Count Vassili rose to his feet as Clara entered and pulled out a chair for her. She sat down, surprised to see that he had changed out of his velvet robes and was now dressed in a high-necked black jacket, breeches and riding boots. Not only that, a heavy fur-lined cloak lay over one of the chairs. Where, she wondered, was he going at this time of night?
She knew better, however, than to ask and, completely forgetting to tell him of the spells in her pocket, reached for her napkin, while looking in astonishment at the many steaming dishes on the table — quite different from their usual simple supper. “What’s this?” she asked, feeling somewhat light-headed, now that her ordeal was over. “A feast?”
The count lowered his eyes. “Not so much a feast as a farewell dinner, I’m afraid,” he answered a trifle grimly.
Alarm sparked in her eyes. “A farewell dinner?” she questioned, catching her breath.
“Yes,” he replied. “We leave the citadel tonight.”
“We?” she queried, meeting his eyes in startled surprise. “Me, too?”
He nodded. “Maria’s coming with us as well. She’ll be down in a second. She’s just gone upstairs to organize the packing.”
“So that’s why she bought me so much …”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “She didn’t know we’d be leaving the citadel any more than I did.” He rose to his feet and spooned a generous helping of beef stew onto her plate. “Please don’t worry about it, Clara,” he added, seeing her anxious face. “You know that you’re safe with us. Now,” he smiled reassuringly, moving the potatoes and vegetables to within her reach, “eat well. We have a long journey ahead of us.”
A long journey! Hope sprang suddenly in her heart and she sat up straight, her eyes shining. “Count Vassili! Are … are you taking me home?”
His eyes dropped and he fingered his fork idly. Of course she would think that. She’d done what his master had asked, after all. His lips set in a straight line and he had to force himself to meet her eyes calmly. “No, Clara, actually, we’re going to … to Dragonsgard, one of Lord Jezail’s castles near the northern border.”
Angrily, Clara pushed her plate to one side. “But I did what he asked,” she protested, blinking back tears. “I wrote down all of the spells! Why can’t I go home?”
The count shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know Clara. He obviously wants you to stay in Ashgar — and it’s his decision, you know. I only obey orders. We leave for Dragonsgard within the hour!”
“Dragonsgard,” she whispered. The word sent a chill tingling through her. It sounded every bit as grim as the citadel. “I … will I like it there?” she asked dubiously.
The count was saved from answering by the entry of a black-uniformed officer who bowed low and clicked his heels together smartly. “We’ll be ready to leave by midnight, Count Vassili,” he announced.
“Midnight?” the count queried, looking up as Maria entered and slipped into the chair beside Clara. “Surely you can be ready sooner than that?”
“Lord Jezail has instructed me to provide you with an escort. I’ve detailed six men to accompany you.”
Maria and the count exchanged brief glances but the count’s voice remained calm. “That was extremely thoughtful of Lord Jezail,” he remarked. “There might well be brigands on the road.”
“With your permission, Sir, we’ll be loading extra stores on the coach.”
Coach? Clara picked up on the word. They were going to be travelling by bus?
“Of course,” the count agreed. “Oh, and Colonel Braganz …” the count added, before the man could turn away.
“Sir?”
“See that there are plenty of thick blankets in the coach for the ladies. The night air is cold and we’ve a long journey in front of us.”
“Yes, Sir,” the colonel saluted briskly and left.
It was well after midnight, however, before Clara and Maria, clutching warm, hooded cloaks round them, walked down a shallow flight of steps into the deep courtyard of the citadel.
Torches flared on the high walls sending fantastic shadows across the cobbles where a coach drawn by six black horses waited in the moonlight. Behind the coach, a troop of cloaked horsemen with an officer at their head, waited in twos, ready to move off, their horses moving restlessly, harnesses jingling as they tossed their heads, snorting softly.
Clara stopped dead, her eyes widening in amazement. A coach, she thought, a proper old-fashioned coach! How could she have been stupid enough to think Lord Jezail would have anything as ordinary as a bus! Anyway, the thought crossed her mind fleetingly, where would he get petrol from? Dismissing the bus from her mind, she gazed in awe at the coach: its wheels were huge and brass fittings gleamed fitfully in the light of the flares as the horses stamped impatiently. The coachman, perched at the front, was well wrapped up against the chill breeze and holding the reins at the ready, watched them approach.
A sudden clatter of hooves interrupted her thoughts and she swung round to see Count Vassili riding across the courtyard towards them. He pulled up beside the coach, returning the salute of the officer in charge of the escort, and looked enquiringly at Maria. “Do you have everything you need for the journey?” he asked briefly.
Maria nodded as a soldier stepped forward and, opening the carriage door, pulled down a step so that she could enter easily. “I think so,” she said, nodding to the cases and boxes strapped at the back of the coach.
“Good! Then we’re ready to set off! In you get, Clara,” he gestured as she hesitated at the door of the coach. “There are lots of blankets inside, so you can stretch out and get some sleep.”
“Sleep?” Clara looked at him, her eyes sparkling. She was so excited at the thought of travelling in a coach that her tiredness seemed to have left her.
The count smiled ruefully, knowing that within the hour she’d most likely be bored stiff and probably quite uncomfortable; for the road to Dragonsgard was unpaved and, in some places, little more than a pot-holed track. “I’ll be riding beside you,” he said, pulling his cloak round him, “so you only have to call if you need anything.”
Clara gave a final glance round the high walls that enclosed the courtyard and climbed into the roomy interior of the coach. Settling herself comfortably, she grinned across at Maria. The coach could, she thought, hold six people comfortably, not just two. Then she turned and peered through the little side window as an order was given.
The soldiers who’d been holding the horses’ bridles, promptly stepped back from their heads and, as the coachman shook the reins, the six black horses pulled on their harnesses. With a jerk and a rumble of wheels, the coach started forward. They were off, Clara thought excitedly, peering out as they passed slowly under a dark archway into the night.
As the great doors of the citadel closed slowly behind them, the horses picked up speed, sending the coach rattling across the curved, stone bridge that divided the citadel from the narrow streets of the town. Clara craned her neck and could just see the frothing, white water of the rushing mountain stream that passed below.
Despite the lateness of the hour, a few people in Stara Zargana were still awake and curtains parted fearfully in the windows of several houses as the coach, with its escort of dark-clad riders, clattered swiftly through the winding streets, heading towards the great road that led north.