Valentine (16 page)

“Who could she possibly have found that she wants to marry while cloistered away?” Valentine demanded, refusing to engage in Brennie’s play. “Some renegade priest?”

“Oh no,
mi amor
,” Brennie said, shaking her head. “You’ll get no more from me. You should hear it from your sister’s lips.”

“She can no leave,” Valentine said, as if it was the end of the thing. “I can no protect her right now.”

“Protect her from . . . ?”

“I have bigger predators on my scent now than Enrique could ever dream to aspire to,” Valentine said. “If it was discovered that I have a sister, and if she was no protected by her asylum, I do no know what could happen to her.”

“Nothing will happen to her,” Brennie said in almost a bored tone. “Her man would never allow it.”

“You know him?” Valentine demanded, and he leaned forward when she nodded her head lazily. “Who is he? Is he in the city? I will find him today and demand that he leave my sister in peace.”

“I will not tell you who he is, but yes, he is in the city when he is not plying his trade. Did you really expect her to live her entire life as a nun? Teresa is as religious as you are.”

“Brennie, had it been in my power to have chosen a different life for Teresa or myself, I would have done so long ago.”

“Would you have?” Brennie said, peering into his eyes. “Since you arrived here with the lovely Fleur, I wonder.” Before he could argue his point with her, she continued. “Any matter, now that you are in Prague, the man who wishes to marry your sister can at last ask your permission himself, and he and Teresa can be away from the city with your blessing.”

“Never,” he said, standing up from his chair and reaching around for his satchel, irritated that the day had seemed to hurry him from one disaster to the next. “And I shall make that quite clear when I see her on the morrow.”

Valentine and Brennie’s heads swiveled in unison as the heavy wooden entrance to the Snowy Owl burst open, and several men blustered through the doorway.

“Constable,” Brennie murmured under her breath, not in the least disturbed by their intimidating appearance. But Valentine’s spine stiffened. “Looking for runaways again, I’ll wager.” To the men now filling up the common room, she called out a friendly greeting, addressing some of the watchmen by name.

“Any new girls, Brennie?” the portly constable asked. “We’ve got a kidnap—an English lady by the name of Mary Beckham.”

Had Valentine not known Brennie, he never would have caught the twitch of her eyebrow or the knowing gleam in her eye as she slowly, slowly turned her serene face toward Valentine. “A lady, you say? I don’t know of any English girls at the Owl, and certainly no
ladies
. Did any come in last night?” she asked him, and then added pointedly, “Perhaps you could ask
Fleur
.”

“Who’s this now?” the constable demanded, eyeing Valentine.

Valentine shoved away his alarm to make a sweeping bow to the group. “Enrique Francisco, at your service,” he said, letting his accent thicken. “Procurer of the finest specimens of womanhood the world over.”

“A whoremonger,” the constable snorted. “Any English ladies in your depraved band?”

“I prefer to think myself more a curator of desire,” Valentine countered. “But no. They are much too reserved for a profession of such passion.”

The constable snorted again and turned to Brennie once more. “We must search, you understand,” he said. “There’s a baroness or some such shite paying a hefty price for the lady’s recovery.”

“Of course,” Brennie said and then looked up at Valentine again. “Go rouse the girls. I can’t bear to listen to the complaints this early in the day, and what good are you if not for the ugly jobs?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Valentine said with a short bow. “I shall refill the brazier in your room while I am about it.”

She waved a lazy hand at him. “As you wish.”

“Two moments,” the constable warned, “and we shall enter each room thoroughly.”

“Two moments,” Valentine agreed and then turned on his heel and walked deliberately across the floor and into the back corridor.

Once the door swung shut behind him, Valentine broke into a run, pulling the key from his pouch as he swerved around crooked corners. He unlocked the door and burst into the room, already barking orders.

“Maria! Maria! Get up! Get your things, now.
Vamanos
,” he said, trotting to the hearth while swinging his satchel from his shoulder. “Maria!”

“What is it?” She didn’t sound as though she’d been asleep, and he heard her rustling from the bed.

“The city constable is here with a band of watchmen, seeking you by name. They are searching the rooms.” He pulled forth the bag he had tried to give to Teresa and then squatted down, lifting the lid of the brazier and checking that it was cool before dropping the bag inside.

“Oh my God,” she gasped from behind him, and he heard her scurrying about. “What are we going to do?”

Valentine replaced the lid and joined Maria as she looped straps over her arms, bent to scoop up her boots, her veil.

“We’re going to run,” Valentine said distractedly, giving the room a final quick glance. He swiped his hat from the chaise and placed it on Maria’s head. If they had forgotten anything, they would have to leave it. He turned back to her and nodded toward the door. “Open it slowly.”

Maria opened the door a crack and Valentine stuck his head out. He pulled it back in with a hiss as he saw the band of watchmen in the hallway, pounding on doors. “Damn!” He peeked through the crack again as he heard squeals and ribald curses in very feminine voices. Half the men disappeared into the first doorway they’d come to, and the second half of the group waited entry at the next. “Come on, come on!” If they didn’t enter before the first group came out . . .

“Now!” he said to Maria, pulling her into the hallway as the last man ducked inside. He left their door swinging and pushed Maria ahead of him, toward the rectangle of light where Brennie stood, holding the exit wide. “Horses?” he called out as loudly as he dared.

“Karl’s with them now,” Brennie said, when they were nearly upon her. “Godspeed,
mi amor
.” She smirked at Maria. “And
Lady Mary
. I do hope we meet again. Enjoy my Ballenteen.”

Valentine saw the cross look Maria threw over her shoulder as he shoved her into the alley. “It’s
Valentine
,” she said.

“Go!” Valentine said in exasperation.

“It
is
Valentine,” she insisted as they turned left and ran down the alley. “Your name begins with a V.”

“Not always.” Valentine pulled Maria by the crook of her elbow toward the stables just as Karl emerged into the bright sunlight, leading their horses.

He held his large arms out toward Maria as they approached, and Valentine was surprised and pleased when Maria jumped into them without question, allowing the large bald man to swung her into her saddle.

“My thanks, friend,” Valentine said, seating himself and pulling up the reins as Maria took possession of hers.

“Go the southwest gate,” Karl advised. “Near the abattoir at the river. Should be able to follow the stench.”

Valentine winced. “Really?”

“No one ever stays there long,” Karl said with a shrug.

“Valentine?” Maria said in a warbly voice, looking over her shoulder.

Valentine followed her gaze and saw the constable and his associates just coming into the alley. “What’s our other option?” he asked Karl.

“The gaol,” he said pointedly.

Valentine sighed. But he had little choice now, as the constable had seen him. “Do no look back, Maria,” he warned.

“You! You there!” the constable called out, raising his hand in the air as he and his band approached. “Henrygay Fran . . . Franch—you, whoremonger!”

“Go ahead of me,” he said through his wide smile for the constable, raising his own hand now as if in a hearty farewell. “Quickly. And whatever happens, do no stop.”

Maria moved past him obediently, her horse at a trot, and Valentine fell behind her as they fled from the constable’s cries.

When they reached the corner of the alley and the wide, open street, Valentine called out,
“Vamanos!”
and he overtook Maria, leading the way as they abandoned Prague.

M
ary wasn’t exactly certain which circumstances had brought her to the point where she was once more racing along behind Valentine through city gates, but she was fairly confident that it was not good.

And she was also fairly confident that it was her fault.

She didn’t know where they were going, beyond the general direction of northwest, as they swerved around and dashed past travelers in carts and on foot, leaving clouds of dust and fading curses behind them. Valentine never looked back.

How far to the next city? How long after to the sea?

How soon would this adventure end upon her own doorstep, with Valentine riding away from Beckham Hall without her, never looking back?

The road was a hilly, live thing, snaking along the river and occasionally swerving up onto the southern hillside. They charged around blind curves, through dappled and humid shadows of the forest that reached like arms over the road as if to dip its long, branch fingers into the water. The track was hard and dusty, thankfully, for their flight could spare no misstep, and the effort required to keep herself astride would not allow Mary to dwell upon the cryptic end she and Valentine were racing toward.

They slowed to a trot after perhaps a half hour, then a walk some time later, giving Mary chance to loose her arms from the satchels she carried, securing them each carefully to the saddle behind her, one at a time. Perhaps an hour passed before Valentine veered from the road toward the river, and Mary urged her horse from the track, following him into the woods along the marshy bank.

Valentine swung from his horse quickly and let the reins fall just before it tromped into the deep, reedy wet to slurp at the water. He caught the bridle of Mary’s horse, preventing its advance to the shore despite its whinnying protest. Mary slid down without pause, swaying a moment as she caught her legs beneath her. Valentine’s hand shot out to steady her, but she shook him off, not wanting his help.

“I’m fine,” she said.

He gave a little shrug and turned to one of the wide, ancient trees. He sat down at its thick base and leaned his head against the smooth bark, closing his eyes with a sigh.

Mary mimicked his actions, although she chose a tree nearby rather than sit at his side. She took off his feathered hat and rested it in the nest created by her crossed legs.

“This is no good, Maria,” he said at last.

“I know it,” she snapped. “I’m not as dense as I was when first we met, Valentine. We have no food, no supplies. I’m not even certain where we are or where we’re going, although I’m assuming you have our location at least somewhat generalized.”

His brows lowered before he let his head fall sideways against the tree and then opened his eyes to look at her. “That is no what I meant, although our lack of supplies is a problem.”

“Oh. What do you mean, then?”

“The authorities of Prague will no give you up so easily, knowing that you have a wealthy benefactor. The constable has seen us both, seen our horses. This road is no safe for us.”

“You think they will pursue us?”

“It would no surprise me,” he said. “We can only afford a short rest for the horses, and then we must try to stay ahead of them as much as we can.”

“Is there a village nearby?”

“No any of a size that we could hope to remain invisible in.” His face turned away from her, and he seemed to be admiring the leafy canopy above them. “There is a large settlement north of here, on the Elbe. Two, three days, mayhap. No ideal, but it is there we must go, I think.”

“I don’t see how it’s so very bad, then,” she said, not at all relishing the idea of such a long journey ahead of them with little to no food. “If we can make it that far undetected, the constable will have given up. Then we can resupply and be on our way.”

“I am afraid it is no that simple,” Valentine said. “Keeping to the road would mean venturing through villages that . . . perhaps are no so safe for us.”

She glared at him. “You mean you can’t show your face in them lest you be arrested.”

“They are savage places,” he scoffed. “Full of criminals and mercenaries.”

“Don’t placate me. This journey would be a lot easier if you didn’t make enemies everywhere you went.”

“It would be easier indeed, Maria, if you had done as I asked and stayed at the Owl.”

She chose to ignore his very relevant observation. “If we can’t go through the cities, what are we to do once we reach the settlement?” Mary demanded. “Grow wings and fly?”

He grinned at her. “You are very pretty when you are being sarcastic, you know?”

“Stop,” she said, feeling her face heat. “And just tell me whatever horrid thing it is you are trying to distract me from.”

Valentine shrugged again. “We must take the river.”

Mary paused a moment and blinked. Tried to think of a way in which she had misunderstood. “You mean follow the river away from the cities?”

“No, Maria. I mean we will have to sell or trade our horses for supplies and a conveyance that is better capable of carrying us
past
the cities to the sea.”

“On the river,” she clarified flatly.

“Yes.” He gave her an encouraging smile.

“In a boat.”

He turned down his lower lip as if considering the thing. “Or something similar.”

“No.” She stood up and marched toward where their horses had wandered back up onto firmer land, leaving Valentine’s hat lying in the dirt under the trees.
“Absolutely not,”
she muttered as she grasped wildly for the reins hanging down.

“Maria, what are you doing?” Valentine called, a hint of laughter in his voice.

“No,” she repeated, throwing him a glance over her shoulder as she at last seized both straps of leather and began several false starts of trying to mount, her horse moving sideways nervously.

Valentine got up from the tree and picked up his discarded hat, heading toward her just as she finally gained her saddle. She turned the horse, but he reached her before she could move away.

“Where do you think you are going?” he asked.

“Back to Prague,” she said, looking down her nose at him. “I shall surrender myself to the constable and rejoin Lady Elmsbeth’s party.”

“Yes?” he inquired, with seemingly great interest. “And what shall you do after, when they return you to England and you must explain to your betrothed that you are already married?”

She pursed her lips and gave a short sigh through her nose. “Then I shall join up with whatever road it is we should have rather taken and meet you wherever it is that we must meet,” she said, and then paused. “What is the name of that place, exactly, so that I might ask the direction of it?”

“You will do no such thing,” he said. “Maria—”

“Valentine, I cannot be on the water, in a boat, for more than a moment. Surely you know that by now. I’ll die. Now, turn loose my horse.”

“I understand it is uncomfortable for you—”

“It’s not uncomfortable,” she gritted between her teeth. “I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I’d as soon throw myself overboard and drown rather than be afloat for longer than a ferry crossing.”

“How did you make the sea voyage to the continent?” he asked with a squint. “And how do you think you shall return to your country? By cart?”

“I stayed below decks the entire time, abed, with a special potion given me by Lady Elmsbeth,” she said.

“Ah,” he said. “You were drunk.”

“I wasn’t drunk,” she argued. “It was a
potion
. Herbs? A root of some sort, perhaps.”

“You were drunk,” he insisted. He released the horse’s bridle then and placed his hat on his head, walking away as if the subject were confidently settled in his own mind. “But we may no have the luxury of such a vessel upon our return.”

“What do you mean?” she demanded, urging her horse forward to follow his tapering back.

He held up his hands. “Passage on that type of a ship—it is costly. We will most likely find ourselves aboard a humble trading vessel. Perhaps we shall even sit upon the cargo, which does provide a lovely view of the sea should we not encounter a storm. So it is better that we accustom you to the water as soon as we are able, yes?”

“No!” she insisted. She only realized she had dismounted and was following him on foot when he turned to sit down at the base of the tree again and looked up at her expectantly, waiting for her explanation. “True, I only have a portion of coin left, but you still have a sack of—”

“Had,” he interjected.

Mary cocked her head to look at him sideways.
“Had?”

“Had. That was Teresa’s coin. I left it in the brazier at the Owl, and as I have no plan to return to Prague in the near future . . .” He gave a half shrug.

“You mean until you dump me at Beckham Hall and are on your way back through to Melk.”

“I would never dump you,” he said with an offended air. “I will place you ever so gently in the arms of your intended if you wish it. But no, I shall no divert through Prague.”

“So much for your professed love and longing for your sister, eh?”

“Bah,” he scoffed. “She wishes to throw away all I have done to keep her safe by marrying some unknown man.”

Mary blinked. “She wants to marry and leave the abbey?”

Valentine rolled his eyes as if it was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard.

“And you are refusing her?”

He held his hands out again in supplication. “What can I say? Her suitor had no chance to broach the subject with me before I was forced to leave the city against my will. I expressed my refusal to Brennie, though, and I am confident that she will relay my wishes along with the coin.”

“Oh!” Mary shouted. “You are unbelievable! How dare you play such a game with her!”

“It is no game, Maria,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, stacking his ankles as he stretched out his legs. “I am protecting her. There is no telling what sort of criminal has thought to take advantage of her vulnerable situation.”

“A criminal like yourself, you mean?” Mary countered, her hands on her hips. “It’s not as if she’d planned to run away with him without your knowledge, even though she’s surely of age to speak for herself. I fail to see what spoils he would gain by wooing a young woman who is cloistered, with no coin nor—” Mary broke off, realizing Teresa Alesander’s good fortune.

Perhaps Valentine then also realized what he’d done, for his handsome face was slack, with a slight greenish tinge.

Mary couldn’t help her chirp of laughter. “Oh, my. My, my!” She did sit at his side now, their elbows brushing. She nudged him with hers before she reclaimed the hat from his head and placed it on her own with what she was certain was a smug grin. “Perhaps someone didn’t quite think his plan through.”

“She would no,” he said.

“No?” Mary repeated. “Hmm. Let’s see—interminable amount of time in a religious cloister, or freedom with the man I love. All right, yes, I can clearly see how you would be so confident of her obedience.”

“What would you do, Maria?” he asked after several moments.

“What would I do? As soon as I had the coin in hand, I would go.” She paused, and saw his head drop only slightly, but for proud Valentine, it was a clear sign of dejection. “After all, she only has to pick up and be off. I . . . well, I had to come all this way to find you.” She feared she had said too much and so added, “So that I could marry the . . . the man I love.”

He nodded but made no reply.

“Are you reconsidering a return to Prague?” Mary asked, struggling to keep the hope from her voice. “I’m certain we could evade—”

“No,” he said suddenly and heartily. He slapped his hands on his knees and then rose, holding out a hand to Mary. “You are right. What is done is done. We must be away, Maria—we have been too long here already.”

He released her as soon as she gained her feet, and Mary began following him to the horses once more.

“But no river, Valentine. Valentine?”

 

It took two full days to reach the settlement of Drezdeny, upon the widening river Elbe, and during those two days Mary had been filled with dread. Her feeling of unease was not lessened by the sight of the savage village, its rooflines saw-toothed and asymmetrical, leaning over a river that seemed to be as broad as the Channel and twice as rough.

The streets were wide ditches, pitched with holes shimmering with steaming, putrid water. Its inhabitants, swarthy and suspicious-looking themselves, cast appraising glances at Mary and Valentine as they rode through the hazardous streets. By the time they had reached what appeared to be the village’s only livery, where the street ended abruptly at the river and a ramshackle wharf, Mary had seen such a cross-section of the settlement’s population that she greatly feared never escaping Drezdeny alive.

In contrast, Valentine’s face was calm, and he seemed pleased, muttering, “Yes, yes. We will find what we need here.”

He swung down from his horse as a thin, greasy-looking man emerged from the darkened stable and approached Valentine, the liveryman eyeing the horseflesh with blatant greed. Valentine and the man worked for a moment or two at finding a common language, although Mary could not have determined what they had agreed to speak. Their conversation seemed to deteriorate into a heated argument for several moments as they each gestured in turn to the horses and toward the river, and Mary distracted herself by studying the boats tied to the wharf.

Although the term
boats
was rather generous. There were only two proper vessels, as Mary knew the definition, but they were both long and shallow, and one was turned upside down upon the shore, a gaping hole in its side marking the end of its career. Most of the craft tethered to the tall, rough piers were crudely constructed, square rafts with a single mast at the center. The sails were patched and ragged, setting poles lashed to the masts. Some boasted a bench or stool near the center, but besides one larger raft whose mast supported a triangle of tarp perhaps meant as a makeshift shelter, it was obvious that these conveyances were for nothing more than moving goods either up or down the river short distances.