The Princess Galva: A Romance

by David Whitelaw

Their plan of action was a simple one. They were to lie hidden where they were until the king was in extremis. Pia, whose daughter was employed as a still-room maid at the Palace, would give them information as to the progress of the royal patient. In the mean time Pia would see that the little staircase which Anna Paluda had used to such good purpose fifteen years before, was free of access, and that the door which gave on to the grounds, and which had fallen into disuse, was cleared of the tangled creepers which he said now all but covered it.

At the first alarm that Enrico's death was imminent, they would make all speed to this door, and hurry up to the room at the top of the stair, the little chamber behind the corridor wall, where ten or twelve people could wait in moderate comfort. Here they would be perfectly secure, and even in the event of the report of the king's condition proving false, they could but retire. At the sound of the first gun announcing the death they would proceed to the king's ante-chamber, there to wait the advent of Dasso. At the least they would be twenty minutes before him.

The ladies did not re-appear but sent their "good-nights" to the men by the old dame, and the duke and Edward were conducted by their host to a barn which lay some ten yards to the rear of the cottage.

Here Pia left them with a stable lantern, telling them that there was no need for them to keep watch. One or other of his sons would be about all night on guard, and nothing could happen without them being made aware of it.

Nothing loath, after their long walk, the two men took off their outer garments, and rolling themselves in the horse blankets provided by Pia, threw themselves upon the pile of yellow straw which littered one end of the barn, and in a few moments they had fallen asleep.

It was bright day when they awoke to find that Pia had entered the barn, bringing with him a jug of steaming coffee and some toasted rolls, to which comforting fare the men devoted themselves whilst they were making their toilet. This completed as well as the lack of razors and other necessaries permitted, they followed their host across the cobbled yard to the great kitchen and living-room of the cottage.

This was a cheerful apartment, whose lime-washed walls, pierced here and there by little red-curtained windows, reflected the glow of the blazing pine logs in the open fire-place. The ceiling was high and pointed, being the entire height of the house, and from the black rafters hung bulky hams and bunches of sweet-smelling herbs. At one end a flight of rough oak steps led up to a little railed gallery that projected out over the fire-place, making a cosy settle, which on winter evenings would accommodate the whole family. In this little gallery were two or three rush-seated chairs, and in a niche in the wall a rather crudely coloured figure of the Virgin.

The morning sunlight shone through the tiny leaded panes of the windows, and glinted on the glass and earthenware laid out on the bare table, spotless as any tablecloth, and made play among the pewter and brass on the great dresser. The cleanliness and order of Dame Pia's room made one imagine oneself in the kitchen of some strict housewife on the Zuyder Zee.

Anna and Galva, refreshed by their night's rest, were in the highest of spirits, which Edward's suggestion that they should not go outside the house hardly lessened. It was so cosy in this sweet-smelling kitchen, and for the moment memories of Cornwall came back to them. They occupied their time well, insisting on giving a helping hand at the housework, much to the embarrassment of the good mistress of the house; and Galva could hardly repress a smile at the expression and the low bow of reverence with which the old woman handed each utensil she had washed to her to wipe.

But the work of one cottage in the hands of three capable women is soon done, and time began to hang heavily on Galva's hands, until, noticing Dame Pia preparing a stew, nothing would satisfy her but that she should try her hand, with what materials were available, at a Cornish pasty. With sleeves rolled up above her dimpled elbows the princess set about her task, the housewife standing dutifully by, her apron twisted between nervous fingers. It was a good pasty, and no doubt the disinclination of the Pia family to eat heartily of it is explained by a little glass case on the dresser which to this day is shown to all visitors, and which shelters the remains of the queen's culinary effort.