by Andre Norton
This was new, and it frightened me. For I believed it to be loss of self-control, something I had dreaded above all else all my life—since my grandmother’s image had impressed upon me the necessity for always keeping one’s emotions under stout rein.
“Truda.” I must take the plunge, or else I could not rest. “Truda, how much can I trust you?” I asked that boldly and would be, I thought dryly, well repaid for my efforts if she gave lip service only.
For the first time her eyes met mine. It was a faint echo, very faint, of that same searching I had faced from the dying man in the palace, though what quality did or could the Elector share with this young girl of a far different rank and background?
“Why do you ask me that?” For the first time she used no honorific title as she addressed me. Oddly enough I found that encouraging,
“Because we are alone here, Truda, you and I.”
To my great relief she nodded. “That is so. These people, they are of the household as their kin were before them. Only to the Gräf are they answerable. They do not speak before me of anything but orders and what must be done.”
I did not believe that she was lying. As she answered me she had glanced once over her shoulder, moved out farther into the room away from the door, even though that was firmly closed.
“What do they say of me—or have any spoken?”
Again she faced me squarely. “To me—nothing. But I heard—”
“Heard what?” I demanded as she paused. Perhaps the habit of years was very hard for her to break and we had but the most tenuous of bonds between us.
“That you are to stay—until another comes—with an important message. They have sent off also a man to Holstanhof—the village on the other side of the mountain. This was done after Frau Werfel read a letter the coachman gave her. They do not, I think, know that I heard of this, or that I saw the letter passed. But, gracious lady”—again she returned to the formal speech—“I would be careful, very careful for what may come. The Gräfin is more than she seems and she has, I think, plans—many plans—”
Chapter 9
“And you, Truda, you are of the Gräfin’s household—”?????
There was a change in her which I could not put name to, but it was there. Once more she glanced from me to the door and back again, so meaningfully that I thought I could guess what soundless message she s????? attempted to convey. As had the Colonel in the Axelburg house it would appear she hinted at some possible eavesdropper.
“It is as the gracious lady has said, I am of the????? Gräfin’s household,” she replied submissively, but he????? gaze once more upon me denied that allegiance. I could????? not accept that she was such an actress as to be playing some double game with me. After all, the Colonel had????? trusted her as his linkage in our secret visit to the????? palace.
“She has said that your father keeps an inn.” ????? switched to another subject, seeking to approah my????? own need for knowledge in a more roundabout direction.
“That is true, gracious lady. He keeps the inn a????? Himmerfels, as did my grandfather, and his father also But our family are many and it is necessary that we earn for our dowries—”
“Your dowry? Are you then betrothed, Truda?”
She was again the embodiment of the perfect serving maid, eyes downcast, hands clasped at her middle above her embroidered apron.
“I am bespoken, yes, gracious lady. It is Kristopher Clingerman whose father is the miller. But Kristopher now does his years of service in the guard. So I will work also, that I may have a good setting out. It is so with many of the girls in Himmerfels. I am more fortunate, since my mother was able to speak for me to Madam Hummel who comes each year on her way to take the waters at Splitzen. She knew me from a child and got me the good place with the Gräfin. Yes, it all worked very fortunately for me.”
Though her poise was still one of meek submission, Truda was indeed breaking out of the shell imposed upon her by class and training. However, one thing in her speech was of interest to me now—the inn. I had only the haziest idea of Hesse-Dohna, had never seen a map of the country. An inn so long established as Truda had reported this one to be must of necessity stand on some well-traveled road. The spas were often visited sites and, though I also had never heard of that of Splitzen, it in addition would be a goal for travelers.
Spa and inn to me argued roads, well traveled, in good use. In turn such roads meant coaches, perhaps for public transport. Who could give me better information concerning a possible way out of this land than Truda?
“Tell me about the inn, Truda. Is it far from Axelburg? Are there many travelers?” I tried to sort out in my mind the questions which would lead me to the knowledge I wanted most.
“Himmerfels is two leagues from the border with Hanover, it is on the great road, gracious lady. Since the wars are now over, there are many travelers, some who would go even on as far as Vienna in Austria. They come often—like the English milords—with their coaches, some families altogether. I have seen the inn so full that it has been needful for my father to find places in the cottages for the servants of these milords. Himmerfels lies to the north and west of Axelburg, it is the town where meet two roads—one for those going on to Vienna in the east, and the other for those who would visit Bavaria in the south. It is a day’s journey and then again half another from Axelburg, even when one has fresh horses ready at the posts.”
“For the travelers who have not the money or servants as these milords you mention, Truda—are there public coaches they may take?”
She forgot her usual training enough to nod. “Twice a week that is so, gracious lady. But though such stop at the inn, few of them stay with us. Ours is an inn for the well born, you understand.” Her chin was raised proudly. “Our cook came from Vienna. My mother has trained her servants very well. Many good things have been said about us by those who have stayed—one traveler tells another so we have messages sent ahead to hold rooms and prepare for those of the highborn!”
“So those who travel by the public coach are not welcome—”
Truda shrugged. “All are welcome if they conduct themselves properly. But they would not themselves be happy, nor would their purses be deep enough to pay for such lodgings. They are country people, or small tradesmen, students with pockets near always to let people of no fortune nor consequence, you understand.”
“I see.” Only what I was assured of was that such a coach did exist. If I could—perhaps with Truda’s aid—reach this very superior inn at Himmerfels, then even if I could not obtain a seat on such a coach, I could with my golden hoard hire other transportation. Which was heartening to know.
“There are many also who go to Splitzen for the waters,” Truda was continuing. “People who do not want the more fashionable life such as is at Baden????? They also my father can make very comfortable, and????? each year or so they stay with us. Madam Hummel has been coming so since I was a very small girl. She is a very fine lady, and very kind also. Her husband was killed in the wars and she is all alone as to family, so she travels much. To Vienna, to Rome, even to England she has been. I have often thought that it would be good to travel, to see new places one could then hold in memory.”
“I would like to visit your inn, Truda—” I began cautiously.
For the first time I saw the girl actually smile. “Gracious lady, my father would be honored, we would be honored! But”—her smile faded—“it is far from here and—”
“And,” I finished when she hesitated, “we may face trouble soon. Tell me, Truda, this Kristopher who is of the guard—is he the one who brought me to the Colonel?”
Her answer came as a whisper so low I could barely hear it, and her sudden agitation was plain.
“That is so, gracious lady. It was because of the Colonel that he entered the guard, you understand. The men for that are picked for their height, their fine bearing, their loyalty. It is an honor to so serve!” Again pride filled her tone.
“And you hav
e a right to be proud of him,” I returned. Privately I wondered if the Colonel were in trouble who else his fall from favor might encompass.
“They do not like the Colonel.” Truda moved much closer to me and her whisper was even lower. “They would have done him harm if they could—”
I hazarded a guess as to whom she meant by “they.” “The Gräf—the Gräfin—”
“They—and others. The men talked of it, Kristopher heard such tales. They said he was a foreigner, that the old Elector gave him too much power, favored him over those who had better claims. Kristopher always said that such talk was wrong—the Colonel is a man of duty, very loyal always to His Highness. Perhaps His Highness trusted him the more because he was not one of those others who were always reaching for more and more, greedy for all they could lay their hands upon. Now—now, gracious lady, there will be changes, maybe bad changes.”
Her words followed all my own thoughts. What was happening in Axelburg now? I had made my choice, withdrawn from what I saw as a situation threatening me—now I almost felt a little ashamed. But I owed nothing to him—I did not! He was a virtual stranger, if he had not come into my life, I would be safe and comfortable half a continent and a sea away from this room and this tangle of intrigue and my own present impotence.
“We can do nothing yet.” I was more voicing my own thoughts aloud than answering Truda. “Not until we know more.”
“That is so, gracious lady.” She nodded. “There is here nothing to be done—now.”
If she might have said anything more, she did not have a chance, for there came scratching at the door and Truda turned swiftly to open it. Frau Werfel stood there, a lamp in one hand as if she had had so to light her way through the halls. Now I was aware that daylight had indeed gone and the dusk was deepening into night. Truda slipped quickly back into the shadows, leaving me to face the housekeeper.
“A message, gracious lady,” she said, still no expression cracking the sour cast of her long narrow face. “The Gräfin will be coming. She will arrive in the morning.”
I thanked her and she withdrew, though I saw her shoot a glance at Truda among the shadows. Perhaps she wanted to sweep the girl with her but had no good excuse for that, since I manifestly had not dismissed my maid. When she had gone Truda came once more into the light of the lamp on the table. There was a difference about her, she no longer kept her eyes cast down, nor her hands folded submissively. Instead she now raised one finger to lay across her lips, and nodded toward the door.
It was easy enough to decipher that—she did not trust Frau Werfel. However, I had already decided that I could not depend upon any now under this roof—except Truda.
Though the hour was early, I undressed and allowed Truda to put my hair in its nighttime braids. There were some books in a small case and while I did not find the Gräfin’s reading matter to my taste (she, it would seem, had liking for the preposterously morbid romantic novels of a generation earlier—or perhaps the books were used only for ornamental purposes), I sat in my chamber robe and attempted to interest myself in the affairs of heroines who were eternally being abducted, imprisoned in haunted castles, menaced by ghosts of walled-up nuns, or vindictive monks, pursued through endless forests amid the crackle of threatening lightning and the roar of storms.
Unfortunately, silly though my selected tale was, in this time and place it came too close to my own situation. I could well envision, with my memory of that frowning fortress prison still fresh, that such things had once happened—to a lesser degree. Until, at last, I closed the book and slipped it back into place. Truda had pulled the drapery across the windows before she had left, now I went to the nearest one and held the heavy silken folds aside to look out.
There were lanterns set about the walls below, far enough apart so that each made but a small pool of light which encoached only little on the general dark. As I watched, seeking to see some stir of servant, some indication that I was not totally alone (for the house was so silent I could believe it was deserted), there was a clatter of hooves and the grate of carriage wheels on the pavement.
The Gräfin? But what would bring her here so quickly after my own arrival? I was startled at the number of possibilities which came to my mind. Still the equipage which drew into the lantern light and stopped just within range of vision was certainly not a coach with any luxury, rather a small gig, or so we could have termed it at home.
A single man stepped down, while the driver stayed in his seat. I watched the stranger, whose face was hidden from my view by a wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat, make his way out of sight, rounding the corner of the house toward the front door. Then the gig proceeded on stableward. So whoever had come was plainly to stay the night.
He was no visitor for me, I decided, as moments passed and no one came to my room. Finally, believing all my speculations a waste of time, I climbed into bed, but I left the lamp on the table by the door burning as I blew out the others. Never had I found it necessary to sleep with a light in my room, but this chamber, for all its modern furniture and soft luxury, did not make me feel welcome and I lay down with an uneasy mind.
It would seem that that was not a prelude to a sleepless night, however, for I did drift into sleep. If I dreamed, the dreams did not remain to haunt me when I awoke to find the sun bright on the flowered carpet, a morning so clear that all morbid fancies in the world could not trouble the most disturbed mind. Truda had drawn open the curtains, brought the tray with my morning chocolate, and set that by the window, was carefully proportioning hot and cold water from two cans into the waiting bath. I sat up and stretched, just to look about banished some of my worries.
Truda, however, had reverted to her earlier self and did not speak except in monosyllables when I attempted to talk. So that I finally had to accept that our short time of mutual misgivings was a temporary meeting only. I arose, bathed, dressed, drank my chocolate like an obedient child who was following the routine established in a nursery. Her taciturn mood took the glow from my own sense of well-being, brought back all the uneasiness of the day before. I was restless and, when I had finished the breakfast brought to my door by some unseen servant, laid out for me by Truda, I determined not to be kept indoors, but to see something of the country about the Kesterhof—though I hardly expected that the lodge would have a garden for morning strolling.
I took up my plain straw bonnet, and a light shawl, for the woodlands I could see from my window gave the impression of chill. Truda had disappeared with my tray. As I came out into the hall there was no servant about. Again that impression which had been with me the night before returned, that I was alone in a place deserted by all. It added to my feeling of uneasiness that there was such a silence. Not a single sound save the ticking of a wall clock, which sounded unnaturally loud, was to be heard.
No Frau Werfel appeared at the door of the stairs today as I descended. The sunlight had not won in here, perhaps the struggle through the few high-placed, slit-like windows defeated it. Only those rows and rows of trophies, like monuments to the dead, loomed out of the shadows as I passed, my pace quickening as my dislike for the hall grew, to the front door.
That was a massive barrier, reinforced by great widths of iron, as if to defeat besiegers. The lock itself was so large that I imagined only a key perhaps the full length of my own hand might turn in it. However, at my tugging, it yielded, though grudgingly, and I stepped out into the morning as one might come out of some imprisoning cave.
The stable yard was to my left, and a drive of crushed stone curved from before the door in that direction. I turned my back on that and looked to the right. There had been indeed an attempt made to tame the forest-land into a more civilized vista. Underbrush had been cleared, though a number of well-grown trees so shaded the ground that there was no hope of inducing grass to grow as a well-tended lawn. Against one of these trees had been set a rustic bench and seated there was a man, a book in his hands, his eyes so intent upon the pages that he clearly was not in
terested in anything else.
He did not wear any livery, but was dressed in black, his coat cut higher at the throat and buttoned down a longer length than any fashion I had seen before. Beside him on the bench lay a wide-brimmed hat which was also not in fashion. His hair was well salted with strands of gray-white, and his face was harshly cut, thin of cheek, sharp of chin and nose, his eyes small and set under very scanty brows. Not a pleasant face, nor could I ever imagine it wearing a smile.
His dress, his being in what was clearly the “garden” of the lodge taking his ease (if such a man could ever be thought to do that) argued that he was no servant, not even any upper one such as Frau Werfel, who clearly held the reins of the household in her competent hand. Nor did I think he was a bailiff or man of business. His clothing also was not new, though the linen folds of his cravat, which showed only a little, were cleanly white and evidently freshly laundered.
I stood where I was. Should I take the gravel path which led to my right, I would join him and I had no desire to do that. As I hesitated he looked up. Had my searching study in some way alerted him to my presence?
He arose, and now that I saw that one shoulder slanted higher than the other, while his head sloped forward so that he had to deliberately raise his chin to an uncomfortable angle in order to look directly at me. Still there was something about him which erased any pity—rather gave one a feeling of bitterness, or malice—
I nearly shook my head in counter to my own thoughts. Ever since I had come into Hesse-Dohna, it was as if my senses had been alerted to an unnatural degree, that I saw enmity and peril where none could possibly exist for any sensible person. I disliked these new feelings, yet they clung to me and I could not throw them off.
The man bowed, only it seemed that there was something of mockery in that bow, as if he did it as a piece of acting meant not even to impress me with any sincerity of good manners. He did not speak, and I had no idea of how to address him. A little flustered, I inclined my head in answer to his gesture of civility, and resolutely turned, not to walk the path into that half-garden, but rather down the carriage drive toward the woodlands. Nor would I allow myself to glance back.