by Nina Clare
‘Go and catch something in the forest,’ suggested the fourth man, with a snigger. ‘Show us your hunting skills.’
The giant glowered at him, the light of the lantern making his face dance with shadows. ‘It’s no joking matter,’ he growled. ‘I need food! I’ve been on the road all blasted day and haven’t eaten since that greasy pile of slop we had for breakfast.’
‘We’re all hungry, Gass,’ said Zetkin. ‘Pipe down. What with Schrenk as nervy as a colt, and you whining like a girl, I’m starting to lose Patience!’ He roared the last word. Elisabeth jumped again.
‘At least we’ve got beer,’ said the fourth man, reaching for the jug to refill his cup.
‘Which you’re guzzling down,’ said Gass. ‘Here, give me it.’ He snatched at the jug, but it was moved out of his reach.
‘There’s plenty more in the barrel,’ said Zetkin.
‘I can’t stand this bickering,’ said Schrenk, putting his hands to his head. ‘I’ve put up with it all day. I’ve a mind to set off now just to get away from you all.’
‘I’ve a mind to ride on too,’ said Gass. ‘At least we’d be there by dawn and could eat.’
‘I’ve told you, the roads are country tracks, you’ll never make it at night,’ said Zetkin. ‘Do you want to break your neck in an overturned carriage?’
‘Wouldn’t be a bad thing if Gass broke his,’ muttered the man by the fire. ‘Likely it was his oversized backside in the carriage that broke the wheel.’
Gass glared at him again, his lantern swinging wildly.
‘Let’s do as Imhoff says, and leave the carriage behind,’ Schrenk said, resuming his pacing. Even if we walk the horses, we’ll be moving on. We’re not safe ‘til we get back.’
‘And there must be some inn on the way we can rouse up for food,’ added Gass.
‘We’re in the middle of nowhere, you fool,’ said Zetkin. ‘There’s no inn between here and Dragenberg.’
‘A farmhouse, then,’ snapped back Gass.
‘So, we’ll rouse up a farmhouse, and of course they’re going to open up and welcome four strange men into their kitchen in the middle of the night. Welcome us with a brace of shotguns, more like. You’re such a dunce, Gass.’
‘His brain’s as fat as his backside,’ said Imhoff with a snigger. He’d downed the best part of a second jug and was clearly feeling jovial.
‘Come here and insult me,’ snarled Gass. ‘Come on, I’ve about had enough of you these past two days,’ He put up his fists.
‘Pipe down, you idiots,’ said Zetkin, but Imhoff was on his feet pushing back his sleeves to ready his fists for a fight.
‘Come on then,’ he goaded, a beery leer spreading across his face. ‘I’ve had enough of you too, and your whingeing and whining. Let me use that belly of yours for some left hook practice!’
‘Let me tickle my knuckles on that ugly face of yours,’ growled back Gass. ‘That’ll shut you up.’
‘Sit down!’ ordered Zetkin.
But the fight had begun. Zetkin and Schrenk tried to intervene, Zetkin roared in pain as he caught a stray fist on the nose. He doubled over, blood spurting out. Gass threw himself at Schrenk’s middle, tackling him to the ground with a crash; Imhoff, who clearly liked a fight, let out a shriek of glee and dove on top while Zetkin remained crouched with his head in his hands moaning and cursing. Gass caught the lantern with his flying foot, and the lamp crashed to the ground and went out.
Elisabeth saw her chance. She wasn’t sure her legs would move properly, she was cold and weak from hunger, and almost paralysed with fear, but her senses were heightened by the sudden burst of urgency coursing through her, and she edged along the shadowed wall until she reached the door and lifted the bolt. She was out, she was in the blackness of the night, stumbling along, following the sound of the horses, in the stable beside the lodge.
She released them all, throwing wide the door, urging them to go home, sending them images of warm stables and pails of steaming mash. Only one horse did she retain, the one that she sensed as the most intelligent. The duller horses were too fixed on their own needs to consider anything else. Will you carry me? she asked her. Without saddle or bit. I cannot see in the dark as you do. Will you carry me as far as you can, and then I will release you to return home?
Will you feed me? The mare replied.
I will lead you to good grass as soon as it gets light.
You may get up, the mare agreed. It is too cold here. I would sooner move.
She left with only moments to spare. As the mare rode away, there came a great bellowing of curses as the hapless henchmen spilled out of the lodge. Elisabeth did not dare look back.
Water, said the mare. Dawn was grey and damp, and Elisabeth was numb with cold, feeling she could not hang on to the mare’s mane a moment longer. But she must hang on. She must get to safety. They had crossed fields and passed through wooded stretches, but had seen no habitation. They had sheltered a couple of hours in a derelict stone barn, the mare could not walk all night without rest, but there had been no rest for Elisabeth. Each time she closed her eyes she saw the grim face of Zetkin, felt the sweaty palms of Schrenk as he bound and unbound her, heard Imhoff’s curses. When exhaustion drove her to snatches of sleep she dreamt of black, suffocating carriages, and always she saw the count. Heard his smooth voice, shrank from the grasp of his fingers, and woke gasping for breath as his hungry eyes moved closer and closer.
Water, said the mare.
I think I see water, replied Elisabeth. Looks like a lake. The sun had risen, and the shimmer of water was in the distance. As the morning mist lifted she was surprised to see mountains beyond the lake. She hadn’t realised how far she had travelled.
I want to go home said the mare.
So do I. But I can’t. I don’t have a home.
Take me to the lake, she told the mare. Then I will go on alone and you can go home.
It was indeed a lake. A heron lifted its head at their approach, then took flight. A pair of ducks honked, and paddled away.
Another sound reached Elisabeth’s ears. One that jolted her out of her cold misery and filled her with panic instead: the sound of men’s voices.
She looked around, scanning the trees around the lake, wondering which way she should turn to hide.
There was a loud crack, and her cry merged with the scream of her horse.
Steady! urged Elisabeth, feeling the horse about to lift up beneath her—Steady!
But a second crack sounded, and the horse reared up, her forelegs scrabbling at the air. Elisabeth tried to hold on, but she felt so weak, so numb, she couldn’t grip the mare’s back tight enough with her knees, she couldn’t hold fast to the mane as the horse reared a second time. She was falling, she was tumbling through the air.
‘Did you hear that?’ called a man’s voice from somewhere. ‘Sounded like a scream, did it not?’
‘By the moon’s light, Paul, if you’ve struck a swan, I’ll have your trigger finger cut off!’
‘It’s a girl!’
That was the last Elisabeth heard after she struck the ground. The world filled with blinding stars, then all went black.
Chapter 13
Swanstein
‘She wakes.’
She could hear before she could see. The voice was close. She forced her eyes open, feeling disorientated and peculiar. She was in a wood, surrounded by trees. No, not trees, but walls of wood and rafters of fir above her head. Something heavy lay upon her: a fur rug, covering her from neck to foot. A face appeared above her. It was the face of an angel. I am in heaven, she thought. No face so handsome as this could be on earth.
‘Glad to see you awake, Fräulein,’ said the perfectly shaped lips in the beautiful face. ‘Is there someone I can send word to of your whereabouts?’
Her speech had left her. She only stared at the vision hovering above.
She tried to lift her head, but winced and dropped it back down.
‘Don’t try to move.
You’ve had a nasty fall. I don’t think anything is broken, but we must get you looked at by a physician.’
‘Where am I?’ she asked, finally finding her voice, which sounded raspy and weak.
‘You are safe. As soon as you are well enough to walk, we will see you safely home. Where do you live?’
She looked blankly at him.
‘What is your name, Fräulein?’
She could only stare in reply.
‘You do not wish to tell me your name?’
‘I…’ she said in a frightened voice, ‘I…do not know my name…’
He regarded her thoughtfully.
‘I wish to return, Paul,’ said the voice of a second man. She could not see him from where she lay. ‘I have meetings to prepare for,’ said the hidden voice. It was a clear, voice. Well modulated. Imperious.
‘Shall Hausser attend upon you, sir?’ replied the angelic Paul. ‘While I wait for the young lady to be well enough to be moved. It would not be courteous to leave her alone with a groom.’
The second man emerged into view. She gasped, for while the man called Paul was the most handsome man imaginable, yet he paled in comparison beside this second man. He was tall and slender, and the very skin of his face shone. But it was a cool beauty while Paul’s was warm and smiling.
‘I will return and send a carriage for her,’ said the second man. She cannot stay here, there are not the necessary facilities. I will have the physician awaiting her arrival.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The tall man turned to leave, but something caught his eye. ‘What is that?’ he asked. He looked toward Elisabeth. He did not meet her eyes, and she had no wish to meet his, for they were piercing and unsettling. He pointed a long, slender finger. ‘About the neck. What is it?’
Her hand moved to her neck to rest upon something. A pendant, of carved wood.
‘May I see?’ he requested.
‘May I have it, for just a moment, Fräulein?’ Paul asked. He held out his open hand. She fumbled with the clasp and dropped the necklace into his hand, taking care not to touch him.
The tall man held the pendant up to the light of a small window. The pendant was a carved swan.
‘Where did she get this?’
‘My I enquire, Fräulein, as to the origin of your necklace?’ Paul asked.
She shook her head, then winced at the pain that the movement caused. ‘I cannot remember,’ she whispered.
‘Perhaps a sweetheart gave you it?’ Paul whispered in reply; his eyes gleamed playfully. ‘I am trying to prompt your memory, Fräulein.’
She flushed and said nothing.
The tall man ran a finger over the carving of the swan, narrowing his eyes as though he were a jeweller examining a gemstone. ‘It is excellent workmanship,’ he said. He returned the pendant and left the room.
‘My apologies, for your being left alone with me,’ said Paul. ‘When the carriage comes, we shall find you more appropriate arrangements.’
‘Where am I?’ she asked.
‘We are but five miles from Füssen.’
‘How did I get here?’
‘You were thrown from your horse. Perhaps you were out riding? You were unaccompanied, so perhaps you lost your attendant?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘I am sorry to say that your horse bolted before we reached you. We could not recover it.’
‘I’m frightened,’ she whispered. ‘Why can’t I remember anything?’
He smiled his beautiful smile. ‘Your memory will return. Most certainly it was the blow to the head you suffered when you fell. I have heard of such things happening. His Majesty will see that you are well cared for in the meantime.’
‘His Majesty?’
‘The king.’
‘I shall meet the king?’
‘Fräulein, you have just met him.’
‘You have no idea who she is?’ The physician completed his examination, and now spoke to Paul.
‘As yet we have little clue to her identity,’ Paul replied. ‘She speaks as a well-born lady, and is dressed in clothes of high quality.’
‘She has unusual marks on her wrists,’ said the physician.
‘Unusual?’
‘As though she had been bound.’
‘Bound?’
‘With rope or cord. And the marks are fresh.’
‘That is most unpleasant.’
‘And she has bruises on her arms that do not accord with a fall, but suggest she was rough-handled. They too are fresh, only a day or two old.’
‘Even more unpleasant,’ said Paul. ‘That would explain why she rode out alone; she was escaping, but from whom? Are there any signs of…violation?’
‘No.’
Elisabeth could hear them talking, but the draught the physician had given her made her feel sleepy and dull. She had noticed the raw marks on her wrists herself, and wondered about them.
The physician returned to the bedside. ‘Well, Fräulein,’ he said in a voice loud enough to make her wince, for her head still throbbed. ‘No bones broken, some bruising, and of course, that nasty bang to the head.’
‘When will I remember?’ she said huskily, struggling to keep awake. She felt as though she had not slept in days.
‘In good time,’ said the physician brightly. ‘You could wake up good as new, all your memories restored, or it may come back a little at a time over a longer period.’
‘A few days?’ she asked.
‘Days, weeks, months.’ He shrugged.
‘Months?’ That was her last dismayed thought as she drifted into sleep.
Each time she awoke, she felt bewildered. Her mind scrabbled to recall where she was, who she was, why she was lying in a great four-poster bed surrounded by tapestries and countless candles. Every time she awoke, she was bathed in perspiration, as the nightmare receded. Always the same dream: she was drowning in black water—someone was pulling her down, she could not wrench free—she tried to push her assailant away—all she could see of him was a mouth with snarling, yellow teeth—he would not let go—her mouth filled with water as she screamed, and then she awoke. Always she awoke just as the water filled her and cut off her breath. She never saw his face; only those yellow teeth. She lay trembling between the soft, white sheets.
‘Morning, m’lady,’ said a brisk voice. ‘Brought you breakfast.’
A maid set a tray down on a little table before the window. ‘Shall I open the curtains?’
Elisabeth assented; it was the first time in six days that she had wanted them opened. She had felt too sensitive to the light until now.
‘Lovely morning. Spring at last,’ said the maid, as the sunshine pooled in. She turned back to the bed, holding out a dressing gown. ‘Would you care to sit up and eat? The prince said to see you up and dressed today. Orders of the physician. Get a bit of fresh air and exercise, but just a little, mind.’
Elisabeth permitted herself to be led to the table to breakfast, then be directed in washing and dressing, almost as a child.
‘Are these my clothes?’ she asked, when a gown was laid out for her.
‘They are now,’ said the maid. ‘The one you came in has been sent for cleaning and mending. Full of rips and caked with mud.’
‘So, whose gown in this?’
‘The prince went to München to get clothes for you. Nothing hereabouts would fit. Her Highness is too short, Countess Hildebrand is too tall, and that’s all the ladies’ clothes we have. The Prince said we couldn’t put you in a dirndl. I shall pin up your hair for you,’ she said, after combing out Elisabeth’s long, brown hair. ‘The prince said to make sure you were presentable. The king can’t bear anything out of the way of neatness and niceness.’
‘Who is the prince?’ Elisabeth asked. ‘Is he a visitor here?’ Though she could remember nothing of her own life, she recalled the history of the world around her, and she knew the king had no brothers.
‘Lieutenant Thorne. Prince Paul von Thorne. The king’
s aide-de-camp.’
‘His aide-de-camp,’ she repeated, wincing as her hair was brushed, even though the maid was trying to be gentle, her head still felt tender. So, the man she knew as Paul was a prince.
‘I hear he rescued you,’ said the maid. She swung her head round to give her a grin. ‘Swept you up in his big, strong arms and carried you in. Lucky you. He’s a real charmer, so watch yourself.’
‘I think you mean charming,’ she replied.
‘No. I mean charmer.’
The maid stepped back, her work completed in the form of a thick crown of glossy plaits. ‘It’s not city fashion,’ admitted the maid, ‘but you look nice and neat. Now, if you’ll follow me, m’lady, I’m to take you to the family rooms.’
She was shown to a room on the first floor. The room was comfortably furnished, as a family room would be, one wall lined with rows of leather-bound books, mostly on history and politics. She sat a while, then felt restless, having been confined for days, and opened the door to peek into the passageway, hoping to see someone—anyone.
She heard voices close by, and curiosity drove her to investigate. An open door gave her a glimpse into a lovely room with walls bearing murals of medieval knights and princesses. The furniture was of gleaming wood, upholstered with purple velvet; golden lamps hung from the plasterwork ceiling.
A tiny woman in voluminous black skirts sat upon a chair near the window, an embroidery frame before her. ‘Where has he gone now, Matilde?’ the woman asked in a plaintive tone.
‘Perhaps he has gone riding, Your Highness.’
A second woman, dressed also in black, though not as sumptuously as Her Highness, sat opposite, sorting through skeins of silk thread.
Elisabeth deduced that she was looking at the queen mother and her lady-in-waiting. The queen mother looked so small; how could so tall a man as the king come from so tiny a woman? She had no wish to be caught observing them, and made to move on, but her eyes lingered over the lovely murals and furnishings a moment longer.
‘I did not hear the horses,’ said the queen mother in her high voice. ‘I do not think he has gone out yet. I fear he was vexed at breakfast with me. Why does he object to my inviting guests here? He never objected before.’
