Chapter 1
23rd of June, 1707
Marrenijl, Faursia
23:58
The sky was dark as iron, its restless clouds clashing overhead as if torn apart by fury, producing a heavy, pouring rain. The path to Marrenijl was a treacherous, winding scar through marshes and swampland, the earth beneath their feet soggy, drenched and unwilling to let them pass. Each step was a battle, the reeds snagging at their legs, the mud threatening to claim their boots as it seeped into their bones. The village lights flickered faintly through the mist, a cruel tease of sanctuary. Eusebius Dumonceau—or Hennie—staggered slightly as he walked, his strength dwindling after months of relentless flight. His head was held low, his shoulders cloaked in a threadbare coat—he held himself as if the months of pursuit had carved a defiant statue out of a hunted man. His hazel eyes seemed stuck to the ground, beneath them hung dark bags which gave him an almost gaunt appearance. Only 25, he somehow looked much older; his pale skin gave him an almost ghostly look. His close companions followed behind, in uneasy silence, their faces drawn from exhaustion and fear.
“Yer* faltering,” Renate said softly, quickening her pace to walk beside him—her brow furrowing beneath a plain bonnet. She was a year younger than Hennie, with a similar, pale complexion, though nonetheless pretty, with long, light brown hair and dark brown eyes. Her voice was low, meant only for his ears, but there was a sharpness beneath the tenderness. “If ye’d only lean on me for once, ye might make the boat wi’ both feet intact.”
Hennie huffed a bitter laugh, though his gaze never left the horizon. “And if I did, ye’d be in the muck alongside me. What good’s a guide who cannae* keep her own feet dry?”
Renate snorted but reached out to steady him all the same. “Ye’ve no’ dragged me this far to let me drown in this bog, Hennie, and I’d sooner slap sense into ye than let ye waste yerself here.”
“Sense, is it? Sense fled me months ago, when first I raised this Godforsaken banner.” His voice was low, edged with weariness that he could no longer hide from her. “And where did it lead? To this cursed place, wi’ naught to show for it but the blood o’ good men and the Commonwealth’s hounds at our heels.”
She gripped his arm tighter, forcing him to slow as the others trudged ahead, their shadows barely visible through the swirling mist. “And what’d you have done instead, eh? Left Faursia to her fate? Her folk to the whims o’ Aubervijr? Ye gave them hope, Hennie. Hope they’d no’ seen in years. D’ye think that counts for naught?”
Hennie stopped, his boots sinking into the mud as he turned to face her. The faint light of the village painted his features in sharp relief—the hollow cheeks, the lines carved by months of fear and failure. “Hope’s a cruel gift, Renate,” he said, his voice trembling just enough for her to notice. “It burns brightest when it’s forfeit.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The marshes around them seemed to hold their breath, the distant call of a gull the only sound. Then, she released him with a slight shove, her face twisting into something between anger and grief. “We’ve no time for yer broodin’. The boat’s waitin’, and so’s Ceulemans.” She glanced behind them, as though expecting the man’s shadow to rise from the mist. “If ye’ve any thoughts o’ dying, ye can think ‘em on the water.”
He smiled faintly at that, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “On the water, then.”
As they reached the outskirts of Marrenijl, the wooden planks of the bridge creaking beneath their feet, the others began to whisper amongst themselves. Hennie and Renate stayed silent, their breaths visible in the biting nighttime air. Ahead, the boat swayed at its moorings, its small frame seeming too fragile for the vast waters beyond.
“Ye’ve no’ told me where we’re bound,” Hennie said at last, his voice quieter now.
Renate’s lips tightened, her gaze fixed on the vessel. “The ship’s captain promised a place safer than here, God willing. And if He’s not, well…” She glanced at him, her eyes softening just enough to betray the weight she carried. “We’ll face it together, Hennie. As we’ve done since the barn.”
He nodded, though his heart churned with unease. The boat loomed closer, a shadow against the restless tide, and for the first time, he wondered if it truly carried salvation—or merely the end of the road.
“‘Tis ironic… I first landed here o’er a year ago to start this campaign. Marrenijl… we landed with seven men. Some o’ those we lost, the rest are before us now… look at those poor souls.”
The others had already reached the docks, their shapes indistinct in the haze. None of them spoke, though now and then a muffled cough or the scuff of a boot broke the silence. They moved with the weariness of men who had nothing left to say and even less to hope for. Hennie watched them for a moment, his jaw tightening. These were the last of his cause—his cause, not theirs. And yet they had given everything for it, some without question, others against their better judgement. He had led them to Aubervijr and back, from battle to battle and then to Beveren, where thousands were slaughtered—not just men of his cause, but innocent men and women who had no part in any of his chaos, slaughtered in the battle’s aftermath. And now, he had led them across Faursia’s breadth, through its blood-soaked fields and over treacherous passes, his empty promises as empty as their stomachs. Now all that awaited them was the cold expanse of the sea and a boat too small to carry even their grudges.
Renate followed his gaze, her face unreadable. “They’ll follow ye to the end,” she murmured. “They always have.”
“And what has it earned them?” he asked, his voice low. “A future in a shallow grave? Or a nameless one at sea?”
She didn’t answer immediately, her sharp eyes flicking to the shadows behind them. “Better that than the gallows Ceulemans’d have us all swing from,” she said finally. “Whatever waits beyond that water, Hennie, it cannae be worse than what’s behind us.”
Hennie turned away from the men at the docks and fixed her with a searching look. “Ye speak like a woman who still believes in tomorrow,” he said. “Tell me—when was it ye last saw it? Truly saw it?”
Renate’s mouth twitched, a bitter shadow of a smile. “Belief’s all I’ve left, aye? If I set it down, there’ll be no liftin’ it again. But don’t mistake me, Hennie—I dinnae fancy tomorrow any more than ye do.”
A laugh escaped him, rough and humourless. “We’re a fine pair then, are we no’? A fool and a liar, blind and deaf to the end.”
“Blind, maybe,” she said, a touch of steel in her tone. “But no deaf. I hear them out there, same as ye—the wind, the water, the ghosts of all who’ve fallen. And I’ll no’ let them say I lacked the courage to take one more step.”
Her words stirred something in him, though he couldn’t have named it if he tried. She was right, of course. The dead never stopped calling—not the men who had given their lives for his rebellion, nor those who had fallen by his hand. Every gust of wind seemed to carry their whispers, their questions, their reproach. And yet here he was, still walking, still breathing, though he had long since stopped deserving either.
The boat was clearer now, its silhouette rocking gently on the dark water. The captain, a weary man with a face as weathered as the wood beneath his boots, waited at the edge of the dock, his arms folded and his expression grim. He had no love for this venture; that much was clear. But coin had a way of silencing doubts, and Renate had a way of weaving lies of exile and desperation with a fluency that came only to those who had lived close to ruin. The truth, of course, was that they were all but dead already.
“Will it hold us?” Hennie asked, nodding toward the vessel.
Renate tilted her head, considering. “It’ll hold us long enough.”
“And after?”
She met his eyes, her expression hardening. “After, we’ll see. Or we won’t. Either way, it’ll no’ be Ceulemans that writes our epitaph.”
The name sent a chill through him. Herbert Ceulemans, the man who had turned pursuit into art. For five long months, Ceulemans had dogged their every step, cutting off roads before they could take them, laying traps where none should have been possible. Hennie had come to feel as though the man’s shadow followed him closer than his own. It had followed him long enough, chasing him up and down all corners of the Faursian coast. Enough was enough.
“He’s watchin’ us now,” Hennie said softly, glancing back at the dim outlines of the hills beyond the marsh. Somewhere up there, he knew, Ceulemans stood with his officers, silent and implacable as death itself.
“Aye,” Renate replied, her voice steady. “But let him watch. What’s he to see but a boat on the tide? He’ll no’ follow us beyond the water.”
“And if he does?”
Her smile was thin, but her grip on his arm was firm. “Follow? He will no’ dare.”
The captain called out impatiently, beckoning them to hurry. The others had already begun boarding, their movements stiff and weary as they settled into the cramped space. Renate tugged at Hennie’s sleeve, pulling him forward, but he lingered for a moment longer, his eyes sweeping the shore. The reeds swayed in the breeze, their rustling like whispers, and the mist thickened, curling around the bridge as if trying to hold him back.
“It’s strange,” he said quietly. “I always thought the end would come on Faursian soil. That I’d die with the land beneath me. I should have, at Beveren…”
Renate paused, her face softening as she looked at him. “Hennie,” she said gently, “wars are won and wars are lost, ye know that better than I. Besides, the land’s in ye still. It always will be, no matter where ye go. Remember that.”
Her words cut through him more deeply than any blade. With a reluctant nod, he followed her to the boat, each step feeling heavier than the last. As he climbed aboard, the captain cast off the mooring lines, and the vessel began to drift away from the dock, the tide carrying them toward the open sea.
Hennie sat at the bow, his hands clasped tightly as he watched the distant shore fade into the mist. Behind him, the others huddled close, their voices low and uncertain. Renate sat beside him, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm of his thoughts.
For the first time in months, there was no sound of pursuit, no barking orders, no thunder of hooves. Only the endless murmur of the waves and the faint whistle of the wind. And yet, as the boat carried them farther from Faursia, Hennie felt no relief, only the gnawing certainty that they were heading not toward safety, but toward something darker, and more final. And now, as the boat creaked and swayed into deeper waters, they fled not toward sanctuary, but into the unknown.
The boat glided through the mist, its oars slicing the water in rhythmic, hollow strokes. Every creak of the wood seemed magnified in the stillness, the sound carrying out over the vast, unseen expanse of the strait. Hennie kept his eyes fixed on the fading shore, though its outline was little more than a faint smudge in the fog. For months, he had dreamt of reaching the water, of escaping the relentless pursuit that had hounded him across Faursia. Now that he was here, a weight hung heavy in his chest, as if the tide itself sought to drag him down.
Renate sat beside him, quiet for a long time, her hands resting in her lap. She had taken off her cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders like a barrier against the damp chill of the night. The others in the boat—seven men in all—huddled close at the stern, their faces pale and drawn. They spoke in murmurs, voices barely audible over the soft lapping of the waves.
One of the men, a weary man with a patchy beard, began to hum a low, wavering tune. The sound was fragile at first, barely more than a whisper against the night, but it grew stronger as others joined in, their voices threading together into a mournful harmony. Hennie quickly recognised the tune, ‘Purple Heather’, an old Faursian folk song, which he knew off-by-heart.
Renate tilted her head, listening. “They’ve no’ much left, yet they sing…” she murmured.
“It’s all we’ve ever had,” Hennie replied, his voice thick with weariness. “A song to carry us when the land could no’.”
“‘Tis beautiful.” Renate smiled, clasping Hennie’s hand in her own.
He closed his eyes as the melody wrapped around him, stirring memories of better days—of campfires under open skies, of laughter and hope untainted by failure. The words began to rise, soft and tentative at first, then growing in strength as the men found their rhythm:
O’, the summer time has come,
And the trees are sweetly bloomin’,
The wild mountain thyme,
Grows around the bloomin’ heather,
Will ye go, damie*, go?
The words echoed across the water, a fragile defiance against the inevitability that loomed over them. Hennie glanced at Renate, whose lips moved silently with the song. Her eyes were distant, filled with a longing he recognised all too well.
“I never asked ye,” he said quietly, leaning closer so the others wouldn’t hear. “Why ye stayed.”
She looked at him sharply, then let out a soft laugh, though it was tinged with bitterness. “And where would I’ve gone, Hennie? Back to my father’s barn, wi’ Commonwealth soldiers kickin’ down the door? Back to a village burned for the crime o’ takin’ yer side? There’s naught left for me but this.” She gestured to the boat, the water, the faint horizon ahead.
“Naught but a doomed fool and his cause,” he said, though there was no venom in his tone.
She turned to him, her face hardening. “Ye’re no’ doomed yet. And neither am I. Fools, maybe. But if ye’re set on dyin’, at least die wi’ yer back straight.”
The song swelled behind them, the men’s voices lifting with a strange, sorrowful strength:
And we’ll all go together,
To pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the bloomin’ heather,
Will ye go, damie, go?
The melody caught on the wind, carrying it back toward the distant shore. For a moment, Hennie imagined Ceulemans standing there in the mist, listening. He wondered if the man would recognise the tune, if he’d remember it as something the Faursians had sung long before Aubervijr had set foot on Faursian soil.
“Ye first came to me in that barn, Hennie, ye were desperate”, Renate began; “ye had soldiers mere seconds behind ye, they came within metres of ye… and I hid ye in a haystack. They missed ye, by yards—and we lived to tell the tale. Ye had faith then… now put that faith in what little ye can.”
“Thank ye. I owe ye my life, Renate.” Hennie said, his gaze finally meeting hers.
Renate’s voice joined the others, low but steady, and Hennie found himself singing as well, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue. Each verse was a farewell, not only to the land they were leaving but to the lives they had lost, the futures they would never know.
The captain barked a quiet order, and before long the boat had began turning out of the inlet and toward the open sea. The mist thickened, curling around them like a living thing, and the shore disappeared entirely.
Renate fell silent, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Hennie watched her for a long moment, the sharp lines of her face softened by the dim light. She had carried him through so much in so little time—her determination like a flame that refused to be snuffed out. He had leaned on her more than he cared to admit, and yet here she was, unbroken, even as everything around them crumbled.
“Renate,” he said softly. She turned to him, her expression unreadable. “If we dinnae make it…”
She cut him off with a sharp shake of her head. “We will.”
“And if we don’t?”
Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t look away. “Then so be it.”
The words struck him harder than he expected. He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest semblance of a smile.
The men began the final verse, their voices rising in unison, filling the air with a fragile hope that refused to die:
If my true love she’ll no’ come,
I would surely find another,
To pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the bloomin’ heather…
“I dinnae like the look o’ that cloud.” Hennie mumbled, gazing at a looming, black mass that raged in the horizon.
“Have faith.” Renate reassured him, pulling on his coat to kiss his cheek, before leaning her head on his shoulder. Hennie wrapped his arm was around the back of her neck, almost automatically, locking the two in a warm embrace. The song’s final line now, seemed to fill the air around them, voices echoing into the night, in harmonic unison…
Will ye go, damie, go?
* dinnae - rough translation of an old Faursian word for ‘don’t’
* ye, yer, ye’ve etc - rough translations of old Faursian words for ‘you’, ‘you’re’ and ‘you’ve’
* damie - old Faursian word for ‘woman’ or ‘lady’
23rd of June, 1707
Marrenijl, Faursia
23:58
The sky was dark as iron, its restless clouds clashing overhead as if torn apart by fury, producing a heavy, pouring rain. The path to Marrenijl was a treacherous, winding scar through marshes and swampland, the earth beneath their feet soggy, drenched and unwilling to let them pass. Each step was a battle, the reeds snagging at their legs, the mud threatening to claim their boots as it seeped into their bones. The village lights flickered faintly through the mist, a cruel tease of sanctuary. Eusebius Dumonceau—or Hennie—staggered slightly as he walked, his strength dwindling after months of relentless flight. His head was held low, his shoulders cloaked in a threadbare coat—he held himself as if the months of pursuit had carved a defiant statue out of a hunted man. His hazel eyes seemed stuck to the ground, beneath them hung dark bags which gave him an almost gaunt appearance. Only 25, he somehow looked much older; his pale skin gave him an almost ghostly look. His close companions followed behind, in uneasy silence, their faces drawn from exhaustion and fear.
“Yer* faltering,” Renate said softly, quickening her pace to walk beside him—her brow furrowing beneath a plain bonnet. She was a year younger than Hennie, with a similar, pale complexion, though nonetheless pretty, with long, light brown hair and dark brown eyes. Her voice was low, meant only for his ears, but there was a sharpness beneath the tenderness. “If ye’d only lean on me for once, ye might make the boat wi’ both feet intact.”
Hennie huffed a bitter laugh, though his gaze never left the horizon. “And if I did, ye’d be in the muck alongside me. What good’s a guide who cannae* keep her own feet dry?”
Renate snorted but reached out to steady him all the same. “Ye’ve no’ dragged me this far to let me drown in this bog, Hennie, and I’d sooner slap sense into ye than let ye waste yerself here.”
“Sense, is it? Sense fled me months ago, when first I raised this Godforsaken banner.” His voice was low, edged with weariness that he could no longer hide from her. “And where did it lead? To this cursed place, wi’ naught to show for it but the blood o’ good men and the Commonwealth’s hounds at our heels.”
She gripped his arm tighter, forcing him to slow as the others trudged ahead, their shadows barely visible through the swirling mist. “And what’d you have done instead, eh? Left Faursia to her fate? Her folk to the whims o’ Aubervijr? Ye gave them hope, Hennie. Hope they’d no’ seen in years. D’ye think that counts for naught?”
Hennie stopped, his boots sinking into the mud as he turned to face her. The faint light of the village painted his features in sharp relief—the hollow cheeks, the lines carved by months of fear and failure. “Hope’s a cruel gift, Renate,” he said, his voice trembling just enough for her to notice. “It burns brightest when it’s forfeit.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The marshes around them seemed to hold their breath, the distant call of a gull the only sound. Then, she released him with a slight shove, her face twisting into something between anger and grief. “We’ve no time for yer broodin’. The boat’s waitin’, and so’s Ceulemans.” She glanced behind them, as though expecting the man’s shadow to rise from the mist. “If ye’ve any thoughts o’ dying, ye can think ‘em on the water.”
He smiled faintly at that, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “On the water, then.”
As they reached the outskirts of Marrenijl, the wooden planks of the bridge creaking beneath their feet, the others began to whisper amongst themselves. Hennie and Renate stayed silent, their breaths visible in the biting nighttime air. Ahead, the boat swayed at its moorings, its small frame seeming too fragile for the vast waters beyond.
“Ye’ve no’ told me where we’re bound,” Hennie said at last, his voice quieter now.
Renate’s lips tightened, her gaze fixed on the vessel. “The ship’s captain promised a place safer than here, God willing. And if He’s not, well…” She glanced at him, her eyes softening just enough to betray the weight she carried. “We’ll face it together, Hennie. As we’ve done since the barn.”
He nodded, though his heart churned with unease. The boat loomed closer, a shadow against the restless tide, and for the first time, he wondered if it truly carried salvation—or merely the end of the road.
“‘Tis ironic… I first landed here o’er a year ago to start this campaign. Marrenijl… we landed with seven men. Some o’ those we lost, the rest are before us now… look at those poor souls.”
The others had already reached the docks, their shapes indistinct in the haze. None of them spoke, though now and then a muffled cough or the scuff of a boot broke the silence. They moved with the weariness of men who had nothing left to say and even less to hope for. Hennie watched them for a moment, his jaw tightening. These were the last of his cause—his cause, not theirs. And yet they had given everything for it, some without question, others against their better judgement. He had led them to Aubervijr and back, from battle to battle and then to Beveren, where thousands were slaughtered—not just men of his cause, but innocent men and women who had no part in any of his chaos, slaughtered in the battle’s aftermath. And now, he had led them across Faursia’s breadth, through its blood-soaked fields and over treacherous passes, his empty promises as empty as their stomachs. Now all that awaited them was the cold expanse of the sea and a boat too small to carry even their grudges.
Renate followed his gaze, her face unreadable. “They’ll follow ye to the end,” she murmured. “They always have.”
“And what has it earned them?” he asked, his voice low. “A future in a shallow grave? Or a nameless one at sea?”
She didn’t answer immediately, her sharp eyes flicking to the shadows behind them. “Better that than the gallows Ceulemans’d have us all swing from,” she said finally. “Whatever waits beyond that water, Hennie, it cannae be worse than what’s behind us.”
Hennie turned away from the men at the docks and fixed her with a searching look. “Ye speak like a woman who still believes in tomorrow,” he said. “Tell me—when was it ye last saw it? Truly saw it?”
Renate’s mouth twitched, a bitter shadow of a smile. “Belief’s all I’ve left, aye? If I set it down, there’ll be no liftin’ it again. But don’t mistake me, Hennie—I dinnae fancy tomorrow any more than ye do.”
A laugh escaped him, rough and humourless. “We’re a fine pair then, are we no’? A fool and a liar, blind and deaf to the end.”
“Blind, maybe,” she said, a touch of steel in her tone. “But no deaf. I hear them out there, same as ye—the wind, the water, the ghosts of all who’ve fallen. And I’ll no’ let them say I lacked the courage to take one more step.”
Her words stirred something in him, though he couldn’t have named it if he tried. She was right, of course. The dead never stopped calling—not the men who had given their lives for his rebellion, nor those who had fallen by his hand. Every gust of wind seemed to carry their whispers, their questions, their reproach. And yet here he was, still walking, still breathing, though he had long since stopped deserving either.
The boat was clearer now, its silhouette rocking gently on the dark water. The captain, a weary man with a face as weathered as the wood beneath his boots, waited at the edge of the dock, his arms folded and his expression grim. He had no love for this venture; that much was clear. But coin had a way of silencing doubts, and Renate had a way of weaving lies of exile and desperation with a fluency that came only to those who had lived close to ruin. The truth, of course, was that they were all but dead already.
“Will it hold us?” Hennie asked, nodding toward the vessel.
Renate tilted her head, considering. “It’ll hold us long enough.”
“And after?”
She met his eyes, her expression hardening. “After, we’ll see. Or we won’t. Either way, it’ll no’ be Ceulemans that writes our epitaph.”
The name sent a chill through him. Herbert Ceulemans, the man who had turned pursuit into art. For five long months, Ceulemans had dogged their every step, cutting off roads before they could take them, laying traps where none should have been possible. Hennie had come to feel as though the man’s shadow followed him closer than his own. It had followed him long enough, chasing him up and down all corners of the Faursian coast. Enough was enough.
“He’s watchin’ us now,” Hennie said softly, glancing back at the dim outlines of the hills beyond the marsh. Somewhere up there, he knew, Ceulemans stood with his officers, silent and implacable as death itself.
“Aye,” Renate replied, her voice steady. “But let him watch. What’s he to see but a boat on the tide? He’ll no’ follow us beyond the water.”
“And if he does?”
Her smile was thin, but her grip on his arm was firm. “Follow? He will no’ dare.”
The captain called out impatiently, beckoning them to hurry. The others had already begun boarding, their movements stiff and weary as they settled into the cramped space. Renate tugged at Hennie’s sleeve, pulling him forward, but he lingered for a moment longer, his eyes sweeping the shore. The reeds swayed in the breeze, their rustling like whispers, and the mist thickened, curling around the bridge as if trying to hold him back.
“It’s strange,” he said quietly. “I always thought the end would come on Faursian soil. That I’d die with the land beneath me. I should have, at Beveren…”
Renate paused, her face softening as she looked at him. “Hennie,” she said gently, “wars are won and wars are lost, ye know that better than I. Besides, the land’s in ye still. It always will be, no matter where ye go. Remember that.”
Her words cut through him more deeply than any blade. With a reluctant nod, he followed her to the boat, each step feeling heavier than the last. As he climbed aboard, the captain cast off the mooring lines, and the vessel began to drift away from the dock, the tide carrying them toward the open sea.
Hennie sat at the bow, his hands clasped tightly as he watched the distant shore fade into the mist. Behind him, the others huddled close, their voices low and uncertain. Renate sat beside him, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm of his thoughts.
For the first time in months, there was no sound of pursuit, no barking orders, no thunder of hooves. Only the endless murmur of the waves and the faint whistle of the wind. And yet, as the boat carried them farther from Faursia, Hennie felt no relief, only the gnawing certainty that they were heading not toward safety, but toward something darker, and more final. And now, as the boat creaked and swayed into deeper waters, they fled not toward sanctuary, but into the unknown.
The boat glided through the mist, its oars slicing the water in rhythmic, hollow strokes. Every creak of the wood seemed magnified in the stillness, the sound carrying out over the vast, unseen expanse of the strait. Hennie kept his eyes fixed on the fading shore, though its outline was little more than a faint smudge in the fog. For months, he had dreamt of reaching the water, of escaping the relentless pursuit that had hounded him across Faursia. Now that he was here, a weight hung heavy in his chest, as if the tide itself sought to drag him down.
Renate sat beside him, quiet for a long time, her hands resting in her lap. She had taken off her cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders like a barrier against the damp chill of the night. The others in the boat—seven men in all—huddled close at the stern, their faces pale and drawn. They spoke in murmurs, voices barely audible over the soft lapping of the waves.
One of the men, a weary man with a patchy beard, began to hum a low, wavering tune. The sound was fragile at first, barely more than a whisper against the night, but it grew stronger as others joined in, their voices threading together into a mournful harmony. Hennie quickly recognised the tune, ‘Purple Heather’, an old Faursian folk song, which he knew off-by-heart.
Renate tilted her head, listening. “They’ve no’ much left, yet they sing…” she murmured.
“It’s all we’ve ever had,” Hennie replied, his voice thick with weariness. “A song to carry us when the land could no’.”
“‘Tis beautiful.” Renate smiled, clasping Hennie’s hand in her own.
He closed his eyes as the melody wrapped around him, stirring memories of better days—of campfires under open skies, of laughter and hope untainted by failure. The words began to rise, soft and tentative at first, then growing in strength as the men found their rhythm:
O’, the summer time has come,
And the trees are sweetly bloomin’,
The wild mountain thyme,
Grows around the bloomin’ heather,
Will ye go, damie*, go?
The words echoed across the water, a fragile defiance against the inevitability that loomed over them. Hennie glanced at Renate, whose lips moved silently with the song. Her eyes were distant, filled with a longing he recognised all too well.
“I never asked ye,” he said quietly, leaning closer so the others wouldn’t hear. “Why ye stayed.”
She looked at him sharply, then let out a soft laugh, though it was tinged with bitterness. “And where would I’ve gone, Hennie? Back to my father’s barn, wi’ Commonwealth soldiers kickin’ down the door? Back to a village burned for the crime o’ takin’ yer side? There’s naught left for me but this.” She gestured to the boat, the water, the faint horizon ahead.
“Naught but a doomed fool and his cause,” he said, though there was no venom in his tone.
She turned to him, her face hardening. “Ye’re no’ doomed yet. And neither am I. Fools, maybe. But if ye’re set on dyin’, at least die wi’ yer back straight.”
The song swelled behind them, the men’s voices lifting with a strange, sorrowful strength:
And we’ll all go together,
To pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the bloomin’ heather,
Will ye go, damie, go?
The melody caught on the wind, carrying it back toward the distant shore. For a moment, Hennie imagined Ceulemans standing there in the mist, listening. He wondered if the man would recognise the tune, if he’d remember it as something the Faursians had sung long before Aubervijr had set foot on Faursian soil.
“Ye first came to me in that barn, Hennie, ye were desperate”, Renate began; “ye had soldiers mere seconds behind ye, they came within metres of ye… and I hid ye in a haystack. They missed ye, by yards—and we lived to tell the tale. Ye had faith then… now put that faith in what little ye can.”
“Thank ye. I owe ye my life, Renate.” Hennie said, his gaze finally meeting hers.
Renate’s voice joined the others, low but steady, and Hennie found himself singing as well, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue. Each verse was a farewell, not only to the land they were leaving but to the lives they had lost, the futures they would never know.
The captain barked a quiet order, and before long the boat had began turning out of the inlet and toward the open sea. The mist thickened, curling around them like a living thing, and the shore disappeared entirely.
Renate fell silent, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Hennie watched her for a long moment, the sharp lines of her face softened by the dim light. She had carried him through so much in so little time—her determination like a flame that refused to be snuffed out. He had leaned on her more than he cared to admit, and yet here she was, unbroken, even as everything around them crumbled.
“Renate,” he said softly. She turned to him, her expression unreadable. “If we dinnae make it…”
She cut him off with a sharp shake of her head. “We will.”
“And if we don’t?”
Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t look away. “Then so be it.”
The words struck him harder than he expected. He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest semblance of a smile.
The men began the final verse, their voices rising in unison, filling the air with a fragile hope that refused to die:
If my true love she’ll no’ come,
I would surely find another,
To pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the bloomin’ heather…
“I dinnae like the look o’ that cloud.” Hennie mumbled, gazing at a looming, black mass that raged in the horizon.
“Have faith.” Renate reassured him, pulling on his coat to kiss his cheek, before leaning her head on his shoulder. Hennie wrapped his arm was around the back of her neck, almost automatically, locking the two in a warm embrace. The song’s final line now, seemed to fill the air around them, voices echoing into the night, in harmonic unison…
Will ye go, damie, go?
* dinnae - rough translation of an old Faursian word for ‘don’t’
* ye, yer, ye’ve etc - rough translations of old Faursian words for ‘you’, ‘you’re’ and ‘you’ve’
* damie - old Faursian word for ‘woman’ or ‘lady’