Tempting Fate (9 page)

“They’re out there. I hear them. They’re waiting.
I can’t.
” She was not speaking clearly or loudly, her fear turning her to an infant. Her mouth was wet.

“No, Laisha,” he said quietly. “We’re alone. My horse is tied up, and we’ll ride away on him. No one is here but the two of us.”

She was crying again, but with silent resignation. Her arms were limp around his neck and she seemed possessed of no more vitality than a doll. She slumped in his grasp; for a moment Ragoczy wondered if she had lost consciousness. Her fingers caught in his collar, which slightly reassured him, but she paid no heed to the few kind words he said to her as he once again started toward the door. Inside the overlarge dress she felt even smaller than she was; her brown eyes were half-closed.

“See, Laisha? My horse is over there. He’s a chestnut gelding, that’s an Austrian hussar’s saddle on his back,” Ragoczy said as he stepped out into the wasteland of the farmyard. He did not dare stop talking, for he sensed that the girl would be overwhelmed by her fear if he did. “We’re going to get onto his back, and then we’ll ride him out of here. He’s strong, Laisha. He’ll carry us a long way.” He wished now that he knew how to reach Duchess Irina Andreivna, for she might wish to have a child to care for again. In all his long years, Ragoczy had done so only twice, and those instances were far in the past, and neither of the children had been like this one.

“It’s gone,” she whispered, although she did not look directly at any of the destruction around her. “Gone, gone.”

Ragoczy’s gaze traveled over the gutted buildings and empty pens. “Yes.” He felt the despair of the child he held and it was anguish to him as he recalled other times when catastrophe had prostrated a family or a town or a city or a nation. Whether it was nature’s destructive caprice or human venality, there was more devastation in his memories than he could easily face. He held the child closer. To be so young and endure this … But then, he told himself sardonically, almost all the world, compared to him, was young.

The chestnut brought his head up sharply, eyes rolling, as Ragoczy came toward him. He chafed at the bit and tried to jerk his reins free of the post where they were secured. As Ragoczy came up to him, he stamped nervously, not calming until Ragoczy caught his rein and drew his head down to blow in his nostrils and pat his neck with his free hand. The chestnut gave a low, unhappy whinny, but stood still.

“Laisha, this is my horse,” Ragoczy said as he moved to the side. “He’s sixteen-hands-three-that’s taller than I am. His chest is deep, and you can tell by his shoulders that he has Orlov blood in him.” It was ludicrous to tell the girl such things, but he could think of no other way to diminish her fright. He put his hand on the stirrup. “I’m going to put you on his back, in the saddle. You must hang on. I’ll have to get the reins before I mount. Have you ever been on a horse before?”

“I don’t know,” she answered dreamily. “Maybe.”

He sighed inwardly. “Do you think you can hang on?… Laisha?”

She stared at the saddle. “Hang on?”

“Here.” Ragoczy put his hand on the pommel. “You can hang on here.” He lifted her so that she could touch where his hand was. “You can hold that, can’t you?”

She nodded uncertainly.

“You’ll have to tuck your skirts up. Keep your legs down. Will you do that?” He did not want to think about getting onto the chestnut holding the child as he did so. The horse was apprehensive enough. “If you’re ready, Laisha, I’m going to put you into the saddle.”

“I’m ready,” she said in a voice that quavered with uncertainty. She let go of him and pulled at the heavy brocade of her dress.

“Good.” Ragoczy boosted her onto the chestnut’s back, keeping his hand firmly on the stirrup leather as the child settled herself in the saddle, hands gripping the pommel. He smiled a little, knowing what an effort it was for her; he liked her courage. “Are you settled?”

“Yes,” she said grimly.

He went to the chestnut’s head and freed the reins, brought them over the head with practiced ease and had his foot in the stirrup before the chestnut was quite aware that he had been released. The chestnut wheeled as Ragoczy swung his leg over and found his seat almost on the cantle. He gathered the reins and brought his hands in close to the child. “You won’t fall, Laisha. I’ll hold you.”

The girl wiped her eyes with one grubby hand. “I’ll hang on.”

“Good for you.” He had been checking the chestnut but now let him have his head. The horse swung away and Laisha cried out as she lurched back against Ragoczy behind her. “You won’t fall,” he said once more, adding, “You can hold on to my wrists, if you like. You don’t have to keep gripping the saddle.” The chestnut had settled into a canter, keeping to the middle of the long road that led from the main coachway to the estate and its farmyard.

Laisha turned once to look back at the desolation behind her, and her face set: she did not cry.

At the coach road, Ragoczy pulled the chestnut to a walk and set his face toward the west. The horse was getting tired, and was certainly hungry. Ragoczy knew that he would have to find fodder for the chestnut before morning came, and perhaps a place to rest for several hours. Absently he turned to touch the leather duffel bag strapped behind the cantle. There was the familiar, sustaining comfort of his native earth, and he would need to rest with it before the coming day was over. Then he looked down at the pale-haired child dozing in the saddle before him. She would need food. Undoubtedly it had been more than twelve hours since she had eaten. Where was he to find a meal for her? What did children her age eat? Ragoczy could fend for himself easily enough, but the girl would need something more than a stray sheep. “Dear me,” he said softly, “this is apt to be awkward.”

Laisha stirred at the sound of his voice, but did not wake up. She tried to change her position in the saddle, then settled back into half-slumber.

The coach road was quite empty, which Ragoczy knew was fortunate. Yet he began to look for peasant dwellings—outlying farms or little churches—where it would be possible to buy bread and cheese for the girl. Perhaps he could learn who the girl was, as well. He discarded that thought as quickly as it occurred to him: with all the insurrectionist troops in the area, a child of the aristocracy—if she was a child of the aristocracy—might expect brutal treatment at the hands of the rebels. It would be best to say that she had taken the gown she wore, since it so obviously did not fit her. Looting would be understood, even indulged.

With a snort the chestnut brought his head up, stopping, poised and alert, in the middle of the coach road. His flanks quivered once and his tongue pressed at the bit, but he did not run.

“What is it?” Ragoczy asked in an undervoice. “What do you hear?” Then he heard it, too—the distant growl of an engine.

Laisha opened her eyes and swiveled around to look up at Ragoczy. “Where are we?”

“On the coach road,” he said truthfully.

“Why aren’t we moving?”

“Because I think there is an automobile coming,” he answered, his eyes narrowed as he peered through the darkness.

“I’ve been in an automobile,” she announced proudly. Then she touched the skirt where it was rolled up, and her shoulders slumped. Her voice grew small with embarrassment. “I’ve wet myself.”

“It’s not important,” Ragoczy said.

“You didn’t,” she said petulantly, refusing to be absolved.

“But I’m older than you are.” How could he tell her, now or ever, that the difference in their ages was measured in millennia? He was pleased that she accepted his statement without questioning it. “We’ll take care of it later.”

The sound of the engine was louder, and then Ragoczy could make out two trembling lights he was certain were the side lanterns of the automobile. It had to be an older vehicle, then, for most of the more recent automobiles had true headlights and not side lanterns. Ragoczy could feel the chestnut tense and he drew in the reins for more control.

Ten minutes later the automobile came up to them. It was an old, much-used Wartbergwagon, the caning long since broken away and patched with bits of canvas. There were two men in the automobile, one sitting on the low front seat and facing backward, the other in the higher driver’s seat. Both men were armed.

“Good night to you, gentlemen,” Ragoczy said in Polish, trusting that this was the language of the men in the Wartbergwagon.

The driver had braked the automobile and his passenger swung his rifle around to aim it at Ragoczy. “Who are you, and where might you be bound?”

“Franchot Ragoczy,” he answered at once. “And my ward, Laisha.”

“Foreign name,” the man facing backward said to the driver.

“Hungarian, I think,” the driver said.

The first man glared at Ragoczy. “That doesn’t explain anything. Why are you here?”

As Ragoczy began to improvise, he hoped that Laisha would not challenge him or contradict his various inventions. “It was not my choice, gentlemen. Believe this. It was my intention to visit friends in”—he thought for a distant town—“Ignalina, and we were to take the train to Bialystok. We were staying at an inn outside Lomža when we were told that the tracks had been blown up.”

The driver of the automobile nodded and relaxed a little. “You’re far from Bialystok,” he said, slightly suspiciously but with a degree of concern.

“Yes,” Ragoczy agreed at once. “I was told that we might be able to get a carriage near here, but I see that most of this district has suffered … misfortunes.”

The passenger put the rifle aside. In his heavy driving coat and eye guards he looked to be impressively huge, but as he stood it became apparent that he was a slight man, no longer young, and very tired. “Misfortunes,” he repeated. “Indeed. This poor country has been subjected to every indignity. But that is not of importance to you, is it?” He stared at Ragoczy a moment. “We are going to Ciechanowiec and cannot ask you to come with us. Doubtless you understand.” This was a courtesy; his tone made it clear that he did not care if Ragoczy understood or not.

“Of course,” Ragoczy said, equally polite. “My ward and I are more anxious to go west, in any case. It is apparent to me that it would be folly to try to continue to Ignalina. If it were possible to find transportation other than this poor horse…”

“We had word that there are coaches for hire at Rózan. Try there. You should be able to reach it by noon tomorrow if you make good time and there are no … delays.” He regarded Ragoczy quizzically. “A strange traveling dress for your ward.”

“Most improper,” Ragoczy said. “She would try on the gift we were bringing to her cousin, and then insurgent forces reached the inn…” He left the rest to the two men’s imagination.

“I have children of my own,” the driver said unexpectedly. “Five of them. They adore mischief.” He studied Ragoczy a bit longer. “There was a Prince by your name, wasn’t there?”

“Not recently,” Ragoczy said wryly.

“It isn’t wise to be too well-born in these times.” It was a warning. The driver released the brake and the automobile started to roll. “We’ll have to report you, but we’ll wait until we’ve had a meal and a bath.” He waved slightly as the old Wartbergwagon gathered speed and rattled away into the night.

When Ragoczy had given the chestnut his head again, Laisha craned her neck to look up at him. “Is that what happened?”

“What?” He was taken aback by the innocence of her question.

“Were we at an inn, and all that you said?” She looked mildly distracted, and had begun to pull at a tendril of hair again.

Ragoczy looked down at her, feeling suddenly a great compassion for the child. “No,” he said as kindly as he could. “I made that story up. I hope you will remember it, though, because we may have need of it again.”

“I’m not your ward?” she asked tremulously, brown eyes slick with terror.

“Oh, that’s true enough,” Ragoczy said as he smoothed her pale hair. He smiled as she sighed and leaned back against him, already drifting into sleep once more.

“Are we going to Rózan?” Her words slurred.

“No. I’m not quite sure where we are going, but not to Rózan.” He turned in the saddle to look at the eastern horizon. The sky was still dark. He wished that the few high clouds would part so that he could see the stars. He guessed it to be between three and four in the morning. In less than two hours farm chores would begin and he would have to find shelter for them, and food for Laisha and the horse. “We’re going west.”

“West,” she murmured. One of her hands closed around his wrist.

They had gone no more than two miles when Ragoczy heard gunfire behind them, in the distance. The sounds were faint but distinctive, and he reined in the chestnut to listen. Half a dozen shots, then another one, separate, and the thick, muffled blow of an explosion. Ragoczy thought of the two men in the old Wartbergwagon, hurrying at night to Ciechanowiec. The driver had said he had five children. Ragoczy brought one beautiful, small hand up to Laisha’s tangled, pale hair, then urged the chestnut into a weary trot.

Text of a letter from Maximillian Altbrunnen to his sister, Gudrun Ostneige.

Straubling

May 4, 1918

My dearest sister:

How marvelous to hear from you. In this place, we count ourselves lucky to get news once a week, and the way things are in München, we believe less than a third of what we’re told. The Reds are sure to be tossed out, but what chaos in the meantime.

It’s a pity about Jürgen, but everyone’s got some losses from this horrible war. You must tell him for me that I applaud his bravery. He’s an honorable man, and no doubt you are proud of his accomplishments. If only we had not been subverted by our own bureaucrats, then we might have taught all Europe a needed lesson. Look whom we’ve trusted in! It’s not worth the effort to complain however, and Jürgen will tell you the same thing, I know.

I would be delighted to come to Hausham and live with you. From what I remember, it is a most pleasant location, and isolated enough that we need not fear being invaded by opportunistic officers at every opportunity. You say that Jürgen has enough to put the place back in order, which is necessary. I’m no good at that kind of thing, but with Jürgen so badly hurt, you’ll be grateful to have a man about, I’d imagine. If that little gamekeeper’s cottage at the far side of the stream is still standing, I might take that over as my personal retreat, for you won’t want me underfoot all the time, and this way I can do my own entertaining without trespassing on your hospitality or making trouble with Jürgen. I’m not the sort to live chaste as a monk, you know, but I know better than to expect you to be able to enter into the spirit of fun with your husband so ill.