The Lightstep (33 page)

The interpretation was another matter. Wéry remembered
bitterly how he, how everyone in Erzberg – had mistaken the
news of the return of Hoche to Germany. So there were siege
guns at Wetzlar. Why should they be intended for Erzberg?

Well, who else might they be intended for? Frankfurt was
garrisoned by the Emperor. They would not strike at Frankfurt so
soon after the peace. Indeed, if they had wanted Frankfurt they
would have made the Emperor abandon it to them, just as he had
abandoned Mainz.

If they meant to march north, or east, into the lands
dominated by Prussia, they would have to reinforce Wetzlar with
more than just a siege train.

But Erzberg, now. The walls were breached. But they would
know from Lanard that the breaches were small and could be
repaired. Erzberg, with its motley army, its control of the Vater
crossings, and its position in the heart of Germany. They had what
they needed, if it came to that. Had they a motive, now that
d'Erles had fled? But only they would know what motive would
be sufficient.

And there was corroboration of a sort, if they were patrolling
down to the Erzberg borders. That was the sort of action that
discouraged spying and patrolling in the other direction.
Certainly it would be harder for him to confirm the presence of
siege guns at Wetzlar if the roads were alive with French patrols.
It might mean more lives lost – more of his own people. And yet
he must try, and they must try. The double faces of Christ groaned
soundlessly on the desk before him.

Outside a bell tolled the quarter hour. Midnight had come and
gone and he had not been aware. And now he had a report to
write, which must be ready before his meeting with Bergesrode
tomorrow morning. He must write it carefully. He pushed the
two paintings aside, found pen and paper, and set them before
him. But before he began he remembered something else.

Taking a small lever from a draw, he bent down over a floorboard
before the hearth. The nails that held it were loose. It came
up easily. Beneath it, wrapped in canvas, were concealed the
reports and papers he considered most valuable, or most
dangerous. On the top of the pile was his own report to
Bergesrode, strung together from his recollections of Uhnen's
drunken ramble, and from meetings with officers of the police. It
was short, because he had had so little to put in it. And it began
baldly: 'On the night of 13 October notable members of the
Canon Rother-Konisrat's party attended a gathering at the house
of the Knight von Adelsheim . . .'

He removed it, wrapped the others back into their sack, and
replaced the board. Then he made up the fire in the little hearth.

With shaking fingers, he fed his report to the flames.

It was barely dawn when Wéry let himself into the Prince's
antechamber, and found that Bergesrode's chair was
empty.

Fernhausen looked up from his desk. He had a candle before
him, which cast shadows across his face.

'Where is he?' asked Wéry. Never before had Bergesrode
missed one of their early morning meetings.

Fernhausen shrugged. 'Off somewhere,' he said. 'Yesterday was
chaos, and we are still picking ourselves up this morning. You'll
have to deal with me.'

'What's happening?'

'Oh, it's everything really. Mainly the wretched ball for
Candlemas. These things always take more effort than an imperial
crisis. But Steinau has presented his report on Hersheim, and of
course it's heavy against Balcke-Horneswerden, and last night we
had half the Chapter in here one after another trying to find out
what His Highness is going to do about it.'

'What is he going to do about it?' asked Wéry.

'How should I know? He just smiles and nods and hears each
one out, and then it's on to the next one. And then right in the
middle of it comes the news of d'Erles's assassination.'

'Assassination! I hadn't heard.'

'My dear fellow,' said Fernhausen smiling up at the ceiling.
'How should you? But no, it is true. Although . . .' he pulled a
face. 'When I say "assassinated", that makes it sound deliberate.
Apparently he was on his way to Rome, to seek asylum there. Of
course he had to pass through French-held Italy. The French have
been setting up this Cisalpine Republic of theirs, and there was a
lot of excitement about it. A mob saw this aristocrat's
coach, pulled him out of it, and, well, it ended with him
à la
lanterne.'

'I'm sorry. I had thought better of him after he appeared at the
Chapter.'

Fernhausen rolled his eyes. 'You don't imagine that was his
own idea, do you?'

'He was put up to that?'

'Of course. Although perhaps,' he glanced momentarily at
Wéry, 'perhaps we shouldn't go too far into that. His Highness
was not pleased. And now he thinks we all betrayed him, and
betrayed poor dear d'Erles too. Of course he goes on smiling and
nodding, but no one's getting anything they want out of him.
And so we are all having to jump a bit.'

'Did you put d'Erles up to it?'

'Not me. Not Bergesrode either, if you want to know. He was
all for fighting to the last man.'

'So was I.'

'Oh, I know. Fortunately there were wiser heads around. What
can I do for you?'

Wéry rallied his scattered thoughts.

'Has he seen the report from the frontier dragoons yet?'

'No. I have it here. I'll put it in to him as soon as I . . .'

'No need. Here's the full story, in half the space.' Wéry handed
over the pages he had written at midnight. Fernhausen lifted an
eyebrow in surprise. But he took it, moved his candle over and
began to frown at the page. Wéry sat back, aching with tiredness,
and watched the light growing at the window.

So! Once again he found that he was far behind events. He
had come up here expecting his most important interview with
Bergesrode for weeks – intense on the report from the Rhine,
difficult on the Illuminati – and had found instead that he and his
concerns were almost the last things on anyone's minds. Really,
he thought wearily, he should get his office moved up here to the
palace – into this very room, perhaps. That way he would not
miss two-thirds of everything that went on.

And d'Erles was dead. That wasted life, the waster of so much
and so many others, was gone. And the man's one act of redeeming
gallantry had been the gallantry of a dupe. Somehow,
someone had manoeuvred him into offering to leave the city.
And so he was dead.

Weariness and depression felt very much the same, thought
Wéry.

'Yes,' said Fernhausen, after a little. 'Yes, he must see this.' He
turned the page, reading with uncharacteristic attention.
He came to the point where Wéry had told the story of the
capture of the coach in four clipped sentences. Fernhausen read
them, and finished. He frowned again, tapping the page.

'You don't mention . . .'

'No.'

Wéry had not said who had ridden in the coach. She had
asked that he should not.

It was one of those rare moments when Fernhausen looked
him in the eyes.

'Shouldn't you?'

'It is better not.'

'But she's his god-daughter.'

'All the more reason.'

Still Fernhausen was looking at him. But now he was unsure
of himself. Wéry kept his expression firm, marshalled his
arguments (security, scandal, the reputation of the Prince himself
. . .). He waited.

'Very well,' said Fernhausen at last. He placed the report with
a small pile of others. 'As you say, it takes half the space.'

'May I have the dragoon's report?'

Fernhausen hesitated. Then he said,'I suppose so.'

He passed it over. Wéry took it and pocketed it. So much for
the dragoon's hopes of promotion, after all. He was sorry about
that. But she wished to keep her name from public notice, and he
was going to track down every copy of that damned report if
he possibly could.

'He values you because you are dedicated, you know,' said
Fernhausen a little sulkily. 'He likes people he thinks are
incorruptible. It's why he's put up with my priestly colleague for
so long. If he thinks a fellow has loyalties elsewhere, he starts to
worry.'

'I understand what you are saying,' said Wéry.

In the heavy silence, he rose to his feet. 'I had better let you
get on with the truly important matters – like the Candlemas
Ball,' he said.

Fernhausen smiled. 'For once,' he said,'that is not my concern.
His Highness has asked Bergesrode to manage it.'

'Unusual.' Such things almost always fell to the more junior
aide.

Fernhausen's grin broadened. 'I think Bergesrode was indeed
a little surprised.'

Maria was in her room, reading her dead brother's letters.

She had kept them for so long, tied in bundles with ribbon.
She had not touched them until now, because the thought of
them had always been so painful that she had shied away.
She had needed a reason, more than mere remembrance, to make
her pick them from her trunk, untie them, and begin to leaf
through the pages, covered in that achingly familiar hand.
This morning, at last, she had one. Her reason was Michel
Wéry

Of course it had been impossible. Of course she could not
have stayed, and listened to what he had been trying to say to her.
She had done what she must, and had done it quickly, so that
neither of them should suffer more than they had to.

And yet – now that she had done it indeed, and left him there
– why should she not look back after all and wonder?

Who was he really? Red-faced and stammering last night, he
had barely been able to speak for himself. But he did not deserve
to be dismissed. He had seen and done so many things. Was his
birth his fault? Someone should speak for him, since he must now
be silent. She knew of only one person who could.

Michel has returned from another of his forays,
chattered Alba, halfway
down the page she held.
He seems surprised and a little
disappointed to be still living, but I am glad to see him. Of course he is
angry because the army has done nothing but sit and feed itself while he
was away. He expects too much of everyone, and of himself most of
all . . .

The weak winter sunlight strayed across the room. Her bed
was unmade and her fire unlit. She had sent her maid away so that
she might be undisturbed. When the girl returned at the
appointed time, she sent her away again. She read for hours. And,
as the time passed, her pace of reading slowed. She no longer
skipped half-seeing through the pages for Alba's words about his
friend – who was mentioned in perhaps one letter in three, and
sometimes only fleetingly. She began to read, at last, for Alba himself
as well, as she had long wished to, and yet had never felt she
could.

All those half-familiar, half-forgotten phrases that he had
written to her were there before her eyes again. They were bringing
her closer to him, closer than she had felt for a year. They
spoke to her in his voice, a little distantly, as if they came from
another room, but nonetheless clear, and nonetheless Alba. She
could smile at them again – at his stories of the ridiculous
and farcical happenings in camp, at the practical jokes that he and
young Friedrich Rieseck-Tauen had played on other officers, and
at his triumph on the occasions when he had managed to entice
even the earnest and dour Michel Wéry to join in.

As she read, she began to feel grateful. She was grateful for the
titbits about Wéry, but also she was grateful to Wéry himself,
because she saw that it was because of him that she had come to
remind herself of Alba in life. Because of him, she could see now
that the memory of Alba was something she should also feel
grateful for. Strange friends! She could almost picture the two of
them together, walking towards her across a sunlit lawn, one short
and laughing, the other tall and abrupt. And though neither of
them would speak of themselves, each might speak to her of the
other.

My dearest and most delightful Maria . . .

. . . to Darmstadt with Michel to visit Friedrich in the
hospital. Friedrich is worse, I fear. He did not rest himself
when his malady first appeared . . . Afterwards Michel took
me to the hospital for the ranks. I own that I was horrified.
The poor wretches he in terrible conditions. There are not
enough beds or even rooms, so some must lie in the
corridors . . .

'Lady Maria . . .'

. . . I thought that Michel would be angry too, but he said that
he had seen so much worse. It is a wonder to me that a man
who can be so compassionate may also be so hard in his
thoughts . . .

'Lady Maria!' It was Pirenne again, the French maid. She
bobbed in the doorway.

'I have not finished, Pirenne,' Maria said. 'Did I not say you
should come back in another hour?'

(Another hour? What time was it?)

'Yes, Lady Maria. But the Knight wishes to see you in the
drawing room – he said
now,
if you please.'

Father? And
Now.
What was the matter?

Puzzled, Maria followed Pirenne down the stairs. A footman
was waiting for her at the door. She was ushered in, as if she were
a guest.

He was sitting on the settee on the far side of the room,
decked out in his great wig and frock coat as if for a formal
occasion. He looked up as she came in.

He saw her, and frowned. Still frowning gloomily, he looked at
a point on the floor before him.

'Father?' said Maria. 'Is something wrong?'

'Displeased,' said Father, without lifting his eyes.
'Displeased.'

'Your father is displeased with you, Maria,' said Mother.

She was standing motionless by the fireplace, with eyes that
seemed very bright and hard.

Franz was also there, lounging against the wall, looking at his
feet. He wore a hangdog expression, as if he knew that someone
was guilty of something and feared that he might be guilty too.

Like Father, he was carefully arrayed. It must have taken his
valet an hour to tie that cravat.

'Your father is displeased with you, Maria,' said Lady
Adelsheim. 'As too am I. I wonder if you can imagine how very,
very disappointed we are.'

Maria could feel herself colouring. 'May I . . . know why?' she
managed to ask.

'I cannot believe that you do not already know why.'

When Maria did not answer, she went on.

'I had thought it was plain to you that your father and I
consented to your going to Mainz because we were growing
concerned about your conduct, which, as I told you myself, was
less than it should have been from the sister of our dear Albrecht.
I had been concerned in particular to hear that your name was
becoming linked in gossip with that of a certain foreign officer,
of whose bearing and conduct you well know my opinions.

'Yet directly –
directly –
upon your return, when you had led
me to believe I might leave you safely at this house, I find that
you took yourself to visit this man in his barracks, at an hour and
in a manner that you know could not possibly have been
countenanced if we had been aware of it. Do you have an
explanation for your father, Maria?'

'I . . . Is it my father who so accuses me?' she said, and met her
mother's eyes.

Mother waited an instant, looking coolly into Maria's stare.
Then, deliberately, she said, 'August?'

Maria swung appealing eyes on her father. But he did not look
up.

'Displeased,' he growled.

'Your father is ashamed of what you have done,' said Lady
Adelsheim. 'And you have as yet offered no explanation for your
conduct – to him, or to me.'

Maria looked at the figure of her father, slump-shouldered and
sorrowful. She willed him to look at her, to see that it was her,
Maria, who loved him and stood there. But he would not.

She must have been at him all morning, Maria thought. She
had been coaching him and instructing him against his daughter,
while the servants dressed him like a doll! She had been trying to
poison him against her!

It would not work! She would not allow it!

'Mother,' she said, as evenly as she could. 'I remembered that
an acquaintance of this officer had given me a memento for him
– a picture. I had agreed to deliver it . . .'

'Indeed? But such a thing could have been sent. There was no
excuse for you to see the man yourself.'

'As I say, I remembered it late in the evening, and was angry
with myself. I did not recollect the hour, it is true. But I was
accompanied, and I did not remain above fifteen minutes.'