In Which Danger Appears On The Horizon

Hugo, Crown Prince of Marshweather, to Lord Harold Figglesworth:

Dear Fimbles,

It looks like the surprise attack on Bentlefay is a go after all. I think it’s a bore, but old Bleake says there’s no other way we can get seaport access without paying a great deal of tax, which he is against for some reason although he never seems to have a problem with people paying taxes to us. Bleake thinks he can prop Father up in a saddle for long enough to be of use in calling the men to battle and so forth, but he says I will have to sneak into the palace and ravish the princess, so that if Father mucks up the battle we can still negotiate with something. He tells me that the princess is beautiful and sought after and all that, but it seems awfully tedious to have to ravish somebody. I don’t imagine it’s nearly as jolly as when the girl wants to be there, if you know what I mean, and when there’s skill involved, which makes it more interesting.

Anyway, that will probably be in the next couple of weeks, so if you wanted to come down for some hunting it should be soon, unless you wanted to put it off till Midwinter and try for some boar. We would be out of Bentlefay by then at least, however it turns out. Oh, and if you want to do the attack with us, let me know in the next week, so that we can add in your fellows when we are drawing up plans. I’m afraid I would have to do the ravishing part on my own, which is a pity, since we always had a splendid time with infiltration. Do you ever hear from old Crumbo? I’ll never forget the time he farted sneaking into the kitchens and the potboy thought it was an evil spirit. Father always said that it probably was.

Give my regards to your mother and sisters for me, especially Marta. I asked Bleake if I couldn’t marry her, but he says it will spike the whole thing with Bentlefay, so I’m afraid it’s off. I think Marta likes Arthur Tenderhall best anyway, but I thought it would at least be worth a try. Remember to let me know about the hunting.

Best,
Humps

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From the journal of Mortimer Bleake, High Councilor of Marshweather, in cipher:

…in any case, I have finally managed to make that moron Hugo understand what is expected of him, if not the importance of it. He seems to be incapable of seeing life as anything but a sport or prank. He has just come in to inform me that he has invited young Figglesworth to join in the surprise attack, as though it were a game of charades. He didn’t seem to see any kind of problem with the fact that Figglesworth couldn’t surprise a hibernating bear if it was stone-deaf, and neither could a single one of those bestially incompetent Figglesworth underlings.

I don’t know why Hugo’s imbecilities always surprise me; the whole family is like that. His idiotic father was an hour late to every single one of the border skirmishes ten years ago, because he just couldn’t get up that early in the morning. And when we lost, he said it was because the plans I drew up didn’t take proper account of the terrain! What these benighted Marshweathers would do without me I have no idea. I suppose they think they could just rule the place themselves, as if it were that simple.

My dyspepsia is worse, despite the new tincture and the day-old bread. I will have to have another consultation with Mistress Teasbane…

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Lord Harold Figglesworth to Prince Hugo of Marshweather:

Dear Humps,

It’s wizard of you to invite me, but I can’t do the surprise attack. I broke my ankle when I was out after rabbits, of all things, but they do dig holes, don’t they? Or so I found. I’m sick at missing it though. I always thought I’d like to try a surprise attack, and see if it’s anything like hunting. I’ll send you some men if you like. They’re just sitting around the barracks eating their heads off and fighting amongst themselves. Are you going in by way of the border again this time?

What a bore about Princess Dulcie. I don’t know why old people like Bleake want to muck around with women. You can’t depend on them to act the way you think, even if the whole ravishing business wasn’t fishy on its own. Which reminds me, I think Marta was just flirting with Tenderhall. She says he doesn’t mean anything to her, and to give you her regards, and she would love to get a letter from you. None of it makes any sense to me, but I said I would let you know.

Anyway, it’s eight weeks with the ankle which should just about take us to Midwinter. I’ll probably be pretty comic after so long on my back, but it doesn’t bother me – it will all be in good sport.

Fimbles

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