The Snow Queen (7 page)

The princess sent her landau to the hostelry at Gavle to collect them. They drove through birch groves, and pine woods, and down a long avenue of lime trees, at the end of which stood a copper-roofed manor house surrounded by terraced formal gardens. On either side of the granite-pillared portico, rows of mullioned windows were set in an imposing red-brick facade.

A maid in starched cap and apron greeted them. “The princess will see you in her drawing room,” she said. She led them through a high-ceilinged entry hall hung with shadowy tapestries, past rows of bronze sculptures on marble plinths, and along a carpeted corridor. In the drawing room there were crystal chandeliers, tall mirrors in gold-leaf frames, solemn portraits of ancestors in old-fashioned clothes, vases of flowers, an elegant green-tiled stove, and airy white curtains caught up in swags and festoons. At the far end of the room French doors stood open, with a view of green lawns and rose gardens.

“My dear Ingeborg,” said the princess, rising to greet them. “How splendid to see you!” She took hold of Madame Eriksson's hands and kissed her on both cheeks. “How well you look!” And she gave Gerda a wide, encouraging smile.

“This young person's name is Gerda Jensen,” said Madame Eriksson. “She is a young woman of more courage than good sense, a quality one meets far too rarely these days.”

“I'm inclined to agree,” said the princess. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Gerda Jensen.”

Gerda rose from her nervous curtsey, and looked shyly at her hostess. She was small, full-bosomed, tiny-waisted, olive-skinned. Clusters of glossy black curls nestled at her ears and the nape of her neck. Her eyes were a velvety brown, with thick black lashes, her cheeks flushed with good health and high spirits. Her gown was exquisite — simple of line, but made of a soft rose-coloured silk brocade. Little rose-pink slippers peeked out from under the hem.

“Will you both take a glass of wine?” asked this enchanting creature.

“With pleasure,” said Madame Eriksson, sinking into a silk-upholstered armchair. And Gerda, who never until this day had drunk anything stronger than coffee, found herself sipping wine from a crystal goblet.

Just then a little girl of five or so, a miniature version of the princess in pink and white muslin, burst into the room. A small white dog leaped excitedly at her heels.

“Oh,
maman
,” exclaimed the child, when she saw the two visitors, “it is the lady who was chased by wolves!”

“Odile, my poppet, I should never have told you that story,” laughed Madame Eriksson, scooping the little girl into her capacious lap. “I'm sure I must have given you nightmares.”

“Oh, no,” the child assured her. “It was a wonderful story. My governess never tells me stories like that.”

“I should hope she does
not!
” said Madame Eriksson. “But my dear Princess, I must confess I have come to beg a favour.”

“Anything,” said the princess, refilling her friend's glass, “if it is in my power.”

“Have you a coach and driver you could spare for a week or so, do you think?”

“But of course . . . my dear, how exciting! Are you off on another one of your journeys?”

“Oh, I am not asking for myself. Not this time. No, it is for Gerda, who is sitting here so quietly and demurely, like the well-bred young lady she is. She has this wild scheme, you see, to go off into the northern lands in search of her friend, who has managed to become mislaid.”

The princess turned to Gerda with lively interest. “All on your own? Surely not!” She glanced down at the dog, who was nosing his way into Madame Eriksson's open carpet bag. “Odile, for goodness sakes take that creature outside and amuse him.”

“He smells my supper,” said Madame Eriksson, amused.

“Your supper, indeed! I think we shall manage something better than that,” said the princess. “But now, Gerda, you must tell me the whole story, before I die of unsatisfied curiosity. Here, give me your glass.”

That evening Gerda dined on salmon pâté, and wild duck in madeira sauce, and cloudberry mousse. She ate alone at a little lacquered table in her bedchamber, for Madame Eriksson declared they were both too exhausted from their trip to be good company. The plates and tureens were willow-patterned Chinese porcelain, and the heavy silverware bore the princess's family crest. Gerda fell asleep beneath a swansdown counterpane, in a bed hung with rose-red silk damask. She did not wake until a maid in a stiff lace cap came in with her breakfast tray.

In the morning room the princess handed round pastries, and coffee in delicate chinoiserie cups. “My driver will take you north along the coast road to Lulea, and then on to Boden — it's a garrison town, and my nephew is an officer there. But beyond Boden is wilderness — two hundred miles of it, to Vappa-Vara. I don't suppose you ride?”

Gerda shook her head.

“No, I thought not. Well, I dare say you will have to travel by cart, then. You'll find it dreadfully uncomfortable.” She looked at Madame Eriksson, who nodded in grim agreement. “Well, perhaps you can go part of the way by boat. I'm sure my nephew can arrange something. In the meantime, dear Ingeborg has stripped my cupboards of fur coats and hats and flannel petticoats. We shall have to find you a trunk for them all.”

The princess, and Madame Eriksson, and the child Odile, and two parlour maids and the white dog all crowded behind Gerda on the manor house steps as the coach-and-four pulled up. The carriage was lavishly gilt-embellished, and had the princess's coat of arms on its door.

“I have drawn you a map of the road to Vappa-Vara,” said Madame Eriksson, “and perhaps you would like to put this book in your portmanteau. It's one of mine — I've taken the liberty of signing it for you.”

“May God be with you, my brave Gerda,” said the princess. “You must promise me, if you ever need help, you will send me a message.”

“I promise,” called Gerda through the carriage window.

“Did you pack those pairs of flannel drawers?” Madame Ericksson shouted out, indelicately.

“Every one,” cried Gerda. They all went on waving and calling out advice as the coachman rattled the reins, the coachman's boy leaped up beside him, and the coach moved off. Gerda peeked curiously into the enormous picnic basket the cook had packed for her, then settled back with a sigh into the velvet cushions.

North of Uppsala, it was never entirely dark, nor entirely light. There was mile after mile of pine forest, and then the trees thinned, and they came to a desolate country of swamps and tangled, stunted birch trees, with snow still lying in patches on the ground. Near Boden, under a leaden sky, the road once again disappeared into forest, with mist hanging low in the branches.

But inside the gilded coach, Gerda had rabbit skins to rest her feet on, and cashmere shawls to wrap around her shoulders. As the weather grew colder, she put on the ermine-trimmed hat the princess had given her, and thrust her hands into the princess's grey squirrel-skin muff.

By now she had grown used to the creaking and jouncing of the coach over the rough forest road. She dug through her basket of provisions for fruit and butter-rolls, then, weary of watching the endless grey miles slide by, fell into a comfortable doze.

She was dreaming that she had found Kai, and that they were sitting together in the princess's coach, on their way to the princess's manor. Kai's arm was around her; she could feel his warm breath stirring her hair. “Thank heavens you came for me, my brave Gerda,” he was whispering. “I knew one day you would rescue me from that woman's vile ensorcelment.”

And suddenly, in her dream, the coach lurched to a spine-jolting stop. Her sleep was shattered by a confusion of sounds — loud male voices, the shrill whinnying of the horses, the coachman shouting.

Someone wrenched open the door of the carriage, seized Gerda and dragged her to the ground. Her captor smelled of sweat, and musty skins, and woodsmoke. She could not scream; a large dirty hand was clapped over her mouth.

“Let her go,” a voice said, in heavily accented Swedish: a self-assured, commanding female voice.

Hastily released, Gerda staggered. She reached out for the door handle, clung to it for support.

The bandit who had seized Gerda sidestepped out of the way as a young woman strode forward. She was an inch or two taller than Gerda, and in her leather shirt and breeches looked as strong and broad-shouldered as a man. Her lank black hair hung raggedly to her shoulders. She had a bone-handled hunting knife stuck through her belt.

Gerda shrank against the carriage. Close at hand she heard a shrill, surprised cry, abruptly cut short.

She looked into the robber-girl's black, mocking eyes. Her stomach twisted with cramp. Her throat had seized up so that it was hard to get her breath.

The robber-girl's strong brown hand closed around Gerda's wrist and squeezed hard, grinding the bones together. She put her foot on the wheel and climbed onto the coachman's seat, dragging Gerda up beside her. Then she gathered the reins and cracked the whip with a flourish. Two bandits who had been holding the horses' heads jumped out of the way with grunts of surprise. The horses set off at a trot, and the carriage went careening along the rough track through the pinewoods. Behind her, Gerda could hear someone bellowing at them to stop.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

R
itva felt like a prince up there on the coachman's seat. On the floor by her feet was a wicker basket full of sausages and white bread. She concentrated on driving one-handed while she delved into the basket wih the other. Then, with her mouth full of sausage, she turned her attention to the girl.

She was dressed like a princess — or like Ritva imagined a princess must dress — in a fur-collared velvet coat and fur-lined boots of embroidered felt. “What are you going to give me for saving your life?” Ritva asked her in Finnish.

For answer the girl made a whimpering noise in her throat.

“Don't start blubbering,” said Ritva, reaching for another sausage. “You'll ruin that coat.”

The girl clutched her squirrel-skin muff to her chest and stared straight ahead over the rumps of the horses. Angry red blotches flared on her pale cheeks. Her mouth trembled.

“You can give me those boots,” said Ritva, lapsing into her mother's Saami tongue. “And that muff.” She spoke loudly and clearly but there was no response. Just then the wheels jolted over a root. Ritva shrugged, and concentrated on the road.

The coach creaked and shuddered its way over the rutted track, and after a while they came to Ritva's father's hall. It had been a castle once, a citadel of massive limestone blocks, but centuries of winter frosts had loosened the mortar and cracked the stones. Now there were great holes in the wall where ravens nested, and the central tower was riven from top to bottom as though by a lightning bolt.

One of her father's men stood gawking as Ritva rattled up to the gate.