by Mike Carey
Drozde was about to tell him tartly to do his own work. But it was true: she did have nothing else to do right now. The girls were in church, and if she returned to Pokoj she’d find most of her other friends with their men. She couldn’t even get to her puppets without running into Molebacher. She shrugged. ‘Why not?’
She stacked logs on the cart while the carpenter chopped. It was tiring work, and the cart held everything he had cut: it would be heavy for him to push. She was wondering whether to offer her help with transporting the logs as well when Hanslo laid down his axe with a low oath.
‘I was all set to take you back to the workshop!’ he said. ‘Your wood rounds are ready; you could have taken them now. But Stefanu locks it on a Sunday, I was forgetting, and he’ll have the key in his pocket. I’m sorry for it, puppet mistress, especially after your kindness today, but I’ll have to make you come out twice.’
Drozde laughed. The rain had held off so far, the birds still sang, and she realised that she was enjoying herself. She was suddenly in a better humour than she had been for days. ‘That’ll be no hardship to me,’ she said. ‘And my name’s Drozde.’
She went with him to the shed anyway: he refused any help in pushing the cart, but she felt inclined for the company now. As he bent to his work, Drozde watched with approval the play of muscles under the carpenter’s tanned skin. It had been a long time since she’d walked with a well set-up man.
‘You have an admirer back at the workshop,’ he told her as they went. He moved the cart swiftly, and his voice was only a little ragged from the effort. ‘Silkie – Bosilka, I mean, Stefanu’s daughter – she’s asked me twice now if you’ll be bringing any more puppets. Do you remember her, the girl who came in as you left?
Drozde remembered her very well. ‘She seemed bright,’ she said. ‘If she’d been a boy she’d have made her father a good apprentice. And no doubt you’d be out of a job.’
Bent over the load as he was, he could not see her face, but perhaps the jibe had sounded more unkind than she’d meant it to. He stopped and looked up at her.
‘She has all her father’s skill,’ he agreed. ‘I should know; I was the one taught her to carve, when she was little and I was still apprentice. And only two, three years ago he had some thought of maybe training her up alongside me. She asked him often enough, and I’d have been glad to have her.’ He took up the cart handle again. ‘It was what happened with Agnese put him off.’
Drozde waited for him to go on, but he was already heaving the cart into motion again. ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Who’s Agnese?’
It was a moment before he answered. ‘A friend of Silkie’s. She was wild; she ran off, that’s all. And Stefanu thought that was what came of letting a girl have too many notions of independence. He swore then that he’d see Bosilka settled before he died.’
Drozde snorted. She’d heard this sort of tale before. ‘Settled meaning married, whether she wants it or no?’
His back was still to her, but he nodded. ‘Though she’s shown no interest in young Jakusch Weichorek, nor he in her, as far as I hear. I don’t think she’s a mind to marry at all, not yet at least. I dare say Stefanu won’t push her.’ He sounded doubtful and rather unhappy.
‘I was wild myself at her age, I suppose,’ Drozde said. ‘Wilful, certainly. And I ran off too. It did me no harm in the long run.’
‘It harmed Agnese,’ said Hanslo shortly.
He would not say any more. He gave the cart a fierce shove which ran it into a rut, and the conversation lapsed as she helped him to extricate it.
The woodshed was in the next clearing. It was a rough enough shack, but sturdy, with a pitched roof caulked with tar. The wood inside was stacked neatly in various lengths, already filling three-quarters of the available space. Drozde helped the carpenter to carry in the new logs, grateful for something to do to dispel the awkwardness that had fallen between them.
By the time they’d finished a breeze had sprung up and the air had a definite hint of dampness. Drozde flexed her aching arms. Hanslo dusted off his hands and grinned at her, suddenly cheerful again.
‘Safe and dry!’ he said with satisfaction. ‘And I’ve your help to thank for it … Drozde. You won’t refuse that drink now, will you?’
‘Now?’ Drozde was taken aback, as much by his sudden change of mood as by the suggestion. ‘There’s an inn here that’s open on Sunday?’
Hanslo laughed. ‘Not that I heard.’ He reached behind the door of the shed and pulled out a bottle. ‘But a good craftsman can always make do.’
And there was that unguarded smile of his again: guileless as a boy, Drozde thought, as if there were no consequences in the world. But she took the bottle, just for one mouthful. It was brandy, and a finer quality than she’d ever tasted. She allowed herself a second, deeper drink, and smiled at him as she handed it back. Hanslo did not drink at once; he raised the bottle as if in a toast and looked her full in the eyes. It was a look that Drozde knew only too well. She lowered her gaze abruptly and took a step back from him.
‘It’s good, thank you,’ she said. ‘But I have to go now.’
Hanslo looked disappointed, but he didn’t protest.
‘I’ll say farewell then,’ he replied. ‘I hope we’ll see each other again soon, Drozde.’
He kissed his hand to her as she walked away.
It was late afternoon by the time Drozde got back to the square, and the service was over. There were a few children chasing each other in the street, and an appetising smell of cooking from the nearest houses which reminded her how little she had eaten today. Libush and Ottilie must be long gone. She set out after them, hoping she could make it back to Pokoj before the rain began. She walked fast, trying to counter a sudden feeling of panic, as if she had narrowly avoided some great threat. But she had liked plenty of men before, had even fallen for one – a boy, in retrospect – in the village where she had grown up. That folly had earned her the worst beating her father ever gave her, but she had learned better since then. She could master her feelings now, or hide them at least. Hanslo was no fool: he’d seen her ring and would understand that another man had a claim on her.
The last stretch of the road before Pokoj had once been wooded on each side, but the trees had long since been cut down to uneven stumps. Drozde slowed as she reached them. On the highest stump, some way back from the path, sat a man, slumped with his head in his hands as if fainting or weeping. He was in uniform. Drozde walked more softly, considering leaving the road to go around behind him – the soldier might not appreciate having his sorrows overlooked. But he made no sound, and as she came closer he tipped forward a little as if he might really fall. Drozde ran to him and took him by the shoulders, and the man jerked upright. It was Lieutenant Klaes. He gave her a slightly bewildered look and tried to stand, but staggered and sat down again heavily.
‘Are you all right, Lieutenant?’ Drozde asked. She was quite concerned. A strong smell of spirits rose from the man, but it seemed he was suffering from something more than mere drunkenness. Besides, this was Klaes. What could have driven him to get drunk in the first place? She’d never even heard him swear.
The lieutenant was clearly making every effort to recover himself: he took a long breath and produced a ghastly half-smile. Then it seemed that he recognised, belatedly, who he was talking to. His face creased in consternation.
‘Thank you, ah, Drozde,’ he said stiffly. ‘I’m quite well; only …’ He winced slightly. ‘Only engaged in private thought. Please, don’t let me trouble you.’ He waved her on down the road with a feeble hand that fell immediately into his lap again.
Drozde looked at him more narrowly. His hair was tousled, his uniform trousers were scuffed and muddy and there was a great smear of mud on his jacket. He was twisting a rag of some kind in his hands, and she could see blood on it.
‘You’ve been –’ She stopped herself. Fighting was common enough among the soldiers, but would surely mean disgrace for an office
r. ‘Hurt,’ she finished. ‘I can look at it if you like.’
He flinched away from her. ‘No! I’m well, I said!’ This time he succeeded in getting to his feet, although he swayed a little.
‘At least wipe the mud from your uniform,’ Drozde said, no longer troubling to be polite. She pulled the kerchief from round her neck and thrust it at him. ‘You surely don’t want your men to see you like this.’
Klaes took the cloth with bad grace and scrubbed at the dried mud, dislodging some of it. ‘What business did you have in the village anyway?’ he asked her with something of truculence in his voice. ‘You weren’t in church, were you?’
Drozde had half a mind to say yes, just to see his face. But he’d probably think she was lying anyway. ‘Just meeting a friend,’ she said.
He returned the kerchief with a mere nod for thanks. ‘Well, don’t get too friendly. We won’t be here for ever, and they’re not the best sort of people.’
Drozde made a point of looking him up and down before she replied.
‘I’ve seldom been lucky enough to mix with the best sort.’
Klaes saw her meaning well enough and was angry enough to come up with a rejoinder, though he looked sick and pale. ‘The army keeps you and feeds you,’ he snapped. ‘You might show a little gratitude at that, instead of plying your whore’s trade at every hovel we pass.’
Drozde was taken aback – not at the accusation, which was all of a piece with Klaes’s puritanical squeamishness, but at the idea that she owed a debt to August’s regiment for the room and board it afforded her. As if she came out better from that bargain than Sergeant Molebacher did! As if the army had no need of women like herself and Alis and Libush, and merely opened its arms to them out of kindness!
‘I choose my own friends, Lieutenant,’ she said levelly. ‘Eat where I will, drink where I will, and lie where I will. I’m a follower of your army, not its subject, and you don’t have any writ to command me. What’s more to the point, you don’t know the first thing about Narutsin or its people – as far as you’re concerned it’s just another bit of territory where you can throw your archduchess’s weight around.’ She gave Klaes a withering glare. ‘What’s it to you if I talk to a few people, as one living creature to another? It’s a skill you’d do well to learn too, if you want to get anything out of them. But they say you need to start early with such things, if you ever expect to master them. Probably you should stick to the things you already do well. Whatever they are.’
Drozde stalked away from him. She could feel him staring after her, but it was too good a speech to spoil by turning to check.
By the time she reached the gates of Pokoj, though, she felt a certain uneasiness. There was no harm in Klaes: for all his self-righteous cavilling, he had a reputation for fairness, and his lack of soldierly vices was a standing joke among the enlisted men. It was widely believed that the colonel himself despised him for it, and Molebacher treated him with near-open contempt. She supposed the man might deserve some sympathy. He was hurt, possibly badly, and had had too much pride to accept her help. Just to be seen by her in that state must have been a bitter humiliation for him.
She loitered near the gates until she saw him come in, walking slowly but upright. He had managed to get the visible mud off his clothes, she saw, and had done something to smooth down his hair, though she could still see the patch of clotted blood at the back of his head. No matter, she told herself. The little prude was safe, and she’d done all she could for him.
She slipped away to the camp, where Libush and Ottilie were waiting for her.
‘Where were you?’ Libush demanded. ‘Alis made soup; we’ve saved you some, though you don’t deserve it.’
‘Guess who we saw in church!’ Ottilie told her excitedly. ‘Skinny little Lieutenant Klaes! He was only three seats in front of us. He joined in all the responses; not like some.’
Libush cuffed her good-naturedly.
‘He didn’t see us, though,’ the older woman said. ‘We stayed in our seats after the service and he came right by us without noticing. He was looking at one of the village girls. Mousy little thing, she was, but he seemed properly smitten. Who’d have thought it, eh?’
‘So what about you, Drozde?’ Alis asked, bringing her a bowl of soup. ‘You were gone ages. Did you have any adventures?’
‘Oh, I just went for a walk in the woods,’ Drozde said. ‘Nothing exciting.’
16
The wound on Klaes’s head took two days to heal; the damage to his pride took considerably longer.
To his intense relief, he had managed to get back to Pokoj and into his own quarters without attracting any more attention. He told his orderly that he had returned from church with a fever, which would keep visitors from his door for a while. Of course, he reflected ruefully, all this was beside the point after his damnable luck in meeting the puppet woman on the road. By now the story of his misadventures would be common currency among the camp followers and the lower ranks, and it was only a matter of time before word spread to the officers. If only he’d sent the harridan away before she’d had a good look at him! Now he had to make up a story to explain not only his wound but the mud she had seen on his clothes. A fall seemed best. It would make him look foolish, but not as foolish as being caught fighting with yokels.
He held a clean kerchief to the cut until he was satisfied that it had stopped bleeding, then brushed his hair over the lump as well as he could by touch. He wished he could borrow Dame Konstanze’s looking glass. He stayed in his room till darkness fell. He would have liked to go to bed early, but his presence would be missed at supper, and if the rumours had already started they would only get worse if he hid. With a sigh he checked his reflection in the glass of the window – he looked tolerably neat at least – and went out to face the others.
And found everyone just as before. Pabst, somewhat tipsy already, offered him a drink. Tusimov clearly thought it a huge joke that Klaes had attended church on the Lord’s day, and Dietmar treated him with lofty indifference. The boorish quartermaster Molebacher, who was capable of astonishing rudeness, was no more than sullen towards him. But the quartermaster was Drozde’s lover! Whom would she have told if not him?
Klaes sat down to supper with a small resurgence of hope. No-one seemed to notice his head. Pabst’s wife, Dame Margarethe, asked him kindly if he was better: apparently Private Leintz had passed around the story of the fever. Tusimov opined that a man might expect to pick up such things if he insisted on going to church in a bog, and he and Dietmar sniggered. And, those courtesies out of the way, they left him to eat in peace.
The next day, too, none of the men under his command behaved any differently towards him. True, some of the women in the camp giggled and pointed as he passed them, but some of them giggled at everything. The lump on his head gradually subsided. And the next time he saw Drozde she paid him no attention at all. Perhaps he had misjudged the woman. Then the word went around that she would be performing another show on Wednesday night.
All Klaes’s uneasiness returned. Maybe that was why she had not yet spread the story: to make more of an impact at her damned performance! He could not stop her. He didn’t think he could even avoid the show – it would undoubtedly be worse if everyone knew what she’d said about him but Klaes himself.
The old abbey was packed that evening. It was growing colder, and Drozde seldom performed in bad weather: it might be a long time before the next show. Klaes, full of trepidation, took up his position in the overgrown pear orchard at the back of the audience, concealed between a gnarled tree and a thick stand of thistles. At least, whatever the wretched woman made of his escapade, they would not be able to stare at him.
The performance started, as they always did, with a hideously tuneless fanfare which for some reason was greeted with huge enthusiasm. Klaes did not often attend the shows, but it was impossible to avoid them entirely, and he knew the routine well enough. It opened with the general-puppet, his absurd medal
s jangling as he instructed the men to keep up their courage in battle by drinking all night: ‘It’s what I’ve always done, and look at me now!’ A pretty girl-puppet came on and the general went into various contortions, trying to hide his alcohol-laden breath, conceal his giant bottle of brandy and flirt with the girl at the same time. The men loved it. Klaes could not help being impressed by the puppeteer’s voice, which was thunderously deep as the general and unexpectedly cultivated as the young woman. But he was too tense to pay much attention.
A musical number came next, accompanied by Private Taglitz on his flute: a soldier singing of his love for his girl – who turned out to be the great gun Mathilde. Drozde was plainly using the quartermaster to get her material. Klaes remembered Tusimov’s mocking of Dietmar at supper on the day the guns arrived – though Drozde had made the singer of this song Sergeant Jursitizky rather than Dietmar; probably wisely, Klaes thought, seeing the golden curls of Dame Feronika among the little group standing separately at the back of the audience. The gun itself, a framed cloth silhouette adorned with two long-lashed eyes, was lowered from the top of the stage, nearly crushing the singer, and performed a little dance with him which was rapturously applauded.
And then there was a puppet Colonel August, encountering a prancing jackanapes of an officer who was introduced as Lieutenant Klaes. This caused general hilarity, and Klaes’s face grew hot, but he took care not to move. The colonel was at first too busy filling his pipe to notice the lieutenant, who indulged in a freakish series of parade manoeuvres to attract his attention. At length August put down the pipe and told the lieutenant he had a job for him: the camp was running out of tobacco, and he had heard that the mayor of Narutsin had a special stash of fine Turkish which he kept hidden somewhere in the village. As the colonel’s main contact among the villagers, Klaes was deputed to find the precious treasure and bring it to him.
