“You fought there?” Toby asked. He sensed that Devorax was mellowing, that an anger was dying.

Devorax nodded. “I fought there.”

Campion spoke. “You knew my father there?”

“Yes.”

There was silence. Campion hoped for more. Devorax drank. Toby looked at the fire, then back to the soldier. “My mother says Kit Aretine was the handsomest man in England, and the wittiest.”

Devorax gave a humorless laugh. “Like as not.” It seemed he would not say anything more, but then he leaned forward, wincing against a stiffness in the joints. “He changed though.”

Campion was tense. “Changed?”

“He became old. He saw too much. He used to say wit was an illusion and that you couldn’t keep illusions when you were trampling in blood.” Devorax shrugged. “Too clever for his own bloody good.”

Toby waited, but nothing more came. “You knew him well?”

The gray eyes looked at him. The scarred face nodded. “I knew him well. Poor bastard.” He laughed to himself.

Campion tried to urge him on. “Did you like him?”

Devorax seemed to think about it, then nodded. “I liked him. Everyone liked Kit. You couldn’t dislike him. He was one of those men who could keep a roomful of people laughing.” The words seemed to come now as the soldier’s tongue loosened. “He could even do it in Swedish. Story after story, and we’d sit round camp-fires and nothing seemed too bad if Kit was there. You could be cold, starving, hungry as the devil, with the enemy a half-day’s march behind and he’d always know how to make you laugh.” He shrugged. “Some men have that gift. But he changed.”

“How?” Campion was leaning forward, her lips parted. Toby saw her profile against the fire and felt the familiar pang at her beauty.

Devorax wiped his lips with the filthy sleeve of his leather coat. For a second or two Toby thought he would not answer, then he shrugged. “He fell in love. He was always falling in love, but this time it was,” he shook his head, “different. He told me she was the second woman he’d ever really loved. The first was your mother.” He nodded at Campion. “This one was Swedish. She was beautiful, God she was a beauty! All his women were, but this one was made on one of God’s better days.” He grinned. “She had hair your color, Lady Campion, only she wore it short. She followed Kit, you see, and long hair’s a nuisance if you’re sleeping rough with an army. She went with us to Germany.” Devorax seemed far away, as if trying to relive the days of the great Swedish attacks on the northern Catholics. “Kit said it would be his last fight. He’d marry her, live in Stockholm, but he never did. She died.” He lifted the bottle. “And he was never the same again.”

Campion made a noise like a small moan. “That’s awful.”

Devorax laughed. “Worse than awful. I remember it.” He grinned. “We were in a small town and we thought the damned Catholics were miles away. They weren’t. I suppose we were drunk, we often were, and the bastards came into the town that night. Torches, swords, pistols, and half the town was burning thatch and the other half was dying Protestants with the Catholics riding their horses over them. God! It was chaos! They killed a hundred that night and took off half our horses.”