After supper we were taken to meet our postboy, who was no boy but a lanky man of at least thirty, armored against the cold in a fur-lined leather riding coat buttoned up to the chin. “If we meet brigands,” said I, “pay them no attention. For my cousin Ludovico here is a deadly shot with a pistol.”
“There will be no brigands after dark,” said the postboy. And then, with a meaningful look, he added, “They don’t want to freeze on the road any more than I do.”
I gave him a few crowns to warm him, and then Floria and I climbed into the carriage. It was a light vehicle with sides of boiled leather and window-screens of thick oiled paper, and the carriage may as well have been open, because the paper screens rattled with the frozen wind that blew into the carriage, and which caused us to pull our hoods right around our faces before our noses froze clean off. We had not even left the post-house yard, and we were already freezing. We were glad of the bearskin rug that we had been given to share, and while I was more delicate in view of our difference in rank, the princess was not shy at all and nestled against me, and I was glad of her warmth in that frozen leather box.
“Ludovico?” said Floria. “Why did you shackle me with that name?”
“It’s from Erpingham’s Tales,” said I. “Remember Ludovico the Page Boy?”
She sighed. “And what name do you give yourself from that book? Andrew Littlewit? Sir Barnaby Knock-Knees?”
“Perhaps Sir Flirt Lovewell,” said I.
She laughed. “If you use that name, our enemies will know you at once.”
Our postboy lit the lanterns that would provide a slight illumination of the road ahead, and then climbed on the left rear horse and gave it a kick with his special wooden boot. The carriage lurched, then gravel ground beneath the wheels as we made a brief turn before pulling out onto the highway.
The summer torrents had abused the road terribly, and of repairs there had been little or none. As the water drenched the land, trickles had turned into streams, streams to rivers, and rivers to floods. Deep trenches had been scored across the roadway, and we often splashed across small ponds. As the road wound its serpentine way upward, we lurched and swayed and tipped, but somehow we remained upright as the four horses dragged the vehicle onward. We were nothing but poppets thrown about in a child’s toy-box, and it would have been impossible to sleep at all were we not so exhausted. I remember dreaming that I was back on Royal Stilwell, the wind shrieking through the rigging, the deck pitching under me, and the taste of salt foam on my tongue.
The horses were changed in the middle of the night, and we had a few warm moments in the post-house before we dragged our pain-racked bodies to the carriage. Shortly after dawn we came to the next posting-house, and we went inside for warmth and breakfast. To our postboy I offered more silver.
Once before the hearth, we found ourselves reluctant to leave shelter and take horse, and we dawdled over our porridge.
“You know, Ludovico,” said I, “should we meet with brigands again, you should escape as best you can—and if you break free, think not of drawing sword and coming to my rescue. Too much depends on you, and you should not risk your person that way.”
Floria smiled. “I have seen you ride, and I have seen you shoot,” said she. “I would not leave such a helpless Andrew Littlewit in the forest to fight alone a band of outlaws.”
I ventured to touch the royal arm and looked into her hazel eyes. “And yet you must,” said I. “Worse things have happened to me than to be robbed by ruffians. Once they have taken my silver, they will let me go. But if you are taken, the hope of the kingdom fails.”
“I think you overestimate my worth,” said she in a soft voice. She looked away.
“I think I do not,” I said. A flush crept across her cheeks.
Floria turned uneasily on her stool and looked at the crossed broadswords displayed over the mantel. “You fought at Exton Scales,” said she.
“You know I did. You investigated the matter.”
“I know what others said. But I have not heard the story from your own lips.”
She had asked me for my history once before, and I had avoided an answer, for I thought she was enacting some conspiracy to disparage Lord Utterback, my commander. But in time she had got the truth out of others, and so I saw no reason to withhold it now.
So I told her how, fleeing an enemy, I had joined the Queen’s Army against the usurper Clayborne, and how I had served as secretary to the young Lord Utterback, who commanded a troop of cavalry. Through the influence of his father Lord Wenlock, Utterback was given command of a fifth of the army, and sent to guard the pass at Exton while the knight marshal with the greater part of the army moved down the Cordillerie to attack Peckside. But Clayborne had thrown the bulk of his army against Utterback, while hoping to hold off the knight marshal with his entrenchments at Peckside.
“What most surprised me was how little battles resemble ballads,” I said. “For in a ballad or a poem, there are a few striking scenes, and some brave fellows storm at the enemy, and either triumph or die in some picturesque way—and then it is all over, and they celebrate with a wedding. But Exton Scales was a fight that lasted all day, with blow and counterblow, attack and counterattack, and long hours in which nothing happened at all, but men standing under bombardment and dying with no hope of striking the enemy. And I saw no weddings, but many funerals.”
I related incidents of that day, which ended with Lord Utterback leading the final charge that broke the enemy, and then dying in his hour of triumph. “Just like a hero in a ballad,” I said, “and there will be a statue of him in Howel, or somewhere, but neither my story nor any of the other soldiers would make a ballad of that day, for all we saw was blood and mud and murder. And afterwards, the executions.”
My story had attracted an audience, the postmaster, his ostler, the girl who had brought us our breakfast, and our postboy. “May I ask your name, sir?” asked the postboy.
“Martin,” said I. “Bill Martin. And this is my young cousin, Ned.”
“My brother rallied to Clayborne’s flag,” said the postboy. “And he died on the Scales. His body was not found.”
“I am sorry for it,” said I.
“That boy is just as dead as Lord Utterback,” said the postmaster. “But he will get no statue.”
“I think Lord Utterback would rather be a living man than a statue,” said I, “and this man’s brother as well.”
The ostler, who had delayed his message while listening to my narrative, told us that our horses were saddled and ready. We mounted and made our way into a stark dawn lit by a low, pale, chill sun. After the previous day’s ride my body seemed one vast bruise punished by the saddle and the jouncing of my animal, and I was in agony the first few leagues until the pain ebbed. Because of my suffering, I did not notice Floria’s pensive mood. But an hour after dawn, with invisible crows calling from the trees and the rising sun coaxing wisps of mist from the ground, Floria turned to me and spoke.
“You said that the battle at Exton Scales was not like a ballad, but murder,” she said. “And here we are, on an adventure that might some day be the subject of a romance, or a play. But if we succeed, there will be more battles like Exton Scales, more blood and murder.” Pale sunlight shimmered in her eyes like tears, and I felt a strong hand clamp around my heart. “Must I bring about such tragedy, Quillifer? Another civil war, with good men lying dead on the field?”
I considered the question for a moment, my thoughts whirling in my head like a gray, lightning-fletched storm. “I think the war has already begun,” said I, “and began the moment Fosco became viceroy, and determined to destroy the freedoms of Duisland and subject our country to a foreign power. He murders our people at will, with Lord Edevane his accomplice.” I looked at her. “He maketh war on thee. He will do his best to cut off your head, or see you buried so deep in prison that you will never again see the sun.”
“Well,” said Floria, and tossed her cropped head with the eff
ort to return a light answer. “I am guilty. I have committed treason, at least these last few days.”
“You were forced to it,” said I. “And it is not treason, for you have not been obliged to swear allegiance to Aguila. I am committing treason, not thee.”
“I do not imagine the Siege Royal will accept that argument,” said she. She shook her head. “Now thousands may die to keep me from that court,” said she. “Who am I to be the cause of such broils and slaughters?”
“You are Duisland,” said I. “Or will be, once we escape and sit you firmly in your power. I think if there is a war on your account, it will be a short one. For who would fight for Fosco?”
“Soldiers who are paid to,” said Floria. “He raises twenty-five thousand men.”
“He has not paid the household troops in nigh on half a year, and loots the treasury to gild the banqueting hall and build his Monastery of the Holy Prophecy. Why should the army risk life and limb fighting for such a petty and ill-judging tyrant?”
“I pray you are right,” said she.
“The war, as I say, has already begun,” said I. “The heads in front of the Hall of Justice proclaim it. It should be our business to make certain that they who began the war should not prosper by it.”
And so we rode on through that cold day, going up hill and down, through groves of tall birch, twisted oak, and spreading pine. The day began clear, with high clouds scudding in a blue sky. The sure-footed horses managed the half-ruined road better than had our little swaying carriage.
In Howel, I knew, Rufino Knott would dress in a heavy boat cloak with a hood and spend the morning exercising my galley’s crew on the lake. In the afternoon, he would ride in my carriage to Floria’s house, come to the door as if delivering a message, and be told by a footman that the princess was ill, and not receiving company. Knott would return home. Lacking Bonny Joe’s ability at impersonation, he would make no attempt to pose as me, or ape my manner, but instead let watchers draw whatever conclusions they would. If anyone asked where I was, he was to say that I was spending the day with a lady.
As for Bonny Joe, he would remain under the care of Mistress Ransome, and let himself be seen at the window several times, or now and again in Edith Ransome’s company moving silently from room to room.
Now that we were well into the Cordillerie the post-houses were farther apart, and Floria and I changed horses only twice that day. The day began to darken well before sunset, and the sun now loured blood-red in the west. A gray blanket of cloud began to creep over the pass above us, enfolding the mountain like a shroud. I did not wish to venture into its ominous darkness, but even if we retreated, the gloom would overtake us. So we climbed up toward that cold, streaming mass, and soon were enveloped in deep twilight. Dew gathered on our clothes, and the jouncing of our horses sent little showers of drops sprinkling around us. A squall brought a light rain pattering down, cleared, then pattered again. The rain turned to sleet, and the rapping of the tiny pellets of ice on my clothes and my hood quickly grew monotonous.
Relief surged through me as the next post-house appeared in a glow of lamplight, and we gladly turned our horses over to the ostler and went into the warm common room. Other guests were sheltering from the storm there, and they had eaten up all the supper but a pottage of wild pig with parsnips and onions, some raveled bread, and cheese. Yet Floria and I were so famished and exhausted that we made a merry meal of these remains, while thunder crashed overhead and talons of wind tore and rattled at the shutters.
Despite my attempts to bribe him, the postmaster refused to give us a carriage till the storm was over. The guest rooms were all taken, so he obligingly chased his daughter out of her room and offered it to us. The daughter, who was about ten years old, seemed used to this kind of treatment, and laid herself on one of the benches in the common room, wrapped herself in a blanket, and went directly to sleep.
We carried a candle into the bedroom, and the low ceiling forced me into a crouch. We were clearly meant to share the bed, which was narrow and took up most of the small chamber. Her Highness and I were forced to stand close together. I offered the bed to Floria and said I would sleep on the floor. There was an odor of lady’s bedstraw, which I found comforting, because the scent repelled vermin.
“You offer the bed like a proper protective knight, Sir Quillifer,” said Floria. “Though I am disappointed you do not place a sword between us.”
“I might,” said I, “if there were room.”
Floria waved a hand. “I am sorry for the inconvenience, but as we are enacting a chapter of a romance, I suppose these sorts of trials are to be expected.”
“I have slept on floors before,” said I. “And this, with rushes scented with herbs, is more congenial than most.”
Her Highness sat on the bed and looked up at me in the light of our single candle. “Will you help me remove my boots?”
“If there is room.” I knelt and took hold of her calf and ankle, and with some effort drew off her boots. She raised one foot to the bed and rubbed her instep. “My ankles have swollen,” said she. “I could not have got that boot off by myself.”
“Have you experience with straw mattresses? I can see that is what you have.”
She smiled. “Every day brings a new thing.”
“You should shake out the mattress,” I said, “for the straw has certainly shifted under that child’s weight.”
Floria followed my advice, and I sat on the floor and fought with my boots until I got them off, then lay panting on the rush-bundles. “This feels less like a romance,” said I, “and more as if I were in one of Blackwell’s comedies.”
Floria settled beneath the counterpane. “If this were a play,” said she, “there would be another woman disguised as a boy, and the two of us would be mistaken for one another—and you would get into a deadly quarrel with a fellow who would turn out to be your brother believed lost at sea.”
I sighed at my narrow berth, which would not encompass the width of my shoulders. “I think our stage is too small for all that.”
“Shall I blow out the candle?”
“In just a moment.” I wrapped myself in my cloak and rolled on my side, so my shoulders should not be so constricted. “There, Your Highness. I am ready.”
The wind beat about the eaves, and sleet rattled against the walls. I could hear Floria’s soft breath beneath the sound of the storm howling, and then I closed my eyes and fell away into dream.
* * *
The storm had guttered out by dawn, but it left the world covered in white. Floria woke nearly as pale as the snow, but assured me she was fit to ride. We had our porridge and ale and cheese, and the ostler saddled the same horses we had ridden the previous day.
The snow was unmarked save for the paw-prints of rabbits. It was only a few inches deep, but below the snow was ice, and we rode carefully as the ice crackled beneath our beasts’ iron shoes. We descended a steep slope, then climbed a steeper one, and then from the top of the pass we could look down on the next crest, and the one after that, and the horizon blue beyond. We had reached the crown of the Cordillerie, and now we had but to descend.
“Congratulations, Your Highness,” said I. “For the hardest part of our journey is over, and soon enough we will be at the docks in Longfirth. The storm only delayed us one night.”
Floria turned, coughed insistently into her glove, then looked down at the path ahead of us.
“How long did it take the army to march over the Cordillerie?”
“Many days, but we went on foot, and were dragging a baggage train behind.”
Floria coughed again. “Let us hope they send an army after us, then. We will outpace them.”
We rode down the long slope, forded a stream, then snaked up another great slablike hill. The snow faded, leaving behind patches of stone or mud. Cloudy masses of snow dropped down from the limbs of trees and landed with an audible thump. By the time we changed horses and dined at noon, the ice had turned to mud, an
d Floria’s cough erupted continually. There was an unhealthy fever-flush to her cheeks, and I asked if she wanted to rest, but she insisted on riding the next stage.
I was uncertain about the protocol for touching a princess. “May I put a hand to your forehead?” I asked.
She laughed, but the laugh turned to a cough. “You have our permission,” she said.
Her forehead was warm, but did not seem excessively feverish. She wished to ride, and I obeyed that wish.
We wound down and up hills, forded streams, leaped over gullies that rain had washed into the roadbed. Floria’s cough worsened, and there was a coarse, rib-rattling quality to the sound that I did not like. The sun was touching the horizon when we came to the next post-house, and this time I did not ask permission to touch Floria’s forehead. Fever blazed beneath her skin.
I suggested that we remain a night in that post-house, but the rooms were taken by travelers waiting for the snow to melt, and I thought it might be better for Floria to sleep in a carriage than on the floor of the common room, in the company of the postmaster’s dogs. I hired the largest and best carriage available, with glass windows instead of paper shades, and I paid for extra blankets and some warm bricks to put in our pockets.
Two postboys managed the six horses, and it was full dark before they kicked the carriage into motion. The carriage was more stable than that which we’d ridden two nights earlier, but the road was no better, and Floria was miserable as the machine lurched from one rut to the next. Her coughing was continuous, and she began to shiver. I put my arm around her shoulders and held her close, and she managed a little sleep with her head lolling against my shoulder. Her breath was sour.
At midnight we came to the next posting-house, and I asked if there was lodging available. I looked at the room I was offered, and it did not seem insalubrious, and so I took it. From the carriage I lifted Floria in my arms and brought her to the bed. Sweat beaded her forehead, and her face was the color of slaking quicklime. I drew off her boots and made her as comfortable as I could under the rag quilt.
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