The Mystic Marriage

by Jones, Heather Rose

  His pale face looked startled, as if he were unused to being addressed as an adult, but at her gesture he moved his leg aside for her to check the girths. Loose, as she had suspected, and one end of a strap was twisted up and under. No wonder the horse was twitchy. “Groom!” she called sharply. When Aukustin’s attendant appeared, she merely pointed to the maladjusted equipment.

  He turned pale and stammered, “Mesnera, I swear, I saddled him myself! I don’t know how—”

  “I don’t care how,” she replied brusquely. “Just fix it.” She believed him. He must have stepped away for other chores and left the horse unattended. She didn’t want to call too much attention; there was no harm done. Likely it would have meant no more than an embarrassing tumble. But on rough ground? Who could say? And here was proof that Elisebet was not simply imagining dangers. Someone had redone the girths with ill intent. With difficulty she kept herself from looking around to see who might be watching. No need to give away the advantage. Let them believe she thought it nothing more than a careless servant.

  The times she had ridden here before, her attention had been entirely focused on keeping watch over the baron, staying back far enough for invisibility yet never more than a few seconds from his side. This time was turning out not so different. The terrain at Feniz could be challenging, even treacherous, depending on the path, with enough leaps and scrambles to test the skill of the best riders. But Mainek guided them to more sedate pathways. This was to be an entertainment, not a steeplechase. And no doubt he had in mind the need to keep safe the two closest heirs to the throne. So they set out on easy slopes for the first hour, winding through the old fields and orchards, watching the mist rise off the jewel-blue waters of the lake and listening for the distant sound of the hounds.

  When her path lay alongside Efriturik’s for a space, Barbara asked, “Is the hunt what you expected?”

  “Not at all. Back home…that is, back in Austria, we would have used guns on the open hills. This seems almost barbaric.” He raised the spear he carried, a self-mocking smile twisting the corner of his mouth. It was a match for those carried by Count Mainek and another of the older men.

  Barbara laughed. “That’s meant for a mark of honor. The hounds will do most of the work, but whoever is awarded the kill at the end will be given a spear for the finish. The cover’s too close for shooting here at Feniz, but you might try hunting pheasants out along the lower parts of the Rotein. Listen, I think they’ve picked up the scent.” She turned her ear to try to catch where the sound was coming from.

  Efriturik spurred his horse ahead, followed by his companions. Barbara saw Chustin attempt to follow and crossed over to stay more closely at his side. “Take the lower path,” she called out to him. “They’ll spend more time crossing the ridge and we can meet them around the other side.” She thought he threw her a grateful look. Aukustin was a good enough rider for a boy his age, but he’d never had the freedom to become truly skilled. His mother had seen to that. Half the party followed them on the lower path. Some had already fallen behind and slowed to a gentle walk. It hardly mattered; they would all come together in the end when the quarry came to bay.

  She lost the sound of the hounds for quite some time. The ridge was in the way, but more likely the huntsmen had sent them out around to drive the stag back toward the riders. The chase had wandered near to the Ovinze’s lodge, and courtesy called for a diversion. The small party around her stopped to listen in silence for the horns and baying.

  “There!” the younger Peskil said, pointing across a small arm of the lake. “How did they get so far?”

  “It’s a trick of the echoes,” Barbara called out. “Wait a bit.” And sure enough the sounds shifted and now were coming from a deep draw running up from the arm of the lake. The riders in the carriages would be disappointed, she predicted. The plan had been to bring the stag to bay on one of the bald knobs that lay along the edge of the woods where the cart track ran. But the beast must have slipped by them and turned down toward the water rather than climb the hill as expected.

  Two men rode ahead eagerly as the belling grew louder, but the others looked to her and followed more sedately. Now she could hear the whinnies of approaching horses, protesting as their riders urged them down the steep ravine. That must be Efriturik’s group, having caught up with the hounds just as the hunt turned. Beneath it all came the shouts and calls of the huntsmen urging the hounds forward.

  The stag burst out from a thicket before them so suddenly that the foremost horses reared and plunged in terror. Barbara saw Chustin go down as she struggled to reestablish control of her own mount. He had regained his feet by the time she reached his side. The stag was past and gone, with the hounds close on its heels. And from the crashing in the bushes, the huntsmen weren’t far behind.

  Seeing Chustin safe, Barbara set off to catch his horse where it danced nervously at the far edge of the clearing. She’d barely caught the reins when the crashing of more riders emerging from the brush spooked it again. She swore and looked back in exasperation. Her heart stopped.

  Somehow in the mad descent they’d roused a boar from its lair. It stood in the middle of the clearing, twitching its tail angrily, not ten yards from where Chustin stood frozen. If it charged, it would be on him before she could cross half the distance, and her with no more than a hunting knife to stop it. As her mind calculated furiously, there was Efriturik, forcing his horse between the two and swinging to the ground with his spear at the ready.

  You fool! That’s no boar spear! He’ll run right up it! The beast stamped and snorted. But whether it had past experience with the hunt or was too sleep-groggy to want a fight, the boar snorted one more time, then wheeled back into the brush. She let her breath out and whispered a prayer of thanks to Saint Hubert, who watched over huntsmen. Fighting a wave of guilt, she returned to the task of catching Chustin’s horse and brought it over to where the two Atilliet cousins waited, surrounded by the relieved congratulations of the other riders.

  In the distance they could hear the horns signaling that the stag was down. Efriturik helped Chustin up into the saddle, saying, “We’ve missed the kill but I think we’ll have the better stories to tell. Yes?”

  Barbara’s mind raced as the group slowly made its way toward the hunt’s conclusion. Had it been planned? Impossible. There was no knowing exactly which way the chase would go. No, the boar couldn’t have been predicted. This was the ordinary luck of the hunt—and luck it had been. If the boar had charged… If Efriturik had been slower to act… If he had needed to trust that pretty ceremonial spear to turn the beast…

  * * *

  The narrow escape gave the evening’s festivities an edge of frenetic bravado. Barbara found herself in a more sober mood than most, thinking what she would say to Princess Elisebet. She picked back over every minute of the hunt, trying to find some flaw, some sabotage. There was nothing. Her training as an armin had taught her to look for any subtle nuance but she could find no moment in the day’s events that was more than ill chance—none except the matter with the girths before they set out. Yet if the worst had happened, no one would have believed it was happenstance.

  Charlin, the count’s son, had won the privilege of the kill but he had ceded the honors of the evening to Efriturik. Now the celebration was fading as the evening deepened. There were two more days of hunting planned with lesser game and morning would come early enough. Barbara had noted when Aukustin headed for his rest and considered herself free now to seek her own bed. As she crossed the courtyard she could hear voices from the lakeshore in that muffled tone of men in their cups trying to be discreet. More faintly came the hollow sound of a small boat knocking against the pilings. She could guess where they were going. It was said that cooking and cleaning were not the only services available from the village women if one knew whom to ask. Pray God they were enough in their senses to lose no one overboard. She was on the verge of turning away to continue to her room when she saw Efriturik crossin
g the courtyard behind her in the direction of the dock.

  “A moment if you please, Mesner Atilliet,” she asked formally.

  He glanced at the waiting cluster by the boat but paused with a vaguely guilty air. Well, his entertainments were none of her affair. But it was unlikely he’d thought the matter through. “I wanted to thank you again,” she said, “for what you did with the boar. That was bravely done.”

  He seemed embarrassed and shrugged. “One does…what must be done.” There was an impatient sound from his waiting companions and Efriturik said, “Forgive me, I must be going.” With the conspiratorial air imparted by too much wine, he offered, “Charlin knows two lovely sisters in the village…” He trailed off, realizing it was hardly a suitable thought to share with a lady.

  “Do you think that’s wise?” Barbara asked mildly. She felt uncomfortable, as if she had been thrust into the role of tutor over him. “Have a care how you treat the daughters of your people,” she urged. “The villages here have long memories and you should be careful what little souvenirs you might leave behind.” And with that face, there will be no lack of willing daughters.

  He made a dismissive noise. “Charlin says it’s understood how these things are handled.”

  “Count Mainek’s son has no expectation of being the next Prince of Alpennia,” Barbara retorted but she turned away and let the matter lie. If the princess left him running loose then it wasn’t for her to try to leash him. It would strain her resources enough to explain the day’s events to Elisebet without terrifying her more than she was already.

  Chapter Five

  Antuniet

  Antuniet paused for a few moments in front of de Cherdillac’s small brick townhouse before climbing the steps. This time her heart didn’t pound as she lifted the knocker. The place was, if she recalled correctly, one de Cherdillac had inherited from her family. Her long-dead husband had brought little more with him than his title when he fled France in the chaos of the revolution. The vicomtesse might affect a French accent and manners but she was Alpennian born and bred.

  The house’s location was respectable but far from fashionable: on the northern side of the Rotein, but neither directly along the river where the oldest families lived, nor at the city’s edge where the new money had built. Close enough to the Plaiz that a woman careless of proprieties might walk to the cathedral or the opera house or other entertainments if she didn’t care to keep her own carriage, but far enough that the houses allowed for breathing space between them. One could catch glimpses of tidy gardens and carefully trained fruit trees through the side passages. A family would have filled the house to a cheerful chaos. De Cherdillac had no brothers or sisters that Antuniet knew of. Well, no, there would have been no brothers or she wouldn’t have inherited the house or the comfortable competence that allowed her to play queen bee to an eccentric social set of mildly questionable reputation. Antuniet knew the vicomtesse’s public face, played out in the salles and concert halls and the country homes of her wealthier friends, but today was business and private. She wondered if de Cherdillac had chosen to meet her at home rather than a public café to preserve her own reputation or to preserve her guest’s dignity. No matter, it suited them both.

  There was no bar to her entrance this time, rather a bland and dignified, “Mesnera Chazillen, if you would…?” and a gesture leading her past the dining room back into the small breakfast parlor that looked out over the garden. It was early to dine, unless one were going out later in the evening. Antuniet made a mental note to watch for signs of impatience. Better to make a dignified retreat than put de Cherdillac to the embarrassment of dismissing her. Places were set for two, and there would be no need to shout across the length of a long table to be heard. That could be excuse enough for using the smaller parlor without touching on how out of place she would look among the crystal and silver of the formal dining room.

  The man took her coat and bonnet, and she crossed to the windows to wait for her hostess to be informed. A thick, gnarled vine climbed along one edge of the view and disappeared above, testifying to the house’s age. How many generations of boys had used that route to escape for nighttime adventures? There had been a twisted ilex of similar function behind her own house. No, it hadn’t been her house, not then and certainly not now. The house she had grown up in—that was as much as she could call it. And she recalled the tree’s spiny leaves had held a penance for the transgression.

  De Cherdillac burst into the room as if she were walking on stage. Antuniet wondered idly if she paused before entering to gather herself to assume the role. She was as striking as ever with coal-black curls peeking out from under a turban of gold silk and setting off the creamy perfection of her skin. That perfection, Antuniet knew, owed something to the powder box, but the vicomtesse was enough of an artist that you scarcely noticed. You forgot the question entirely as soon as her dark eyes fixed upon you in delight and she unexpectedly clasped you for a quick peck on both cheeks. “Ma chère Antuniet! I’m so glad you could come! You’re looking well.”

  By which Antuniet assumed she did not look as if she’d been sleeping under a bridge. “Well” was stretching matters. “Do you have any news for me?” she asked.

  “Tcha, we’ll come to business later. I have a lovely dinner planned. My cook has managed to find the most succulent duckling you have ever tasted and she won’t say where she gets them because she thinks I’d tell all my friends and then she wouldn’t be able to buy any more. Which I would, of course.” She laughed.

  So it was to be the fiction of a purely social call for now. Well, it wasn’t as if she had any other appointments this evening. Antuniet took the indicated seat and started composing a praise for the meal that would sound appropriately artificial. Somehow “It’s been ages since I dined this well” struck the wrong note in her present situation. And she was trying not to bring to mind that last private dinner.

  As the evening wore on it was easier than she thought to slip into the rhythms of her old life, especially with someone so skilled at the game. The food was delicious. And the conversation covered harmless, inconsequential topics. De Cherdillac was a superlative hostess. Almost, she could imagine that the meal would be followed by a concert and then she would return to Modul Street. And her mother would inquire in her acid, pointed way whether she had met anyone interesting. And then, later in the night, she would be awakened by some minor uproar when Estefen returned home.

  Reverie and reality merged in the sound of a raised voice elsewhere in the house, the tapping of quick footsteps and the bursting open of the door. De Cherdillac’s butler was serving at table, so the unexpected guest was trailed by a parlormaid, apologizing profusely, “I’m sorry Mesnera, but she insisted on seeing you and—”

  “And you are always welcome in my house, Benedetta. Thank you, Ainis, you may go. But darling, as you see, I have company.”

  The intruder was a tall, curvaceous woman, wearing a pelisse in the Italian style of deep garnet sarsenet. The elaborate coiffure and the boldness with which her long, oval face was painted advertised her profession as a performer. A singer, Antuniet guessed from the honey-rich tones of her voice, which were at odds with her waspish words.

  “I expected you two hours ago.”

  De Cherdillac rose and, with a brief gesture of apology, took the conversation out into the hallway. It made no difference, as neither woman took the trouble to whisper.

  “Didn’t you receive my note, Benedetta? I have other plans this evening.”

  “And I wanted to see for myself just who these other plans were.”

  “Chérie, you know I adore you, but this jealousy is so unattractive. You embarrass me in front of my guest.”

  “And you embarrassed me in front of my friends. I promised Hannek you would join us for a drive. You have made me a joke.”

  “But chérie, you should not have promised in my name! Here is a promise for you: I will be there for the performance tomorrow. And afterward we will g
o to Café Chatuerd.”

  “Who is she?”

  “An old friend. Really, Benedetta, this is growing tedious.”

  And then the voices became less distinct and there was the sound of a door closing. Antuniet rose when the vicomtesse returned to the dining room. “Perhaps I should come again when it’s more convenient.”

  “No, no, there’s no reason to go. I do apologize; she has a lovely voice but such low-class manners. Who would have thought she’d turn jealous when they’re only here to perform for a month? But she sings with such fire! I have a weakness for passion and talent.” She gave a little forced laugh. “I confess I’ll be glad after tomorrow when the company moves on. I’ve grown bored of the constant tragedies.”

  Antuniet had no idea what one said to that, but some change of topic seemed to be called for. “Perhaps we could discuss my search for a patron.”

  “Ah, yes. Tomric, bring us some Madeira in the drawing room and then that will be all.”

  * * *

  De Cherdillac settled herself on the edge of a chair and leaned over to touch her gently on the wrist, as if in apology. “There’s no point to beating around the bush. I fear I haven’t had any luck yet in finding someone to sponsor your work. It isn’t…” There was an awkward hesitation. “It isn’t the matter of your brother. But alchemy…” She shrugged helplessly.

  Antuniet wondered why her heart sank so. It had been a long reach from the beginning. “I wonder that you didn’t simply leave word for me and save yourself all that.” She gestured to take in the earlier quarrel.

  “But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company this evening.”

  Almost, she could make it believable. It was easy to see why de Cherdillac was invited everywhere, despite…everything. She had that way of focusing her attention, as if you were the most fascinating person in the room. Never mind that I’m the only person in the room, Antuniet thought. She had never been the target of that charm in the old days. She could see how it might be intoxicating. No one had ever considered her worth charming, even during her first seasons out in society. “Whom have you approached?” she asked, bringing her mind back to important matters.