Flight From Blithmore (19 page)

“Remember
your names!” he hissed to them.

A
dozen men circled the camp. All wore their most menacing faces and kept their
hands near the hilts of their swords. Despite his cool demeanor, Ruther had
never felt in greater danger in his life. At a word from the brigadier, these
men could fall on them, and all six lives would end in seconds. Fortunately, an
ignominious death in the hills of rural Blithmore had never been a part of
Ruther’s grand plan for his life.

“Gentlemen,”
he called out, his arms outstretched in placating friendliness. “Gentlemen, why
the hostility? I have offered to show you my small troupe. If you don’t like
performers, you should have said so.”

“What
are your names?” growled the brigadier. It was more an order than a question.

“I
am Robert,” Ruther began, “this is Brad, Ian, Jennifer, and Jennifer is sick in
the carriage . . . poor thing. Consumption.”

“Then
who is she?” the seasoned soldier asked pointing a black-gloved hand at Maggie.

“That
is Jennifer.”

The
permafrost-green eyes of the brigadier watched Ruther with the utmost scrutiny.
“You said Jennifer was sick.”

“She
is,” Ruther responded in his least confrontational voice, “but this is also
Jennifer. There are two.”

“What
about that man?” came the question with a finger pointing to James.

Ruther
followed the finger to James’ face and back to the brigadier. He gave him a
confident smile and dismissing gesture of the hand. “That’s our Jimmy. A deaf
mute so empty-headed that he is only capable of communicating through the
crudest of gestures. He is our workman. He sews and cooks for us.”

“A
pleasure to meet you,” Henry said with a wave so enthusiastic, Ruther cringed.

The
brigadier surveyed the camp, but Ruther knew everything appeared normal. The
breakfast plates and mugs were dirty with bits of food still left on them. “The
women do not do your cooking and knitting?”

“My
dear sir,” Ruther explained, “our Jennifers are skilled artists capable of the
most precise, soul-piercing gestures and articulations. To put their feminine
hands through the arduous, monotonous task of sewing or cooking . . . . What if
a needle pierced their skins? Or fire burned them? I couldn’t have that! What’s
more is I have no doubt a performance from any of these artists, be it solo or
ensemble, could extract every last tear stored in the collective eyes of your
soldiers.”

Many
of the soldiers in the circle had relaxed their hands during Ruther’s speech,
but the brigadier was not impressed. “When is your next performance?” he asked.

Ruther
shook his head sadly. “That’s the trouble. We spent several weeks in the northern
cities, and now our sights are set for the south. I’m certain you’ve noticed
the change in the season, and most troupes have trouble drawing crowds in the
northern snow. We intend to seek audiences again as soon as we are south of
Ramus.”

“Why
are you traveling so far out in the hills, and not closer to the river?”

“As
I said, we fear the criminals, but also,” Ruther assumed a melancholy air, “to
avoid being accosted so frequently. It grows heavy on the mind after a time,
and we prefer to try and have some level of anonymity. Certainly someone of
your status in the military can understand the burden of fame?”

Ruther
could see the brigadier trying hard to not be flattered. If such was the case,
it could be dangerous to push it any farther. Some men smelled sycophancy
better than others, another fact his uncle had taught him.

“So
you intentionally stay below the visibility line of these hills?”

“As
I said, we carry a sick member of our troupe. Her consumption is compounded by
the cold weather, and the sunlight irritates her awfully in the mornings and
evenings.”

“Of
course,” the brigadier said, “but since I’ve never seen you perform nor heard
of you, I remain unconvinced until I see proof of your claims.”

Henry
made some small movement which Ruther did not dare risk further investigating,
for he knew this was the critical moment where the brigadier would either
decide for or against him. Unbroken eye contact was essential.

“What
proof would you require of us, sir?” Ruther asked. “We have no writ of passage,
nor letters of identification. As you know, the law does not demand proof of
occupation for performers.”

“You
are correct,” came the sharp answer, “but since we are hunting for a party of
criminals roughly your size, unless you can produce satisfactory evidence, I am
placing you under arrest.”

“But,
sir!” Henry protested. Maggie gasped and sputtered, and Brandol looked on the
verge of fainting. James even flinched mildly, though by and large he
maintained his illusion of deafness.

Ruther
ignored the exclamations of his peers and kept smiling. “If that’s your wish,
go right ahead and arrest us. Or, perhaps to save both parties a lot of time
and distance, we can present you with the simplest proof of all. A show for
your men?”

The
brigadier seemed undecided, and that was when Ruther became nervous. Whether
from curiosity or boredom or simply a love of theatre, the older of the two
captains asked, “How long is your shortest performance?”

The
brigadier turned abruptly and exchanged a short word (which Ruther could not
hear) with his second-in-command. The captain hurried to explain his sudden
outburst. Then the brigadier gave his attention back to Ruther and asked again,
“How long will this take?”

“One
half hour,” came the proud announcement. “The greatest half hour of your
lives.”

The
brigadier raised his eyes heavenward. “You have fifteen minutes to prepare.”
Then to his captains he ordered, “Go gather the rest of your men.”

Twenty-Four
-

A Soldier & His Lady

The
easy part
was over. With the soldiers’ interest piqued and even the
brigadier’s curiosity aroused, now came the true challenge. How would he get
his friends to perform a short play? Ruther keenly sensed the hopelessness
among them. Maintaining his composure took every bit of self-awareness he possessed.
Up in the sky, the dark clouds were moving onward farther west and the sun was
now casting its warming rays on the hills. Ruther hoped this signaled good
things to come for them.

“We
will require the use of our carriage to prepare,” he said to the brigadier. “In
the meantime, make yourselves as comfortable as you can.” His attention turned
to Henry and the others who followed him out of the soldiers’ sight.

“I
don’t know how to act!” Maggie hissed at him as soon as they were behind the
carriage. “You are mad—
mad
if you think this can work!”

“It
can,” he explained quietly as he handed her one of Isabelle’s dresses. “It has
to. Go inside there and put this on as quickly as you can. You’ve seen plays
done by the local guilds, so why—”

“Yes,”
Henry said, “seen, but not performed in.”

“Where’s
the difference?” Ruther asked. “Pretend you are an actor pretending to be
someone else.”

“I
can’t—I can’t—I—I—can’t do it,” Brandol finally managed to say.

Ruther
ignored him.

“What
are we going to do?” Henry asked. “What will the story be?”

“One
that everyone has seen:
The Soldier and His Lady
.”

“I
haven’t seen that!” Maggie protested.

“It
doesn’t matter,” Ruther said, “because all you have to do is pretend that you
love me and kiss—”

“No.
Absolutely not.”

“Maggie,”
Henry said, “we don’t have many choices here.”

An
intense look of loathing filled her eyes as she crossed her arms. “I would
rather die than kiss Ruther.”

“Fine,”
Ruther responded. He knew he should have expected such a reaction from her.
“Brandol, you’re the soldier, get in James’ uniform. I’ll play the villain.
James will be my mute servant. I will kidnap Maggie and tell long monologues
about my villainy and infamy, and Brandol—try not to mumble or stutter as you
deliver your lines.”

“But—but—but
I can’t do it! I ain’t never done nothing—” Brandol’s face turned a blotchy
mixture of white and red as he fumbled with James’ uniform. “I get nervous when
I—”

“Don’t
we all?” Ruther replied with an insincere smile and three patronizing taps on
Brandol’s head.

“Please,
Ruther,” Brandol begged, but Ruther did not have time to coddle him.

“What
will I do?” Henry asked.

Ruther
surveyed Henry for a moment. His smile turned into a look of pity. “Sorry,
friend, soldiers don’t have servants, but ladies do. Unless you want to kiss
your sister, you’ll have to be her maidservant.”

“I
am not playing a woman.”

Maggie
shot a sideways look at her brother. “
Henry, we don’t have many choices here
.”

“Please
don’t make me be no soldier,” Brandol’s face had become so white he looked as
though he wore thick make-up. “I—I—”

Ruther
stamped his foot. “Will you all cooperate with me? I am trying to save your
lives. For all your complaints about not being able to act, you’re all playing
the parts of children astoundingly well.” He sighed as he peeked around the
carriage at the skeptical soldiers arranging themselves in a way for everyone
to see the performance. This was going to be a disaster—no, an absolute
failure. It was a runaway carriage filled with infants careening down a steep hillside
at the bottom of which waited sharp rocks and large, hungry lions.

Ruther
explained as much as he could in fifteen minutes about what he expected each
person to do, stressing the need to never stop performing. No one looked
confident or prepared, but what else could he do? After they changed into their
costumes, he went out and stood in front of the crowd of soldiers that had
grown from thirteen to fifty. They regarded him with a blend of interest and
doubt.

In
his black cape and pants, Ruther was an impressive figure. His large size made
him the perfect villain. The attention of so many people nourished his soul and
filled him with boundless energy. Ruther the man was loud, fat, and annoying,
but Ruther the performer was almost a god. True, he was not an actor, he was a
storyteller, but he did have a little training, and in the end, performance was
performance.

“Soldiers
of the noble and great King Germaine of Blithmore!” he cried. Only a few cheers
rose from the audience. “We welcome you to a special and private performance of
The Soldier and His Lady
. Due to the unexpected nature of the show, we
will not be in make-up or full costumes, but do not worry! You will not leave
disappointed! Without further adieu, I give you:
The Soldier and His Lady
!”

No
applause came as Ruther left the grassy area which acted as a stage. Nor did it
come when Maggie walked out dressed as noble-like as anyone could ask of her.
Ruther had been to dozens of performances in his life and could not remember a
single instance where a beautiful woman such as Maggie had not been applauded,
whistled, or cat-called upon entrance. However, when Henry arrived seconds
later wearing a peasant’s dress, Ruther heard several stifled snickers.

“Lady
Withem,” Henry said in the grating falsetto voice Ruther had instructed him to
use, “you look like the best—best . . . picture of beauty. I have no doubt that
you will be the ball of the belle!”

“Do
you really think so, Rosemetta?” Maggie asked, the fear in her voice
thick—almost too much to pass as nervousness for a ball. “Oh, I do hope my
soldier will be there!”

“I
have no doubt he will be there, my Lady. For—for you are too beautiful for him
to not see you. And he will certainly arrive on the most punctual of times.”

“Oh
dear heavens,” Ruther pressed his face into the palms of his hands, “I should
have made Henry the mute. Now we’re all going to die.”

“Thank
you, Rosemetta,” was Maggie’s reply, “but what shall I wear as jewelry?”

“Only
the gold necklace would suit you in your lovely dress.”

“Will
you fetch it for me?”

“Yes,
my Lady!” Henry responded, far too eager to sound like a genuine maidservant.

In
a second, Henry came around the carriage where Ruther waited with the rest of
the “actors.” Meanwhile, Maggie continued to speak in a soliloquy about her
love for her soldier. The longer she spoke, the more convincing she sounded,
and Ruther was forced to conclude that with a little practice, she could
probably pass off as a respectable performer.

“This
will not work!” Henry hissed. “What was going on in your head when you came up
with this idea?”

“The
only reason for its failure will be you, friend.” He poked Henry hard in the
chest and used the same tone as Henry. “You do know how to speak like an
intelligent human, don’t you? Because if so, try doing it!”

“Not
in front of fifty soldiers hunting for me, and not as a woman!”

“It
doesn’t matter what you think, because you are not you. You are not Henry. You
are Bradley, and Bradley is an actor. Bradley likes acting as a woman. Even in
front of fifty soldiers who are certainly not hunting for him because he is
Bradley not Henry.”

Henry
wasn’t done protesting his opposition, but Ruther headed him off. “Go out there
and give the Lady her golden necklace,” he whispered, shoving Maggie’s gold
necklace in Henry’s hand.

Henry
took it and left.

“Here
is your golden necklace, my Lady,” his high voice screeched as he walked out.
“Allow me to put it around your pearl neck.”

“Thank
you, Rosemetta. I think I am nearly ready. Will you please summon the driver?”

“Yes,
my Lady.”

Ruther
chuckled at Henry’s pale face and agitated expression. It reminded him too much
of Brandol. Then Ruther drew his cloak around his face and straightened his
flat hat. His most wicked grin adorned his lips. When he came around the
carriage’s rear, he pantomimed climbing in through a window and entered behind
Maggie unseen.

“Lady
Witham!” Ruther cried in a booming, sinister voice.

Maggie
yelped and clutched her face. “Who are you? Why are you in my room? Do you
intend me harm?”

“I
intend you no harm . . . unless you do not come with me, Lady.”

“Are
you that wicked man, Bartholomew Evilute, who sneaks into fair ladies’ rooms
and abducts them for your own wicked purposes?”

“Perhaps
I am,” Ruther responded as impiously as ever. He could sense the interest in
the crowd growing, the eyes resting on him, waiting to see what he would do
next. “Or perhaps I am a misunderstood traveler who enjoys the company of a
beautiful woman. Perhaps I am not truly so wicked as rumors would imply. Does
Deity glare malignantly at a man whose history is so scarred and warped as
mine?”

Ruther
continued in this vein for a few minutes while Maggie watched him with an
entranced interest. He spoke of the sins of his father, of his mother, and of
their parents. By the time he was finished, no one could be truly certain of
his guilt. Then he lunged for Maggie.

“No!”
she pleaded, “Let me go! Help me, Rosemetta!”

“Quiet,
wench!” Ruther roared nastily, “or I shall be forced to use bodily harm against
you.” Then he grabbed her behind the head and forced a kiss on Maggie’s soft
lips. Maggie instantly broke away and laid a solid slap across Ruther’s face.

Despite
the sting, Ruther stayed in his character and laughed derisively. Still there
was no vocal response from the audience. Maggie responded by struggling one
last time, but all she managed to do was break her necklace in Ruther’s hand.
When the necklace broke, Maggie gasped loudly and became compliant as they
exited the stage.

“You
broke my necklace!” she whimpered.

“You’ve
got to go now,” Henry was telling Brandol on the far side of the carriage.
Brandol’s pale face and trembling hands, compounded with the sight of his
smaller build inside James’ too-large clothes, gave him the look of a terrified
child. Ruther cringed. If anything would offend the soldiers, it would be the
sight of Brandol in a guardsman’s uniform.

“I
can’t do it, Master Henry. Ruther, please, tell him!”

For
a moment, Ruther thought he was going to have to watch Brandol cry. He looked
to Henry for help.

“Get
out there, Brandol,” Henry said. “It’s your time.”

“Please!”
Brandol begged so pathetically that Ruther almost relented. Before Ruther’s
sense of sympathy could win over, he put his hands manfully on Brandol’s
shoulders and gave him a moderate push.

“Get
on that stage and talk for a few minutes about how much you love Mag—I mean,
Lady Witham.”

“I
don’t love Maggie,” Brandol said. The pitch of his voice was much higher than
normal, almost as high as Henry’s Rosemetta.

“Then
talk about her as though she was your mother.” With one final shove, Brandol
stood alone in front of fifty soldiers. Ruther heard a few scattered, derisive
laughs from the otherwise silent troops. “Dear God, please don’t let Brandol
screw this up.”

Then
Brandol began speaking.

He
spoke in short spurts, as though he were gasping for air and trying to vomit
words in between breaths. His voice continued to grow higher and higher until
it was so unnatural it sounded like mouse squeaks. “I love me mother. She is
me—my Lady Weth—Wetmum—Witham. My mother is my mother. And I love my Lady.
She’s so beautiful. She is so . . . beautiful—very beautiful. I wanna dance
with her. At the dance I will ball with her—ball—dance with her.”

“Thanks
for nothing, God!” Ruther hissed.

Several
more laughs joined the small chorus.

“She
ain’t—is not here,” Brandol continued. “Methinks she was napped—kidnapped. By
Bartho . . . lotho . . . new—the evil wicked bad man. I have to save my Lady!”

The
mirth of the crowd leaped another level. Ruther could not tell if this was good
or bad. Was the performance so awful that the soldiers thought it was funny?
Then all of a sudden, the soldiers erupted into howls of laughter. Ruther
couldn’t hear Brandol, so he peeked under the carriage to see what was
happening.

Brandol’s
pants were pooled around his quaking ankles, and he was fumbling furiously to
pick them up. The few faces Ruther could see in the crowd were red with
laughter. The brigadier even wept as he chortled. Brandol could not seem to
keep his hands steady enough to pull his pants back up, and so they continued
to slip back down, causing the fifty men to laugh harder and harder. Finally he
secured them back around his waist and mumbled something about a rescue that
was so high it almost didn’t register in Ruther’s ears.