XXVII

It was the longest winter, a time of great wretchedness
And people openly said that Christ and his Saint’s slept,
No man cried, for no one since dared,
And people openly said that Christ and his Saint’s slept,

‘You say that like a mantra, Lord Mormigil, But what does it really mean?’ The sergeant asked him. He had known better than to interrupt Mormigil as he prayed inside his tent, but there was an urgent dispatch from the front.

Mormigil’s tent was the grandest in the camp. His massive dwelling contained a dark antechamber, lit only by the candlelight from each of the iron stands at each corner of the chamber. It was simple and unadorned, with only a wide straw mat laid out in the middle to receive his officers when they discuss battle plans. Mormigil himself sat quietly through a thin velvet veil, peacefully uttering his morning prayer under low, gruff tones.

‘I say like I mean it, sergeant,’ Mormigil broke, his gruff tone suddenly clearer as his prayer echoed off the great tent. ‘What news have you of the front?’

‘But what does it mean, sir? I’ve heard you say it countless times, at every morn on every battlefield. Surely you do not believe it, sir?