Tallie's Knight (27 page)

Tallie nodded. “You
are right, as usual. Oh, the Rhone is such a pretty river. How long do you
think it will take before we reach Italy?”

Magnus frowned. There
was something peculiar about her sudden rush to get to Italy. Of course, she
had told him once that she wished to go there —to visit her parents’ graves, or
some such thing— but he’d thought she’d forgotten about it. Certainly one would
have thought the delights of Paris would more than compensate for what could
only be a duty visit, after all. But she was adamant, and he was finding it
more and more difficult to refuse his wife anything these days. He pushed aside
the unwelcome thought. But if they wanted to get to Italy, they had to cross
over the Mount Cenis Pass. Magnus repressed a shudder.

He hated heights, and
would infinitely have preferred to go by ship, but with his wife’s tendency to
seasickness there was no question of it. It had been difficult enough to
persuade her to travel down the Rhone in a flat-bottomed boat. Besides, there
was always the danger of pirates in the Mediterranean.

“According to
Maguire, we will remain on this barge for at least five days,” he said. “Until
we reach Avignon. And I thought we could rest there for a week or so. You will
want to visit the Palais des Papes, and several other sights.”

“Oh, no, I do not
think that would interest me very much,” responded Tallie mendaciously. “I have
seen a great many palaces now, and one more, even if it belonged to a pope, is
no great thing. I am not greatly interested in popes.”

Magnus regarded her
thoughtfully.

“I did hear,” he said
casually, “that some people prefer to view the Palace des Papes by moonlight.”

“Moonlight?” Her eyes
lit up, as he had known they would. Tallie thought for a moment.

“Perhaps if we stay
in Avignon for just a day or two, then.”

Magnus repressed a
smile. It was becoming easier to calculate his wife’s tastes. He watched her as
she turned her head back towards the riverbanks. He had found so much of his
life dull and tedious before his marriage. But Tallie’s open fascination with
all sorts of things had opened his eyes to a host of small pleasures and
interests and he was beginning to see the world differently. It was probably a
sign of weakness, he knew, but there seemed nothing he could do about it.

After Avignon, they
returned to their coach, which had also been transported on the barge. The
roads were a little rough, and Magnus had been worried his wife would be
sickened by the incessant jolting.

Instead, she spent
most of the journey peering out of the window and deriving great enjoyment from
the way the postillions leaped out of their enormous jackboots at every stop,
leaving the boots in the stirrups until a new man came out and leapt into the
same boots.

Finally the roads
narrowed and their pace slowed as they climbed higher into the foothills of the
Alps. Tallie called to Magnus, who was riding.

“Magnus, I don’t
think these poor horses can pull us anymore. It’s getting terribly steep.
Whatever shall we do?” She stared up into the mountains. “They cannot possibly
pull us over those mountains.”

“We stop at the next
village,” he called back. “The coach will be dismantled and mules and men will
carry it, and us, over the pass.”

“Carry the coach?”
she squeaked in amazement. “Are you hoaxing me?”

He grinned.

“Wait and see.”

They stopped for the
night at the next village, and in the morning Tallie saw the coach had been
dismantled and bound with rope into a number of huge packages. A dozen men and
as many mules were assembled outside the tiny inn. There was much shouting and
discussion as the packages were strapped to the mules under the supervision of
Maguire.

John Black, Magnus’s
coachman, watched with phlegmatic English disapproval.

“Oh, the poor things,”
Tallie said, clutching Magnus’s sleeve in distress. “Those bundles are far too
big and heavy for such dear little animals.”

“The porters know
what they are about, my dear. Do not concern yourself, they’ve all —men and
mules— done this trip many a time before today.”

Tallie looked around.

“And how do we
travel?”

“By mule, I believe,”
he replied.

Tallie looked aghast.

“I cannot ride a
mule.”

Magnus frowned.

“You have no choice.
There are no horses.”

“It would make no
difference if there were. I cannot ride. I have never been on the back of an
animal in my life.”

Magnus was stumped.
He had never heard of such a thing. Everyone he knew rode; even the females.

“What, never?”

She shook her head
and bit her lip worriedly.

Magnus walked over to
Maguire and the head porter and a brief discussion ensued. Maguire called out
an order and a young boy emerged from a nearby barn, carrying a large,
odd-shaped wicker basket. He began to strap it to the back of a mule.

Tallie observed the
preparations with deep mistrust. Magnus’s lips twitched.

“I am not going over
the Alps in that!” she muttered mutinously.

“Then there is no
point in continuing. We shall return to Paris at once,” responded Magnus.

She flung him a black
look, then stalked over to the mule and waited to be helped into the basket.
One of the porters reached towards her to do it, but Magnus was there before
him. He swung his wife into his arms and set her sideways in the basket.

“There you are,” he
said, tucking a thick bearskin around her to protect her from the cold. It
emitted a pungent odour uncomfortably reminiscent of its original unfortunate
inhabitant. Tallie wrinkled her nose. Magnus bent forward and kissed her
lightly on it.

“As snug as a bug in
a rug.”

She gave him a
baleful look.

“I feel very silly.
Why can I not walk, like those men?”

He didn’t respond,
but glanced over to where Monique, with shrieks and giggles, was being
installed likewise on another mule.

“Oh, very well,” said
Tallie crossly. “I shall behave myself —but I feel ridiculous.”

“Sometimes we must
sacrifice dignity for expediency,” said Magnus austerely, and walked away.

The ascent was slow
and tortuous, the pathway narrowing visibly until it seemed to Tallie’s eyes no
more than a few inches wide. It was amazing how the porters even knew which was
the path, for there were goat tracks leading off it at almost every turn. The
men took it in turns to carry the huge packs of their belongings. Tallie
thought of all the shopping she had done and felt guilty.

However, she soon
cheered up, because the scenery was magnificent: enormous jagged peaks and
rough crags, the occasional twisted tree, gnarled and bent by the harsh
weather. And the higher they climbed the colder it became, even though it was
summer.

The track was narrow
and tortuous, but Tallie had no time to be concerned. The most splendid,
awe-inspiring vistas lay all around her, and fresh delights were revealed with
each turn of the track and each minor peak accomplished. She had never seen
anything like it in her life —only imagined it from books like Mrs. Radcliffe’s.

And silence seemed to
hang in the air all around them. She could see some bird of prey, a falcon or a
hawk, perhaps, circling with grim patience over a crag in the distance. She
watched it bank and soar effortlessly, then suddenly dive out of sight, and she
shivered, imagining some poor tiny creature caught in its talons. The air was cold
and crisp and so pure that she felt almost dizzy breathing it.

All she could hear
was the stomping of the heavy boots of the men walking close to her and the
occasional musical ringing of a mule’s horseshoes on a stone. The sound carried
in the still, crystal air, rebounding and repeating from the jagged peaks.

Tallie had never
heard such a superb echo. She could not resist it.

“Helloooo,” she
called. The echo came back to her from a dozen distant crags. Ahead of her
Magnus turned on his mule and looked back, as if concerned. She waved.

“Helloooo, echo,” she
called again and, “Echo-echo-echo,” her words came back to her.

One of the porters
grinned at her delighted face and began to sing. In seconds others joined in,
strong male voices, deep and true, ringing through the mountains with the joy
of being young and strong and alive.

Someone up ahead
began a harmony and another man joined him, then another. An older man with a
thick white beard began a third line of harmony, a deep bass, and more voices
joined him. The mountains threw back the sound, magnifying it and leaving a
trail of echoes to mingle with the harmonies. It was better by far than any
choir Tallie had heard. It had none of the solemnity and restraint of a choir.
There was something special about a score or morel lusty male voices, ringing in
the open air, echoing with the confidence of strength and vigour as their heavy
boots pounded out the rhythm. Music rolled and swirled and echoed around the
mountains.

Tallie was enchanted.
She sat spellbound, drinking in the wonder of what was happening. Here was
plain, ordinary Tallie Robinson —who had once thought she would never go
anywhere —and now look at her!

Almost at the very
top of the world, gazing at what was surely one of the most utterly
splendiferous sights imaginable. And listening to the most glorious music in
the world. And up ahead rode her handsome, magnificent husband. And she was
almost in Italy, where she should be able to discover the truth about her
mother’s death. And she was going to have a baby. The cold mountain air
prickled at her eyes and she had to grope for a handkerchief to wipe her eyes.
It was odd how easily she cried these days, she reflected, when really she had
nothing to cry about.

She finished wiping
her eyes, then, noticing one of the porters watching her, began to clap her
cold hands in time to the music, humming along to the tune. With the singing,
the time passed more quickly, until at last the porters stopped and Magnus came
to lift her out of the basket.

“Could you hear the
singing from up ahead? Wasn’t it utterly wonderful?” she said, stretching her
cramped limbs.

“Very nice,” he
responded. “Are you warm enough?” He took her small cold hands in his and began
to chafe them gently. His hands were not exactly warm themselves, and she
became concerned when she saw he looked rather heavy-eyed and preoccupied.

“Are you all right?”
she asked.

He shrugged.

“Picked up a bit of a
chill, I suspect. Nothing to worry about. Now, I think those fellows have
brandy, or some such local brew. I want you to have a little —keep the cold
out.”

She looked around.

“Magnus, what are
they doing?”

The porters were
unloading the mules. Magnus went to discuss it with them. He came back, a faint
grin on his face.

“This is as far as
the mules go. And now, my dear, you will have to resign yourself to being
carried.”

Sure enough, the men
had brought out some rough-looking woven wicker litters attached to crude poles.
They gestured to Magnus, and Tallie went forward reluctantly.

In minutes she was
installed in a litter, tied down —for safety, they said— and packed in straw,
as well as bearskins, for warmth.

“I feel ridiculous,”
she said. Magnus chuckled and wound a thick woollen shawl around her face.

“You look quite
delightful, my dear.”

Tallie could hardly
move, so she directed an almost invisible glare at him.

“Monsieur?” said a
porter. Magnus turned. The porter gestured to another litter, sitting beside
Tallie’s.

“Please, monsieur, we
must hurry.”

“What? I don’t need a
blasted litter!” said Magnus, outraged.

The porter shrugged.

“It is the only way,
monsieur. The way we move, no one who was not born in these mountains can keep
up with us. You must go in the chair.”

A muffled giggle came
from the bundle that was Tallie. Magnus hesitated, stiff with annoyance.

“An inexperienced
person will slow us down. And there are wolves, monsieur, and bears.”

Magnus didn’t budge.

“And madame, she is
getting cold, monsieur.”

“Oh, very well —damn
your eyes!” said Magnus, and allowed himself to be strapped into the litter.
Tallie watched in glee as her immaculate, elegant husband was bundled into a
litter and wrapped until he looked like a pile of old washing. Two porters
hoisted his litter onto their shoulders with a jolt. They moved forward.

“Oh, Magnus?” called
Tallie as he came alongside her. The porters paused.

Magnus glared across
at her.

“What?” he snapped.

“Sometimes we must
sacrifice dignity for expediency, my dear,” she said solemnly.

Magnus swore and
ordered the porters to move on.

“Don’t worry, my
dear,” she called. “You look delightful in your litter, too.”

He swore again, and
her laughter followed him up the steep pathway.

The porters must be
part mountain goat, Tallie decided breathlessly after an hour of climbing.
There were four for each litter and they leaped up impossibly steep slopes at a
pace which Tallie doubted she could maintain on flat ground for more than a
minute.

On one side, the
narrow, winding path dropped away to a bottomless precipice, on the other were
violently soaring peaks and huge vertical slabs of rock. There was no room to
manoeuvre; the slightest misstep would have them plunging hundreds of feet over
the precipice, to perish on the ragged rocks below. The porters didn’t even
pause or blink when Tallie heard what she was sure were wolves howling in the
not very far distance. She hardly dared to breathe.