to herself. A drive with father was not her favourite thing to do. He had spent most of the trip so far telling her of his plans for a new recipe for partridge stuffed with quail, and had been debating whether it ought to be called quartridge or pail. Mafalda would have much preferred to be back at the castle, studying the scrying spell she had been in the middle of when the king had announced his desire for a drive and for her to accompany him. She tried to tune out her father’s prattle and looked at the landscape going by beside the carriage. There seemed to be a little lake just a little ahead of them; it looked pretty.
Suddenly the carriage slowed, then came to a complete halt, and Mafalda became aware of a voice shouting. A familiar voice.
“Help, HELP! Help, Your Majesty, please!”
“What is this?” said the king, displeased at having his monologue interrupted. He rapped on the little window behind the coachman’s seat. “What is it, Coachman? Why are we stopping?”
“It’s the cat, Your Majesty,” replied the coachman, “the one what comes to the castle all the time, what wears boots!”
Ah, Mafalda had thought she had recognized the voice.
“Oh, it is, is it?” said King Theobald, his interest apparently piqued. “Tell him to step over here.” He let down the window of the carriage.
“Your Majesty,” came the voice of the cat from beside the carriage, “please, Your Majesty, we must beg your help!”
The princess could not see the cat, as he was on her father’s side of the carriage, but his tone made it plain that he was quite distressed.
“Why, what is it you need, my good cat?” asked the king, obviously ready to be munificent. “Speak, do, my good fellow!”
“It’s my master, the Marquis of Carabas,” came the cat’s voice, “he elected to have a bathe on this fine day, in this charming pond by the road here, and while I was off to look for some game for him to present to Your Gracious Majesty (which I never found, being called back to my master’s side prematurely), thieves came and stole all his clothing! Even though he shouted for help as loudly as he could, the louts went off with his best suit, shoes, stockings, hat, even his sword! Now he is left without a stitch to wear, and I very much fear he will catch his death of a cold if he stays in the water any longer!”
Mafalda looked past her father’s head at the little lake out the window. Indeed, she could make out the dark head of a person; he seemed to be attempting to duck down as far as he could in the water. How strange.
“Your master?” said the king. “The Marquis who has sent me so many delectable gifts of game? My, my, we cannot have him catching cold, can we now? Oh no, no, that will not do at all. Coachman!” He tapped on the little window again. “Coachman, you must go back and fetch my second best suit of clothing for the Marquis, the bottle green velvet—my man will know. And you had best include some—ahem—” with a side glance at his daughter he dropped his voice to a loud whisper, “undergarments as well. And also,” he was back to his normal voice, “stockings, shoes, a hat, that sort of thing. Quickly, man, or the Marquis will catch a chill!”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said the coachman stiffly. “Will I go on foot, Your Majesty?”
“Well, yes, of course—no, that would be far too slow. Pull us over to the side of the road here, and take one of the horses.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said the coachman again in a wooden voice. He was being as deferential as a proper servant was meant to be, but Mafalda could hear the irritation in his voice.
“Coachman,” she said, leaning over to the little window, “of course there will be some extra coin in this for you.”
Fulke Coachman’s face brightened.
“Thank you, Your Highness, thank you indeed!” He swung down from the driver’s seat to unharness the leader from the team.
Mafalda suddenly thought of something. She quickly let down the window on her side of the coach and stuck out her head.
“Coachman,” she called, “have we a blanket or other covering in the coach? The Marquis can hardly stay in the lake until you come back!”
The coachman looked back over his shoulder, frowned for a minute, then his face cleared.
“Yes, Your Highness, there is a carriage rug somewheres. Will I see if I can find it?”
“Please do, Coachman, and give it to the Marquis,” said the princess. “Thank you, Coachman, well done!” She smiled at the burly servant, who tugged his forelock and quickly went to do her bidding. Things went so much more smoothly when one treated the servants with courtesy, which was not something, it seemed, that her father was very much aware of.
“Found it!” called Fulke Coachman, and Mafalda saw him through the other window by the edge of the lake, holding out a coarse brown rug. “Your lordship! Here’s something to wrap you up in whilst I fetch you some clo’es to wear!” He turned, apparently to the cat. “I dunno if he heard me, p’rhaps you need to tell him.”
“Master!” the cat’s voice rang out, “please take this good man’s offer, I am very much concerned that you might catch your death out in the water, so long as you have been in the lake!”
The man in the water shouted something back which the princess could not quite make out. It sounded remarkably like “Infernal liar!”, but it was very unlikely that that was what the marquis had said, was it?
She stole another glance out the window, and noticed that the dark head was coming closer to shore. She was very curious—very curious indeed; and not just a little excited. Finally she would be able to see the marquis in person! A man of such hunting skill, such generosity, and, what was far more important to her, of such an ability with words! Her scrying spell had worked ten times better since he had corrected the rhymes. The princess was very eager to meet this man. Just from the dark colour of his hair, it seemed he was not old. Oh, please let him be handsome, Mafalda thought. Then she caught herself up short. She would not let herself hope, or wish. For all she knew, this marquis was married, or betrothed, or uninterested in matrimony. Or uninterested in her. Or uninteresting. He was sure to be quite plain, and quite dull, she told herself.
The dark head had reached the shore. Fulke Coachman was holding the blanket spread out, and the marquis began to rise out of the water. A slim but well-muscled set of shoulders, a smooth chest, a flat stom—Oh dear! Mafalda averted her eyes at the last second, staring out the other window at the embankment by the side of the road. He really had had all his clothes stolen, hadn’t he. How awful for the poor man. And how awful of her to be staring at him like any common hussy. She carefully looked at the clump of tall, golden grass on the top of the embankment just by the window, and carefully tried to recall what this particular grass was called, and what use it had in potion-making. Fowler’s grass it was, she was almost sure. And it was good for—good for… She darted a quick glance out the lake-side window again. Ah, he was wrapped in the blanket now, sitting at the edge of the water, his back turned to the coach. She relaxed a little. Although, she thought, it was still quite improper for her to stare at him. The blanket only covered his middle; she could see his trim shoulders poking out of the top, and a pair of hairy knees drawn up to his chest. His hair, wet from his immersion in the lake, was long enough to cover his neck; the water made it look jet-black.
Fulke Coachman led the horse past the window and cut off Mafalda’s view. The cat’s and coachman’s voices were audible without the princess being able to make out what was said; then she could hear the horse’s hoofs clopping on the gravel, picking up speed and moving away from the coach down the road.
“Well,” said King Theobald good-humouredly, “I hope Coachman hurries back with that suit. Think the Marquis knows any tales to while away the time?” He was about to lean his head out of the window to call the young man to the coach.
“Father!” said Mafalda, “I can hardly talk to him in his current state!”
“What? What? Oh, eh, no, not you. No, no, of course not. Forgot for a minute. Ah, no, you stay here, my dear, and amuse yourself with—with—well, whatever young ladies do to while away the time. But there’s nothing to stop me from talking to the Marquis, is there? No, not at all.” He climbed out of the coach. The princess sighed and looked out the near window again. Fowler’s Grass, yes. Or was it? Maybe not. As for the use, she would have to ask Nicolaida. The princess’ eyes kept straying towards the other window and the lake shore…