‘Because you save Banyak.’
‘And you call Silas that because?’
Fecker laughed again, once and loudly. ‘Sleep, Geroy. In morning I tell you, and you tell me what the fuck we doing in stinking shed.’
Fecker was so damn loyal he hadn’t questioned Archer, and the viscount realised he hadn’t yet explained their mission.
‘As you wish, Andrej,’ he said. ‘And you can tell me how you came to be so good with horses…’ He yawned. ‘And how so strong.’
‘Life.’
‘Life? How old are you? Nineteen, Silas said.’
Fecker shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe?’ Archer yawned again. Sleep was dragging him down, but he had so many questions. ‘When were you born?’
‘Pashka. You say, Easter.’
‘Yes, but what year?’
‘How I know? No-one told me.’
Archer was so drowsy he wasn’t sure if he wasn’t already dreaming, and when Fecker removed his greatcoat, a wave of numb confusion came over him. His limbs ached, and he fought his eyelids to keep them open, his backside was sore from the saddle and now the hard floor, but the pain was anesthetised by exhaustion.
‘Sleep,’ Fecker said, and when Archer failed to respond, shook him.
The viscount’s eyes opened a quarter way, but enough to see Fecker manhandling him to straighten his legs, and he had enough working senses left to feel the coachman lay down beside him.
‘Do not worry for this.’ Fecker said as he threaded one arm beneath Archer’s back. ‘I am not Banyak.’
Archer was vaguely aware of being rolled onto a hard, warm surface that rose and fell in the pattern of breathing. A leg entwined with his, and the Ukrainian heaved him closer. One mighty arm cradled the viscount’s back while the other arranged the coat to cover them both. By the time Fecker turned out the lamp and hugged Archer to his warmth, Clearwater had succumbed to restless sleep.
Seven
Archer woke to a dead right arm and something hard pressing painfully against his left thigh. He opened his eyes, sore from lack of sleep, to find he was lying half on top of Fecker with one arm bent beneath and the other across the man’s chest. Their legs were tangled, and Fecker was cradling him. It was outrageously intimate, and it didn’t take him long to realise what was pressing into him.
‘Good, you wake.’ Fecker released him. ‘I need piss.’
A jumble of overcoat and embarrassment, Archer rolled off and tried to stand. His right leg was also dead and wouldn’t bear his weight, so he rested on his back as Fecker grunted and shuffled to sit up.
‘Terribly sorry,’ Archer said. ‘Don’t know how I came to be like that.’
‘I put you there. Keep me warm.’
It was simply put and a practical solution to a problem which had worked for them both. The blood flowed back to Archer’s cramped limbs, but as soon as the two men separated the cold air attacked his exposed flesh.
Archer also had the need to urinate. Staggering to his feet and shaking his leg, he supported himself on the rough walls and limped to the door, where he followed Fecker into a world of white and grey, and squinted against the cold dawn. Cloud the colour of pewter hung over the land, soaking any colour the sunrise might have offered. The sky waited low and pregnant with snowfall, as unmoving as the carpeted earth beneath. Without a breath of wind to disturb the frigid air, nothing moved.
Relieving themselves a distance from the door, unbothered by each other’s steaming presence, they scanned the countryside to find their bearings.
They were on the edge of a field which undulated towards a copse in one direction and a house in the other. Their footprints of last night were still visible, giving them a safe track to the road, but beyond, there was nothing but a frozen sea of rippled arable land. The view was edged to the south by a dark smudge of a town but to the north offered an ocean of snowbound scenery, the only path marked by bushes, white-topped and snaking towards a vanishing point.
‘You bring food?’ Fecker asked, steam rising before his face.
‘Some,’ Archer said. ‘And water. Do you suppose that’s a farmhouse?’
He jerked his head towards the distant building, and Fecker gave one of his non-committal shrugs. ‘Maybe.’
‘You check the horses and I’ll go and ask,’ Archer said, buttoning his trousers. ‘I’ll find out where we are, and how far from the railway line.’ He had taken off his gloves, and his fingers were already numb.
They were warm enough when he returned from an uphill trudge to the house, but his feet were blocks of ice, and his trousers soaked to his knees. In the hut, Fecker had been through the saddlebags and arranged their contents. He squatted on his haunches, examining the load. Archer wasn’t offended, there was no sense in being so. They were working together, on the same team, and his years in the navy had taught him that success depended on relying on one’s teammates. He couldn’t think of a better one to have on hand as he sat opposite and took off his hat.
Fecker tutted at the sight of his wet legs, as if Archer had done it on purpose, but grinned when he saw what the viscount had brought from the farm.
‘Very nice couple,’ Archer said. ‘Didn’t bat an eyelid when I turned up as if they had strays arriving every day. Ham, bread, milk… Only cost a few shillings. Lovely people.’ The items were laid out to add to the less practical ones he had hurriedly packed the night before; a jar of Mrs Flintwich’s chutney and a tin of biscuits. ‘But their news was less helpful.’
‘How?’ Fecker was dividing the supplies.
‘I was a sailor, Andrej,’ Archer said. ‘And without the stars and a decent chart, I’ve brought us too far west. The good news is that we travelled further than I thought, fifteen miles I should say. The bad news is, what I thought was Harrow was, in fact, Ruislip, and it’s going to take us half a day to ride north and join the railway line. Open country between here and there, apart from one road which the farmer said may not be easy, but at least would keep us from the fields.’
‘You told them what we are doing?’
‘No. I said we were caught in the blizzard and left it at that.’
‘You going to tell me what we’re doing?’ Fecker looked up from his tasks, his hair falling like curtains either side of his head to frame his rugged face. ‘Would help.’
‘My dear man.’ Archer was exasperated. ‘I am so sorry. I’ve dragged you from your home and brought you out here and haven’t yet told you why.’ He intended to last night, and told Fecker so, but by the time they had paused to rest, he had been exhausted.
‘Is okay,’ Fecker said. ‘You have reason.’
Archer did, and as they ate, he explained his actions and his intent. Fecker listened, nodding now and then, looking puzzled when Archer mentioned the coded letters and the poem, and becoming agitated when Archer summed up by saying, including today, they had only four days in which to find the girls and bring them to safety. He was completely unbothered about the prospect of doing battle with Quill again, in fact, his eyes twinkled, and he nearly cracked a smile, but that might have been because he was also eating half a jar of pickle with his fingers.
‘So,’ he said through a mouthful. ‘Your plan was this?’
‘Well, no. I didn’t intend us to sleep in a shed, Andrej. I planned to ride through the night until we found an operating service and take to the railways. Had it not been snowing, we could have been on our way by now and reached Westerpool this afternoon. Now, I fear, we will have lost a day, and as I have explained, we can ill afford to lose any time at all. Are you going to eat all of that?’
Fecker handed him the jar but remembering that neither of them had washed, Archer silently declined.
‘Jimmy will fix puzzle?’
It took Archer a few seconds to wor
k out his meaning. ‘I do wish you would use more words occasionally,’ he muttered. Louder, he said, ‘If anyone can work out that riddle, James can. I have it here too,’ he patted his pocket, ‘and will study it again as soon as I can. For now, we need to reach Westerpool and at least discover if this threat is genuine. If Silas’ sisters are there, all well and good and we’ve been led a dance. If they are not… We only have Quill’s twisted riddle to work with. What are you doing now?’
Fecker had taken a pair of trousers from the viscount’s saddlebag. ‘You bring spare?’ he asked, his dark eyebrows raised in surprise.
‘Of course.’
‘You don’t need.’ He reached for his knife, flapped the trousers and laid them across his lap. ‘Horses need.’
‘What are you doing?’ At first, Archer was interested, but when Fecker hacked at them with his blade, he was outraged. ‘I say!’ They were tailored.
‘They walk with bare legs in snow, they break bones,’ the coachman said, ripping the material to the seam where he sawed to free a strip from the rest. ‘Horse lame, we shoot it. We walk.’
‘They’re used to the cold,’ Archer stammered. ‘We live in England.’
‘You are idiot.’ Fecker started on the other leg.
‘Now wait a minute, Andrej.’ The man’s unusual manner was one thing, insolence was another. ‘You forget your place.’
‘Nyet. I know where I am.’
‘I will remind you that I am your employer, and you will speak to me as such. I can put up with your badly constructed sentences, you’re an immigrant after all, but if you wish to continue to be in my employ, you will show some respect.’
Fecker calmly dissected the second leg and laid the two pieces to one side before beginning again.
Archer waited for an apology, but none came. ‘Well?’ he prompted. ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’
Fecker paused in his work and regarded Archer with an expression as motionless as a rockface. He put the trousers aside and leant against the wall, stretching his legs and crossing one over the other.
‘This is first time you and me are the same,’ he began. ‘You tell me this, I do this. You want that, I give you that. I know you are boss, and I am servant. All of us are servants. We are not crew, as you say. We are not friends, as you want. James, Bolshoydick, even Banyak. We are sluha, you are master. You need me equal now, so I treat you same. You are idiot to bring horse without…’ He searched for a would but couldn’t find it. ‘You bring horse without truboi and with no thinking. Same as you bring me without care.’ He sniffed and continued to slice Archer’s clothing.
The viscount wasn’t sure if he had just been chastised by a servant, or given a lesson in humility by a friend, but that was always Archer’s problem. He was never meant to be the viscount and had been brought up with less structure than Crispin. Archer had been allowed to play with Thomas and mix with the servants, whereas his older brother had been schooled in how to make them obey.
‘I care about Silas,’ he said. ‘And despite what you say, I care about you.’
‘Ha!’
‘I do!’ Archer insisted. ‘I have given you a home. I gave you that without a second thought. I didn’t know you, but I took you in.
‘You still not know me.’
‘Then I mean to, and I shall.’
Fecker ripped more cloth.
‘But in the meantime, I would appreciate it if you showed me some respect. You are, after all, my coachman.’
‘I am immigrant, is all.’
‘Then you should remember that.’
Fecker tore the trousers to their last shreds with his bare hands. ‘I know this every day,’ he said, sifting through the pieces. ‘I know it from Limedock when I do the work of five men. “You, Mova!” They say, “Fuck off home, horse shit. No work for you.” Mova is bad Russian word for my language. Your country has no respect for my people, why I must show it? I am fucking Immy in Greychurch, I am foreign Johnny in city. I am worthless shitten-prick to Irish, and Russian chipa to Polish.’ His face was reddening. ‘They no want Immy bastard here. I am not bastard. Parents married, and when my mother die, my father takes second wife. I am never bastard.’
He took the pieces of cloth with trembling hands, gripping them, his knuckles white.
‘My father fight for British in Krym, in Crimea. He saves your soldiers. He brave man.’
Taking the pieces one at a time, he laid them in a line in front of the viscount.
‘This, my brother,’ he said. ‘Danylo. This, Vladyslav. Here is sister, Alina and there, Daria.’ The words came faster. ‘My mother, my father, my grandmother who works fields to feed family until she killed by Turks.’ He collected the pieces, his face tight with anger, his eyes glassing over. ‘Mother…’ He kissed the material before throwing it to the side. ‘Dead when she gives us Daria.’ He did the same to the next. ‘She? I don’t know where she goes.’ And the next. ‘Danylo. Taken by Russians to fight. I don’t know where he goes. Vlad? Taken by Russians to fight in Balkan, dead. Was eighteen.’ Tears flowed from his eyes. ‘Alina. Taken. Used. Dead. Was twelve.’
One piece of cloth remained. He picked it up and held it in his open palm.
‘This? All that’s left. This? Andrej Borysko Yakiv Kolisnychenko. And he goes now to dress your horses, Sir. Pack the bags.’
He stormed from the hut, slamming the door and leaving Archer weeping like a child.
Fifteen minutes later, the viscount brought the saddles to the lean-to where Fecker was crouched beside Shanks, tying material to her fetlock.
He approached tentatively. ‘Andrej?’
Fecker threw his head to Emma whose legs were already dressed. ‘She ready. We go careful.’
‘Andrej?’
‘They have fed.’
‘Mr Kolisnychenko.’
Fecker paused in his work and dropped his head. Sighing, he rose to his full six-feet-four and drew back his shoulders, turning to Archer and lifting his chin.
‘My Lord?’
Archer swallowed to hold back another flow of tears. ‘My apologies.’
Fecker nodded once and sharply before returning silently to his task.
Archer owed more than an apology, but it was best to let time heal and concentrate on their journey. The sun was up, unseen but offering all the light it could, and they had a distance to travel. While Fecker prepared Shanks, he saddled Emma, and returned for the saddlebags, checking the hut to ensure they hadn’t left anything. Back outside, their furs over their topcoats, they untethered the horses and mounted.
‘The farmer said that meander of hedges was the safest route towards Watford.’ Archer pointed. ‘About seven miles as the crow flies. The road is bordered with verge and should give no nasty surprises, but its twists double the distance.’
Fecker studied the way ahead before looking to the sky. ‘Is good. Snow no more.’
Archer wanted to ask how he could tell, such knowledge would be useful, but he was aware that Fecker was still tender, and anything he said might be taken the wrong way. ‘You lead,’ he said, hoping that the display of trust might help mend the rift. It was also more practical. Fecker was a man of the land and a horseman, Archer a man of the sea and a…
A what?
A snob, he decided as they picked their way along the tracks to the road. A snob and an idiot bent on his purpose to the detriment of others. Yes, he was acting to save Silas’ sisters, but he acted rashly, without proper planning, and not only that, he had shown in himself the worst trait of his father.
Maybe not the worst, he thought. His father would have had Fecker beaten for calling him an idiot whether he deserved it or not. Archer knew that from experience.
On Crispin’s instruction, he had called his father vazey, not knowing it was an ins
ult. His brother said Father would be pleased to hear it. He wasn’t, and it earnt him ten lashes with a leather belt beneath the savage painting of hounds tearing into a fox. Archer had been seven, and that was the first time, as far as he knew, that Crispin had shown sadistic manipulation. As they grew older, his brother became more disturbed, and to this day, Archer harboured a concern that his insanity might be hereditary and that he may have some of the blood of madness in his own veins.
Acting like a snob was not a sign that he carried the same affliction, but it was a sign that he was losing sight of what was important. The girls in trouble were his priority for Silas’ sake and their own, but the comradeship he strove to garner from his men, although less urgent, meant just as much. He remembered Fecker’s words, that Archer thought of his servants as his crew, but wanted them to be his friends, and he could not have both. They could never be equal, they were born on the wrong side of the baize door.
Fecker was right about that, but underestimated Archer’s determination to effect a change, somehow, and when he could. He had also been wrong about another thing. Whether Mr Kolisnychenko liked it or not, Archer saw him as a friend and the only way to prove that was to treat him as an equal.
They rode in silence, Fecker picking the way carefully, dismounting and testing parts with his feet when the hedgerows died away, and the route was unclear. It was a painfully slow journey, but no more snow fell, offering Archer hope that they would find the railway lines passable and the service resumed.
It was not to be. They reached the railway station just after four to find it deserted. The view from a nearby ridge showed the tracks still covered and no signs that anyone had tried to clear the drifts.
‘What you want?’ Fecker asked from behind his scarf.
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