In Which Prince Hugo Makes Preparations

Hugo, Crown Prince of Marshweather, to Lady Marta Figglesworth:

Marta darling,

Well, the men are finally almost finished mustering for the march to Bentlefay and a hellish long slog it’s been. I suppose it makes sense not to arm them to the teeth and send them all through to Hingbach at once, but it’s an awful bore while it’s happening. Do you realize that they started leaving four days ago, and the last man won’t pull away until dusk this evening? And that isn’t counting the mercenaries, who are going to be meeting us there.

I’m going to be leaving at dusk with the rear guard, and taking an easy time with it. Since it will just be me and Polly (my horse, you know) I will go straight through the other men once I have passed the border, and bunk with them just as I come. I think it will be much easier than bringing my own bedroll and kit, and camping alone and so forth, but old Smoot rather sighed when I raised the question. I do think that old fellows like him and Bleake can be awful old women sometimes about protocol and strategy and things like that.

Listen, darling – don’t worry about the business with the princess. I will try what I said with the kidnapping, and as long as it works out for at least a day or so I can use your idea about taking away her character, which will be a pity for her, but I’m sure it will cause enough confusion that we can at least talk down the port taxes, and then maybe Bleake will be happy enough to let her go and let me marry whomever I choose.

In any case it’s quite on the cards that we will win the surprise attack. They’ll have no notice at all now that we have taken their spy Rafe, and they certainly won’t be predicting our mercenary troops so I’ve no doubt they will be under-manned (that’s war talk for not having enough soldiers, darling). If that’s the case, I can just take the princess hostage with her parents and not have to do anything in the matter of ravishing her, which of course I would really prefer.

And the crowning glory of the whole thing is that if I fail utterly at every aspect of it, which could certainly happen, it would still be a perfectly satisfactory outcome from our point of view. It would be a stinker indeed for the casualties of the surprise attack (I don’t know why Bleake always hurls his pen at me when I bring up that sort of thing), but there would be no excuse to keep you and me apart, and maybe we could use your dowry to offset the damned port tax.

Do forgive me for saying “damned,” will you darling? I know it’s not the sort of thing one respectably writes to one’s betrothed, but since it’s the cause of all our troubles I don’t think some strong language is completely out of place.

Your own,
Hugo

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