"God All-Fucking-Mighty!" the footman wheezed in horror. "Your Grace!" looking back and forth between his stark naked mistress and the handsome prince lounging carelessly against the coachwork, the old man could only repeat, "God All-Fucking-Mighty!"

To Vulkan it seemed that far from being embarrassed by her plight, the countess actually straightened her spine against the heavy load she carried and stood proudly before the two men. Her defiant eyes never leaving his as he addressed the gawping footman.

"How much farther to the keep?"

The footman took a moment to fully register the question, "well, er, the keep… well now… let's see… about twenty more leagues, I would hazard… Highness," Henrik eventually stammered, "but surely you don't…"

"But, surely I don't what?" Vulkan prompted.

"Well, My Lord, the countess, I mean, she's not expected to walk through the border territory like that, is she?" the footman's tone was aghast.

"Why not?" snapped the prince.

"Well, Sire, she's, I mean Her Grace that is, is the seneschal's wife and the king's cousin, I mean, well, er, they won't like it… Highness."

"Lets hope they don't get to hear about it then, eh," laughed the prince, or we're both for the bloody chop."

Henrik groaned helplessly as he followed the apparently mad prince up on to the driving platform and with shaking hands disengaged the brake and flicking the reins over the team's back, setting off once more with the countess walking behind.

"Faster," said Vulkan after only a few yards, "at this pace I'll miss the fucking joust.

Once again Henrik protested, but this time under his breath in what he thought to be an inaudible whisper, "Maximilian will cut my friggin' knackers off."