The Grand Tour

by Patricia C. Wrede

  Cecy is in high spirits, now that James is back to full strength. If anything, the two of them spend even more time in one another’s company than before. Some days she rides in the carriage, but most days she is on horseback. When inclement weather drives her to choose travel with me, she has with her a book Lady Sylvia gave her. When the carriage is stopped, she ignores the delay and reads attentively. From time to time, she shares a paragraph with us, from which I gathered that Napoleon’s feat in crossing the Alps paled in comparison with the Romans’, who had been up and down these mountain passes more often than I have been up and down the back stairs at home. At first I found that a comforting thought, but as we ascended into the heights, my respect for the Romans increased. Imagine marching through such terrain wearing sandals. It doesn’t bear thinking of.

  There is one advantage to traveling in the mountains. When one shares the carriage with others, what seems unacceptably crowded in more clement conditions becomes comfortingly cozy. On those rare days when even Thomas chooses the carriage, I grow quite fond of the way he warms me, even through his heaviest coat. Fortunately for me, done up to my eyebrows as I am in my own heavy wraps, the press in the coach not only keeps me warm, it keeps me from all but the worst of the jostling when the going grows rough. Reardon has a deft way with a hot brick, so my feet are often nearly warm, at least early in the day.

  Given that Thomas is in charge of our party, I see less of him than I am used to, and when he comes up to what passes for my room, it is only to be sure I have everything I need, and to see for himself that the place is dry, if not warm.

  One night he drew me aside as we were all waiting for dinner to be served. “Your hands are cold.”

  My feet were much worse, but I merely said, “I know. Yours, too.”

  For some time we stood in silence while he held my hands in his. “Two rooms for the lot of us.” He looked disgusted. “I shall be glad when this is behind us. It isn’t what I planned, lurching across bad roads all day and huddling en masse in a rabbit hutch all night.”

  “I’m grateful for two rooms. Isn’t Piers sleeping in the stable?”

  Thomas scowled. “He’d better not sleep. I put him there to keep an eye on the horses.”

  “Poor man.”

  My hands were warm by then, but Thomas still held them. He looked at me in a particular way. “You’re too tired, and so am I,” I said reluctantly, “even if we had any privacy.”

  Thomas looked deeply affronted, but his weariness was proven when he didn’t say anything at all.

  On 26 September we reached a village called Bourg-Saint-Pierre, where Thomas and James engaged mules for us. The next morning, it was still dark when, all arrangements made, we sallied forth from the inn as the procession of mules arrived. Harness bells are used most liberally in this part of the world, and even if was too dark for us to see it very well, the mules’ arrival sounded as festive as Morris dancers.

  “You haven’t said much,” Thomas observed, as we watched James give Cecy a leg up. Once she was in the saddle, James checked every detail of mule and tack for the second time. It was a dauntingly thorough performance. “You aren’t worried, are you?”

  “Me? No.” Yes. I couldn’t admit it, but I found the idea of riding along precipice after precipice, to the point of exhaustion and beyond, an alarming one. I kept quiet while Thomas helped me up on my allotted mule. Once my feet were safe in the stirrups, riding a mule is exactly like riding a horse. Except for the precipices.

  “I’ll lead your mule, if you like.”

  I accepted Thomas’s offer gratefully. Not only would it make me feel more secure, it might keep him from doing something daft, should the mood strike.

  Thomas called Piers over and explained the situation. At once, suitable equipment was found, and my mule was safely moored to Thomas’s. There is something about mules. They look much less kindly than horses do, more critical, and something about the way they look down their noses reminds me of Aunt Charlotte.

  “Don’t laugh, Kate. This is a serious business,” Thomas warned me.

  “Yes, I know.” When I am frightened, on occasion a silly streak comes over me, a useless impulse to laugh. Not only is this impulse utterly unhelpful, it is most unbecoming. I do try to fight it. But between my apprehension and the thought of Aunt Charlotte, I had to fight to keep a straight face. It wasn’t just the mules that made me want to laugh. We all looked utterly absurd. By the time we were all mounted, the quantity of fabric in our coats and skirts made the mules look as if they’d been badly upholstered. Every move the mules made rang their festive harness bells. We might have been a band of tinkers, we had such a holiday air, waiting for the signal to begin our procession.

  Before the hairy, glum-looking man in charge of our mules gave the signal to depart, he and his helpers busied themselves stuffing rags into the bells and tying the bits of cloth in place. The sound of bells dwindled and died.

  “What are they doing that for?” I asked.

  “We travel snow-covered mountains. The slopes are steep, and even at this season the snow is deep and treacherous up there,” Thomas murmured. “Any sharp noise could trigger an avalanche. They are muffling the bells to make sure that we don’t bring anything unpleasant down upon our heads.”

  “Oh, dear.” Any desire to laugh was utterly quenched by the thought of such a disaster. Bad enough to be cold and wet. To be buried beneath a mountain’s worth of snow would be horrid. Such a fate could only be made even more unpleasant by the reflection that one’s own foolish noise had brought the catastrophe down upon oneself.

  “Quite so.” Thomas seemed pleased by the sobering effect this had on me.

  I resolved to be as quiet as possible, no matter how alarming the journey ahead.

  Once we left the village, I made it a point never to look down at the trail we followed. Just looking out and up made me quite dizzy enough. At times our path was so ridiculously narrow, I could not envision how my mule could proceed in safety. I must have looked quite terrified, for once when Thomas looked back to see how I did, he drew rein to come near enough to speak softly to me.

  “If you lean outward, the mule leans in. It makes him less likely to slip over the edge.”

  I gasped at the audacity of this advice. “Truly?”

  Incorrigibly honest, Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s what they told me in Spain. I never saw any of those mules go over, or even come close. Of course, the terrain is a bit steeper here.”

  No ice or snow in Spain, either. I thought it over. “I’ll just carry on as I am.”

  “Good idea. You’re doing wonderfully.”

  We were in the icy grip of the Pass of Great Saint Bernard by midday. Stone and shadows are what I remember of it. Even at the height of summer, I think the sun must never truly warm the depths of that pass. I never knew there were so many shades of blue and gray as those I found in the shadows on the snow, yet I found no beauty whatsoever in the sight. To me, it was a terrible place, bleak and ugly, where man was never meant to go. I was too frightened to perceive even a trace of that sublime beauty that finer souls drink in. Such heights are mere desolation to my eyes, and the only way I knew I had a soul was that I found myself praying for our delivery from danger, for a quiet spot by a decent fireside, and for a nice cup of tea.

  By the end of the long day, we had gained the relative safety of the Hospice of the Great Saint Bernard. This sanctuary provided us with the simplest of food and drink, but it was a vital respite from the dangers of our journey. We were shown by one of the resident monks into one large chamber, heated by a fire that smoked persistently. I cared nothing for a bit of smoke. We were out of the wind and off the mules. I was so tired, I remember only the play of flickering light and shadow on the vaulted ceiling before I fell asleep.

  From the deposition of Mrs. James Tarleton, &c.

  Thanks to Lady Sylvia’s generosity with her horses, the journey from Paris was extremely pleasant, for me, at least. Kat
e has never shared my love of riding, and chose to keep to the carriage, but so long as the weather remained fine, I much preferred traveling on horseback alongside the carriages with James to sitting mewed up inside studying the books on magic and history that Lady Sylvia had pressed upon me before we left. I did my best to make up for my neglect of my magical training in the evenings and on the occasional rainy day, but I did not make as much progress as I could have wished. Our accommodations were too cramped and too public.

  “You have become very studious,” James observed the night before we reached the base of the Alps.

  “Lady Sylvia gave me a deal of advice before we left Paris,” I said, closing my book with a sigh. “But I think I would have to be three people at least in order to accomplish all that she advises. Basic magic, warding and detection spells, royal and magical history—”

  “Warding and detection spells?” James frowned. “I have the greatest respect for Lady Sylvia, but those are far more advanced magic than you can manage yet.”

  “I know,” I said. “I don’t think she means me to cast them myself; I think she expects Thomas to do that. But she felt that it would be wise to have more than one person who could tell if they were being tested or tampered with.”

  James’s frown deepened. “Thomas hasn’t been casting warding spells.”

  “Not yet,” I said. “But I expect he will want to do so when we reach Milan and are settled in one place for a few weeks.”

  “I suppose she’s thinking of that attempted theft in Calais,” James said. “But wards hardly seem necessary now—it’s not as if we still have the chrism.”

  I looked at him in fond exasperation. “No, but we may very well come upon something else that is just as important. And if we do, and Thomas suddenly starts putting up wards then, everyone will realize that we have it.”

  “Not everyone,” James said. “Only wizards who bother to check on us. Though I do see your point. Those are exactly the sort of people we wouldn’t want to notice anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Besides, I have been acquiring a good deal of theoretical information about magic, but I haven’t had much chance for practical application,” I said. “I think Lady Sylvia means it to be a chance for me to practice.”

  “And possibly a chance for Thomas to practice as well,” James said thoughtfully. “He improvises brilliantly, and it’s hard to find someone to touch him when he sets himself to working out the equations for a complex spell, but the trouble is, he doesn’t get down to it often enough.”

  “I’ll make sure to mention it to him when we reach Milan, then,” I said.

  “I’ll do that,” James said hastily. “I may not be able to contribute much directly to the magical end of things, but I think I can get Thomas moving.”

  “You can do more than that if you remember your Greek and Latin,” I said. “The authors of Lady Sylvia’s books don’t seem to write spells in anything else, and the bits and pieces I’ve picked up listening to Papa are simply not adequate for this.”

  James grinned, and we spent the rest of the evening drilling Latin verbs. The following day, we arrived in

  Bourg-Saint-Pierre, and I had to shift for myself while James and Thomas hired guides and mules to take us across the pass.

  I was not much impressed by the mules, but one cannot deny that they are sure-footed. We were fortunate to begin the crossing on a clear, sunny day, which made the cold more bearable and allowed a clear view of the scenery. This last was a mixed blessing, as occasionally the trail was so narrow that if one looked down, one saw one’s foot in the stirrup suspended over miles of empty air that ended in ice and jagged rocks. A little mist would at times have been welcome.

  It was difficult to determine what time we arrived at the monastery hospice near the top of the pass. The mountains are so tall that the sun had been well behind them since shortly after noon, and we were all too tired to pay much attention in any case. As we rode through the gates onto the monastery grounds, I felt a jolt of energy, and I sat bolt upright on my mule with an exclamation.

  “What is it?” James asked.

  “I felt something,” I said. “Magic, I think. Just as we entered.”

  The brown-robed monk who had come forward to take hold of my mule’s halter said something. James responded; the only part that was comprehensible to me were the names Julius Caesar and Napoleon Bonaparte.

  I dismounted carefully, as my legs were feeling decidedly wobbly. “What did he say?” I asked after a moment.

  “Just a minute,” James said, and he and the monk continued their incomprehensible discussion. Finally, James turned to me and took my arm. As we walked across the courtyard toward the visitors’ quarters, he said, “This monastery is very old—parts of it go back to Roman times, and perhaps even earlier, though our friend was a bit cagey about that part. I suppose there’s a problem with his religious sensibilities. Anyway, the place is a well-known stop—there’s some legend about Julius Caesar and his legions staying here on their way to conquer Rome, though I doubt it’s true. Bonaparte wanted the hospice as a base. The monks didn’t like the idea, so they arranged for him not to find it.”

  “They arranged for him not to find it?”

  “The spell you felt when we came through the gate,” James said. “It’s some sort of misdirection or illusion spell—the monk wasn’t specific. Very powerful. And clearly very effective.”

  “It can’t be all that effective, or we wouldn’t have found the place ourselves,” I pointed out.

  “The monastery is only hidden when the monks wish it,” James said. “Or possibly it’s only hidden from people they don’t want here, or only from people of evil intent. The fellow I was talking to speaks the most abominable dialect.”

  “I’m surprised he told you anything about the spell at all, if it’s that important,” I said.

  “Well, they can’t exactly keep it a secret when every wizard who comes through the gates can feel it.”

  We had come up with Kate and Thomas by this time, and Thomas heard the last of James’s remark. “Feel what?” he asked. James explained, and Thomas nodded. “No, no, that monk was giving you a warning, as much as anything else.”

  “Warning?” Kate said, yawning. “Of what?”

  “There are strong wards up to prevent casual visitors from studying the spells here too closely,” Thomas replied. He looked at me. “If you pay careful attention, you can separate the feel of them from the main spell.”

  James looked a trifle alarmed, until I said, “I suppose it wouldn’t be wise to do any magic while we’re here, then. I can’t say I’m sorry; all I really want right now is dinner and a bed.”

  The food we were served was plain, as one might expect from monks, but we devoured it and went to our beds. I confess to some misgivings, as at some of our earlier stops I had noticed Thomas carefully enchanting our quarters against fleas and other vermin. With the monastery’s wards in place, such spells were, of course, not possible. However, the chamber proved quite clean and comfortable, if as plain as the food.

  I expected to sleep soundly after the long ride, but instead I tossed and turned for most of the night. I could not escape the feeling of being watched. When we roused next morning, it was plain that Thomas, at least, had been similarly afflicted.

  “Warding spells are all very well,” he grumbled over the breakfast breads, “but it’s going too far when they interfere with everyone’s sleep.”

  “Is that what the problem was?” I said.

  Kate and James looked at each other and shrugged. Thomas continued muttering until finally James said, “If you’re that annoyed, complain to the abbot. I’m not the one who interrupted your sleep, and I don’t see why I should be the one to suffer for it.”

  “An excellent idea,” Thomas said. He was quite cheerful for the remainder of the meal, and took himself off immediately afterward. We did not see him again until we gathered in the courtyard (rather later than we had anticipated)
to begin the next stage of our journey. He turned up at the last minute, wearing an expression I would describe as somewhere between thoughtful and much too pleased with himself.

  “Well?” James said as the muleteers led out the mules once more and began the long process of readying them for the trail.

  “The abbot was appropriately apologetic,” Thomas said. “At least, I’m fairly sure he was; his English wasn’t much better than my Italian. We muddled through, nonetheless. Apparently there was a bit of a disturbance last week.”

  “A magical disturbance?” I asked.

  Thomas nodded. “The monks added some extras to the warding spells to prevent a repeat, and we’re the first magicians to come through since then. The abbot hadn’t intended the improvements to be quite so obvious, or so unsettling.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t,” I said. “About that magical disturbance—you did ask, didn’t you?”

  “Of course he asked,” James said. “He’s only being provoking for the fun of it.”

  “There’s very little to tell,” Thomas said. All three of us gave him pointed looks, and he sighed theatrically. “Oh, very well. A group of travelers arrived last week, having crossed through the pass just as we did. In the night, one or more of them slipped down to the crypts under the monastery and … did something.”

  “’Did something’?” I said. “You mean, cast a spell?”

  “More of a ritual with magical overtones, as far as I could tell,” Thomas said. “The crypts are the most ancient part of the monastery. I suspect that if anything remains of the ancient Roman temple that was here before the monastery, that’s where it is. They’re forbidden to everyone but the monks, and the abbot was as upset by the trespass as by the peculiar goings-on that resulted from it.”

  “And?” Kate said. Thomas looked at her. “What else did you find out?” she asked him. “You’re too pleased with yourself for that to be everything. Were there traces of chrism in the crypts, or did the abbot tell you where Mr. Strangle is off to?”