The money arrived, along with a cheerful, gossipy letter from Gerda’s mother. Gerda packed up her few possessions in her portmanteau and prepared to take her leave. When the coachman came to drive Gerda to Uppsala, his aunt set out an enormous breakfast of porridge, bacon, eggs and buns. She saw Gerda off in a flurry of kisses, and cautions, and tears, and good advice.
On the stagecoach north from Uppsala Gerda’s carriage-mate was a small plump woman of sixty or so, with bright dark eyes and grey hair drawn back in a knot. In her plain dove-grey gown with pearl buttons up to the chin, she reminded Gerda of nothing so much as a pouter pigeon.
The woman tucked a bulging carpet bag into a corner, settled herself into her seat, and turned briskly to Gerda. “And where are you off to all on your own, my dear?”
“To visit a friend,” said Gerda. She supposed it was near enough to the truth.
“Oh yes? And where does your friend live?”
“Oh, a long way off. In Norrland, somewhere on the Torne River, near a place called Vappa-Vara . . . ”
“Indeed! I know it well. That’s all the way into Saamiland, where the reindeer people live. Well, you will have your adventures, my dear, before you get to Vappa-Vara. It’s late in the year to be setting out on a trip like that. You’ll be running into the autumn storms soon, and the nights closing in.”
Gerda looked at the woman with interest. “You’ve travelled in Norrland?”
“Oh, indeed I have, many a time, and a long way north of that. Ingeborg Eriksson is my name — I dare say you’ve heard of my books. I was a great one for travelling, in my time — though with my rheumatics, I’m getting past those overland trips.”
“Did you go by yourself?”
“Oh yes — it’s best, I think. At first I took along a lady companion — my family thought it was unsuitable for a young woman to travel alone. But my companions always seemed to fall ill a week or so into the journey . . . you have no idea how inconvenient that can be! My dear, may I offer you some advice?”
“Of course.”
“When you’re travelling in those parts, you must be sure to pack your own provisions. I can’t emphasize that too much. It simply doesn’t do to depend on the hostelry along the way. A little salt fish, that’s the best you can hope for, and the bread always seems to be mouldy.”
“What sort of provisions?” asked Gerda.
“Plum pudding,” Madame Eriksson said firmly.
“Plum pudding?” asked Gerda, disconcerted.
“Exactly. You can’t go wrong with plum pudding. I used to take forty pounds of it, on my longer journeys. It keeps well, and there’s nothing more nourishing.”
“And what else?”
“What else? Let me see.” The woman began to tick things off on her gloved fingers, beginning with her thumb. “Lamp wicks. You can’t have too many of those; you simply can’t get them out in the wilds. Candles, of course. Plenty of candles. And as to clothing — vests, drawers, petticoats, all of wool; eiderdown is best for your coat. Make sure it has a fur collar you can pull up, and sleeves long enough to cover your hands. In the cold weather I would wear a sheepskin over that, and finally a coat of reindeer skin. In those climes the last spring frost comes in the middle of June, and the first one of winter arrives before the end of August.”
What a sight you must have looked, thought Gerda, imagining this plump little person in her three thick coats, one on top of the other.
“Not to mention two pairs of thick stockings,” Madame Eriksson went on. By now she was on the fingers of the second hand. “Felt boots — the kind that come up over the knee. A fur-lined cap, and a few rugs and shawls won’t come amiss.”
“I should never be able to afford to buy all those things,” sighed Gerda.
“Then,” said her companion, “you’d do best to cut your visit short. Once the snows come, and the northern nights set in, you will find you need every bit of that, and more.” She rummaged in her bag, brought out a bottle of red wine and a loaf of black bread. “And in the summer, of course, you’ll do well not to be eaten alive.”
“By wolves?” asked Gerda, alarmed.
“By mosquitoes. You can run away from wolves. From the mosquitoes, there is no possibility of escape. Well, now, my dear,” she said, breaking off a piece of the bread and offering it to Gerda, “we have a good long trip ahead of us. Suppose you tell me what sends you off into the northern lands.”
As the carriage rattled over the stones Gerda chewed on her crust, sipped wine straight from the bottle, and told her story. The wine was making her too sleepy to think of lies, and it seemed to her that this grandmotherly woman, with her kind, uncritical gaze, could be trusted with the simple truth.
“Well,” said Madame Eriksson, when Gerda had finished, “I must say, I admire your enterprise. Though I’ve never yet met a man worth going to the ends of the earth for.” She looked at Gerda with kindly cynicism. “Ah yes, my girl, I see it in your eyes. You think this Kai of yours is different. Well, you’re young, you’re entitled to your illusions.” She held out her hand for the wine bottle. “I worry about you, though, traipsing off on your own into the wilderness, when you’re unaccustomed to travel.”
“I will manage,” Gerda said, trying to keep her voice from trembling.
“I doubt it,” the woman said. “No maps, no provisions, no money . . . ”
“I have money,” said Gerda.
“Oh, I dare say — but it won’t be enough. Listen,” the woman said, “if I were ten years younger, I would be tempted to come with you. As it is — I have a friend who might be persuaded to help. This adventure of yours is just mad enough to appeal to her.”
“Help me? How?”
“Well, let’s think what you need. Good advice, for a start. But then if you were one to listen to advice, you would not have come as far as you have. I expect the princess could easily spare a carriage and some warmer clothes. I propose that the two of us pay her a visit.”
“She’s not really a princess, is she?”
“Oh, every bit of it, her blood is as blue as my magnesia bottle. She’s a princess in her own right, in a nice little southern kingdom whose name I’ve forgotten. Married beneath her, you might say, for her husband is only a count . . . why, what’s the matter with you, child, your eyes are as big as dinner plates.”
“I’ve never met a princess,” wailed Gerda, aghast. “I wouldn’t know what to say to her. I wouldn’t know how to behave.”
“Nonsense,” said Madam. “A more down-to-earth, common-sense sort of princess you’d never hope to meet. If you’re going to make a habit of travelling, my girl, you’ll learn to get along with people of all sorts, from peasants to princes. And what’s more you’ll learn to sleep wherever you put your head down, whether it’s a skin tent, or a goat hut, or a royal palace.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Gerda, chastened. Madame Eriksson drew a book out of her bag and settled back in her seat to read. Gerda rode the rest of the way in anxious silence, wondering if she would be expected to curtsy. Whatever would the ladies of her village say, if they knew that Gerda Jensen had been entertained by royalty?
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.