body under the table stirred, emitting a low groan.
‘Any soldier,’ Stryker repeated the article, stooping to clear the table top, ‘who should fail to return to his colour when called, will be clapped, Mister Hood, in irons!’ He swung the bucket on the final word so that the putrid concoction dashed the suddenly animated body in a stinking wave.
Lieutenant Thomas Hood rolled out from under his makeshift shelter, groping for a sword that had long since vanished from its flaccid scabbard. ‘Jesu!’ he spluttered viciously. ‘S’ precious blood, you bastardly gullion! I’ll gouge your eyes out, sir, I’ll—’
He cut himself short when finally he braved the light to look into his persecutor’s face. Fury turned to horror.
‘Eye,’ Stryker said. ‘Another knave has saved you half the task.’
Thomas Hood pitched on to his front and vomited. When he was done, chest heaving, he risked a glance up. ‘Christ on His cross.’ He spat and wiped a dangling tendril of greenish mucus from his chin with a heavily stained sleeve. ‘Major, I—’
‘You are in your cups, Lieutenant.’
Hood blinked rapidly, looked as though he would vomit again, but managed to hold himself together. His long hair was sopping from the untimely bath, and he was forced to peel the strands from his cheeks. ‘Nay, sir, not in … not in .’ He struggled to his feet, swaying as he finally stood tall. His face, ordinarily so fresh and handsome, was haggard. His eyes were deep red, his lips caked white with dried spittle. ‘Have been in them, I admit freely, but no longer. Sober as a monk, sir.’
Stryker dropped the pail, Hood recoiling at the clatter. ‘You know my rule.’
Hood dabbed his wispy beard with a sleeve. ‘I was not drinking during the escalade, sir, ’pon my honour I was not.’ He took a step forwards, then two in retreat. ‘P’rhaps a sip, then, but no more.’
‘Better a sip to get a man over the wall than sobriety see him cower in the ditch,’ Stryker conceded. ‘But after, Tom. I saw you. As the town burned.’ Indeed, he and Skellen had stumbled upon Hood in the smallest hours, or, rather, Hood had quite literally stumbled upon them. The sack was in full swing, terror unleashed with free rein and a prince’s blessing, and Hood had been sighted staggering along Churchgate with his sword in one hand and a blackjack full of wine in the other.
Hood set his jaw defensively. ‘The fight was over. It was won. Was it not my right to make merry with the spoils?’
‘You have the right to toast a victory, Tom, not to slump in a gutter like a common wastrel. You are an officer.’
A flash of defiance lanced across Hood’s damp features. ‘You are the arbiter of my revelry now, sir?’
‘I am your commanding officer, Mister Hood. Your goddamned chief!’ Stryker advanced angrily. Hood skittered back until he collided with the table. ‘You may imbibe what you like, Lieutenant, so long as you return to quarters at dawn. Look at you. Where is your dignity? Jesu, man, where is your sword?’
Hood’s hand went to the empty scabbard and the defiance left him. ‘Bastards,’ he whispered, evidently recalling something of the night. He met Stryker’s hard gaze. ‘Where is my dignity, sir?’ He shrugged. ‘What dignity?’
‘You are an officer of the King.’
Hood’s chuckle was mirthless, embittered. ‘With not a kitten to command.’
‘That is beside the point.’
‘It is precisely the point, sir,’ Hood answered hotly, insolence rearing within him again.
‘Mind your tongue, sirrah,’ Stryker warned.
Hood held Stryker’s eye for a second, then broke the trance with a pitiful sigh. He studied his boots for a short time, breathing heavily as he steadied his anger. When he looked up, his expression was wretched with contrition. ‘My apologies, sir. Sincerely.’
Stryker relented. He was angry at Hood, for the young officer was a good man, a competent leader, but his penchant for drink was
‘Any soldier,’ Stryker repeated the article, stooping to clear the table top, ‘who should fail to return to his colour when called, will be clapped, Mister Hood, in irons!’ He swung the bucket on the final word so that the putrid concoction dashed the suddenly animated body in a stinking wave.
Lieutenant Thomas Hood rolled out from under his makeshift shelter, groping for a sword that had long since vanished from its flaccid scabbard. ‘Jesu!’ he spluttered viciously. ‘S’ precious blood, you bastardly gullion! I’ll gouge your eyes out, sir, I’ll—’
He cut himself short when finally he braved the light to look into his persecutor’s face. Fury turned to horror.
‘Eye,’ Stryker said. ‘Another knave has saved you half the task.’
Thomas Hood pitched on to his front and vomited. When he was done, chest heaving, he risked a glance up. ‘Christ on His cross.’ He spat and wiped a dangling tendril of greenish mucus from his chin with a heavily stained sleeve. ‘Major, I—’
‘You are in your cups, Lieutenant.’
Hood blinked rapidly, looked as though he would vomit again, but managed to hold himself together. His long hair was sopping from the untimely bath, and he was forced to peel the strands from his cheeks. ‘Nay, sir, not in … not in .’ He struggled to his feet, swaying as he finally stood tall. His face, ordinarily so fresh and handsome, was haggard. His eyes were deep red, his lips caked white with dried spittle. ‘Have been in them, I admit freely, but no longer. Sober as a monk, sir.’
Stryker dropped the pail, Hood recoiling at the clatter. ‘You know my rule.’
Hood dabbed his wispy beard with a sleeve. ‘I was not drinking during the escalade, sir, ’pon my honour I was not.’ He took a step forwards, then two in retreat. ‘P’rhaps a sip, then, but no more.’
‘Better a sip to get a man over the wall than sobriety see him cower in the ditch,’ Stryker conceded. ‘But after, Tom. I saw you. As the town burned.’ Indeed, he and Skellen had stumbled upon Hood in the smallest hours, or, rather, Hood had quite literally stumbled upon them. The sack was in full swing, terror unleashed with free rein and a prince’s blessing, and Hood had been sighted staggering along Churchgate with his sword in one hand and a blackjack full of wine in the other.
Hood set his jaw defensively. ‘The fight was over. It was won. Was it not my right to make merry with the spoils?’
‘You have the right to toast a victory, Tom, not to slump in a gutter like a common wastrel. You are an officer.’
A flash of defiance lanced across Hood’s damp features. ‘You are the arbiter of my revelry now, sir?’
‘I am your commanding officer, Mister Hood. Your goddamned chief!’ Stryker advanced angrily. Hood skittered back until he collided with the table. ‘You may imbibe what you like, Lieutenant, so long as you return to quarters at dawn. Look at you. Where is your dignity? Jesu, man, where is your sword?’
Hood’s hand went to the empty scabbard and the defiance left him. ‘Bastards,’ he whispered, evidently recalling something of the night. He met Stryker’s hard gaze. ‘Where is my dignity, sir?’ He shrugged. ‘What dignity?’
‘You are an officer of the King.’
Hood’s chuckle was mirthless, embittered. ‘With not a kitten to command.’
‘That is beside the point.’
‘It is precisely the point, sir,’ Hood answered hotly, insolence rearing within him again.
‘Mind your tongue, sirrah,’ Stryker warned.
Hood held Stryker’s eye for a second, then broke the trance with a pitiful sigh. He studied his boots for a short time, breathing heavily as he steadied his anger. When he looked up, his expression was wretched with contrition. ‘My apologies, sir. Sincerely.’
Stryker relented. He was angry at Hood, for the young officer was a good man, a competent leader, but his penchant for drink was
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