Deadly Peril (13 page)

It took Matthias less than a minute to think it over. He then nodded, returned the sharpened razor, whetstone, scissors, and damp lather brush to the tortoiseshell toiletries box. He bowed.

“Very good, sir. I just hope it does you more good than harm. I’ll see you in two days’ time. They can at least let me comb and trim the hair on your head.”

That was the last Sir Cosmo saw of his faithful valet. By the tally under his bed, that was thirty five days ago; the full beard on his face, which he could not see because he had no access to a looking glass, also told him so. And for his recalcitrance in not allowing himself to be shaved (despite threats he would be held down and the deed done regardless of his wishes), not only was he refused permission to see Matthias, but he was also denied his weekly bath and put on a ration of one meal a day. All he had to do to have his privileges restored was to allow himself to be shaved. He would then see Matthias, have his clothes laundered, be given two meals a day, and his bathing privileges would be returned.

Sir Cosmo held out, and this despite an even greater melancholy descending upon him. It was just as well he was separated from Emily, for he would hate for her to see him in such a deplorable state, he who had always been immaculately groomed. What must he look like, with his hair matted (he had long ago given up wearing his tired wig), an ill-kept beard, and his person reeking of bodily odors that were akin to that of a barn animal?

For the first time in a long while he allowed himself to cry in daylight, and he did not care whether the guard looked on. He crawled up into his bed niche, pulled the filthy sheets up over his head, and cursed his vanity. Equal doses of self-pity and self-loathing mixed with a weariness of spirit turned his crying into quiet, aching sobs. Mind fatigued with turmoil, he fell into a deep sleep.

He was shaken awake two hours later. He had guests. The Court Chamberlain, the Captain of the Guard, and three beefy soldiers.

~   ~   ~

‘
A
RE
YOU
LISTENING
, M’sieur? M’sieur Mahon?” Captain Westover demanded in French. “It is imperative you know how to conduct yourself in the presence of His Highness. You are not to make eye contact. You are to keep your eyes lowered at all times. You are not to speak unless directly addressed. You will—M’sieur Mahon? Are you listening? Lift his head! Lift it! I want to see his face!”

A tuft of Sir Cosmo’s matted hair was grabbed and his head jerked up for the Captain’s inspection. Sir Cosmo’s eyes rolled in their sockets and his jaw fell open. Baron Haderslev, who stood at the Captain’s shoulder, took a step closer. The stench of the prisoner’s breath knocked him back and he pinched his nostrils shut before he caught sight of the foaming spittle oozing from the corner of the man’s cracked lips.

Captain Westover snapped his gloved fingers to the guard standing to attention in the doorway and beckoned him.

“A bucket of icy water! Now!” he barked in his native German.

The Baron remained incredulous that this bedraggled and hirsute prisoner was one and the same as the debonair Englishman pointed out to him in the anteroom the day Margrave Leopold had died. He glanced at Captain Westover to see his reaction, but the Captain had turned a shoulder to have words with one of his soldiers, leaving the Baron to stare at Sir Cosmo, face flooding with shame.

In truth he had forgotten the Englishman’s existence, and thus that he was a prisoner. So caught up had he been, firstly in the funeral arrangements for Margrave Leopold’s interment, and then the elaborate investiture for his successor. The day after the ceremony, Margrave Ernst had gone off at the head of his army to engage Prince Viktor’s rebel troops in battle, the Baron and the court waving him off across the drawbridge.

Margrave Ernst in full armor, breastplate painted a glossy black and emblazoned in gold with the Herzfeld coat of arms. A luxuriant full-bottom wig of elaborate curls, made from the long hair of twenty blonde virgins, covered his bald pate under a tricorne hat edged in ermine. His leather gloves were studded with precious stones, and the cape pinned across his shoulders was of ermine lined with chinchilla. Such an elaborate suit of clothing only heightened the glaringly obvious. The Margrave was as fine-boned and petite as his twin sister. No amount of manly attire could transform him from appearing the
petit-maître
. He would always be one of Plato’s moon people, neither male or female in appearance.

Sir Cosmo’s existence was only remembered by the Baron when Ernst returned from battle, a month after setting out, with only half his troops, and one victory from three battles. The final engagement had seen him flee, the severe weather aiding escape to the safety of his castle. Prince Viktor encamped for the winter at Friedeburg Palace in the south with his ever-growing number of supporters and troops. The only factors stopping Prince Viktor from pressing his advantage were the weather and Castle Herzfeld’s impenetrable defenses.

After a meeting of ministers, the Margrave had detained the Baron, wanting news of any correspondence from the British consul regarding the return of Alec Halsey. Haderslev had prevaricated and immediately sought out Captain Westover. And now, here they were, standing over the prisoner, and the Baron feeling oddly ashamed. After all, the Englishman had done nothing wrong. His only crime was being the best friend of Alec Halsey. He was also a gentleman, a member of the ruling class in his own country and should have been treated accordingly, if not for the fact that the Margrave had decided to hate all Englishmen since Alec Halsey’s escape.

The Baron’s shame did not stop him watching on impassively as the Captain brutalized the Englishman, ordering Sir Cosmo’s head be shoved into the bucket of icy water.

This served the dual purpose of cleaning the prisoner’s face and bringing him fully awake. And to ensure he was attentive, the Captain told Sir Cosmo that if he did not supply immediate responses to his questions, he would find not only his nose but his lungs full of water. Did M’sieur Mahon understand? And before Sir Cosmo could respond, the Captain made a gesture and Sir Cosmo’s head was thrust under water a second time, and long enough for him to start struggling for breath.

The Baron saved the prisoner taking in water when he laid a gloved hand on the Captain’s sleeve. “No more. Give him something to dry himself.”

The Captain nodded to one of his men who threw a towel on the floor at the prisoner’s knees.

Sir Cosmo was now sitting on his haunches unassisted, taking deep breaths to fill his deprived lungs. Finally, he wiped his face and beard dry then rubbed his matted hair. He remained where he was, eyes lowered, but did not heed the Captain’s warning to remain silent until spoken to.

“Is Emily—Is Miss St. Neots well?”

“She is not your concern, M’sieur—”

“She is my
only
concern!”

“You will speak when spoken—”

“I demand you take me to her! Until I see her with my own eyes I won’t believe you—”

“Enough of your demands!” Captain Westover growled, and cuffed Sir Cosmo hard across the ear for his insolence. “Another word and I’ll have your eyes put out, and then what will you see, eh, Englishman?”

Sir Cosmo fell, chin hitting the parquetry hard, teeth cutting into his lower lip and drawing blood. He remained sprawled on the floor, whatever fight left in him draining away with the blood that dripped into his beard.

“I said, no more!” the Baron growled in German. He hurried forward and took Sir Cosmo by the elbow and helped him to his knees. “Be obedient, or I cannot help you or your female companion,” he hissed in his ear in French, before stepping away.

“Where’s his valet?” the Captain demanded of one of his guards.

“The valet will not be joining us,” the Baron replied. “His Highness wants the Englishman as you see him.”

“What?” The Captain was so shocked his mouth dropped open. “With that hair grown on his face?” he finally said in a thin voice. “But—no one is permitted into the presence of His Highness like that! To grow facial hair is against the law. I will not break the law, and I will not allow you to—”

“You forget yourself, Captain,” Baron Haderslev replied curtly. “It is only breaking the law if
we
do it. The law was instituted by the Margrave’s grandfather. Our Margrave, his grandson, can break the law—change it—do whatever he likes. Understand me?”

Westover stared at the Baron in mutinous silence then nodded.

“Very well, Herr Baron,” he conceded. “But the prisoner should at least be bathed and put into a change of clothes before he is taken into the presence of His Highness.”

There were voices in the corridor beyond the small room. The soldiers at either side of the doorway came to attention, chins up and eyes straight. Captain Westover’s voice trailed off. He beckoned the two soldiers standing over Sir Cosmo to come closer; they knew what to do if the prisoner moved even a facial muscle.

“No time,” Baron Haderslev hissed over his shoulder, then stepped forward to greet his sovereign.

T
HE
SMALL
CHAMBER
was suddenly crowded with gentlemen. Sir Cosmo peered through the tangle of hair that fell into his eyes at the cluster of boots and heeled shoes; the fabric-covered shoes better befitting a woman, or a nobleman when the short-statured Louis XIV ruled France. One pair of boots stood out. They were of highly-polished black leather, molded to the wearer’s feet, with square toes and gold spurs to the heels. They stretched up over the calves and ended just above the knees in a large cuff, folded over to show the leopard skin lining. A row of silver buckles up the outer side of the leg secured the leather to the leg. Sir Cosmo countered thirteen buckles. He was good at counting these days. It kept him calm. He rightly presumed such luxuriant boots belonged to the Margrave, all other footwear remaining two steps behind. Sir Cosmo dared not lift his chin, keeping his gaze on those pair of boots. He remained on his knees, head lowered, and hands clasped in front of him, suitably supplicant. Yet, he was unable to stop his shoulders from shaking with private humor. He chuckled to himself at the grave absurdity of his situation and how, even in solitary confinement and treated with violence, he still had it in him to covet a fine pair of boots.

“L
IFT
HIS
HEAD
. Show me his face.”

At Margrave Ernst’s commands, Westover nodded to a guard who once again grabbed a handful of Sir Cosmo’s hair and jerked his head up, but this time until his nose pointed at the ceiling. There was a collective gasp from the knot of courtiers. None had ever seen a full beard before. It not only covered the prisoner’s cheeks and chin but his throat as well.

The Margrave held a perfumed handkerchief to his nostrils and gingerly stepped closer, captivated. The courtiers stayed where they were but unconsciously leaned forward, just as fascinated.

“And he’s a nobleman, you say?”

“Yes, Highness,” replied Baron Haderslev.

The Margrave continued to peer down at Sir Cosmo, intrigued. When he spoke he briefly removed the handkerchief from under his nose, then replaced it, sniffing each time he did so.

“It’s a different color to the hair on his head…”

Haderslev and Westover exchanged a wary glance, neither knowing how to respond.

“Does he understand what I’m saying?”

“No, Highness. He speaks French and English but no German.”

The Margrave shook his head, disappointed, and with a limp movement of a bejeweled finger indicated the guard could let go of the prisoner’s hair.

“And he’s a nobleman, you say?” repeated the Margrave. “Halsey spoke all three, and Italian, Spanish,
and
Dutch, too.” He gave a huff of annoyance, then sniffed deeply of the bergamot scent sprinkled on his lace handkerchief. “And this is
his
best friend? Are you certain?”

“According to the British consul, yes, Highness.”

“Has he told you anything I don’t already know about Halsey?” the Margrave asked his Captain of the Guard.

“No, Highness. That is, I don’t know what you know about Herr Halsey.”

The Margrave looked to his chamberlain.

“And you? Has he told you anything worth repeating?”

In spite of himself the baron blushed guiltily because he did not want to reveal he had forgotten all about this Englishman’s existence. So he lied. “Nothing, Highness.”

“Then I must see what I can do to get the ape to talk. Though I have never heard an ape speak, in any language…”

When the Margrave looked over his shoulder at the huddle of courtiers, to a one they tittered. Haderslev and Westover exchanged a wary glance, communicating the same thought—
mindless sycophants
.

“Forgive me, Highness, but I—” began the chamberlain and was cut off.

“Is Halsey on his way?” asked the Margrave. “Can you at least tell me
that
?”

Haderslev looked to Captain Westover, who said without hesitation, “Yes, Highness. I had a report from my agent in Emden yesterday. A scout sent word that when Halsey’s ship entered the Ems estuary it was met by one of ours, and boarded. As you know, we have a flotilla patrolling the estuary, picking off ships with cargo—mostly Dutch heading for Delfzijl—and taking them under escort to Emden, where their goods are confiscated.”

“And our Dutch neighbors? Have they challenged our sovereignty of the Ems?”

“Not to my knowledge, Highness. The ships in Delfzijl’s harbor remain at anchor. But I am yet to receive word from our spies in Amsterdam as to whether our neighbor is preparing to send ships to defend their claims to the Ems.”

“And Halsey? Did his ship come alone, or was he escorted by his arrogant English navy?”

“His ship entered the estuary alone, and from the scout’s report, crossed from England without escort.”

“Good. As soon as you get word he’s is on dry land, tell me. The Princess Joanna is very desirous of being kept abreast of news of her—of our friend.”

“Yes, Highness,” Westover replied. “I have soldiers quartered at every village along the canal, to keep the peace, and to watch for traitors. Prince Viktor’s troops may have bedded down for the winter, but they are not far from—”