Wisdom's Kiss (30 page)

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T
HE
S
TORY OF
F
ORTITUDE OF
B
ACIO
, C
OMMONLY
K
NOWN AS
T
RUDY,
AS
T
OLD TO
H
ER
D
AUGHTER

Privately Printed and Circulated

POOR TRUDY was caught by surprise while attempting again to retrieve Soots.
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The old fowl insisted on nesting under the gorse bush across from the inn; that her chicks remained unscathed after two weeks so encamped was strong testament to the hen's pugnacity, if not her sense.

Still, it did not require the gift of sight to see that one hen could not protect a dozen chicks from all the predators in Bacio or from the interminable spring rains. So Trudy—diligent, solicitous Trudy—found herself once more rooting through the thorns, avoiding as best she could Soots's glare and beak and muttered fowl curses.

"Just come out," Trudy sighed. "If you go back to the hen-house, you'll have food and water and no foxes ... Oh, baron's brains, I'm talking to a chicken!"

How Tips would laugh at this, if he were here! He'd laugh, but in a kind way, and wriggle through the gorse with no thought to his own discomfort. If he were here now, he and Trudy would be laughing together, just as they used to. Just as they would again, someday...

Trudy glanced about with a start. How long had she been staring into space, dreaming of a boy an empire away? Fortunately no one from the Duke's Arms had seen her, for every man and woman was occupied in tending the guests, human and equine, that had inundated the inn since the flooding began. Several local farmers, their fields too wet to plant, had been taken on as hostlers. Their female kin toiled in the kitchen and laundry, though the young women between them hadn't the sense of Soots, and with such featherbrains to manage, Trudy had even less chance to finish her own work. Which, by the way, she should be doing right now rather than tending a family of vagabond poultry. Tending it badly.

She stood, brushing dead leaves from her skirt, and could not help glancing west toward Tips's mill. Not that it was
his
mill; the solicitor had made that clear, as had Tips's brothers and Tips himself. But it would be his someday. How could it not, what with Hans and Jens both childless—not that there was any mystery to that one, nor grief either ... Tips had to end up with it. Gristmilling was in his blood, much as he'd washed his hands of the flour. However good a soldier he was, he'd be just as good a miller when the time came.

Still musing on Tips's future, and hers, Trudy turned east. No matter how many carts of quarry waste they spread, the sodden road was less highway than riverbed. The mud...

Without warning, Trudy staggered backward. Something was coming. Something bad—something very, very sick indeed—was coming down the mountain.

Buckled to her knees, gagging into the mud, she struggled to remain calm. Think, think! How should she respond? What would her mother do? And who—or what—could it possibly be, headed straight for Bacio—and straight for the inn?

My Dearest Temperence, Queen of Montagne,

Granddaughter, where to begin! Last night we dined in Frizzante, where the lamb roast was excellent, if not quite on par with Montagne's, though of course I am too partial to judge. Our sleep, too, was quite satisfactory. When shall I learn, even in my dotage, to accept every favorable event with extreme caution, given that it will doubtless progress to disaster? It most certainly did in this case, for the tavern keeper this morning set out a great spread of
oysters
. Oysters, in mountains yet shrouded in snow! Only Dizzy, myself, and a coachman abstained, though in Dizzy's case it was ungodly curiosity and not common sense that preserved her. Escoffier and I breakfasted instead on the last of the lamb, Escoffier regarding the scraped bone with such longing that I feared he would metamorphose into a hound and drag it off to bury.

Our subsequent trip through Alpsburg Pass I shall never forget, much as I long to; I'd wager the kingdom that no member of our party will ever again dine on oysters. Within two hours of our passage the first guard collapsed from his horse.
In the next thirty minutes every man and woman save Dizzy, myself, and—blessedly—our coachman was similarly afflicted; poor
Modesty and Patience
reclined with their heads hanging from the carriage windows, moaning piteously, while Patience's maid lay curled at our feet in a miserable pile, not that the others were cogent enough to object, or even to pay heed.

Dizzy of course fled the carriage at once. I grant she made herself more than useful by leading a string of horses while the guards drooped green-faced in their saddles, though her exhaustive questioning of the coachman on the art of bareback riding, his encyclopedic knowledge of which she has only recently become aware, demonstrated all too publicly her indifference to the suffering around her. Within the carriage, I kept a handkerchief—perfumed, you may be sure!—to my nose, removing it only to open the door at critical moments and to reassure my companions that they were not facing death, much as they might crave it at that minute. Escoffier dozed beside me, occasionally cracking one eye when the moaning grew too vocal.

When not serving as stopgap nursemaid, I distracted myself from this pageant of wretchedness by pondering how exactly—and when!—we are to arrive at Phraugheloch Palace. Our tribulations have left us seven days overdue at the Farina court; while rational minds accept this as ill fate, you and I both know that
Duchess Wilhelmina
does not gravitate toward rationality, or charity. As much as I fear the insult—or what she will doubtless take as insult—of our late arrival, I worry still more about the poor showing we will make at the palace gates. Though we of Montagne have little regard for protocol's more obscure constrictions, I recognize that our arrival sans retinue will leave us looking more beggars than sovereigns—which a queen must never allow, particularly when dealing with Farina! Patience and Modesty, and their maids, too, require several days' recovery—days
we do not have
. If only I could conjure footmen from mice! Fear not; I write only in jest. I would never seriously consider such a hazard. Sorcery would only multiply our quandaries. Perhaps I could dress Escoffier in livery and put him to work, though I'm sure he would fall asleep on his feet—which puts him in league with most castle staff! Quipping aside, I cannot—
we
cannot—offend the duke and his mother; how awful it would be for Dizzy to face such prejudice at the commencement of her matrimony! Truly, I am absolutely frantic; our wretched delay, capped by this horrific oyster sickness, has put me in a state of disorientation such as I have not known in years. A solution will come, I am certain, to our desperate short-handedness. But how, or when, I have not a single indication.

At last—the entire entourage with the exception of Dizzy and Escoffier quite woebegone—we arrived in Bacio, at a most extraordinary inn (the sign over the door reads
THE
ALPSBURG BARON'S COUNT'S
DUKE'S ARMS
—a history book in one weathered marquee!). There, to my astonishment, we were greeted by a dozen servants proffering buckets and blankets and damp, cool cloths. Lady Patience, the first to alight from the carriage (much splattered, I fear, though dusk hid the worst of it), fell into a swoon that was perhaps not entirely wretched given the strapping young man who caught her; the others were similarly assisted indoors. Dizzy, heaven help us, established herself in the stables, unsaddling horses and chattering away with the hostlers. How the staff knew to prepare for a dozen invalids, I cannot imagine. It was assuredly the most comforting reception I have ever met ... but so unnerving!

Your shaken grandmother,
Ben

Postscriptum: The Duke's Arms includes on its staff one maid whom I suspect is quite comely beneath her headscarf and homespun; certainly she has a pretty smile when not overwhelmed by shyness, and goes about her duties with enviable efficiency. Admiring her handiwork this evening, I commenced scheming how to include her in our retinue.
If the task of a
lady-in-waiting
is to flaunt through beauty and breeding the good taste of our court, we could do worse; certainly no worse than our present ladies, who sprawl prone with their heads in dishpans. No sooner had this notion flitted through my mind, however, than the girl turned to me wide-eyed and said, "But Your Majesty, one is
born
to the position of lady-in-waiting!" Is that not unbelievable?

Post postscriptum: I apologize for droning on so about our troubles; this is
your
time, and please do not squander any of it worrying about us. Ruling a country is a most formidable responsibility, and too often dispiriting, particularly for one inclined to doubt her own abilities. You are doing so well, my dear; I beg you believe me on this. The chateau must be blessedly quiet with so much of the court away. Employ this time to spread your wings! Without your butterfly of a sister or goose of a grandmother, you may find your wings stretching very far indeed!

Any Soul Who Contemplates Even Glancing
at the Pages of this Volume Will
Be Transformed into a Toad
Suffer a Most Excruciating Punishment.
On This You Have My Word.

Wednesday—
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When I am ancient & writing my memoirs I shall entitle this chapter "The Puking Path." Or perhaps "The Retching Road"—that's more accurate as the Alpsburg Pass is quite clearly a decent road when it's not full of mud. Or in our case of vomit. The worst part is that no one else found it funny! Which it was! It was horribly amusing but I couldn't laugh—as Nonna Ben is forever repeating, I must strive
to present more graciously my innate compassion
. Also Mrs. Sprat would have smitten me dead. (Perhaps I could call my memoirs "The Sprats Go Splat.") So I walked with the coachman—he drove & I walked—thank goodness he was healthy or we'd yet be marooned in that godforsaken wilderness—& I found out he knows how to ride bareback! He can even stand at a canter! With no hands! I begged him to show me but he said it wasn't the proper time. Then once we arrived in Bacio everyone was so busy mopping up that we couldn't. Also it was dark by then.

There's a girl who works in the inn here who has the most spectacularly beautiful hair I have ever seen in my life. If I had hair like that I would keep it long & loose & not even bother with clothes because no one would notice the rest of me! This afternoon when we arrived she wore a little kerchief & then when she came to our room tonight she had it hidden by a v. pretty scarf—even I noticed it & I'm dim as a door knocker when it comes to that sort of thing tho I was careful not to say a word. But then the scarf slipped off for a moment & it took all my resolve not to scream in envy! Her hair is not carroty at all but just lovely red & it has the most beautiful waves ever. The Montagne wig maker would follow her around like a little lost puppy. I did my v. best not to stare but felt myself growing positively green. She's terribly aware of it you can tell by the way she covered it up at once. Nonna wanted her to travel with us as we are decidedly short of a retinue—a functional retinue that is!—but she said no. So would I in her shoes—with hair like that she doesn't need anything else in the world. Certainly not waiting upon this gaggle of gaggers. Nor would I wish her to join us for my own mousy locks do not come close to hers—& I shan't even begin to describe the difference in our figures!