Valentine (8 page)

The patrons regarded her with bold curiosity, and Mary turned her gaze elsewhere—to the low beamed ceiling, the gaping planks of the walls, the littered and dirty floor—to avoid their appraisal.

Her attention was drawn to the back of the room as Valentine gave a merry shout of laughter, and a bald, portly man talked through a wide smile. Valentine and the man shook hands, and then the man turned and stomped up the stairs while Valentine strode toward her once more.

“Come.” He hooked her elbow with his hand as he headed past her, pulling her from the doorway and into the street once more.

She didn’t manage to shake free of him until they were standing between their horses, and he had let go of her, any matter. Valentine began unstrapping the numerous bags on his saddle.

“What is wrong with you?” Mary demanded of him before turning and starting to pick at the knots of her own bag.

“Do no talk,” he ordered.

Mary slid her pack free and turned, and was nearly hit in the face by the three bags Valentine had shoved into her arms atop her own. She had to scramble not to drop them as she staggered to follow him back into the foul-smelling common room.

“I can’t see!” she hissed.

He apparently stopped abruptly for she ran into his back.

“Then you should no have brought so much,” he said in a loud and quite cross voice. “I’ll no cater to you as your father did. You shall carry your own things. Now come along, and no more whining lest I take the strap to you again.”

Mary felt her face heat and her mouth drop open as Valentine summarily dismissed her by striding away. The patrons’ eyes were heavy with interest on her and she had little choice but to follow him up the narrow and creaking stairs, her cheeks flaming.

The bald man was waiting for them in the cramped corridor, next to an open doorway. Valentine called out to him in a smooth rush of foreign words, and the man roared with laughter before answering in the same tongue.

The proprietor indicated the open doorway and Valentine turned to her.

“Go on,” he demanded in an exasperated tone.

Mary glared at him as she passed into the sweltering room set beneath the eaves, with only one small round window nearly level with the rough floor. Two crude bedsteads were pushed beneath the steep ceiling on either side of the window. There was a small table that held a single half-spent candle and a wide, dented metal bowl. Beneath the table hid a small pot next to the door, which opened against the other wall.

It smelled suspiciously of goat.

She turned to watch Valentine follow her into the room, his eyes never meeting hers. He strode to one of the beds, dumped all but one of the satchels there, and then turned immediately back toward the door.

Mary’s eyes widened as she realized he intended to leave her alone in the stifling, stinking room.

“Va—” she began but caught herself before speaking his name. The bald man was watching her with wary curiosity, as if she were some exotic species of animal. “
Cousin
? To where do you hie without me?”

“That is no your concern,” he said, taking the key the inn’s proprietor offered him. “I shall return when I return. Do no do anything foolish.” He looked at her, the briefest glance. “I am certain you can find a crumb of something in your many bags to sustain you.”

Then he grabbed the handle of the door and slammed it shut with what was, in Mary’s opinion, unnecessary force. She heard the loud scrape of the lock being engaged, and then tromping footsteps fading away, the fat proprietor’s laughter echoing ghoulishly.

Mary blinked and realized she still stood in the center of the small room, her mouth open in shock, her arms laden with Valentine’s things. She let them fall to the floor, and the muffled crash caused the flimsy wooden boards to tremble.

For the second time in as many days, Lady Mary Beckham used a very naughty word.

M
ary soon recovered enough self-interest to rush to the small window. She was forced to crouch near the floor in order to see out of the oddly-placed opening, and what she saw did not make her feel any better about her situation.

There was Valentine, riding through the now steady rain away from the inn, Mary’s own mount tethered to his saddle.

The window was so small that she could see only the smallest section of the road directly in front of the inn. Valentine disappeared to the right, farther into the town.

Mary raised up and immediately bumped her head on the sloping ceiling, causing a shower of filth to rain down on her from the ancient roofing. She ducked back down and half-crawled to a spot on the floor more central so that she might stand up properly. She then proceeded to take down her hair at once, combing the vile mess out with her fingers as best she could to prevent the settling in of whatever particular insects lived in the roofing in this part of the world. She squealed and shuddered, flapping her hands in revulsion as she bent to the pile of bags and pulled out her own.

Mary would not have sat on the beds had her betrothed himself asked it of her, and so she went instead to the battered chair and table, setting her bag upon the latter and her bottom—barely—on the edge of the former. She found her comb among her few possessions and set to attending to her hair properly. Her hair as clean as she could manage and twisted into a neat side plait, she had no choice but to use the filthy pot on the floor. There was no water in the basin to wash with, and she dare not beat on the door for “service.” The lock could be broken for all Mary knew, and the door might swing wide at her first attempt, but she would never venture to the hostile and foreign common room below alone. She would simply wait for Valentine to return.

If he did return.

“Of course he will return,” she muttered chidingly to herself.

She drummed her fingertips on her knees.

Not
all
his things. He took one satchel with him.

Mary stood up from the chair and walked to the window again, smoothing her hands over her bottom so that her gown wouldn’t pick up any more filth from the floor as she crouched down. The rain was still falling, turning the street below to mud. Mary saw no one about, not even the goat.

She walked back to the chair and sat down, her hands clasped in her lap.

A chorus of laughter erupted through the floorboards, causing Mary to jump. Unable to sit with her jangling nerves, she sprang from her chair again and picked up the rest of the bags from the floor, setting them together on one of the beds with a deep sigh. She opened the first one and began to rummage through it.

Various articles of clothing, most of which she could not identify. Lacings of different lengths and materials. A handsome feathered hat. Gloves.

She shoved the loot aside and pulled another of Valentine’s bags toward her.

A monk’s habit. Sandals. A knotted cord of rope—perhaps a belt of some kind. She held up a bowl-like piece of metal.

“Helmet?” she wondered aloud. She tossed it onto the bed and kept searching.

The bags of charcoal and ash; a sling; two sets of braies, the handling of which caused her to blush; a length of plaid; three shirts; four tunics; a large, ornate brooch with a golden clasp; a long cloak; a woman’s comb; some toweling; and a short red cape.

She opened the last bag with another sigh, knowing at least that it would contain something to eat.

And a variety of knives, she noted as she dug through the little food left in the pack. She found the drawstring bag of dried fruit and the last of the wine, but before setting them on the table, Mary made use of one of the rougher shirts as a tablecloth. Then she retrieved a metal cup and one of the knives—just in case—and sat down to her pitiful meal, chewing some raisins slowly and gazing upon the detritus that had been contained in Valentine’s bags.

She thought about what she would do if he didn’t return. He’d taken both horses with him, so she would be forced to buy one, if anyone would even sell to her. Mary had discovered the hard way that there were parts of the world in which women could not negotiate a purchase without the express permission—and presence—of a father or husband. She might be able to afford a horse with what little coin she had left.

But then where would she go? Back to Melk, to tell Father Victor that she’d been abandoned? Even though Mary thought she could make her way back to the Danube well enough, there was still the river itself to consider. Then Mary thought about the three men she and Valentine had encountered soon after beginning their journey, and a shiver raced up her spine. She would make easy prey alone on the road.

How long was she willing to wait in this stinking chamber? Until morning? The next day? Then what? She briefly fantasized luring one of the goats to her room, butchering it with one of Valentine’s knives, and then roasting little bits of meat over the candle.

Mary gave a snort of laughter. She’d just as soon set the verminous roof afire, then make a mad escape through the common room while the whole wretched thing burned to the ground—that rude, bald-headed innkeeper with it.

She would not return to Melk. She was not going backward. If Valentine didn’t return by morning, Mary decided she would head for Prague on her own, as dangerous as that would be. Once there, she would pay or promise whatever she must to buy passage back to England. Then she would perhaps lie. She would tell Father Braund that Valentine Alesander was dead.

But the marriage would still be of record
, she thought.

“Then I will just burn the record,” Mary said aloud, giving one of her shoulders a little shrug. She realized she was copying the movement from Valentine, but for some reason it felt good to her. Right.

“I do as I please,” she said to her cup, trying out the phrase in a Spanish accent. It made her feel much better—her spine grew taller, her chest expanded. Then she announced to the room in general, “I go where I like.”

And she recognized that it was true. No one knew her here. She didn’t have to be Lady Mary Beckham, orphan of Beckham Hall, poor girl. She could be Maria.

She could be Maria Alesander, the bride of an infamous Spanish noble.

Mary stood up and walked to the bed where Valentine’s things lay strewn. She picked up the feathered hat and placed it on her head, cocking it at a jaunty angle. Then she swung the short red cape over her shoulders. To complete the ensemble, she added one of the thin belts, and a knife in a simple leather sheath. Then she placed both hands on her hips and twirled around on her heel, her skirts billowing about her dramatically.

She recalled all the chastisements from Agnes, warning her about the assumptions Mary had made of the strangers she spied on from her tower window, cautioning her that people were not usually as they appeared to be. Mary realized she could be one of the characters that others passed on the street, looked upon from windows above. She could present herself to be anything or anyone she chose.

As her skirts swung to a stop about her ankles, Mary wondered what Maria Alesander would do in this situation.

“She would patiently await her husband’s return, for she is such a woman that no man would ever abandon her,” Mary said aloud. “In the meantime, she would gather their things together and be ready to depart, for this establishment is not suitable lodgings for Maria Alesander.” She nodded to herself and then set to work, the feather on her hat bobbing.

 

Valentine crept up the stairs, keeping close to the wall. The inn’s proprietor was asleep on the bench behind his table, as were a pair of his patrons, having indulged in too many tankards. It was well past midnight and the horses were tethered just outside, their saddles loaded with the booty Valentine had been able to procure. He was satisfied with the accomplishment of his mission.

Now all he had to do was wake Maria.

The key was ready in his hand as he approached the door on silent feet, all his senses alert to the slightest change in his environment. He slid the key into the lock, turned, winced at its dry scrape. He pushed the flimsy door open without a sound, thanks to its old leather hinges, and prepared to be greeted by a darkened room.

And so the candlelight was a surprise. As was the woman who appeared to have just stood up from the chair facing the door, a knife in her hand pointing at Valentine’s face. She was wearing his feathered hat.

Maria dropped the blade down by her thigh. “Where have you been?”

“Shh!” he urged, pushing the door shut behind him. “The common room is no empty, although its occupants sleep.”

“Where have you been?” she asked again, this time in a whisper, and she rounded on him as he walked the short distance to the beds. “You’ve been gone for hours.”

“Gathering our supplies.” He looked, nonplussed, at the satchels lined up like soldiers atop the rotten blanket, their tops cinched tightly. He looked behind him at the table—empty. “Maria, did you do this?”

Her chest rose as if she took a deep breath and he noticed that she was also wearing his red cape, which nicely framed her breasts. She squared her shoulders, and his view of her figure was improved even more. “Valentine, I am sorry, but I cannot stay here.”

He grinned at her, shrugged. Then he half-turned, picked up one of the satchels and swung it, tossing it to Maria. She caught it.

“Then let us go.”

She blinked, hesitated for only a breath, and then her mouth broke out in a smile as she stepped to the bed and began scooping up the remaining bags along with Valentine.

“Have you paid the innkeeper?” Maria asked.

“I would no give that pig a farthing for such a hovel,” he said. “Seeing your beauty is more payment than he deserves. So we must be quick and quiet. Ready, Maria?”

She nodded, her cheeks rosy under the wide brim of his hat, and then bent to blow out the candle.

“Stay to the wall,” he whispered into the darkness as he grabbed the door handle. “Once we are past the hearth, quickly is better than quietly.”

“What if someone wakes?”

“Run,” he said. And then Valentine opened the door.

He was not sure how they made it across the common room undetected, except that perhaps the sleeping patrons were used to the sounds of very large rats scurrying through the litter on the floor. Nevertheless, he was impressed with Maria’s gameness for their escape—she didn’t so much as squeak when Valentine threw her up onto her saddle. Then a gust of wind grabbed half of the inn door and threw it against the exterior wall with a crash that seemed to shake the entire building. Alarmed voices, heavy with sleep and drink, could be heard within.

“Vamanos!”
Valentine shouted as they wheeled their mounts toward the gates of the palisade and the horses jumped into a run down the street, flinging up wild sprays of mud.

He swung one leg over the side of his horse as they approached the gate, hanging from his mount like a performer at a tournament. He kicked at the stay that held the long, diagonal brace as they rode by, and the timber fell as though it had once again been cut where it stood in the forest, screeching across the wooden gate.

It was going the wrong way, though, Valentine noticed as he swung back onto his horse. The log splatted into the mud across the road and began to roll toward the riders even as half of the gate swung wide in the rain, freedom beckoning to them.

“Get down!” Valentine shouted over his shoulder as he himself leaned close to his horse’s neck and raised up from his seat as he felt his mount gathering beneath him and heard its distraught shriek.

He hoped Maria’s horse would jump.

He hoped Maria stayed in the saddle.

Valentine’s horse cleared the rolling obstacle easily, and he looked over his shoulder as he was carried through the gate. He saw the moment Maria’s horse too, leaped over the log, and she gave a dainty scream, one pale hand atop Valentine’s feathered hat.

He would have laughed with relief had he not seen his leather bag being flattened by the log and then lying in the muddy street as the brace rolled away.

“Damn,” he muttered as he pulled on the reins, fighting his horse, who wanted only to completely escape the madness it had just encountered.

Maria pulled even with him, and her smile was wide, breathless— breathtaking. “What are you doing?” she asked. “They’re coming—let’s go!”

He looked back toward his bag again, and indeed, a trio of figures with torches was running through the slop toward them, shouting.

It was the only bag he could not lose.

“One moment, I beg, Maria,” he said, and then wheeled his horse back through the gate.

“Valentine!” she called after him, her voice high with alarm.

Valentine hooked his left boot through a strap on his saddle and let the reins go loose in his left hand. As he neared the bag—and the angry villagers—he flexed his foot, kicked out his left leg, and slid off the right side of his horse, his right arm outstretched. He would have only one chance.

His face was instantly splattered with mud so that he was forced to close his eyes. His fingers opened, his arm reached—

And he felt the leather strap slip up to his wrist, dragging his arm back with such force that his shoulder sang.

He pulled himself up with the muscles of his abdomen and left leg, already jerking at the reins, turning his horse, and he almost fell off after all when the beast rose up and pawed at the air in protest. Valentine looked down upon the bald head of the innkeeper, shining and red in the torchlight, as the man shouted profanities and threats, his friends reaching up to grab at Valentine and his horse.