The Mystic Marriage (6 page)

The scouts had been sent out into the hills before dawn to find signs of quarry worthy of their sport. The hunt itself would be carefully planned and directed. There were no formal boundaries up here claiming territories for the lodges, but there were still customs and courtesies to be followed.

As the light grew toward sunrise, the courtyard began to fill with pairs of panting hounds held in close check, and grooms busying themselves with the horses. There were carriages for some of the women and a few of the older men that would carry them more easily to where the kill was planned. A stag hunt at Feniz was far more choreographed than most of the guests might be aware.

Barbara rechecked the girths and shoes of her own hunter purely out of habit before swinging up into the saddle and circulating among the other mounted guests. She made her courtesy to Count Mainek and then to Efriturik before looking around to see who else she knew. There was Count Peskil and his son and old Chozzik. She knew Count Mainek’s friends well, for they had been in the baron’s circles. But there was a new wave come into the court. Efriturik’s closest companions were not old enough to feel the pressure to marry, nor yet for the most part to have come into titles and lands. And then there was a scattering of those nearer her own age, falling between the two groups. She saw a bias in Mainek’s selection for the diplomatic set: all of them the young noblemen who would soon be taking up government posts and gaining the experience to serve in Efriturik’s government, should that day come.

She sidled close to greet Iohen Perzin. “I thought you were off to Paris,” she said, searching through her memory for what she knew of his duties. His long, oval face looked too serious for the pleasures of the day. He wasn’t one of Efriturik’s inner set. In fact, she knew of no ties he had to either of the competing parties.

“No, it’s been put off until spring,” he replied. “Albori says the French mustn’t think we’re too eager. And I confess I’m scarcely eager myself to leave Rotenek so soon.” Warmth transformed his expression as he looked past her, and she followed his gaze to where his young wife was settling on her own mount as he continued, “I understand you’re to blame for Tio’s new ensemble.”

Tionez Perzin wore a bold fashion indeed. A tall beaver hat topped her round face, made even broader by a fringe of small, precise curls, but it was her habit that caught the eye. The dark gray serge was sober enough and the cut fell short of the almost masculine style that Barbara affected for active pursuits, except in the lines of the coat, but Tio’s skirts were cut full enough for riding astride and high enough to show off a pair of bright red Hessian boots with a glimpse of breeches underneath as a nod to modesty. Barbara covered her dismay by quipping, “As long as that color doesn’t warn off the quarry!” But she made time, as the guests continued to gather, to seek Tio out and comment quietly, “You’re ill advised to take my wardrobe as a model. You have your husband’s dignity to think of.”

“Oh, pooh!” Tionez said dismissively. “In truth, Iohen says he finds it dashing.” She was one of those women who had been told that her pout was attractive, and she employed the expression liberally.

Barbara was not moved. “What he says and what he thinks may be different things.”

“And you’re a fine one to be scolding me on proper behavior!”

It was hard to blame her for bristling at being lectured by someone her own age. Barbara couldn’t have pinpointed her unease. She herself was forgiven some outrageous behavior because of her past and her rank. But it was another matter entirely to be accused—even in jest—of leading others down the same path. That was less forgivable. And if Tio didn’t care for her own sake, it wouldn’t do to raise the hackles of society in general. Tionez had lately been flirting at the edges of Jeanne’s set and Jeanne was not at all innocent of leading respectable women astray.

The sight of Aukustin settling himself on a restless gray hunter brought her promise to the Dowager Princess back to mind, and she watched him with a frown creasing her brow. He was handling the horse badly as it shifted and sidled and his seat… No, that wasn’t it. She urged her own mount over beside him and swung to the ground.

“Mesner Atilliet, if I may?”

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 crossing 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.