by Moore, John
“Yes. It’s a natural. Young couple from the city, out seeing the countryside, staying in Bornewald for a few days. Naturally you’d pay a social call on the local gentry. Maybe you’re even thinking of relocating here, buying some land, so naturally you’d want to speak to the Count.”
Alison said, “Count Bussard would never release land here. He only wants more.”
“They wouldn’t know that until they spoke to the Count.”
“Who will,” said Roland, “immediately have us put in irons.”
“No. There are two possibilities, Roland. The first is that he knows who you are, in which case he’ll think you’re too rich and well-connected to kill, um, at least not right away. What is more likely is that he won’t know who you are, but you’re obviously rich and well-connected, so he isn’t going to do anything until he does learn who you are. Either way you’re going to get in the door.”
“I don’t think he’s going to be taking visitors, Terry. He’s got a kidnapped girl in there.”
“Yes, so he’s got to act normally. He’s going to do what everyone else does. Invite you in, offer you drinks, exchange pleasantries, even give you lunch if you hint you’re hungry. And then boot you out again as quickly as decently possible.”
“All right, Sir Terry,” said Alison. “I agree that we might get inside.” Alison knew full well that they would get inside. Bussard had been trying to kidnap her, after all. Getting out would be the problem. “If he doesn’t invite us inside,” she continued, “we’ll simply be turned away with no harm done. But assume we’ll be invited into his castle. Then what?”
“I’ll attack the place,” Terry said. “It will create a diversion. I’ll draw off the guards, get the attention of the servants, and you, Roland, will have to find the princess and get her out of there. Yes,” he continued, in response to their doubtful looks. “It’s not much of plan, but it’s the best I can think of. I’m open to suggestions if anyone has a better idea.” In truth, Terry did not like his own idea at all. It meant that Roland, if he found Gloria, would get the credit for the rescue. Then his engagement to her would truly be unbreakable. But Terry couldn’t think of anything else. This wasn’t a game anymore. The plan had gone all wrong. They were in a real kidnapping now, with real danger, and his first priority was to return Gloria to safety.
“I’ll need to wash up and reapply my makeup,” said Alison. She pointed to a stream, not far off, that bisected the copse of trees. “Give me a few minutes, please.”
“Wait,” said Roland. He turned to Terry. “We can’t do it this way, Terry. I’ll confront this Count and make an offer on some land, but we can’t put this girl in harm’s way.”
“You haven’t seen the princess,” Terry reminded him. “And she has. We don’t know what other girls might be inside.”
“And I know some of the people in the Count’s service,” said Alison. “They may be willing to help me, but they are not likely to help a stranger. You know how insular small towns are.”
“We won’t need them,” Roland told her confidently. “Sir Terry has informants in this area also.”
“He does?”
“Ah, not exactly,” said Terry.
“He can’t talk about them, of course. But they keep him informed of suspicious activity throughout this valley.”
“Um, sort of,” said Terry. “But I didn’t learn anything about Count Bussard.”
“That’s decided then,” said Alison, before the two men could decide anything. “I’ll just be a minute.”
She lifted her shoulder bag and went off to freshen up. Roland watched her leave. “What a fine, spirited girl.”
“Oh yes,” said Terry. His instinct was to encourage Roland’s interest in any girl who wasn’t Gloria. “Lovely, bright, personable, a good head on her shoulders.”
“Fun to talk to,” said Roland. “Although you don’t want to get her started on dialectical materialism.”
“What?”
“I couldn’t figure it out either. But a nice girl.”
“Just your type, really. I think she likes you, too.” Terry thought he detected a hint of wistfulness in Roland’s gaze.
But Roland merely shrugged. “Then I’ll have to be careful not to give her any encouragement. I have no objections to fraternizing with the working class, myself, but the family would not approve of her.”
“You’re rich enough. You can marry any girl you want. Your family will get over it.”
“I don’t have any money of my own. My family will cut me off if I don’t marry the princess.”
“Oh,” said Terry, who understood Roland’s situation quite well. “Money is always a barrier.” It was odd how people looked at it. Of course you needed enough money to be comfortable, and you had to take care of your girl-friend’s needs, but beyond that it just got weird. What if a seventy-year-old man married a seventeen-year-old girl? It happened sometimes, and then people told you how sorry they felt for her. They wondered what sort of hardship or desperation forced the poor girl to marry that lecherous old pervert. Unless the old man was seriously rich. Then perceptions changed. The girl was considered a gold-digging hussy who somehow tricked a befuddled old man into matrimony.
His reverie was interrupted by Roland’s words. “Of course, if the sale of sliced bread continues to decline, we might all be working in kitchens ourselves.”
“That bad, eh?”
“It’s not a problem yet, but the trend is obvious. They would see it, too, if they’d open their eyes.”
“Alison told me she was able to sell more sliced bread by toasting it.”
“We tried that,” said Roland dismissively. “You just end up with a slices of dried-out bread.”
“Well, it was an idea.” Terry watched Alison return from the stream. It was odd. She had been in their sight the whole time and hadn’t appeared to do much, but now her hair was brushed to a smooth luster, her makeup had been tastefully touched up, and her dress seemed to be fresher and smoother. Terry looked at Roland. The man’s hair looked perfect. Terry realized that Roland’s hair always looked perfect. Even when it was windblown it seemed to suit him. Terry had the feeling that in contrast to the two of them, he looked like someone who spent his nights sleeping on park benches.
He gave a mental shrug and turned to his horse. By the time Alison rejoined them, he had opened his pack and removed a small crossbow and some tools. Roland and Alison watched as he disconnected the shoulder stock and the stirrup, leaving behind a pistol grip. When he was through he had something that was short and compact and nasty-looking, in the way that a small growling terrier can look meaner and inspire more caution than a large hunting dog. He handed the remainder of the crossbow to Alison. “See if this will fit in your bag.”
It did, just barely. Alison’s shoulder sagged with the weight. Terry took it back out again. Veins popped out on his face and neck as he slowly cocked the bow. When he had the string locked down he took a steel-tipped quarrel from his pack and fitted it into place. Then he gave it back to Alison.
“Hold it here,” he said, putting her small hands on it, “and the trigger is here. Use it to defend yourself if you need to. It’s small, and it doesn’t have a whole lot of power, but it will kill a man at close range and even punch through light armor.”
“Right,” said Alison.
“Remember, the heart is in the center of the torso. Not the left side of the chest, where we put our hands when we make a pledge, but right in the middle of the body.”
“Got it, Sir Terry.”
Terry looked at Roland. “Roland, have you ever used that sword?”
“I’ve taken lessons with it.”
“I mean, in a real fight?”
“No.”
“You’ve never fought a duel?”
“No. I entered a tournament once.”
“How did you do?”
“I got fourteen.”
Terry was impressed. “Really? You scored fourteen points?”
>
“No, I had to get fourteen stitches afterward.”
“Okay. Just remember, the heart is in the center of . . .”
“Yes, I heard.”
“Okay then.” Terry mounted his horse. “Give me time to circle around and get into the woods on the other side of the house. Then ride up in plain sight. When I take on the guards, do whatever you can.” He wheeled the horse around, then stopped after a few paces to look back over his shoulder at their concerned faces. “Look happy. You’re two young people in love, remember.”
“Right,” Roland and Alison said together. They smiled at each other, then each became self-conscious and tried to pretend they were pretending. They watched Terry ride down the hill and take the road past the castle. They could still see him when he reached the woods, although he seemed to be out of sight of the castle windows. He left the road and disappeared into the woods. They could only assume he was circling back from there. Alison put a foot in the stirrup of her horse, but Roland stopped her from climbing on, with a hand on her shoulder.
“Alison,” he said. “Sir Terry is a knight, and as a knight, he has a code of behavior, the code of chivalry. This requires him to show honor, respect, and gallantry to a lady.”
“Of course.”
“By that I mean a woman of noble birth. Knights, I regret to say, are at liberty to treat common women roughly, and I fear Sir Terry is doing so with you. This is a volatile situation. You do not have to come with me. In fact, you should not.”
Alison took Roland’s hand off her shoulder. She meant to drop it, but for some reason she could not explain, she found herself holding it tightly. “And you, Roland, consider yourself a gentleman?”
“Well, yes.”
“And a true gentleman, I believe, treats every woman as though she were a lady?”
“That’s the goal, yes.”
Alison smiled at him. “I think that is very sweet of you, Roland.” She let go of his hand and swung herself onto her horse. “But as a cook, I have to say that this decision has been hashed over enough. Let’s get moving. If we delay too long, we could put Sir Terry in danger.”
They rode out of the copse of trees, down the hill, intersected the road, and finally turned into the drive that led to Count Bussard’s castle. The holly hedge ran about eight feet high, which helped to deflect the brisk wind that was blowing across the fields. The berries were already turning red with the cold weather.
“We need to smile,” said Roland. He demonstrated what he hoped was a fond smile, although in the back of his mind he held the suspicion that he was grinning like a fool. “Smile and talk to each other. Couples don’t stop talking to each other until they’ve been married for a few years. They run out of things to say, I guess.”
Alison had no problem smiling back at Roland. “I was going to ask you something. How is it that you’ve never seen the princess? You’re engaged to her, after all.”
“It is an arranged marriage. All marriages at this level are arranged. My family hired a firm of solicitors to negotiate with the queen and her team. I’m not certain that any of our people actually met with the girl.”
“Yes, but didn’t you involve yourself? There must have been opportunities to get a look at her. Weren’t you curious?”
“I was busy with my work.” Roland shrugged. “I don’t see that it makes a difference. It is a marriage of convenience, after all.”
A marriage of convenience? Alison puzzled over this. How could any man marry a woman he’d never seen? Until he had seen her, how could he know if he was attracted to her? If he wasn’t attracted to her, would he still be able to . . . to . . . oh! A great light finally dawned on her. Oh my! she thought.
She looked at Roland with new eyes. Of course, she mentally berated herself. How could you be so dense? It’s obvious. The coiffed hair, the foppish clothes. (She forgot that only a few hours earlier she had considered his clothes to be deliciously stylish.) The way he knows all about art and theatre. Theatre! Alison kept the smile on her face, although her heart seemed to slow down, beating sluggishly, as though reluctant to keep going. Aloud, she said, “What were you saying about my shoes?”
“Pardon?”
“This morning. You made a comment on my shoes back at the inn.”
Roland looked at her foot, visible in the stirrup. “Oh. I merely meant to say that they didn’t coordinate well with that dress.”
Well, that clinches it, Alison thought. You really do need to get out of the country, my girl. Imagine losing your head over this kind of boy. Maybe the city will teach you a little sophistication. She shook her head ruefully, thinking about Sir Terry, Roland’s buff, muscular “traveling companion.” That should have been a dead giveaway right there.
Well, it was nothing for her to be concerned about, she decided. It was a bit of a disappointment, she was willing to admit that, but Alison reminded herself that the man was engaged, after all. She certainly didn’t care what his private life was like. Not at all. She wasn’t the kind of woman who would steal another woman’s fiancé. Of course not. She was only here out of her concern for the princess. The poor girl. No wonder she had gone through all that effort to not marry him. It all made sense now.
Alison felt a little better, thinking how fortunate she was not to be in an arranged marriage. She smiled at Roland and continued chatting until they reached the end of the drive. Roland continued right up to the front door, where a guard appeared, looked at them suspiciously, and placed himself solidly in the path of the horses. Before he could say anything Roland stopped his horse, slipped lightly to the ground, and handed his reins to the uniformed man. “Roland Westfield,” he said smoothly, “here to pay a social call on Count Bussard. Hand me your reins, my dear,” he said to Alison, not giving the man time to reply. He passed them also to the guard, telling him, “Keep our horses ready, thank you. We shan’t be staying long, I don’t expect.” He switched his attention back to Alison. “Let me give you a hand there, darling.”
He helped her down from the saddle and up the steps to the front door, all the while keeping up a line of idle chatter, talking over any attempt to interrupt, either by the first guard, another one who appeared, or the servant who answered the door, to whom he simply handed over his card, and said, “Roland Westfield of Solcus. Is Count Bussard in? We were in the neighborhood and should like so much to meet him. If it is convenient, of course. No trouble, I hope. We don’t mind waiting.” And then they were past the butler and into the front hall. “Do bring my wife a glass of wine, thank you. And one for me as well. That will be all.”
And then, amazingly, they were not only in the house, they were alone in the drawing room, a rather nice place, with thick carpet, antique chairs, and a few pieces of tasteful sculpture scattered between the furniture. The floor-to-ceiling windows were draped in gray-green cloth, trimmed with red and black. It was the same color scheme as the guards’ uniforms. Alison thought that the Count must have gone upon a foolish tack when he sent men dressed in his own colors to commit a crime. Perhaps he meant it as a threat, to demonstrate to the village once again that he would use violence against those who resisted him. Or perhaps he’d just been stupid. Roland stamped his foot, then moved a corner of the carpet with his toe. “Teak floors. Imported. Very nice.” He looked at a painting. “That could be an authentic Allessandro, or perhaps one of his students. I can’t tell from here.”
Alison also looked around. “It might be best if you suppressed your instinct to redecorate just now. The stairs are just down the hall. There’s no one watching us. Should we run up and look for her?”
“There are too many people in the house. They will be after us immediately. Let’s stick to the plan. Wait until Terry makes his move. Perhaps he really will draw them off.”
Alison nodded nervously. She knew that Count Bussard had really intended to kidnap her, for God only knew what nefarious purpose. She wondered if he knew yet that the girl his men had taken was a princess. All during the ride
she had rather enjoyed the idea of throwing his plot back in his face, walking up to him with an armed man by her side and knight waiting in reserve, threatening to set the king’s men on him if he didn’t release Gloria. Ha! That would teach the Count a lesson about trying to mess with her. Except there were more guards than she expected—at least six in uniform, perhaps ten. And there were a lot of servants, and plenty of them seemed to be strong men. As she added them up in her head, it began to seem that she had done something gravely dangerous. Perhaps it was time to explain herself. “Roland. I have something to tell you. I think there is a very good chance that Count Bussard will recognize me.”
Roland nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Few other remarks can derail a train of thought so quickly. “You were?”
“We assumed that the Count would not recognize a cook from the local inn. It’s unlikely that he stays there, or eats there. But any of the guards or staff might, and they would tell him when you came in.”
“Ah, that wasn’t quite what I meant.”
“No need to worry about it now, darling.” Roland’s voice had become smooth again. She saw that a servant had entered with drinks on a tray. “We’ll discuss it with Count Bussard when he comes in. And if I’m not mistaken, this is him now.”
Bussard was wearing a thick tweed suit and heavy walking shoes. In earlier days he had enjoyed walking over a newly acquired parcel of land, enjoying the fresh country air, listening to the birds singing, knocking the heads off wildflowers with his stick, seeing the grain-fields sway gently in the breeze, and gloating over the way he had swindled or strong-armed the previous owner into parting with it all. One by one, all the freeholders had been reduced to tenant farmers. He didn’t walk as much now that he owned nearly the whole valley, but the habit of wearing heavy outdoor clothes stayed with him. Roland stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “Count Bussard? Roland Westfield. Good of you to make time for us.”
The Count ignored him. He stopped and stared at Alison, and his response was to shout at her, “What the hell are you doing here?”
