The Princess and the Captain Page 4

  The old Captain began again. ‘I had secrets, my son. They’re all there in my logbook. I sailed the seas of the Known World for forty years under the Galnician flag. I was a servant of the Coronador. Officially, my duties were to keep an eye on foreign ships, watch over our colonies, keep order at sea and carry cargoes of merchandise. But I wasn’t satisfied with so little. Unknown to anyone, I stole, I looted. I even killed.’

  His voice was muted and low. He raised his eyes to his son, who was looking at him with dread.

  ‘I was a pirate, Orpheus. A thorough-going pirate. May the bitterness of my remorse carry me away now!’

  At these words Berthilde burst into sobs. A glass fell off the tray and broke on the floor.

  ‘A pirate …’ repeated Orpheus, staring at his father in amazement.

  ‘I acted against my country’s interests,’ Hannibal confirmed. ‘I filled my own pockets, I betrayed the Coronador’s trust in me. I even killed people who threatened to reveal the truth. You’ll read it all in my logbook.’

  He paused, tired out. Orpheus felt the leather-bound volume weigh on his knees like a block of granite. These revelations were crazy!

  ‘If you had gone aboard a sea-going vessel,’ Hannibal went on, his voice almost calm now, ‘you would have been sure to discover my secret. Sailors would have talked. Or worse, I imagined an encounter between the two of us one day, far out at sea … What would I have done? Would I have given orders to fire on the ship in which my own son was sailing? I didn’t want to have to face such a situation. I had to find some way of preventing you from becoming a sailor. That’s the truth, Orpheus,’ he added. ‘You will hate me now, but at least you’re free of the lie in which you were imprisoned. You can go to sea now if you like, because I know… oh yes, I know you will be a good sailor.’ Hannibal’s grey head fell heavily to one side. His chest rose and fell with difficulty.

  Orpheus turned to Berthilde, who was still weeping as she stood at the end of the room. The fire was slowly dying on the hearth. He rose, with his father’s logbook under his arm. As he moved away from the sofa, the bells of the Campanile chimed midnight. He was so stunned that he felt empty of all emotion.

  ‘Look after my father,’ was all he said to Berthilde as he passed her. ‘And send me word when he is dead.’

  That was all he could do: leave his childhood home. Go away with the secret. Let his father die without any more words.

  Outside the air was fresher. The empty streets seemed transfixed in silence. Orpheus went home without seeing anything. He walked on like an automaton. Nothing made sense any more. He didn’t even know who he was.

  5

  The Estafador

  Malva emerged from her torpor when she heard the cries of the seagulls. Eyes puffy with sleep, she carefully lifted the lid of her barrel. Dawn was setting the sky and the sea on fire. The little seaport of Carduz lay before her. When she saw the ships lying at anchor her heart beat faster, but she had no time to wonder what to do next. One of the drivers had just jumped down into the cart, his heavy brows drawn together.

  ‘You stay hidden,’ he told her. ‘We’ll get you on board all right.’ And with an abrupt movement he lowered the lid of the barrel and fixed its hoop around it.

  Soon after that Malva heard voices, and then she felt herself being moved. When the barrel tipped over, she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out in panic. Other voices called out more orders. Now that she was properly awake, the Princess felt stiffness and cramp in her legs, and her feet had pins and needles. But what would the sailors think if they saw a girl emerge from a barrel? She had to wait. She mustn’t speak, she mustn’t move. She must play dead.

  The barrel suddenly rocked, fell over on its side and began rolling. Inside, Malva was tossed in all directions until she lost her breath. At one moment cracking sounds made her fear that the hoops of the barrel were breaking, but in the end the barrel came to rest intact.

  ‘What’s it got in it that’s so heavy?’ a man’s voice gasped.

  ‘Pork – a whole pig, if you ask me!’ a second voice replied.

  ‘Right, let’s go and get the other one!’

  Malva heard steps retreating. Pork! In spite of her weariness and the aches and pains in her back, she managed to smile. A Princess disguised as a barrel of pork – you didn’t see that every day!

  She waited in the darkness and heat, half-dazed. At last she heard the men come back, pushing another barrel ahead of them. That must be the one with Philomena inside it.

  ‘At least we won’t go short of meat,’ said one of the men, catching his breath.

  ‘Pork’s pretty good with Rioro wine,’ said the other. His mouth was obviously watering.

  Then silence fell again. Malva heard only voices and footsteps overhead now and then. If she strained her ears she could make out the lapping of water and metallic creaking sounds, as if someone were operating rusty pulleys. She must be on board Vincenzo’s ship.

  It was too late to turn back now, whatever happened. The two drivers had left with their cart, and back in the Citadel the rumour of her disappearance would be racing through the corridors like the wind. Malva felt a lump in her throat. It wasn’t remorse that she felt, far from it, but the fear of a future full of uncertainty. Philomena had family in Lombardaine, and they were hoping that her distant cousins there would take them in. But would Philomena’s cousins understand? Would they agree to help them? And then what? How long would their exile last?

  Suddenly she heard someone whispering close to her. She stiffened in her cramped hiding-place, short of breath. Then someone knocked on the barrel.

  ‘Are you in there?’ asked a man’s voice. ‘I’m Vincenzo, captain of this ship. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Malva timidly.

  A crowbar levered the lid off the barrel. When the Princess looked up she saw a dark face bending over her.

  ‘Your trials are over,’ said the man gently. ‘You can come out.’

  With some difficulty, Malva managed to lift herself out of the barrel. Every muscle in her body made her face distort with pain as she got to her feet, and when she was finally standing she felt giddy. Vincenzo had to steady her by grasping her shoulder. His eyes immediately fell on the Archont’s medallion, which Malva was wearing round her neck.

  ‘I see your protector thought of everything,’ he smiled. ‘Never fear – we’ll be landing in Lombardaine in six or seven days’ time. My men won’t talk. Anyway, they don’t know who you are. So far as they’re concerned you’re just an ordinary passenger.’

  ‘What about my chambermaid?’ asked Malva anxiously.

  Vincenzo raised the lid of the second barrel. ‘Is that her?’ he asked.

  Leaning over the barrel, the Princess saw Philomena lying motionless at the bottom.

  ‘She’s fainted!’ cried Malva in panic. ‘Quick, get her out! She needs fresh air!’

  Vincenzo placed a knowing finger on his lips and shook his head. ‘Listen!’ he murmured.

  Malva frowned. Sure enough, Philomena’s breathing seemed to be peaceful and regular. A gentle snore could be heard at regular intervals … she was fast asleep.

  ‘Let’s leave her there for the moment, shall we?’ Vincenzo suggested. ‘Come up on deck with me. You need to get some colour back into your cheeks.’

  Malva picked up her bundle and followed the Captain up the ladder through the central hatch.

  Outside, everything was bathed in sunlight. Malva blinked, dazzled, and then gradually made out shapes in the distance. The coast was already retreating beyond the bulwarks. She turned round. The sails were hoisted, swelling in the breeze like the cheeks of a giant about to play the horn.

  ‘Welcome on board the Estafador!’ said Vincenzo.

  In daylight the Captain’s face was still as dark as down in the hold. His skin could have been blackened with coal, but his eyes, green as a cat’s, gave his sombre face a mischievous look. Just like the Archont, he inspired respect and confid
ence, and Malva immediately felt safe with him.

  She went to the handrail of the poop deck and leaned overboard. Sea-spray was foaming along the ship’s side. She breathed in deeply, raising her face to the wind in delight. To think she was here out at sea, sailing towards the unknown, and not in the Sanctuary in the middle of a crowd of guests dressed in their finest clothes! It was extraordinary. She couldn’t get over it – she had dared to escape, she’d dared to act on her own, ignoring both propriety and the precepts of Tranquillity and Harmony!

  Opening her bundle, she took out the dress she had worn the night before, in which Philomena had wrapped her locks of hair. She never wanted to wear that dress again. Never! With a sudden defiant gesture she threw it into the sea.

  ‘Good riddance!’ she called, laughing.

  The dress hovered above the waves for a moment as her locks of hair fell and scattered in the ship’s wake, and then settled on the water like an elegant bird. Malva watched it drift away. She smiled. It was over now. Everything that made her a submissive Princess would be drowned in the waves. All she had to do now was live her own life! An extraordinary sense of intoxication made her head spin, and she lost her balance.

  Vincenzo hurried to catch her and took her gently by the arm. ‘Come along, Princess, not so impatient! You’ll be leaving the Estafador soon enough.’

  6

  Carabins and Musketoons

  The Lower Town was in turmoil. In every alleyway, every workshop, every house the talk was of nothing but the Princess’s disappearance. Early that morning the rumour had made its way down the terraced gardens, crossed the Citadel’s surrounding wall, and spread through the whole city like a lava flow. Now nothing could contain the clamour rising everywhere.

  ‘What a terrible thing!’ wailed the young women.

  ‘Our Princess must be found!’ cried the men.

  ‘It’s a conspiracy,’ suggested the more suspicious among the Galnicians.

  ‘Or some kind of practical joke?’ wondered the doubters.

  While servants searched the Citadel, the Coronador had sent his guards to look for his daughter. Armed troops patrolled the streets and bridges, combing the city right down to the harbour.

  Only Orpheus ignored the general hubbub. Nothing, not even an earthquake, could have taken his mind off his personal cataclysm just then.

  He had been prostrate in his armchair since the previous night, unable to move, with his father’s shipboard logbook on his knees. He hadn’t opened it yet. He didn’t have the strength.

  His father’s astounding revelations had submerged him in a whirlpool of contradictory emotions. He felt humiliated and angry, but at the same time relieved and confused. All these feelings assailed him in no particular order, making him wonder if he might be losing his mind. How else could you react when you realised that your whole life had been built on an enormous lie?

  Lying in front of the hearth, Zeph didn’t move either. There were some scraps of bread on his rug. During the night, seeing that his master wasn’t taking any notice of him, he had gone to the kitchen to look for something to eat. Now, replete and drooling slightly, he was sleeping the sleep of the just.

  Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

  Dazed, Orpheus raised his head. He wasn’t very sure where he was or what the time might be. However, as the knocking came again and louder, and imperious voices ordered him to open his door, he got to his feet. The leather-bound book fell to the ground with a thud.

  He found soldiers standing outside his house, brandishing carabins and musketoons with flared mouths.

  ‘Let us in!’ said their leader. ‘By order of the Coronador!’

  Without waiting for a reply, the soldiers entered the house, their hobnailed boots hammering on the floor. Under the incredulous eyes of Orpheus they lifted the lids of chests, turned over the cushions in armchairs, opened all the doors and searched cupboards. They even checked that nothing was hidden under the carpet. Rudely woken from his slumbers, the old St Bernard showed his teeth, but as his hindquarters prevented him from charging at his attackers he merely changed position. Finally the men stuck their carabins up the chimney, and when nothing but soot came down they went upstairs.

  On the first floor, their leader narrowed his eyes, looking suspicious. ‘That bed’s neatly made up,’ he said. He turned to Orpheus, who was following the men from room to room, unable to make out what they were after. ‘Where were you last night? Looks as if you didn’t sleep here.’

  Orpheus murmured huskily, ‘I must have dropped off in my chair. What exactly are you looking for?’

  The soldiers exchanged suspicious glances. The whole city knew about it. Was this young man laughing at them?

  ‘Carry on searching!’ their leader ordered, pointing his musketoon at Orpheus. ‘I’ve got my eye on him!’

  The others took hold of the mattress, lifted the base of the bed, emptied the wardrobe and drawers. This unceremonious search acted on Orpheus like a cold shower, bringing him back to his senses.

  ‘I have nothing to hide!’ he said indignantly. ‘What you’re doing is against the precepts of Tranquillity and Harmony!’

  ‘The precepts of Tranquillity and Harmony are suspended until further notice!’ replied the soldiers’ leader. ‘Until the Princess has been found!’

  Orpheus gave a start of surprise, but he didn’t ask for explanations. Through all these years of peace the soldiers’ musketoons and carabins had been in disuse, mere decorations on guardroom walls. But this time there was a whiff of real gunpowder in the air.

  After a while, when they had found nothing, the soldiers left, but not without threatening all kinds of reprisals if Orpheus had been hiding anything from them.

  ‘And seeing as you’re so keen on the divine precepts,’ added their leader, ‘sleep in your bed next time! A night in an armchair is anything but tranquil!’

  Then he went out, laughing uproariously and leaving Orpheus in disarray. His house looked like nothing on earth – or rather like the mirror image of his mind, all confused and topsyturvy.

  Now that he was fully awake, Orpheus heard the cries and lamentations out in the streets. So it was true: the Princess had disappeared! How could such a thing have happened? When he went up to his bedroom, intending to tidy it a bit, he saw the washerwomen gathered on their rooftops opposite. They weren’t at work as usual, but standing on tiptoe, trying to see what was going on in the Citadel.

  Orpheus quietly opened his window.

  ‘They’re draining the water from the basins!’ cried one of the women.

  ‘Oh, Holy Harmony!’ moaned another. ‘Let’s hope the Princess hasn’t drowned!’

  ‘Look, there’s the Archont himself!’ said the eldest washerwoman, pointing to the west facade of the palace. ‘He’s questioning the servants.’

  ‘They’re in trouble,’ commented another woman. ‘The Archont must be dreadfully anxious!’

  ‘Look over there!’ called the youngest woman. ‘There’s some horse-drawn carriages coming!’

  ‘That’ll be the Prince of Andemark’s party,’ confirmed a tall, thin washerwoman. ‘What a disaster! Oh, just think of the ceremony being called off!’

  ‘If the Princess isn’t found we’ll all be put to shame,’ sighed the eldest. ‘Dear me, I see sad times ahead.’

  Orpheus had heard enough. He closed his window again.

  Sad times ahead. That last remark had a strange effect on him. It was as if, by some unfortunate chance, his own and his country’s destiny had been thrown off balance together in a single night.

  Suddenly there was more knocking on his door. Orpheus felt perspiration run down his back. Had the soldiers come back to arrest him? Did they suspect him? In his overheated mind, everything was happening so fast that he even wondered if the truth about his father might have reached the Coronador’s ears.

  He ran downstairs and went to get the poker from the hearth. If the soldiers wanted to take him away they’d have to fig
ht him first! Orpheus approached the door and flung it open abruptly, brandishing his improvised weapon.

  But there was no soldier on the doorstep, only old Berthilde, waiting there transfixed, with a black scarf over her grey hair.

  ‘Holy Tranquillity!’ she cried. ‘Whatever are you doing?’

  Orpheus quickly put down his poker and mumbled an excuse. The old servant’s face was sad, and he knew at once why she had come.

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  Berthilde nodded. ‘He died in the night,’ she breathed. ‘Only a few hours after you left.’

  Orpheus stood there for a moment in the fresh air with his arms dangling. He shivered, and sneezed twice. Since last night, in spite of the mild summer weather, he couldn’t seem to get warm.

  ‘What’s to become of us?’ wailed Berthilde, choking back her sobs.

  Orpheus looked gravely at her; he had known her all his life, yet he felt as if he were seeing her for the first time. At that moment he realised that there was no one left for him to rely on. He had never made friends, his father was dead, and now the great gulf created by that lie lay between him and Berthilde.

  ‘I had a word with the Holy Diafron,’ the old woman told him. ‘Nothing’s certain now, what with the incidents in the Citadel – the Coronador’s forbidden all ritual ceremonies. But I managed to arrange for the funeral to be held all the same. It won’t be for a few days, not until things have calmed down.’

  Orpheus nodded. With the precepts of Tranquillity and Harmony suspended, the whole organisation of the country was upside down.

  ‘What about everything else, though?’ Berthilde persisted. ‘What’s to be done with the house? And the furniture, the books, the mementoes? Of course your father has left you everything.’

  ‘I don’t want it,’ Orpheus calmly replied.

  ‘But … but there’s his fortune. It’s a large one. Who’s going to deal with it?’

  ‘Do what you think best with it,’ said Orpheus. ‘Keep it all if you like.’