The door’s bell jingled again. “You can be leaving now, Woods.”
Nathaniel turned. “Rufus, you’re a-looking more vertical than the last time I seen you. Your brothers, on the other hand, is looking twice as stupid.”
“Nathaniel…” Rachel laid a hand on his elbow.
“Don’t you be worrying, ma’am. Ain’t nothing going to happen in your store. That right, boys?”
Rufus nodded solemnly. “That’s right.”
Nathaniel turned back to Rachel. “It will be fine.”
“I don’t want you hurt, Nathaniel.”
“I don’t reckon I will be. Got to be coming back for them scraps.” He nodded. “Good day to you, ma’am.”
The door’s bell jingled again and a man came in, pushing past Rufus. The larger man took offense, and grabbed the smaller man by the shoulder. The smaller man spun, a dagger appearing in his hand, the point drawing a single droplet of blood from Rufus’ throat.
“Mister Woods, if you would do me the honor of an introduction to your friends. I like to know the names of men I will kill.”
Nathaniel smiled. “Count Joachim von Metternin, that there is Rufus Branch.”
“And the other two?”
“You don’t need to be knowing their names. I’ll do the killing on them.”
“I think I shall come to appreciate the egalitarian notions of Mystria.” The Count smiled over his shoulder at Rachel. “And you would be Mrs. Warren, the owner of this shop?”
Rachel curtsied. “How may I help you?”
Von Metternin grabbed a handful of Rufus’ tunic and tugged him around so he could face Rachel without moving his dagger. “My mistress, the Princess Gisella, has heard of this thing called a ‘picnic.’ She is desirous of hosting one. So she will need a dinner service for twelve, table, chairs, all the necessaries for this. And if you know a kitchen which can prepare the correct foods, I should be thankful.”
He glanced up at Rufus. “And you, my fine friend, shall I be killing you, or finding a use for your brawn? I shall need these goods carted to the place and taken away again. A crown per man for a day’s service.”
Rufus nodded while his brothers rubbed their hands together.
“Good. The bargain holds as long as I do not see you again until the appointed day and time. Otherwise, I shall have to kill you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Rufus gave Nathaniel a glare, then departed with his brothers.
“I reckon I owe you thanks, Count Joachim.”
The Kessian shrugged, slipped the dagger back into the sheath on his forearm. “I have a service to request of you, too. And you, Mrs. Warren.”
“Yes, Count Joachim?”
“This evening, the both of you shall attend dinner with my mistress and me. For the sake of propriety, our dinners must be chaperoned and I, quite frankly, have tolerated all the boring people I can abide. This evening it would have been Bishop Bumble and his family, save that his gout is acting up. If you should be so kind.”
“A pleasure, sir.” Rachel smiled.
“I shall send a carriage for you. No fancy dress. My mistress would get to know Mystria’s people for who they are, not who they pretend to be.” He clapped his hands. “This is wonderful. She shall be very happy. And then, tomorrow, Mr. Woods, you shall lead her to meet her husband, and all shall be well.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
August 25, 1763
Prince Haven
Temperance Bay, Mystria
Prince Vlad waved as Nathaniel rode up to the estate. He and Kamiskwa had just finished supervising Mugwump’s feeding. The Altashee had remained down by the river, tickling fish out, while the Prince had changed in anticipation of the Princess’ arrival. He wore a blue velvet jacket with gold trim over a fresh white shirt, pants to match jacket, white hose, and black shoes with gold buckles.
“How far back of you are they?”
“Well, ’bout an hour. Maybe more. I set out before they had fully commenced coming.” Nathaniel dismounted, flipped open a saddlebag, and handed the Prince a note sealed by Count von Metternin. “He said this would explain it all, and that you ain’t got no worries.”
The Prince accepted the note. “Will you tell me of her?”
Nathaniel smiled. “I was swore not to, and I keep my word on things confidential.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I reckon we’re going to have us a conversation.” Nathaniel turned the horse over to a stablehand, having shucked his sheathed rifle from the saddle-scabbard. “The Princess said you was to wait for her in your laboratory. She respected what the Count tole her about you. That’s where she’s fixing on meeting you.”
Interesting. Though the Count had not seemed horribly fixated on protocol, Vlad had assumed Princess Gisella would be. She’d certainly been schooled in it. She was being sent to him as an instrument of diplomacy, so all that truly mattered was that conventions be observed. If she is not concerned with them, what does concern her?
“And you will share no observations with me?”
“Nope. I do as I is told.”
“I would be more inclined to believe you if you were not clearly so pleased with the situation.”
Nathaniel grinned. “I might be taking some satisfaction in it.”
“And on this matter you and I need to discuss?”
The woodsman frowned. “’Pears the Count got some notions in his head about Rachel and me. More than gossip notions.”
“That would be because I told him about you after he asked.”
Nathaniel’s rifle rested easily in folded arms. “I’ll grant you got spine to just up and say it that way. Said anything else, I’d a-thumped you.”
The Prince opened his hands. “Nathaniel, you told me of your situation in confidence, and I do respect that.”
“But you thought sharing it with the Count was just fine and dandy?” Anger gathered on Nathaniel’s face.
Vlad did not back down. “I employ you as my agent. I am responsible for you. I am responsible for your actions. What you told me was told in confidence, because you trusted me. You trusted me not to hurt you, and I have not. The Count has his duties, and they require him to trust you, too. He could only do that if I disclosed things that would counteract any gossip he heard about you.”
Nathaniel shook his head. “How do you know you can trust him?”
“Does he seem like the sort of man to gossip about another man’s affairs?”
“Hain’t seen nothing to suggest he is, but he could be fooling you and me.”
“He could, but he knows the worth of a man. And he knows two things about you. One, I value you as the best woodsman in Mystria. Second, he knows that if social opprobrium was something you cared about, you would never go near Temperance again.”
“You still oughtened to have said nothing.”
Vlad blinked. “Do you think he could not have learned everything?”
“Not the truth of it.”
“But close enough that he, being clever, could have figured it out.” Vlad started ticking points off on his fingers. “Rachel Warren has two children. Ason, six, Humble Warren, who looks nothing like his father and a daughter, three, Charity, who, poor thing, looks too much like her father. Her husband has hired people to watch you and watch his wife. He cannot prove anything, but there’s scant few people in Temperance who aren’t certain what is happening.”
Nathaniel ran a hand over his mouth. “I reckon what you say is true and all, but you oughtened not to have said nothing.”
“I am sorry I broke your confidence, Nathaniel. I would not have done so if matters of very great import did not hinge on it.” The Prince squeezed the other man’s shoulder. “One thing you may not understand is that most people who hear the stories don’t think badly of you. They know what happened. If Zachariah Warren was shot dead in the middle of Sunday services, half the congregation would claim not to have seen anything, and the rest wouldn’t agree on what had ha
ppened.”
Nathaniel shook his head. “I wouldn’t never murder him.”
“I know.” The Prince nodded solemnly. He believed Nathaniel, and even believed that Nathaniel believed his words, but then Nathaniel didn’t know of the Prince’s other violation of trust. Four years earlier, when Nathaniel and Kamiskwa had been out on a hunting expedition, word had come that Zachariah Warren, in a drunken rage, had beaten his wife and exerted his marital rights. Vlad had bought the silence of the two female servants in the Warren house and had sent them to his mother’s plantation in Fairlee.
He also summoned Zachariah Warren to Government House and explained very carefully how, if he ever hit his wife again, his business would burn to the ground. The Prince informed him that no bank in Norisle would ever again grant him any sort of credit, and the Prince would see to it that he was driven into utter ruin. Vlad had assured him that the only way he would be able to care for his family was to kill himself so they could be awarded a private pension for widows and orphans.
Warren had blustered, claiming he had every right to use his wife as he desired. The Prince had countered that he would use his office to do to Warren whatever the merchant did to his wife. “Which do you wish to be happier, Mr. Warren—yourself or the Crown?”
After some deliberation, Warren saw the wisdom of Vlad’s counsel.
Had Nathaniel ever learned what Warren had done, there would have been no stopping him from murder. The Prince valued the man too much to allow that to happen. If he ever learns I knew… It was a calculated risk keeping that secret from Nathaniel; but one the Prince had no choice but to make.
The Prince smiled. “I sometimes place too much importance on these affairs of state. Were I in Launston, I would be more used to them. And, truth be told, learning I am to wed is a bit confusing.”
Nathaniel nodded, his anger apparently abated. “Packet boat got in with the tide. Had a letter from your father. The Princess asked to be allowed to bring it to you. Didn’t figure it would hurt none.”
“That’s fine.” Vlad smiled. It would doubtless be a letter of wise advice, urging calm, deliberation, and prayer. Always prayer. “Any other news?”
“None of importance soes I know.” Nathaniel frowned. “Oh, one thing, if I could ask a favor, Highness.”
“Yes?”
“You should be a-telling me and Kamiskwa to go off to hunt something.”
“Because?”
Nathaniel’s face soured. “On account of your Princess has got herself an idea about picnics. The Count, he has a good eye, so he’s gone and got me and Kamiskwa measured for some fanciful clothes. You, too, mind, but you look a mite better in them than we do.”
The Prince laughed. “Are you afraid of dressing for a dinner?”
“Not me, Highness. It’s Kamiskwa.” Nathaniel looked around, then lowered his voice. “He ain’t never took to civilized clothes.”
“I shall see if Her Highness will excuse your presence.” The Prince brandished the note. “Let me go see to this, and then we can deal with your problem.”
“Thank you, Highness.”
Vlad retreated to his laboratory and cracked the letter’s seal. Couched in very precise and flowery language, the Count had outlined the reason for the Princess’ tardiness and the source of Nathaniel’s anxiety. The Princess had determined to host a picnic and was supplying everything from furnishings to guests. In addition to herself and the Count, Mrs. Warren, Doctor Frost, his wife and daughter, would come Bishop Bumble, his wife and niece. She was supplying the food, wine, furnishings, and all other necessities to fulfill all social obligations.
He set the note down. The Frosts were most welcome. Likewise Rachel Warren, whom he had never met. Bishop Bumble, on the other hand, was someone the Prince tolerated in very small doses. To be specific, only on Easter and the Feast of the Nativity, when, as the Queen’s representative in Mystria, he was required to attend Church services.
Bumble had gained some renown for his sermons. He’d even had them collected in a volume and had sent Vlad a copy. The man urged morality, fidelity, and adherence to the laws of God and the Crown. All good material, especially from the standpoint of someone desirous of maintaining societal stability.
And yet, whenever the Prince attended his services, the sermon became one directed at the ungodliness of Tharyngia. Bumble pointed out how that nation had once been great, but when it abandoned God and overthrew its rightful ruler, that all ended. In his thinking, science and its methods required the rejection of God. After all, anything God wished man to know could be found in the pages of the Good Book. If it was not there, it was unnecessary.
Bumble’s one previous visit to the estate had left an indelible impression. Every other visitor stepped into the laboratory with a slack-jawed expression of wonder and amazement. That always delighted the Prince. Bumble proved the exception. His face closed, his words became clipped, and he sought to leave as quickly as possible.
If I abandoned this place while he was here, the laboratory would burn, I am certain of it. Men like Bumble could not separate ideology from methodology. Vlad walked over to the model of du Malphias’ fortress. Careful measurements and other things demanded by science had created an invaluable tool for fighting the Ryngians; but to Bumble it would be fruit of a poisonous tree.
Vlad stared at the model, wishing that Bumble’s God would decide to smite the real fortress. “It would certainly be convenient.”
“What would be convenient, my lord?”
Her soft voice surprised him because of the hushed reverence and maturity in it. She had slipped through the door easily enough, being smaller than the average Teutonic woman. She wore her blonde hair long and loose. It had the warmth and glow of honey. Freckles distributed themselves playfully over a face that was a bit wider than Vlad expected, but her dark blue eyes were full of intelligence and curiosity. She wore a simple dress of local manufacture, quite modest and yet fetching upon her.
Vlad stepped to the side and bowed deeply. “Highness, you honor me.”
She curtsied. “You did not hear me knock, Highness?”
Vlad glanced past her. “No, I fear…”
She shook her head, an insuppressible smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I have been told you are a man of great deliberation and concentration. Now I see it first hand. This pleases me, to know that unobserved you are as when you are observed.”
Vlad looked at her curiously, his pulse quickening. “Thank you. I am as you see me, though usually not attired thusly.”
“My lord looks very good in those clothes.”
Vlad half-closed his eyes. “Please tell your tutors they have schooled you well.”
“What do you mean?” Her brows arrowed up, not down.
Normally that question would have been asked in an offended tone but hers suggested consternation. “I mean that you are well schooled in the art of flattery, but I am not so much of a fool as to imagine that a girl like you could find me in the least attractive. We both understand this will be a diplomatic marriage.”
She glanced down. “Is this how you see it?”
Vlad rubbed his chin. “Have I misjudged you?”
“I should think, my lord, that a man of your intelligence, one who reveres the scientific method, would consider more of an investigation before drawing a conclusion.” Gisella’s head came up. “If I believed this to be a marriage of convenience only, what reason would I have for any deception? Our fate is quite out of our hands. We would be wed, I would give you children, and everyone save ourselves would be satisfied.”
Vlad nodded slowly. “You have a point, but this is still little from which to reach a conclusion.”
She clasped her hands behind her back. “Count Joachim said you did not ask after me and, instead, wished him to observe you for me. He has, and has laughed much in reporting to me. He said that we could not have been better matched were we shaped by artisans for that purpose.
“You might ask why
I was chosen for you. I have older sisters who could have been sent.” Vlad slowly smiled. She has no trouble speaking her mind. “Why you then?”
“To be rid of me.” She turned and peered closely at the caged raven. “I have never had much tolerance for the court and nobles who have the intelligence bred out of them. I find stories of valor and courage boring. I find more beauty in a butterfly’s wing than in all the world’s jewelry. Neither my father nor any of his court can tolerate my asking ‘why?’ I much prefer reading to needlepoint or other female arts.”
“And what do you read?”
She smiled, flashing even white teeth. “Norillian, Kessian, high and low, Remian, Archelian, and I even convinced my Norillian tutor to teach me Ryngian. I do not know your mother’s native tongue, but I should wish to learn it.”
“Very good on the languages. Subjects, girl.”
Her eyes brightened. “The classics, of course, philosophy and science. I have read the Bible and will admit to being quite a reader of travelogues. I have long wanted to visit Mystria.”
Vlad nodded, then opened his arms. “And what do you think of my laboratory?”
Gisella smiled. “It needs dusting.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“And I should love to spend hours here studying everything, if my lord would permit it.”
Vlad smiled. “I do believe, Princess Gisella, this could be arranged.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
September 1, 1763
Anvil Lake, New Tharyngia
owen awoke with a start, clutching his blankets tighter. He shivered, cold air finding him through both. A draft poured into his cell beneath the wooden door, flooding the dark room.
He rolled onto his side and drew his legs up. They protested, less from the wounds than those other things du Malphias had proved he could do. The man had studied enough anatomy to have charted nerve paths. A touch here, a caress there, and it felt as if he was scourging Owen’s flesh. He body reacted, yet the flesh remained untorn and unbruised.
And it wasn’t always a touch. As he had done in stopping the crutch, du Malphias was able to use magick at a distance. Owen didn’t know how, and had been in too much pain to make any serious observations, but du Malphias had been able to affect him from at least a yard away. Perhaps more.
At the Queen's Command Page 29
