The man kept talking.