Left to Follow

By DJ Clawson

This story continues the series that began with "A Bit of Advice." At this point, you really should go read the others before trying to read this one. New characters abound.

This two chapters are the story of Brian Maddox from the end of The Price of Family to his reappearance in Left to Follow.

Chapter 26 - The Tale of Brian Maddox, Part I

No good at being an English gentleman, Brian Maddox decided to be an Austrian one.

It was late in October when he made his way across Austria, far enough south to miss the worst of the early snows and into the hills of Transylvania. His Romanian was passable enough to explain to the border guards, of the count's lands, who he was. They did seem a bit surprised to see him but his future father-in-law greeted him warmly enough.

He knew better than to ask to see Nadezhda directly, despite her being the sole reason for his return. There was still a month to their wedding and his understanding of court culture was lacking. He could barely make conversation with his chief servant.

"She is very beautiful," said the man. There were an awful lot of reassurances going around. Eventually, mainly from inflection, he was able to discern that he had not been the first suitor to run. He was actually the only one who came back. It bestowed on him an appropriate level of caution. Did she have a tail? Was she a witch? Or was it merely the overbearing count? Brian had to find out and quickly.

The wedding was set for barely more than a month away. The first week he did not see his intended at all and used what little free time he had to perfect his language skills to the local brogue. Most of his evenings were spent in long banquets; where he had more time to practice or would have if the local spirits didn't go right to his head despite what he thought was an impressive tolerance. The first few nights, before he learned to quietly water down his mug, he emerged with a horrible headache and not much appreciation for the sunlight or anyone who would bother him. There were instructions, from what was apparently his manservant, Andrei, on how to dress and how to act, if said in a very polite way. He gave up his cravat, but held fast on growing a beard even if he did allow his sideburns to be a bit wider than permissive in proper society.

Finally, he saw Nadezhda when she was presented to the feast table. Bejeweled and almost entirely covered by veils, he could see her beautiful face and her fine form, but he wondered what her hair would look like out from under the veil. She had not changed from their parting in the spring. She smiled nervously to him as she bowed, and he returned it, though he did not know if she saw it. He hoped she did.

That night, after he was permitted to escape the long hours of feasting and storytelling, he sat down with a glass of imported wine in his chambers and set concerns and fears of his impending marriage aside long enough to ask Andrei when in the hell he was going to see Nadezhda in some kind of privacy. He might have phrased it differently, he might not. All he heard through the pounding in his ears was that it would be arranged.

In fact it was, that very night. Whether his father-in-law knew about it, he had no care. Nothing beyond the bounds of propriety as he knew it would happen, but he was engaged to this woman and had every right to speak to her. He was escorted to a balcony, which was sheltered enough so that it was not terribly cold, without the wind blowing and with the roaring fire from the open doors blowing out. On the other side of the open doorway were guards and - he had no doubt - listening people, but she was standing there and that was enough. "Princess," he bowed an Englishman's bow. He would take her hand only if she offered it, which she did not, holding them together somewhat nervously. She was covered but less ostentatiously dressed, and it occurred to him that he had never seen her hair. If she was like her father, it was probably black. He found himself imagining what it would be like to run his fingers through it, as she curtseyed to him.

"You asked to speak with me?" she said.

"I wanted to speak with you," he said. "I've ... not seen you in a while."

"You saw me this evening."

"I mean, privately. Since that night."

"You remember it?"

"Every word."

To this, she was startled enough to have no immediate response. He knew he was not being misinterpreted, but he had no idea of her feelings to him, if there were any. Surely, he would be a fool to think she had fallen for some Englishman with barely a grasp of her native tongue in two meetings, only one of them with any shred of privacy. But he wondered all the same. She was, clearly, a little afraid; maybe not of him, maybe only of the situation. He took that comfort. He spoke softly, enough to hopefully be beyond anyone's abilities to listen, "I returned only for you, Princess."

This was a woman who was good at hiding her emotions. Perhaps that was what came with court life, with constant rejection, with failed suitors. He could not tell from her expression the depths or the nature of her reaction, though there was one. He would give anything for the ability to read her better at that moment, something no tutor could impart. "But I have not been a proper gentleman," he said, to fill the awkward silence, "and asked how you have been, my lady."

"I have been well. I was a bit - surprised at your return."

"Everyone was." He let his hand stray to the balcony rim, which was closer to her hand, without touching it. "Were you happy at the news?" He shook his head. "I apologize. That was too personal a question. My lady, you do not have to answer."

"But you wish to know it?"

With as much muting to his emotion as he could muster, he replied, "Yes."

"I was." And then, when her apparent embarrassment passed, she smiled but quickly covered her face to hide it.

"Oh, please don't," he whispered. "I so wish to see you smile." This, of course, had that precise effect. "There." All of his concerns, for the moment, were dashed as he admitted to himself that he was completely and utterly in love.

Their courtship period - which only Brian, in his mind, referred to as such - was slow and complex despite the wedding hovering over him, because he did not want to overstep his bounds. He was advised not to show too much interest in his bride. This he found ironic and somewhat stupid, but he would not stir the pot at this point, even though her father treated him with excitement at their upcoming nuptials as the next great step in the long family history. Although he did see her increasingly at meals, it was never together and they exchanged words only on that balcony and in other places where it was arranged for them. He did not touch her, even to hold her hand or kiss the ring; because he did not know what liberties he was allowed and didn't feel inclined to ask her.

It was the shy Nadezhda who warned him, "Do not trust your servants. Do not trust anyone."

With an obvious smile on his face, he said, "Should I trust you?"

"Perhaps," she said. Her shell of shyness was nearly impossible to penetrate, and he found it easier to lead her on and let her respond in kind.

Between her hints and his improved language skills, he was beginning to understand the situation a bit better. Her father, the count, lacked a certain social ability to get along well with his neighbors. During his reign, his actions had ensured that they were now all thoroughly aligned against him. They would not risk open warfare but they would not provide him with a suitable candidate for a husband to his only daughter. So he had to look elsewhere, apparently to the point of winning the hapless Brian Maddox in a bet.

It was on one of their later meetings that Nadezhda was more serious. "Brian," she said, after many insistences that she call him that, "you should consider your situation."

"I don't understand."

"You - ," She stopped, and to his surprise, placed a tense but tender hand on his arm, lightly bracing against his clothing. "There will be expectations of you."

"I know. Your father has made no secret that I must produce an heir."

She shook her head. She seemed to be trembling and turned away from him. Incited by her touch, and out of the concern for her change in temperament, he lightly chanced a grazing of his hand against the outer fabric of her long veil. "What? You can tell me."

"I have not told ... anyone. Except my father, who will not listen to reason. But - you will keep it a secret?"

"Of course."

She turned back to him. "You should run, Herr Maddox."

"What?"

"You should run away and never look back. It is the safest thing for you."

"My lady," Brian said, "I have run from many obligations in my life. I decided long ago that this will not be one of them." He moved closer than he ever had dared. "I love you."

"I know." She tried to hide her soft expression in her hands again. "Brian, I don't think I can bear children."

"It frightens you?"

"No. But - do not ask for specifics, but the mid-wife believes it, and I would not have you bind yourself to me without knowing the truth. If you marry me, your situation will be very desperate."

It took a second for him to comprehend. "But - it is not a sure thing."

"I suppose not. But my father is always unreasonable."

It did not take a vivid imagination to conjure up an image of what would happen to him if he ever displeased the count. But maybe his marriage would soften his father-in-law? If he made Nadezhda truly happy? "I am willing to take a gamble. After all, gambling landed me in this situation and I find it extremely pleasurable. So - you've never told this to another suitor?"

"No," she said. "I never cared for the other ones."

He colored by her inflection.

By some stupid baronial custom, Brian did not see his bride for a week up to the marriage. That was a particularly brutal, lonely week for him. He knew everyone around him by now but he was friends with none of them; not because they were mean to him but because he was, and suspected he always would be, a foreigner. He passed his little available hours writing furiously to his brother, expressing none of the concerns surrounding his marriage and all of the joy. He loved Nadezhda. He could not, for a second, consider running away and not taking her as his wife, for as long as he should live - however short that would be. Who knew, maybe she could conceive. It had certainly never been put to the test. When explained (in detail) his wedding night and the presentation of the sheets, he colored and would have run back to his room if he hadn't been standing in front of the count at the time.

He had one other, entirely, unexpected horror to endure. A traditional stag party in England, among friends, might have involved some especially heavy drinking of whiskey and some tales that were not told often outside of such gatherings; but here it was an entirely different manner. First, he had no friends and dearly missed his brother and brother-in-law. Second, the drinking was much heavier and he had to work very, very hard to keep himself out of the cups. Third, women were invited. Or, appropriately, women of a certain profession (the oldest) were invited, or paid to come and dance. He sat on a pillow next to the count, who slapped him so heavily on the back that it hurt and made him spill some of his mead or vodka or whatever it was, and was told strongly and in no uncertain terms to pick one of them. He excused himself momentarily, and his servant Andrei must have noticed the color leave his face, because the man explained his duties to him politely enough, but made it clear that it was a duty expected of him and he could not refuse.

He was not left to contemplate the situation very long before the matter was forced on him. He haplessly selected a girl in a red costume and was ushered into another room. When they were inside the room, Brian shut the door soundly behind him. He sighed as she sat down on the mattress. "No, please," he said as she began to remove what little clothing she had, mainly jewelry. "I cannot."

"Is something wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong. I assure you." Despite his inclinations otherwise, he was not immune to a beautiful, half-naked woman being literally shoved in his face. "I - I am a stupid, naïve Englishman and in my country we do not violate our vows, even of engagement. I am promised to the princess."

"Not until tomorrow."

"No, the day I returned, I promised myself." He leaned against the door. "Name your price."

"I am free, my lord."

"No, I mean - to go back out and tell the count that I am a virile stallion who made passionate love to you."

"But you cannot?"

"I can - but not according to my principles. I am sorry." He bowed. He could not believe the absurdity of it, but he felt compelled to do so. "Your price."

Seeing he was quite serious; she sat up and her composure seemed to change to a less openly lusty, more subdued person. "I have been paid for my services, rendered or not. But if they are not rendered, the count will have my head on a spike and perhaps yours."

"Then we will have to enter into the lie together, take some time, and make some noise." He looked at his watch as he sat down on the mattress beside her. "And decide on a number of times. What do you recommend?"

Apparently, the absurdity of it had hit the girl as well, as she re-strapped herself. "For your virility?"

"Yes. I do wish his good graces, after all. So I suppose, we cannot settle on one or two."

"Three would be good, with breaks in between," she laughed a bit; "Four would be pushing it. Five, definitely so."

"Three, then. That should take ... I don't know. Some time." He looked at his pocket watch. "How do you wish to pass it? Food? Drink?"

"I do not eat while working, but thank you," she said, apparently surprised at his kindness. "I know many interesting stories."

"As do I. But all of them are quite embarrassing for me. Though, for this favor you are doing for me, I will take the embarrassment. Ask me what you like. Just remember to cry out occasionally for the sake of our rapturous lovemaking."

She giggled, and leaned against the headboard of a wall. "Very well. Perhaps you will tell me what happened to your leg."

"Is my limp so famous?"

"Just very noticeable. Did you injure it?"

"It is not my leg." He pulled his tunic aside to reveal the scar on his chest. "I was stabbed. My brother is a medicine man, and he explained to me that the body is a complex system of these tiny things called nerves, which control your whole body. The stab was near my spine and severed a nerve that goes all the way into my back and causes that awful shamble. But it hardly bothers me. In fact, not at all. Does damage to my dignity, though, but that's penance for ever trusting that awful man." He pulled his shirt back up. "I was not always a good man. I doubt I am now."

"You try to be," she said.

He smiled. "Thank you."

If there was one thing Brian Maddox was sure he would never attend, much less be a part of, it was a royal wedding. How luck and fate had brought him here, he had no concept. The weight of the crown on his head was enough to sink him into reality. He was, His Highness, Brian of Transylvania. Only the velvet beneath the crown made it comfortable on his head, and only seeing a similarly attired Nadezhda beside him helped him through a ceremony he did not even begin to understand. His only pain was the sudden missing of his brother and sister-in-law, and wishing they could be there at this strange ceremony.

But he put those feelings aside soon enough. Nadezhda was his. His wife ... he instantly felt a certain possessiveness of her. This was not a woman he was courting. This was his wife, his other half, the person he would, hopefully, share the rest of his life with. He wondered if the Orthodox Priest had said something to that effect.

He was not invited to the wedding dinner. Instead he took a small meal in his chambers, and was invited back to the crowd when his duties were performed, a disgusting notion as that was. That he had to present proof - he shook his head. Well, he would, and that would be the end of it. As his gold chain and crown and outer layer was removed, he took a glass of wine and said a prayer in English to help him to be a good husband, a good person, maybe even a good father ... if it was possible.

With utter silence he was ushered into the Princess's chambers. To his horror, his wife was stark naked on her bed, as if all he had to do was ... No, as appealing as that was, the terrified look on her face was enough to stop him cold. Well, to be honest, not totally cold, but still - He yelled angrily at the servants to leave them be, and shut the door firmly behind them.

"Nadezhda," he said, changing the tone of his voice as he approached her. "You're shivering." He grabbed her discarded robe and put it up over her. She must have been freezing. "Here."

"Am I - so terrible to you?"

She was shaking. She did not shy away from his touch, but it was obvious that she did so by fighting her own instincts. Clearly, they had told her something terrible. Not altogether different from what they told maidens in England, probably, which he always thought was outright ridiculous. He finally swallowed and replied, "No. G-d, no." He sat down next to her, off the end of the bed, holding her hand and nothing else. "Nady, you have no reason to be frightened. Whatever they told you." She had, he could now see, long black hair, still tied up not in the English way but in many braids. It was silky and beautiful in the lamplight. "I love you."

"But we have to - "

"It's not so terrible," he said. "Trust me. Do you trust me? Of course not, you have no reason to trust me, the silly Englishman. But I am very much in love with you." He held her covering up when she tried to take it down. "No. We have time." He was expected back eventually, but not so quickly. Besides, at this point, he didn't really care what the count thought. "Can I see your hair?"

She looked at him blankly.

"I've never seen it before," he said. "Not - down. Or at all. Please?"

She obliged him, of course, un-twirling her long braids of beautiful jet hair that came down past her shoulder blades. He sat there entranced until she was finished, not saying a word as he cupped her chin and kissed her on the side of her head. "I love you."

"I trust you," she said at last. "I do."

"You shouldn't, you know. You shouldn't trust anyone," he said, teasing her, and she laughed. He saw some of the tension leave with the sound of it. "Except maybe me. My Nadezhda." He kissed her again, softly, testing on her cheek. She did not turn away, but she was tightened up. "I suppose they told you some horrible nonsense about marital relations. Or relations with someone other than me. I suppose, I'm not so impressive, but - "But he couldn't think of a way to end the sentence. I'm experienced. And I love you so very, very much, and I want you to want me as bad as I do. "Now I'm a little frightened."

"Of what?" she said.

"I - I've never been with a maiden. And certainly, I've never been with a wife," he smiled. "I am, despite all of this Your Highness nonsense, an English gentleman who feels a responsibility to make his wife happy in his conduct."

"You must have a lovely country."

"I am painting a very rosy picture, aren't I?" he said. "No, it's a country like any other, but I was raised with morals. I didn't always appreciate them or follow them, but - I can try now."

"I heard you were nobility."

"Descended from. But that doesn't mean you're noble. My brother on the other hand is so stupidly noble it's surprising he hasn't gotten himself killed yet."

"You miss him?" she said, taking his hand. She must have been reading his facial expressions.

"Yes. But perhaps one day, we will invite him, or visit him. He has a wife and two children. Frederick and Emily. We should have portraits done of us in that royal garb and send it to England. He'll get a good laugh at that."

"Why?"

"Because I'm the scoundrel in the family," he said. "I don't deserve any of this. I don't deserve to be this happy."

She leaned against him, which was indeed making him very happy. "Why do you always talk like that?"

"Because it's true. Your husband was a gambler, a man of vices and a hunted man." He situated himself better on the pillows next to her, putting his feet up. "When I was eighteen, my father died. We were on bad terms with my uncle, who is the older brother and therefore inherited the earldom of Maddox, so we had no support. I was left to raise my brother Daniel, who was much younger than me, and to manage our fortune. I wasn't ready for it. I couldn't be a father to my brother. I wanted to go to University and have fun and drink. So I managed for a few years and then I started indulging myself. While my brother was in school, I gambled away our entire fortune. I took out loans to get him his license so he might be a doctor and have a living, and then I ran from my creditors. I traveled all of Europe, abandoning my brother and my responsibilities. Then when I returned, I betrayed him to someone I held a debt to and that man might have murdered him if he hadn't been so good at getting away. I didn't know that, but I shouldn't have trusted him, nonetheless." He pulled back his tunic. "The scar, from where I was stabbed."

"By your brother?"

"Good heavens, no. Danny would never stab me. By the man who meant to stab him. I was in the way. Now I am a cripple because of it, because even Danny couldn't fix me, and he is brilliant at his profession. He serves the Prince Regent, who is essentially our king. Then I ran again, because no one seemed to want me around - and for good reason - and then I met your father. And you." He kissed the hand he was holding. "Then my life changed. Who knows, you may have made me a good man."

"Can I see?" Nadezhda said, reaching towards the scar. "I mean, can I touch - "

"Of course," he said, and removed his tunic entirely. He wasn't covered in scars, but he had a few of them, certainly, and her caressing of him was ... making it very hard for him to go this slowly. "I'll tell you the stories, if you like. Behind them."

She giggled, and pressed on the line on the left side of his belly. "Tell me."

"Oh G-d, that's not a good one to start on. A woman did that to me. A girl in Rome, a ... woman of a certain persuasion. It was over money from a certain - service rendered. I thought it was rendered poorly, she didn't. So we had an argument. That's why I'll never go back to Rome, thank you very much. And stop that, it tickles," he said. "Or continue. Whatever you like, Your Highness. I am at your mercy."

"Hardly!"

"A husband is always at his wife's mercy. You should see the leash Mrs. Maddox leads my brother around with," he said, and it took her a moment to realize he wasn't being literal. "May I kiss you?"

"You do not have to ask. Your Highness."

This was not the same type of kiss. It was the first time he had ever truly kissed her full and it was incredible. There was very little sense left in him to keep himself together. Go slow. You have all night. But he didn't want to take all night, not now, when she seemed comfortable with him, or at least the idea of him.

He knew a certain amount about feminine biology, perhaps more than the average man. He was experienced, yes, but he also had once taken the time to peruse his brother's books on that particular subject, the only subject in the medical world he had bothered to read up on. That volume went missing much more often than Danny misplaced the others. It was in French and that was mainly how he became acquainted first with the language, because he had to sit there with a dictionary to try to translate what he was reading. English books were too proper and hadn't helped him at all. Some things remained untranslatable but he felt he grasped the basic concepts even if his interest was less than noble. Yes, her first time was going to hurt. There was nothing he could do about that, but he could make it more bearable. Or at least, he could try.

He let his hand slide down her arm and into the crevices of her chest, taking the fabric down with it, and she didn't seem to mind. Certainly, it would be hard for her to talk with her mouth otherwise engaged. A woman's body was something to listen to, like an instrument, and there was no outright rejection, just trepidation. No man had touched her like this, he had no doubt. He had no reason to ask. "Can I - ?" he left it an open question. Would she give him the leniency to explore? She nodded, and gave a little gasp when he did. He halted with one hand in a very circumspect place.

"Did I tell you to stop?"

He raised a very surprised eyebrow. "You minx."

His remaining clothes seemed to come off naturally. She was slowly stripping away all of his mental fortitude as well. She was his wife. He had to take her. He had to do that awful thing that would only hurt once, he promised. He kissed her; he lost his head and couldn't speak very much. His senses were gone and didn't return until he was, at least temporarily, satiated, and rolled over in a huffing heap.

"That - was it?"

He turned to his wife. "I'm a bit insulted, my lady, by your implication."

"I mean - that was the great pain?" she said. He wasn't mistaken about the whole incident and took great care to wipe up on the stupid ceremonial sheet. "I've had bruises that felt worse than that!"

He laughed, and fell onto her. "You're quite a woman," he said. "Sadly, I think I must do a terrible errand now."

"Then go do it," she said, "and hurry back, my husband. Or I will be very upset."

Brian Maddox did make his customary appearance at the wedding dinner, and turned his head as the sheet was paraded around, but did take in a good bit of wine, toasting to his own good fortune before excusing himself. He was not heard from again that night. The doors to the Princess' chambers remained locked for the rest of the night and most of the next day.

For the first few months, there was little that could irk Brian out of his marital bliss. He was given very little baronial responsibilities, as his father-in-law seemed to regard him more of a breeding implement than the future count, but he was required to accompany them for dinners and hunting parties. He had, by regulation, tried to sleep separately from his wife. This regulation was quite regularly broken and no one said a word, though he had no doubt that everyone knew that one or another was sneaking off at all hours and not returning after the allotted time. Fine by him. He was the prince now. The only one who could overrule him was the count, who seemed to have no issue with his new son's apparent virility.

One other habit did not waver, which was to write to his brother. He was besotted and he knew his letters were probably dreadful because of it but he cared very little. The point was, he was writing to Danny, and it made him feel less lonely, when he did feel lonely, at least for his brother and his extended family.

He did leave out any anxieties he had, and there were few, until the third month. He was barred from Nadezhda's chambers by her maid, who would not take any reasoning for quite a while before she gave in to his demanding stare and allowed him entrance. He found her not in her bed but hunched over on a bench, weeping and clutching her stomach, surrounded by servants who looked very upset by his intrusion.

He ignored them all. "Nadezhda - "He ran to her side, but was bodily stopped by an older woman.

"Please, Your Highness," she said. "This is a woman's business."

"This is my wife's business! Will you not allow me to comfort her?" he shouted, and Nadezhda tried to wave him off as he took a seat beside her and kissed her on the forehead. "Nady. Tell me what is wrong."

"Nothing is wrong," said the woman. "This is quite normal for her. It is her affliction and you have no business in it."

"And who are you to say that?" he said, putting an arm around his shivering wife.

"The mid-wife, Your Highness. Please. She has dealt with this for years."

It took a moment, but slowly it came together for him. It occurred to Brian that for not a single night had he been separated from her, when he should have been by basic necessity for a few days a month at the very least. He knew that much - and much more - about feminine biology. Though many women were told they were ill during this period and had some pain, it was nothing like this, something manifesting like a physical ailment. There was something irregular about her system and he was damned that he did not know what it was. This was what she had spoken of before their marriage. But - she did bleed, so maybe she could conceive.

"Nady," he whispered in her ear. "Do you want me to go, or stay with you? I will do as you wish, but I wish very much to stay and help you."

"You cannot help me," she whimpered. "No one can help me."

"I will search the ends of the earth and speak to every doctor, but until then I will not be satisfied that no one can help you," he said, and kissed her on the cheek. "Do you wish me gone now?"

Her face was hard to see with her hair so loose and so bent over, but she did manage to whisper back, "No."

He kept vigil with her through three horrible days of pain. When she was too tired to speak, his mind wandered to all the possibilities. She was not undeveloped, so perhaps she could conceive, perhaps it would be the best thing for her. This was what she had dealt with since the end of her girlhood? And yet, he could bring himself to write to his brother. First, Daniel Maddox was too proper and modest to be any sort of expert on woman's matters, something he was forced in many occasions to repeat. He could do something if there was a problem during childbirth, but that was the extent of his knowledge. Second, he could not bring himself to break the illusion that all was well. He was, when she recovered, very happy with her and did not for a moment regret his choice to marry her. What he could do - and what her father did not seem to have the sense to do - was demand, quite adamantly, that a decent doctor be sent to examine her.

A man did arrive from Russia. Brian had said France, but at the moment, he settled and endured the harsh looks from his father-in-law when he allowed Doctor Petronov into the Princess' chambers. In fact, he held her hand for the inspection, which was apparently unpleasant. The doctor, who spoke no Romanian, had to speak through a translator to Brian, whose Russian was equally bad, but essentially the conclusion was reached that while she was probably not totally and utterly incapable of conceiving, it was a highly unlikely prospect, and there was no way to be sure.

Brian called for another doctor. This one came from Prussia, looked utterly confused at the whole matter, and made the graver conclusion that she could not conceive, and in fact, would not live a normal lifetime. Brian, out of sheer mental necessity, had to dismiss the latter idea as too radical of a pronouncement.

The count took the news dismissively. He wanted to hear nothing of his daughter's failings, nor would he hear of calling a French doctor. He was not endeared to Napoleon (no local royalty were). Brian, feeling helpless, resolved that if his wife had a very narrow and unknown time for conception, he would do his best to happen upon it by sheer persistence. Nadezhda, no longer the terrified girl he had found on their wedding night, seemed happy with at least that prospect. She was, in front of her father, still the same little girl; but her mood changed behind closed doors, and she opened up to Brian. Her life was beyond sheltered, her only activities beyond castle walls being the hunt, and she wanted to hear all of his wild tales. Inside her chamber or his, behind closed doors, there was total bliss. Sometimes it carried him through the day without her, occasionally it did not.

The year came and went, and he helped her through three more devastating "afflictions." He was now established in the palace, and though his position carried weight with everyone but the count, his father-in-law did not waver in his blind insistence on his daughter's health and his son's failures - though certainly, there was enough palace talk to know his son was particularly prestigious in the area of being with his wife.

On the anniversary of their marriage, when he much preferred to dine privately with Nadezhda, Brian was called to a hunting expedition. The cold and snow did not bother the locals at all, and he had adjusted to it as well, though he still stubbornly insisted on being clean-shaven, and had to cover his face. It was there, when they were mainly alone, that the count clamped a hand on Brian's well-covered shoulder and said. "Three months."

"Excuse me, my lord?"

"You have three months." He gave him a shove that could be interpreted as friendly or not. Brian did not have to question what the answer to "Or?" was.

Returning, he did not join them for dinner. He took a glass of wine in his room before joining his wife in her chambers, dismissing the servants but this time taking extra care, for he was sure they had their looking-holes and places where they could hear. As he climbed into bed with her, he pulled the covers over their heads and whispered what her father had said.

"You have to go," she said.

"I know," he said. "Immediately, preferably. But I cannot leave you."

"I will be fine."

"Nady," he said, "you are my wife, and will be until the day I die. So either I stay and have my head on a spike or you go with me, because you cannot be with another man. Surely, your father has one in mind, or will find one." He ran his hand along her hip. "You are my wife. But the question remains - would you put your life in danger for me by leaving? It would be very dangerous."

"It would be dangerous for me to stay," she said. "I'd end up like my mother, after all."

His blank look must have explained everything.

"Brian," she whispered. "He had my mother killed because she could not produce a son."

She said it so matter-of-factly, as if it was nothing. The silence pervaded them for some time before he stammered out, "He - he killed your mother?"

"Yes."

"A-And you don't despise him?"

"I don't remember it. I was too young, and he's taken down all of her portraits. Besides, he is my father. He can do what he likes."

He grasped her hand very tightly. "No, he cannot. Nady, you must go with me."

"What will he think?"

"I don't care what he thinks. I hope he goes mad with rage and falls on his own sword," he said. "It is not in question. You are going with me."

"If you go alone, he might decide not to chase - "

"No," he said, exasperated. "I will hear no more of it. I will not abandon you to him, and I cannot stay, for it is basically the same thing. So I am going, and you are going with me." He lowered his tone again. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!"

"I am experienced at escaping. It must be tomorrow. Hopefully, I can take your dowry with me, as is my right anyway, and we will have some money for the road. We cannot go west, because he will expect it, because England is west. We must go to the Russias. You speak Russian and I will learn. It will be very dangerous, but it is weighing one danger against the other." He kissed her. "Say nothing of this to anyone."

"Then how will you get my dowry? Do you trust your servants?"

He frowned. "No."

"Well, I trust Anya, my maid. If I give her your keys, she can get access to the vault without suspicion, perhaps, and take what she can." She cupped his cheek. "I have known her almost all of my life, Brian. If there is anyone here I would trust beyond you, it is her." She pulled away. "But ... she will be questioned; when it is obvious we are gone."

"Then don't tell her in which direction we are going. Don't tell her anything unnecessary and she will have nothing to tell. Give her money to run, if you want her to live," he said. "We will go to St. Petersburg or something. It depends on the weather. But we will manage." Somehow. "Are you scared?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because," he said, "I am. But not enough to prevent me from doing this. My life is nothing without you, so you are my only concern."

"Then, we will be a little scared together, but we will spread it out," she said, and hugged him close. They fell asleep that way, after a long night where talk was not needed but touch was.

The next evening, they took two horses, an assortment of as many weapons Brian could carry, and a bag containing half of the barony's treasury, and they left.

Embarrassingly to Brian's self-esteem, it was Nadezhda whom was the chief reason they survived the first few weeks. She was a far better huntsman than him, having been raised with it as a means of sport in her native homeland. She was also a better cook, so she was largely responsible for the food and he, only the fire, which she often chastised him for being too high or too low to bring the meat to a proper temperature. He had spent more years on the run, and in this he bested her, knowing how to hide (which they did from every passing authority figure, no matter from what country), how to make shelter, and how to treat burns from the frost on a particularly chilly evening. He was surprised that they made it to Saint Petersburg without having to eat their horses and still managing to stay off the well-traveled roads. There, he was mainly lost. He had been there once on an errand and his Russian was poor, while hers was fluent.

"I don't know which one of us is being rescued," he said to her with a smile as they enjoyed what they considered the luxury of one-room lodging with a pipe stove. The bed wasn't very large, but neither of them minded. In fact, it helped pass the time.

Paper was expensive, but they had her dowry, and he slowly began to quietly convert small amounts over to Russian coinage, with multiple trips to multiple banks. He spent his spare time, while she shopped for food, writing to his brother carefully not revealing their location but relaying the events of the past few months. He sent every letter with a prayer as it dropped into the iron box.

"If we stay here much longer, we'll have to winter here," he said.

Nadezhda curled up against him. "The sea is frozen by now. We can't sail to England."

"Maybe we could skate."

Nadezhda giggled.

He'd been frightened - she had never been more than a few miles from home, and here she was, fending largely for herself in a foreign country with a foreign husband. She never complained. "I am alone with you for the first time. No spies."

"That we know of."

She laughed again and kissed him.

Their degree of tranquility was shattered with enough time for them to make it out of St. Petersburg before it became too cold to do so. For this, Brian was grateful, but in the days to come, he would look back on their weeks in that tiny apartment with great affection, as if it had been their true honeymoon, drab as the surroundings were.

She came home that afternoon and said, "Someone called me by my name."

He sighed. They had to go, no matter how innocent it might have been. They could not go east and they could not wait for the thaw of the sea to take them to safe harbor. They had to go west, into the terrible steppes of the Rus. They went south as well, were it was slightly warmer, but not enough. They went from village to village. Nadezhda's horse died, so they sold the meat and rode together on his. They both had a bad cough and many times were tempted to stop and seek shelter in some village for the winter.

Eventually all they saw was white. "We cannot go further," he announced. They stopped at the next set of wooden buildings ahead on the road, now disappearing into the snow. With half of Count Vladimir's treasury in Russian rubles, strapped to a sack beneath his clothing, he took his wife's hand and they walked into town. He tried his Russian, but their accents were too heavy. The men were wearing beaver fur hats and long black coats, and as far as he could tell they were speaking some unknown dialect when they talked amongst each other. They all had a beard, that was hardly unusual, but the way they talked - they did not speak directly to Nadezhda, however they understood what she said and talked amongst themselves for some time.

"Here," he said in Russian, holding up some coins. They would probably not take paper money here. "Please. Help."

"We can't stay," Nadezhda whispered to him in Romanian.

"Surely if we give them enough - "

"We can't stay. It's dangerous."

"You are sure?"

"Brian, they're Jews."

He blinked. "So? I've met Jews before."

"You have?"

"People are people, Nady," he said, "people with warm houses. They could have horns for all I care." He smiled as one of them looked at him. "Hello."

The men were still talking when another one came out of one of the houses with a long beard, carrying his hat as he was clearly unprepared to be walking about outside, and began yelling at them. It was vaguely Russian, vaguely not. "Yiddish," Brian said at last."

"What?"

"A Yid. A Jew. They speak it in Germany."

Whatever they were saying, every man hushed when the old man approached them and started sermonizing. Eventually, they all scattered and a woman emerged from behind him and waved Brian and Nadezhda in. "Thank you," Nadezhda said in Russian.

The old couple spoke fluent Russian, they soon discovered, and Brian understood more than he spoke, so he was able to follow the conversation fairly well. He offered money, but the man waved it away.

"We need shelter," Nadezhda said nervously. Aside from his black skullcap, the man did not have horns. "Please."

"You come from where?"

"Saint Petersburg," Brian said.

Their host said no more about the obvious lie as his wife disappeared; reappearing with a steel tub of soup, which she portioned off for the four of them.

"I am Rabbi Shneur Zalman," the man said. "My wife, Sterna Zalman."

"Brian Maddox," he replied. "My wife, Nadezhda Maddox."

"You are English?" the rabbi said in perfect German.

Brian and Nadezhda exchanged nervous glances. "I am," Brian said in German. "My wife is not."

"She is Polish?"

"No," he knew he couldn't say she was German - her accent was too Baltic. "To the south."

The rabbi didn't inquire further, said something in Yiddish to himself, and began his soup. That was their signal. So they dug into their food, drinking down every last hot, salty drop, and washed it down with vodka. Feeling warm again was delightful; Brian only gave a dreamy glance as his wife was removed with the rabbi's wife, leaving him alone with Zalman. "So, you are from here? Where is here?" He fell into a natural Romanian without thinking, only realizing it after it came out of his mouth.

The rabbi answered in Romanian, "I was born in Liozna. It is Lithuania now, I believe. Then Vilna, then Saint Petersburg. But we are in Liadi, Baruch Hashem."

"You are - I don't know - noble here?"

"No," the rabbi said very modestly. His home did not look like a noble's. It looked temporary. The walls were bare, the furniture comfortable but plain. "The voivod was who invited me to come here. Prince Stanislaw Lubomirski. Now his son rules. He stays away, Thank G-d. The czar, he always makes trouble." But he waved it off. Brian noticed that beneath his black coat, he had scars on his wrists. "You will stay for the winter, Herr Maddox?"

"Please. We will pay anything."

"Did you do something bad?"

He was put-off by the question, perhaps because the strength of the vodka, and his general exhaustion. "I - yes, we are in trouble. But we didn't do anything wrong. Please, you understand?"

"I was in prison, in St. Petersburg, for giving charity," said the rabbi. "For three months."

Brian smiled despite himself. "What kind of charity?"

"I gave money to my homeland. The Turks were very upset." He must have read Brian's look of confusion. "My homeland is the land around Jerusalem, in their empire. It is now Palestine. The goyim, they change all the names."

"Jerusalem? As in, the bible Jerusalem?"

"Ja, the bible Jerusalem," said the rabbi in German. "Every year I ask G-d to go. Every year He says no. Someday, I find out why."

Brian laughed.

Brian and Nadezhda quickly learned much about their hosts. Rabbi Zalman - "der Alter Rebbe" - was the leader of the community and had been a big man in Vilna before his arrest. He married into wealth, so he could devote all of his time to study. Their house was plain, but there was a wealth and it was in the library. This was no Englishman's collection of gothic novels. The texts were gigantic and smelled ancient. Some were still scrolls or hand-bound - all were in languages neither of them could read. "I feel like I'm at home," Brian said to the rabbi when he first entered.

"You read?"

"Not like my brother. He is a doctor. He reads - all the time. I was going to send him something before I left Austria, but I didn't get the chance." He sighed. "He probably already has a copy. It's an old German poem or something."

The rabbi spoke maybe a dozen languages. "A doctor is a great profession."

"I know. I'm very proud of him."

Brian had some trouble finding use for himself. Nadezhda could at least cook and did not mind doing such a mundane chore. There were no servants to be had; only dozens of students following the rabbi, who seemed to walk to and from the synagogue. Brian offered to find them food when he noticed they ate little game.

"No hunting," said the Rebbetzin, the wife. "It is cruel to the animals."

"Then how are we eating meat?"

He got a demonstration from the rabbi himself the very next day, when they slaughtered a calf for dinner. The rabbi calmly herded the calf away from the other animals, took a large butcher's knife, and slit its throat. It died almost instantaneously as the blood poured into the snow. "You slit the throat just so," said the rabbi. "It is very hard not to hurt it."

"What if you hurt it?"

"Then we chop it up for the wild dogs to eat. We don't eat it."

"Why would you feed wild dogs? You don't eat them."

"When the Jews were sneaking out of Egypt in the middle of the night, not a single dog barked to alert the authorities. So, we feed the dogs, if we can."

Brian did not question it. He had never taken bible passages so literally.

Eventually they found industry for him - and were grateful for it, so "others can learn." He cut wood, essential for the freezing Russian nights, and he carted around goods. Fortunately these obviously religious people did not have a rule about sleeping in a different room from one's wife and he could collapse guilt-free beside Nadezhda; he found his own way of keeping warm in the long nights. There was far more darkness than light. He was happy to an extent, because he had his wife and he had shelter. As the winter passed, he began to dream of England - its rolling hills, the small hills he had once considered mighty mountains, even the awful smell of the Town square on a hot day. Surely their trail had gone cold? (Everything else had) Once they were in his homeland, they would be untouchable, even if the count wanted to pursue. Nadezhda seemed to silently accept never going home again; why couldn't he?

He watched the snow melt with an unspoken anticipation. He wanted to go - somewhere - that would bring him home. East? Maybe he could go south, to Mongolia, and then to the Turks?

"You can bribe your way through the Turkish Empire," said the rabbi, "If you can get there."

"We can't go back to St. Petersburg," he said. "What should I do, Rabbi?"

"If you must go east, go east," said the rabbi. "We wandered forty years in the desert and we came out all right."

"The bible didn't happen yesterday, you know."

"Every Jew who would ever live stood at Mount Sinai. We are all old souls." He always said things with complete confidence, at least on spiritual manners. That was why, Brian supposed, the people listened to him like he was the next prophet, even though he made no prophecies. He sat and read, and occasionally wrote on some religious thing he was working on - something about the soul and how to elevate it. It was beyond a vicar's sermon that was for sure.

At night, Nadezhda and Brian sat in conference.

"We go east?"

"We go east."

They consummated the deal the best way a husband and wife could.

It seemed silly, to be going off in the wrong direction. Brian's horse didn't survive the winter, so they purchased a wagon and two mules, which was the best they could do. The Rebbetzin gave them more preserves than they thought they could ever eat, which was a pleasing prospect. The rabbi gave them the only book he owned in a European language - a copy of some French travelogue, so old it had writing in different hands in the margins and inside the cover. Brian took it gratefully.

"So they didn't have horns after all," he said to his wife as they watched the little town of Liadi disappear behind them. "Or drink our blood."

"So I was ignorant! Like you're so wise," she said.

It was not very warm, but it was warm enough to see the roads again, and that was enough. They had come full circle, living outside and traveling until they would both collapse. Brian didn't try to keep track of the date, or ask it of the villagers they passed. All he knew was that it was warmer, so it was spring. There was a port, to the east, the villagers said. By the time they got there, it would be thawed and ships would come again. They could go to America, it was so close. America? At least they spoke English there. One could get to England from America - that much, he knew. He wondered how far across it was.

It was late spring, almost summer when Brian and Nadezhda Maddox arrived in Magadan. They shuddered to think that they had been on the road almost a year now. Brian had written letters again; he posted them from the first place he saw suitable enough to possibly guarantee a delivery. In this tiny town, there was at least a kind of civilization, where he could get a shave from a barber and speak to someone in German or French. He saw the ships coming in and began to inquire. There was one bound for this place called Alaska, near America. They booked passage.

A day before they were to leave, he decided to write to his brother again to give yet another assurance that he was safe, his wife was safe, and that they would someday come home when it was safe for them and for the rest of the family. He slipped his message in the box and turned around to see the face of his Romanian manservant, Andrei.

"You are a hard man to find," Andrei said, holding up a pistol from within his heavy coat.

Brian followed his signal and left the public place, to a more secluded area, but he had already decided his actions. "What do you want?" he said, facing him.

"Do you know how much His Grace would pay to have his daughter returned to him, much less, with your head beside her?"

"Even if you care nothing for me," Brian pleaded, "you're leading her into death. You know she can't conceive. Everyone seems to know it but the count. Have some loyalty to your princess."

"My princess?" Andrei said. "You assume a lot about my loyalties, Prince Brian."

"Then ... you can be bought," Brian said. "How much?"

"I know you have half the treasury?"

"I spent it in St. Petersburg. If you are so good at following me, Andrei, then you would know that." It was a lie, but he needed time.

"I'm not your servant," he said. "How little you know of me. Do you even know my last name? It is Trommler."

"Name your price, Trommler."

"I've already said it. You have most of it, I know. You lived like a pauper in St. Petersburg."

"St. Petersburg was a long time ago."

"So you say. I also know you carry the money on your person, beneath your clothing."

"You have bested me," he said. "Please - let me - "But he reached with one hand for the satchel, and the other for the gun. Yes, he would risk his life for Nady - without question. He hadn't spent a winter chopping up wood for nothing. The gun went off and he didn't care, he grabbed it and beat Trommler on the head with the wooden handle. Trommler dropped like a sack. He was still breathing. If he would stay that way, Brian knew not. He took the gun, still hot, and ran to the flat where they were staying. "Nadezhda!"

She was standing over a pot and the last of their preserves. "Brian! You're bleeding!"

He hadn't even noticed. He was honestly too concerned for her, and them. "We have to go. We can't wait. Andrei is here."

"Your servant?" She said, grabbing a towel and placing it against his skull. Now that he thought about it, he did feel like something had hit him, though he knew Trommler had not. "You were grazed. You need to sit down."

"We need to go. Board the next ship. I don't care where it goes."

"What happened?"

He could barely breathe. He did have to sit, as much as he didn't want to, as she pressed the cloth against his head. "He had a gun - he wanted all of our money. I hit him and he fell. T-That's all I stayed for. Oh, and I took the gun." He pulled it out. "We have to go before he wakes up."

"Brian, you're going into shock."

"I'd rather do it on a ship."

She listened to him quickly gathering their things. They abandoned the cart, which had little in it anyway, and took only what they could fit on their backs. Brian could barely walk; Nadezhda had to hold him up and he shoved a mildly insane amount of money into the hands of the captain of a ship bound for a port in the south. The crew was male with no passengers. "Just keep it quiet," Brian mumbled, they showed him to a spare room and brought him a mattress, which he hit rather soundly.

When he woke, they were already at sea. He felt the rocking of the boat and found it comforting. We're moving.

The days passed quietly. He recovered quickly and checked the ship - no Andrei. They were safe. Nadezhda didn't venture far outside the cabin, not with a male crew. They mainly stayed to themselves, until their food ran out; they then shared meals with the crew, again, at extra cost.

It doesn't matter, he told himself. It's like farthings.

It wasn't worth that, when they all started getting sick. At first, he thought he was seasick, even though he normally had a strong stomach. He could hardly blame Nadezhda, who had never seen the sea, much less been on it before in her life. But then there were soars, fevers, and the boat began to veer off course because so many crew members were ill...

"Typhus," he said as he rejoined Nadezhda in their cabin. "Bloody fucking typhus!"

Nadezhda managed a weak smile.

"I may sound as if I've gone truly insane," he said, "and this would not be the first time I would have said something that made people think that, but there's land ahead. We could take the boat and row."

"But - the captain - "

"If we stole it - went at night - "He slumped down against the wall. "I know it's wrong, crazy, and stupid. But if we stay here, we're going to die."

She nodded weakly. She always agreed with him. She was never afraid. She was so perfect, so wonderful - she didn't deserve to die. He would do anything to make sure that didn't happen - not on his watch.

That night, in a feverish haze so bad he could hardly tell left from right, the two of them took the boat off the side and lowered themselves into the water. Everything proceeded smoothly - most of the crew was below decks, dying. Two had already been thrown overboard.

The waves were heavier than he expected. He tried to row alone. Several times, his strength failed him, and Nadezhda took up his place. He lied down on the floor of the small wooden boat, listening to the waves, falling into the comforting silence beyond Nadezhda's desperate breathing. That was, until the boat crashed into a rocky coast, he heard the wood splintering and noises from afar. His cue.

Nadezhda had passed out. He rose somehow, his pack still on his back, lifted her into his arms, stepping out of the ruined boat and into the water that went up to his knees. Slowly he waded to shore, his night vision failing him against the torchlight. It was all a haze, and then there was shouting. He set Nadezhda down when she murmured something.

His only thought was of Nadezhda, half-collapsed at his side. He was inclined to join her, not feeling well on his feet. He was very aware, not only of the lapping water against his boots, but the presence of others around him, swords drawn. He drew his pistol, though he doubted he had the strength to do more than hold it up and fire once or twice. "Stay away," he said in Russian, even though in the poor light, these people did not look Russian. They were positively oriental, with their strange hair in buns, their odd swords and their eyes. They had left the mainland, he was sure - so they could not be in Cathay - "If you touch her, so help me G-d," he said in Romanian.

Someone shouted at him. It was an order, but it was incomprehensible. He did not know if they recognized what he held in his hands when they came after him. He'd been in similar straits before, certainly, but not with a wife by his side and not when he was so utterly sick and exhausted.

How the gun went off, he could not properly recall. It fired harmlessly into the air, gunpowder drifting down as he was knocked in his side by the butt of a weapon, and he collapsed. "Nadezhda..." he whispered. She was gone, and so was everything else.

Next Chapter – The Tale of Brian Maddox, Part II

Historical Trivia - Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi (1745 - 1812) was the founding rebbe of the branch of Hasidic Jewry known as Chabad. Called the Alter Rebbe, he is the author of the mystical tract called the Tanya. The seventh and last rebbe of the dynasty, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, died in New York in 1993.