Hope lit up Roland’s face.
“Is it possible? Do you believe so?”
“Success is not a matter of belief, but of resolve and of action. Are you with me?”
“I am! Yes, I am!”
“Excellent. Then I think it is quite likely that Herr Giant is about to meet his match.” They were soon aboard the gig once more. The horse at least was completely refreshed from its feed and night’s rest, and pranced along in high spirits. Roland, too, seemed to have about him a new air of determination. For herself, Gretel would have given a very great deal to be back in her own home, on her lovely daybed, tucking in to a plate of Hans’s spicy goulash. It was hard to identify which parts of her bedraggled body were causing her the most pain—she ached from her bumped head to her bruised feet, with everything in between either scratched or chafed or pinched in the most testing of ways.
Their route necessitated them retracing their steps for an hour along the road toward Gesternstadt. There was a risk they might be spotted and identified, but there was no alternative. Eventually they would meet a junction and turn right toward the distant snowy peaks.
They were nearly at this very crossroads when Roland’s sharp eyes picked out a small encampment up ahead.
“Look, fraulein. I think it is soldiers.”
Gretel squinted through the slowly lifting gloom. There were about five figures, all sleeping around the smoldering remains of a fire. An old brown mare grazed nearby, and beyond her was a small trap of the sort favored by families for traveling. Upon it rested the banner of the platoon.
“No,” she whispered, “not soldiers. Kingsmen. Bad am Zee kingsmen. And that,” she added, pointing to the largest of the dozing bodies, “if I am not very much mistaken, is my brother.”
“They must have decided to take him back to Bad am Zee. To stand trial, do you think?”
“Quite likely. Whatever their intentions, they must be stopped.”
“You wish to rescue your brother?”
“I wish to obtain that trap. Another minute in this cruel gig will kill me. If, by the by, we can also acquire Hans, so much the better.”
Roland gave her a look that suggested he would never truly understand the workings of Gretel’s mind. Gretel decided that was exactly the way she liked it.
“Stay here,” she told him. “We can’t risk the horses talking to each other and giving us away. I’ll rouse Hans and together we can drag the trap from the camp. Unhitch our horse from this fiendish contraption and watch for my signal.”
She hurried along the grassy verge and tiptoed through the sleeping kingsmen. Empty bottles of Hans’s best plum brandy suggested their slumbers would be deep indeed. She reached her brother. His great belly rose and fell with each snoring breath. Gretel gripped his shoulder and shook him gently. His snoring stuttered a little. She shook him again, leaned forward, and put her mouth close to his ear. “Hans!” she hissed. “Wake up!”
“What? What’s that?” he cried out.
“Sshhh!” She clamped a hand over his mouth. “For pity’s sake, keep quiet.”
His eyes struggled to focus, registering first shock, then surprise, then a sort of muddled happiness.
“Not a word,” Gretel warned. “Come on, before the others start to wake. This way.” She heaved him to his feet and steered him through the recumbent bodies still snoozing around the cooling embers of the fire. Hans actually stepped on an outstretched hand of one of the oldest members of the party, but he was so numb, either from the damp chill of the night or from the effects of Hans’s powerful beverage, that he did not so much as twitch in his sleep.
The trap was of solid construction but had seen better days. The once cheerful blue paint had begun to peel and there was rust on the wheel bolts.
“Here.” Gretel positioned Hans between the shafts. “You pull, I’ll push.”
She trotted around to the rear of the little cart and put her shoulder against the low tailgate.
“Go on!” she urged in a stage whisper. “We must get it onto the road.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to use the horse?” asked Hans.
“I’ve got a horse.”
“What? Where?”
“Shh! Stop asking questions and pull!”
To the guttural accompaniment of a duet of grunts, they applied their all their weight and strength to the task. The cart creaked forward.
“Mind that kingsman!” Even from her awkward position Gretel could see Hans was about to run somebody over. “Left, Hans, steer left. That’s it.”
All at once the trap began to set up an ear-splitting squeak with each rotation of its wheels. The noise penetrated the somnolent brain of the nearest kingsman, who sat up, arms thrashing, crying out into the damp dawn air.
“Who’s there? Kingsman’s business! Halt!”
Gretel froze mid-shove. Hans remained still as stone between the shafts. Together they formed a curious piece of equestrian statuary, minus the horse. Gretel held her breath, waiting for the shouting to begin, for orders to be given, for swords to be drawn. Nothing. Silence. She dared to peer over at the disturbed kingsman. Though his eyes were open, his consciousness was still held captive by the plum brandy.
Wordlessly he slumped back to the ground. “Particularly good vintage,” Hans explained.
“Shut up and pull,” Gretel told him.
Another minute saw them on the road, where the going was easier and quicker. Gretel waited until she was at what she hoped was a safe distance from the camp before signaling to Roland, who arrived leading the chestnut horse.
“Good Lord,” said Hans. “Young Hund. Whatever are you doing here?”
“Never mind that,” said Gretel. “Here, let’s get him hitched up.” She offered Roland the traces and collar. “We’ll have to keep to the grass until we’re out of earshot.”
“That’s a very fine animal,” said Hans. “No wonder you didn’t want their old brown nag.”
Gretel put her case into the trap and climbed aboard. “Borrowing a cart is one thing,” she said. “People get hanged for horse theft in these parts.”
“Oh, borrowing, is it?” Hans sounded unconvinced. “That’s what we’re doing then, borrowing?”
Gretel fixed him with a stern stare. “Feel free to remain with your fellow drinkers. I’m sure they’ll be glad to share their thoughts on plum brandy hangovers when at last they regain consciousness.”
“Budge up,” said Hans, clambering in beside her.
The young stallion adjusted his balance to manage the increased weight of the load, staggering slightly as Roland joined the others in the trap. For an awful moment Gretel worried that they would prove too much for the horse, but she had forgotten its steely character and seemingly limitless strength. The animal sank back on its hocks and then bounded forward, causing its passengers to gasp and clutch onto one another as it took off down the verge at a rolling canter.
They traveled in silence, at considerable speed, until at last they turned off the main Gesternstadt road and headed east. Gretel tapped Roland on the shoulder.
“All right, let him ease up now. We’ve a long journey ahead.”
He reined in the snorting horse so that it settled into a swinging trot. Hans looked at Gretel, eyebrows raised.
“Well, this is a turn-up. You here with young Hund. You’re not eloping, are you?” Roland first paled and then turned scarlet.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Hans. There is a perfectly sensible explanation.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at cousin Brunhilda’s?”
“There is no cousin Brunhilda.”
“No? Why? Whatever happened to her?”
“Nothing. She never existed.”
“Huh!” Hans shook his head. “Good job Roland here came along and rescued you, then. Heaven knows how long you might have been wandering about trying to find someone who didn’t exist. Though, have to say, I’d have thought you’d have known if she didn’t exist, her being our cousin an
’ all. Eh?”
Gretel felt suddenly very tired. It was not yet time for elevenses, and already the day had drained her. On the plus side, the little wooden trap, despite its age, was immeasurably more comfortable than the racing gig. And she had prevented Hans being whisked off to Bad am Zee and prosecuted on some spurious charge in her absence. And they were now hastening toward the giant’s castle. On the minus side, however, things were beginning to stack up rather worryingly against her. For a start, having Hans on board would undoubtedly slow their progress, and the trio was all too identifiable. On regaining their senses, the Bad am Zee kingsmen would not be pleased to find both prisoner and trap missing, and would no doubt go to great lengths to retrieve them and take action against the person responsible for their disappearance, i.e., Gretel. Back in Gesternstadt, word would have reached Kapitan Strudel of Gretel’s flight and Hans’s removal, and he would not be taking it well. To have the authorities in two different towns on one’s trail was a disquieting thought. Then there was the matter of General von Ferdinand awaiting proof positive of Princess Charlotte’s liaison with Roland. Would he, too, send men after her? Gretel was confident that, if things went well at the giant’s castle, Roland would happily drop the princess and return his affections to Johanna, which would certainly please Queen Beatrix.
However, there was a phrase in this assumption that stuck in Gretel’s throat. The bit that blithely relied upon all going well at the giant’s castle. She had little experience of giants, or their castles. In fact, she had no experience of either whatsoever. But her reasoning led her to conclude that if anything was going to go well for anyone at a giant’s castle, it would be doing so for the giant and nobody else within several leagues.
She sighed, finding her mind coasting as the countryside jogged by. She was too tired and too hungry to think properly. As if things weren’t testing enough, she had also noticed a marked drop in the temperature the farther east they traveled. Clearly late spring was a cooler event in these parts, and they had not yet begun the daunting climb into the mountains proper. Already her thin summer clothes felt inadequate. Roland was in shirtsleeves. At least Hans was clothed in his habitual woolen jacket and breeches.
But they had neither hat nor rug between them. They were woefully ill-equipped, underfed, and without a sensible plan. Gretel felt cross with herself. This was simply not the way to approach the serious and challenging course of action that lay ahead. Steps would have to be taken to improve their chances of success, or things might end very badly for Gretel of Gesternstadt and all who traveled with her. Very badly indeed.
“Tell me, Roland,” she asked, “is there an inn of some sort along this route? You must be familiar with the area.”
“There is, fraulein. It is three, perhaps four hours’ ride hence, a little ways off this road. I met Johanna there once, some years ago, in the early days of our . . . arrangement. It is quite hidden away.”
“Excellent. Aim for it. We will not stop until we reach it.”
“I say, Gretel”—there was a note of panic in Hans’s voice—“that’s a fair bit of traveling without so much as a bite or a sup.”
“Can’t be helped. We must put as great a distance as possible between us and any kingsmen who come searching. I have a little money left on me. We will be able to obtain a small meal apiece.”
“And an ale or two?”
“Most definitely.”
Hans brightened and settled into his seat. Indeed, all three of the occupants of the little cart appeared fortified, ready to press on, ignoring hunger, thirst, and fatigue, the golden carrot of a warm inn full of food and beer dangling brightly before them.
By the time they reached their destination, however, the sharp wind and jarring motion of the trap over so many hard, bumpy miles had bruised and battered their bodies and their resolve, as well as chilled them to the very bone. Having climbed stiffly from the trap, the three stood, puffing like dragons into the cold afternoon air, taking in the nature of their intended sanctuary. If Gretel had harbored fantasies of a cozy hostelry, perhaps sporting colorful shingles, windows aglow from within, maybe even a cheering window box or two, they were quickly crushed beneath the heavy, hob-nailed heel of reality. The inn comprised a wooden building in an advanced state of dilapidation, its shipboard skin split and rotting, its swaybacked roof apparently on the point of collapse, and at least two windows with nailed-up shutters in place of glass. In front of the inn was a motley assortment of carts and gigs, all of which put their own shabby trap in a very favorable light. Here and there a bony nag or broken-down carthorse stood listlessly, some tied to a hitching post, others simply too feeble to require any sort of restraint. From within came shouts and roars of the variety that could only be brought about by determined, lengthy, and serious application to the business of drinking.
“They sound a merry band,” offered Hans, the smell of stale beer reaching his twitching nostrils and causing within him a conflict between the need for alcohol and a lifetime’s experience of drinkers and inns, which told him this was a place to avoid.
“The inn is much changed since last I was here,” Roland explained. “It was some years ago.”
Gretel shrugged. “It’s this or nothing. At least there is smoke coming from the chimney. I’ll take warmth and rowdiness over freezing my ears off any day. Roland, you’d better stay with the horse until I can find out whom I have to bribe to stop him being stolen. Come along, Hans. Let’s put your encyclopedic knowledge of such places to good use.”
The interior of the public house was every bit as lovely as its exterior. It was almost a mercy that a cirrocumulus of tobacco smoke put much of it into soft focus. Even through the gloom, the quality of the clientele shone forth. There seemed to be a dress code of shreds and patches held together by a coating of substances of which undigested food and spilled ale were the most pleasant. Hair was to be worn either matted and wild or else jammed beneath a cap or hat of no recognizable weave or shape. Pipes were de rigueur, for men and women alike. And what women they were. Females formed not a quarter of the assembled company, but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in the loudness of their shrieking gaiety, or the eye-popping cut of their décolletage.
Gretel put her head down and weaved through the pungent bodies to the bar. Hans stuck close behind her. Together they cut a sizeable swath through the revelers, but garnered little more than the odd curious look. It struck Gretel that, for once, her disheveled and travel-weary appearance was an advantage to her. Had she been attired in her usual chic finery, hair coiffed and perfumed, shoes clean and beautiful, she would certainly have drawn unwanted attention to herself.
Leaning on the sticky wooden plank that served as a bar, she signaled to the wench serving behind it.
“Would you be so kind as to direct me to the proprietor of this establishment?” she asked. Her question, reasonable and harmless as it seemed to her, set off a chorus of cackling and guffawing.
“‘Proprietor,’ says she!” screamed the barmaid.
“‘Establishment!’” bellowed a nearby drinker.
And so it went on. Gretel waited for the merriment to subside as patiently as her frazzled state would allow her before smiling sweetly and trying again.
“I merely wish to ascertain the cost of a repast, accommodation for the night, and stabling for my horse.”
This request proved as hilarious as the first. Gretel was at a loss. As far as she was concerned, she was asking perfectly sensible questions in a perfectly sensible manner, and yet she was being greeted with scorn and ridicule. She turned to her brother. “Hans, years of time spent in such company may have rubbed off on you. Try and get some sense out of this harpy before I take a bottle to her head.”
“Steady on, dear sister. No need to resort to violence. Allow me.” He squeezed past her so that his broad form took up pole position at the bar. “Sweet thing!” he called. “I say, Sweet young thing!”
The barmaid paused, her attention defi
nitely snagged. She sauntered over. As she drew closer, she was revealed in unforgiving detail. She might not have been thirty, but was obviously the survivor of a pox of some sort that had left her skin cruelly scarred. This in itself might have been overlooked, had it not been enhanced by a purple tinge to her nose, presumably born of such close association with a ready supply of booze. The most singular and alarming characteristic of the woman’s appearance, however, was her inability to control her wandering left eye. For a second she would focus upon the person of her choice—which was in this instance Hans—but then, while her right eye held steady, her left would drift and slide first outward, and then in, where its focus remained fixed upon her own slightly bulbous nose.
Hans showed his true mettle by not missing a beat but seizing the moment.
“Take pity on my poor, laboring heart,” he implored her, dramatically clutching at his chest. “It is so disturbed by the very sight of such loveliness, only the finest ale will calm it from its passionate rhythm.”
Now it was Gretel’s turn to laugh. A loud, incredulous snort had left her mouth before she could stop it.
“Be quiet!” Hans hissed at her. “I know what I’m doing.”
Clearly he did. The barmaid stepped closer and leaned across the bar toward Hans in an exceedingly friendly manner.
“Now,” she said, “here’s a gentlemen if ever I saw one. What might be your pleasure, sir?”
Hans and the young woman giggled together as if sharing some deep and highly erotic secret. Gretel felt queasy.
“Oh.” Hans sighed wistfully. “What does any man want? A good meal. A safe place to rest his weary head.” He paused to drop his gaze pointedly to her expansive bosom. “And the love of a good woman.”
Once Upon a Crime Page 17
