“But at least the Margrave ain’t horribly scarred or got a bulbous nose the size of a gourd, as far as we know, which was your first fears, weren’t they, sir?”
“Yes. They were….”
“And it does explain one thing,” added Matthias. “Why there’s a law forbidding courtiers from growing beards and mustaches, if their ruler can’t grow one himself. No small wonder why he came to gawp at your beard, sir.”
“No small wonder, indeed! I’d wager none of those fellows had ever seen a full beard before. Well! I’d never have thought of myself as a zoo exhibit, or a rabble-rouser for that matter. But this beard has certainly turned me into one. And I’ll wager that if the rebel Prince Viktor is triumphant he’ll repeal the law banning beards, and every man and his widowed mother will grow one!”
Matthias grinned. It was so satisfying to see his master sounding like his old self. But the grin soon fell into a frown recalling the rest of what Hansen had confided about the
unspoken truth
. He believed him because he had overheard a most interesting conversation between the Court Chamberlain and a foreign diplomat who had missed his opportunity to flee to his homeland while the borders were still open. They conversed in the language of diplomacy—French. And as it so happened that was one language Matthias did understand. And so he lingered longer than was necessary in the state antechamber, eavesdropping while slowly clearing away the platters piled with food scraps. The two men were discussing the
unspoken truth
and the Margrave’s sister, the Princess Joanna, in the same breath.
Since her father’s death, the Princess was determined to regain her rightful place at court. She would not be silenced. She wanted her liberty. Her screaming tantrums with her brother resonated beyond the bolted doors of her apartment out into the passageways. And her wails of torment echoed through the turret’s windows. As her twin was now Margrave, he had it within his power to rescind their father’s edict that she never be released. She had expected this revocation to be her brother’s first action. But he continued to keep her locked up because the unspoken truth had manifested itself in a most distressing manner in the Princess—her mind was unbalanced.
The diplomat tempered his surprise, and Matthias found himself inching closer, when the Court Chamberlain revealed he believed the Princess’s instability of mind could be controlled. The diplomat asked to know the medicinal used in the treatment of lunatics. This had made Chamberlain smiled broadly. It was not a medication, but a person who could soothe the Princess’s black moods. He named that person, and while the diplomat did not register recognition, Matthias knew at once. That name was the last two words he heard of that conversation. His eavesdropping was abruptly terminated when he was cuffed hard across the ear by a liveried footman and told to get on with his job.
“Here, let me finish dressing you, sir,” the valet said, gathering his thoughts to reveal all to his master. “They might come for me at any moment, and you need to be ready for when you’re fetched, too.”
Sir Cosmo complied and shrugged his shoulders into the frock coat. He allowed Matthias to fuss over him, and wished he not taken such niceties for granted, particularly the services of his valet. He vowed never to do so again.
“Thank you, Matthias. And thank Heaven for small mercies,” he said with another sigh, this one with relief. “If the worst of it all is that the Margrave has no eyebrows and eyelashes—one assumes he wears a wig—then so be it. I will look him in the eye, if and when the time comes, and with confidence.” He forced himself to smile. “Who knows. Perhaps he’ll invite his sister to dine, just to see my beard, which will afford her some amusement in her seclusion.”
“About the sister, sir… There’s more to this
unspoken truth
where she’s concerned. She’s not in seclusion because she
chooses
to be, but because she
has
to be. If you understand my meaning…”
Sir Cosmo completely misinterpreted what his valet was hinting at, saying with annoyance, “Just because she doesn’t have a full head of hair, perfectly arched eyebrows and a row of dark lashes, shouldn’t mean she’s shut away—”
“No, sir. I mean… I don’t think she’s locked away because of
that
.”
“Then if not that then what?” When his valet moved from foot to foot, hesitating, he added patiently, “Matthias, what is it you’re
not
telling me? Better I know as not. As the Romans were used to saying:
Praemonitus praemunitus
.”
“Pardon, sir?”
“To be forewarned is to be forearmed,” Sir Cosmo stated, translating the Latin. “I don’t want to make a fool of myself at dinner; say something out of turn; mention his sister; ask about—about Miss St. Neots, if it will prejudice our cause, and hers.”
“Yes, sir. I understand. And you’re right, it would be best if you did none of those things—mention the Princess or Miss St. Neots, because…” And in a few halting sentences he recalled the conversation overheard between the Court Chamberlain and the diplomat, omitting nothing, not even the wailing and the screaming, adding hopefully when he saw his master had blanched as white as a clean sheet,
“But the Chamberlain believes the Princess’s madness can be brought under control,” Matthias replied.
He crossed to the bed recessed in the wall, to give Sir Cosmo time to digest what he’d just been told, and because watching his master turn as white as a sheet made him think of sheets in general. He set to stripping the mattress of the tumble of filthy bedclothes and flat feather pillows. He next scooped up his master’s discarded smalls, shirt and breeches and wrapped these up in the filthy sheet, reasoning he might be able to salvage at least the shirt with good laundering, and the stripped bed would give him the excuse to return with clean sheets.
“Under control?” Sir Cosmo said at last, and was skeptical. “What type of medicinal are we talking about? Laudanum? Or some derivative of such to keep her constantly sedated? Poor wretch! At least we now know why this
unspoken truth
is never talked about, and if it is, only in whispers…”
“It’s not a medicinal, sir,” the valet cut into the silence, hugging the ball of dirty laundry. “But a man—a nobleman. It’s Lord Halsey, sir—”
“
Alec
—Alec
Halsey
?”
“Yes, sir. I didn’t mishear the name. The Court Chamberlain and the Margrave are convinced Lord Halsey is just the man to control the Princess’s broken mind.”
Sir Cosmo had suffered a monumental shock. Yet he believed every word Matthias told him. The revelation answered the question as to why Alec, and not any other diplomatic functionary of His Majesty’s government, had been requested specifically to negotiate the terms of his friends’ release. It was a way of getting him to Midanich, his friends’ lives the lure to make certain he returned. But while that answer closed the door on that question, which had baffled Sir Cosmo since he was first locked up, a whole host of other question-doors opened.
Why were the Baron and the Margrave investing all their hopes in Alec? He knew Alec had spent time as a Foreign Office flunkey here at the court. But that was a long time ago. What was Alec to this Princess? Had the Princess been waiting for Alec’s return for ten long years? Was she the reason he’d ended up in the castle’s dungeon, only to make a daring escape from a prison said to be impossible to break out of, and thus was still talked about today? And most baffling of all: Once Alec did return, how precisely was he going to control the Princess’s madness?
And then it came to him, as if he’d struck over the head by a blunt object and the answer pounded into his brain. For added effect, at the same time, there was a short sharp rap on the door. The sleepy guards were immediately awake and stumbling about in response. Into the room marched four soldiers of the Margrave’s household guard, and behind them, their captain holding in his gloved hand a coil of silken rope. It was time for Sir Cosmo to join the Margrave for dinner.
Matthias dropped the laundry bundle and fell to his knees before his master.
“Sir,” he pleaded, wanting to be seen to be doing something, anything, so he wouldn’t receive another cuffing for lingering. “Stick out your foot! I got to adjust y’buckles.
Mechanically, Sir Cosmo did as he was told, coming out of his reverie with dawning wonder. He knew why the Court Chamberlain and the Margrave wanted Alec in Midanich. The answer should have presented itself to him immediately when Matthias relayed the conversation between the Court Chamberlain and the foreign diplomat. After all, no one knew Alec better than he—they’d been the closest of friends since their teens at Oxford. He looked down at his valet.
“That poor creature’s mind isn’t the only thing that’s broken about her. It’s her heart, Matthias. The Princess suffers from a broken heart.”
‘
R
EMIND
ME
: How many miles from here to Aurich?” Alec asked, studying the map of Midanich spread across the surface of a long table that held the remnants of a late dinner. When an answer was not immediately forthcoming, he glanced up over his rims, first at Colonel Müller and then at Jacob Luytens, both of whom sat opposite. “Is it twelve or fourteen?”
“Fourteen miles,” Jacob Luytens responded.
Alec’s gaze returned to the ordnance survey, provided on request and without question by Colonel Müller. He pointed to markings on the map just west of a church spire. “It’s not shown here as complete, but can I assume the canal and its towpath now run the entire fourteen miles between here and Aurich?”
“It does. It was completed as far as Aurich just last summer, in time for the season’s peat harvest,” Jacob Luytens replied. He pointed to areas on the map. “This indicates the peat fields north and south of the township. There are more fields further northeast, here, near Eversmeer. There were plans to extend the main canal beyond Aurich come the spring thaw. If Midanich wants to pull itself out of the Middle Ages, then we need waterways. Without them we can’t hope to get the peat sods here to Emden, and then shipped to market.” He sat back in his chair and sighed, a resentful glance at Colonel Müller who was nursing a dry mug which had earlier been full of hot tea, and who was also closely studying the map. He was unable to keep the sourness from his tone. “But I doubt it’ll be the weather that impedes progress, but this conflict—if it lasts beyond spring into summer. And even if it doesn’t, there might not be the manpower needed to dig the trenches, or the peat fields, come to think on it. The war put paid to the last peat shipment being sent on to Holland, our biggest market, which means the consortia of investors, of which I am one, remain out of pock—”
“That’s unfortunate, and not my concern for the moment,” Alec interrupted curtly.
He was tired, physically and emotionally, and he itched to remove his eyeglasses. He wanted a bath—to wash off the day’s grime, and the metaphorical dirt of his deception in not disabusing Colonel Müller and the town’s representatives that he was there as the representative of Margrave Ernst. He had spent the day inspecting troops, the cannon and men positioned out along the star parapets, and talking with worried town officials about their concerns for the future. Such deception did not sit well with him, but he had to constantly remind himself that it was not only Emily’s and Cosmo’s lives that were now his concern if he did not pull off this ruse, but the entire party come over with him from England.
A warm bath and bed would have to wait. There was still much to do if he hoped to set off across country early the next morning. He could not delay beyond that. Every day which passed increased his anxiety for his friends’ safety, and that, too, gave his normally placid voice a harsh edge.
“With respect, Herr Baron, it’s not your concern, it’s mine,” Jacob Luytens stated, and muttered to himself, “Waste of good fuel to have it stockpiled in a warehouse…”
This bitter and thoroughly selfish remark was enough to momentarily divert Alec’s thoughts from his upcoming journey. He studied his merchant host over the rims of his spectacles.
“Correct the assumption, but surely having a stockpile of turf this side of the Ems is a godsend to Emden’s citizens this winter? With the town suffering siege conditions, and very little in supplies getting in, other than what is confiscated off the ships waylaid in the estuary, turf for their heaters is some small consolation…?”
Alec let the sentence hang, a significant glance at the
kachelofen
—the tall masonry heater covered in pretty blue-and-white ceramic tiles. Dutch in origin, such heaters were widespread throughout northern Europe. It stood in the corner of the long narrow room and almost reached the ceiling. It radiated constant warmth much more efficiently than any English fireplace, not only for the men seated about the table, but through a system of pipes, it ingeniously provided warmth to the rest of this four-story house.
Situated on the best canal in Emden, this substantial residence of colored sandstone with a red-tiled roof, belonged to the merchant, and England’s consular official, Jacob Luytens. It was to Luytens’ house Alec and his party had been brought when the British consul had finally arrived at the Customs House to greet his English masters, with no explanation as to his tardiness. And as his visitors were too tired to be bothered to ask for one, Luytens blithely offered rooms in his fine establishment until a suitable house, just a few doors up from this one, could be made ready for the Duchess of Romney-St. Neots, Plantagenet Halsey, and their servants. Its masonry heater requiring a full day of constant fuel before it reached an ambient temperature that would remove the winter chill from all the rooms and warm them sufficiently for habitation.
“The distribution of heating supplies is a matter for Emden’s council,” Jacob Luytens stated evenly, keeping his anger in check for the benefit of Colonel Müller. But he could not help adding in a rush, in his native Dutch, when Alec remained impassive, “With respect, you know I’m a merchant first and foremost. I must make a profit. As it is, I’ve still much to recoup since the English occupation during the last war. And now this—a bloody civil war! The last thing any of us was expecting—or wanting. If this lot get wind of a stockpile, I stand to lose my entire investment.”