her from the saddle. She flailed at the arms that held her in a
grip of iron and stared up at Dawson’s malevolent grin. She
struggled wildly, but a huge hand came from behind carrying a
handkerchief that smelled sickeningly sweet.
“Nay, Mistress Fancy, ‘yer coming with us,” Dawson
crooned. “Too bad I can’t have my pleasure with ‘ye first, but
there’s someone wants you bad enough to give me plenty for
‘ye. Perhaps later, when he’s taken some of the starch out of ‘ye
and ‘yer worth naught else to him. Perhaps then me ‘n you’ll
have our fun, eh, Sera?”
Oh, gods, she thought in despair. And then the darkness
overtook her, and she was lost.
Nine
Two miles from the border with Beaureve, a rider
approached the train of soldiers and diplomats traveling with
Nicholas. The king took one look at his dusty cloak and weary
eyes and ordered a halt.
“Carlsohnn, “ he said. “What news?”
Carlsohnn, grim-faced, saluted in the saddle and handed
Nicholas a leather case. “I have found the Brotherhood base,”
he said. “Twenty miles east, well within Beaureve, in the
foothills of the Arkadian mountains. The maps, the description
of their numbers, their artillery and supplies are in the case.”
“I see.” Galerien, the bastard. Nicholas motioned Andre and
his ministers forward. “We must plan our strategy.” He turned
to the weary, young shopkeeper’s son who had brought him the
precious truth.
“Thank you, William Carlsohnn, Baron of Alsynia.”
Carlsohnn gave him a dazed look. “Majesty,” he whispered.
“This is unnecessary.”
“You may have saved all of Laurentia, my lord. You are fit
to rule some of it,” said Nicholas. “Sit, take your rest, and then
return to your family.”
“My king, if you proceed to Beaureve, I would remain by
your side. This man is treacherous. You may have need of every
soldier here.”
Nicholas clasped the young man’s dusty shoulder. He had
not thought that men such as Carlsohnn would care enough to
risk their lives twice for him. It warmed a place in him where
there had been only cool purpose.
Carlsohnn bowed and went off to clean the dust from his
uniform. When Nicholas alerted his ministers to Carlsohnn’s
news, shock and outrage appeared on faces, old and young.
“What shall we do?” Andre asked.
“Proceed. Buy a bit of time. Sleep light and armed at the
traitor’s palace. And get out of there sooner than we thought
to.”
“Nicholas, there’s the threat of poison.”
“He doesn’t need poison to take Laurentia. He has the
Brotherhood. But just in case….” Nicholas smiled grimly and
called an ensign to him.
“Get me a dog, small enough to fit into one’s pocket. I don’t
care how ugly the mutt, as long as it is well trained and
obedient,” he said. “I’ve no desire to be found out for a fraud.”
And so they went on, and soon they passed through the
ancient arched gateway of the grim town of Constanza, which
Nicholas remembered from his childhood as a cheerful, busy
lake town. The stalls in the market offered only a few drab bits
of garden produce—moldy cabbages, sad looking carrots, a few
worm-eaten apples. The citizens, who were once prosperous,
looked as desolate as people in the midst of a terrible famine.
“What has happened here?” Nicholas wondered in a soft
voice.
Andre, riding beside him, shook his head. “I don’t
understand this. Beaureve’s treasury has great wealth.”
On the far side of town, the palace rose, now more a fortress
than a summer home. Shards of broken glass jutted up from the
tops of the surrounding walls. Nicholas stared at the guards at
the front gate, armed to the teeth with sword and pistols. The
place looked as though an outlaw king lived inside.
As they entered, Nicholas saw luxury to rival an eastern
potentate’s great palace. The hallway sparkled with the light of
thousands of candles, reflected in the high sheen of gilt and
silver. Andre and his guards checked Nicholas’s room for
security, as he shed his jacket and handed it to his valet.
Andre made a questioning sound. Nicholas caught him
looking at the flowing linen of his shirt. It showed the dirt marks
left by Sera’s small hands.
“What?” he asked Andre.
“Been doing a bit of gardening, old boy?” Andre’s tone
was much too amused.
He attempted a look of disinterest. “I found Sera digging in
the dirt. What of it?”
“And you didn’t change afterward? How long have I known
you, Nikki?”
Nicholas exhaled in an exasperated huff.
“Right. I’ve known you all my life. You hate being dirty
for any longer than you can help. You could easily have changed
that shirt before we left. Perhaps in future you might persuade
the lady to give you a favor more in fitting with your sensibilities
than half the kitchen garden. A silk scarf with a bit of her perfume
might do, a glove that her tiny hand had graced, a—
“Shut up, Andre.” Nicholas’s whole face felt as though it
were on fire. “It wasn’t a kitchen garden. It was a rose garden.”
“I see,” said Andre with a wicked grin. “Well, that makes
all the difference, doesn’t it?”
“Go find someone else to devil,” said Nicholas.
“Too pleasant to watch you stew, old man,” he said, his
hand on the door to the outer corridor. “By the way, we’re to
meet with Galerien in an hour.”
Nicholas bathed and changed into full court dress for the
state banquet. He stood before the mirror, wearing a long, white
embroidered waistcoat, a blue velvet coat and knee breeches
and silver buckles on his shoes. By God, he hated walking into
a battlefield with nothing but a ceremonial sword by his side.
Galerien and his ministers were waiting for him at the end
of a sumptuous dining room where silver chandeliers hung
overhead, glittering in the light from a hundred candles. The
long banquet table was set in heavy gold plate and fine crystal
for eighty. Nicholas took his place beside Galerien to
acknowledge the officials, and then took a moment to speak to
his host before approaching the table.
At forty-five, the regent was still a handsome man, slender
and straight backed. His dark hair was clipped short and streaked
with gray, but his face was ruddy and his smile quite charming.
Galerien’s cloth of gold coat over maroon velvet knee breeches
made him look like some oriental pasha.
“Rostov! How good of you to come,” he said with a hearty,
deep laugh. He took Nicholas into his arms to give him the kiss
of peace, the snake. A furious yipping and snarling erupted.
Galerien backed up a few steps and stared open-mouthed at
Nicholas’s coat pocket. Nicholas smiled apologetically and
pulled a tiny
lap dog from the pocket. The little cur growled
ferociously and bared his teeth at Galerien.
“Sorry, Anatole. Mischa’s invaluable to me. Here, why don’t
you get him used to your scent, and then he’ll be as friendly as
a puppy.”
Galerien looked askance at the snarling little animal who
resembled a rat more than any canine Nicholas had ever seen.
“Perhaps another time,” he said faintly.
“Very well. One can’t be too careful these days, what with
the Brotherhood at our doorstep, and treachery abroad. Mischa
is my taster.” Nicholas petted the cur, who bared his teeth at
Galerien again.
“This dog has a stomach so delicate, he’ll become ill a
moment after swallowing any poison. Clever little mutt, isn’t
he?”
Nicholas dumped Mischa back into his pocket and sighed,
inclining his head toward the Laurentian troops just entering
the great state dining room. “If Mischa here meets with an
unfortunate attack upon his digestive tract, my guards will kill
the man responsible.” To Nicholas’s satisfaction, Galerien
blanched.
“Now, Anatole, tell me how you have been dealing with
the terrorist threat that hangs over both our heads.” He clapped
Galerien on the back and walked beside him to the head of the
long banquet table.
As the ministers bowed, Galerien gestured to the seat on
his right, cautiously marking the position of the lapdog, which
Nicholas proceeded to bring out of his pocket and place on his
lap.
The china and crystal appeared almost at once, with an extra
plate and bowl for Mischa. Through the turtle soup, the roast
pheasant stuffed with truffles from France, the ices and gateaux,
and the toasts, Nicholas fed the dog. Galerien, a smooth and
convincing talker, was unusually silent through the meal.
In a quiet moment over brandy, Nicholas pondered the
interesting fact that the Brotherhood had begun its nefarious
work against Galerien’s older brother, the popular and kindly
King Stephan and his beautiful queen, Marissa.
Only their daughter, poor Catherine Elizabeth, survived.
For the last two years, Nicholas had begun to suspect that the
hidden princess was either a lunatic or a mental deficient. But
he had thought himself trapped.
Until now. Amidst the muffled clatter of silver and plate,
the realization struck him, almost taking his breath. The voices
of the ministers receded. He was free to choose his own bride.
Nicholas felt the kick of his heart as it accelerated. He
pictured Sera, veiled and in white, walking the abbey’s aisle
toward him, and all the people rising as she passed. He kept
back the smile that tugged at his mouth. Happiness spread
through him until he wanted to burst with it, to shout to the
ministers, and Galerien, and his own men.
“To Nicholas Alexander Andreyevitch Rostov,” Galerien
was saying. The ministers stood, lifting their goblets, and drank.
Nicholas quickly gathered his thoughts. He rose and gave
what he hoped was an appropriate toast in return. He slid through
it automatically while wondering why Galerien had called him
here and when the despot would see fit to tell him. Galerien
turned to him directly after the toast.
“Nicholas Alexander,” the king said easily. “If you will be
good enough to join me in my library for a private discussion
after our repast.”
“Delighted,” murmured Nicholas. At last.
Surrounded by his first editions, Galerien was even more
self-congratulatory than he was in the midst of his opulence.
He sat behind his inlaid desk puffing on a cigar and swirling
the brandy about in his glass.
When he pushed a small miniature forward for Nicholas’s
perusal, Nicholas thought it must be a portrait of his sequestered
betrothed. In his present mood, which veered from cold fury to
deepest relief, Nicholas felt a tug of sympathy for the princess
he no longer had to marry. He’d help her if he could. Right after
he knocked her uncle off the throne of Beaureve.
But the offered miniature was a portrait of Galerien, himself.
Nicholas looked up from the portrait and gave Galerien a
questioning glance.
Galerien waved a negligent hand. “I am sorry to tell you
that there can be no match for you and my niece, Catherine
Elizabeth. I have received distressing reports. She may be dead
within the week.” Galerien looked anything but distressed by
the news.
“I shall speak plainly to you. Between these cursed religious
fanatics and Napoleon’s troops so close to our borders, our cause
must be one. I am aware that your sister is of marriageable age.”
Galerien blew several smoke rings and sipped his brandy.
“As you know, Nicholas, I am merely regent of Beaureve.
My niece’s impending death will cause uncertainty throughout
the land. And because poor Catherine Elizabeth will die without
issue….” Galerien let the thought hang in the air.
“Within days, I’ll be king, with a responsibility to ensure
the Galerien line. As you know, my late wife and I were not
blessed with offspring, a veritable necessity for any monarch.
Whereas your family has always been… fruitful, shall we say?
Yes, your sister will be a fine wife, a treasured bride.” Galerien
carefully brushed an ash off the end of his cigar and steepled
his fingers, looking at Nicholas over them. His eyes sparkled
with greedy anticipation.
“I see,” said Nicholas. Was Catherine Elizabeth truly dying,
or did Galerien plan to hurry her demise? His hands itched, and
he pictured them wrapped around Galerien’s throat. “This is a
matter I must take up with the council, of course, and with the
princess,” he managed to say smoothly. “You will have your
answer in due time.”
And if you think, you snake’s spawn, that I would let you
touch my sister…. Nicholas kept his face still in that polite mask.
“Kindly do not make me wait too long, my dear Nicholas
Alexander,” said Galerien, executing his tight-lipped parody of
a smile. “For the sake of both our countries.”
“In due time, Anatole Dimitri,” said Nicholas, rising and
bowing smartly. “As I have told you.”
“I shall wait as long as I can,” said Galerien, also rising. He
held out his hand, and Nicholas took it.
The back of his neck gave a warning prickle. There was
danger here—deadly danger to Katherine and Laurentia. He
had to find a way out. If only he could drop the pretense,
challenge Galerien now, and get the whole thing over by dawn
tomorrow. But kings did not duel with other kings. They simply
went home and prepared to sacrifice thousands of lives in a war
that could destroy both kingdoms, leaving only bare bones for
Napoleon’s soldiers to pick.
***
The next morning, Nicholas rose before the sun and rode
out with his troops. Galerien, hastily rouse
d, appeared at the
balcony above the courtyard in his dressing gown.
“Why such haste, my dear Nicholas Rostov? Our meetings
were to last three days!”
“Ah, my very dear friend and ally, this matter we discussed
is of utmost importance. I must return and meet with my full
council as soon as possible. You understand, I am sure.”
“Of course, of course,” said Galerien. Greed and cunning
replaced the suspicion in his eyes.
The day was blustery and overcast, but they made good
time toward the border and crossed it shortly before noon.
Nicholas breathed a little easier for being back in Laurentia,
but he was still wary of surprise attack. At a check to rest the
horses, he informed his ministers of last night’s meeting with
Galerien and revealed his plans to attack the Brotherhood base.
“And,” he said quietly. “All of what we’ve discussed must
be kept absolutely quiet. I want none but young Carlsohnn, you
men, and the generals to know of our plans.”
Sera had known all about Galerien, he thought as they
mounted up again. What conflict lay between her and the double-
dealing regent?
In the far distance, a black carriage resembling a heavy mail
coach with six horses rumbled towards them. Andre glanced at
Nicholas, and he nodded. After what Carlsohnn had learned,
anything attempting to cross their border would be searched.
The men fanned out on the road, making passage impossible
for a carriage and team. As the coach rolled closer, Nicholas
could make out three men, heavily muffled, sitting atop. He
spoke a few words to the captain of the guard, who saluted and
urged his men forward. The horses were almost upon them when
the captain shouted, “Halt, in the name of the king!”
The driver muttered and halted his horses.
“Step down,” said the captain. “Reveal your faces!”
The driver slowly lowered his muffler to reveal a heavily
bearded face and climbed from the box atop the coach. The
other two outriders slipped silently down from the coach and
raised their hands in the air.
“`Tis naught, my lord,” said the driver standing casually
against the coach. “Just a gentleman an’ his lady off for a private
matter, is all.” Nicholas rode slowly forward and stared at the
driver. Bearded as he was, he could have been any number of
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