by Andre Norton
“I am thirsty,” I said at last, unable any longer to watch her unconcerned absorption in something so alien to what I was sure lay about me, if not about the both of us.
“At once, gracious lady!” She arose, but, as one who half forgets, she put within the pocket of her apron, so that it trailed a quarter out, the square of material on which she had been at work. Once more she filled the cup, brought it to me.
As she set it to my lips, her eyes met mine and then shifted to that which she carried. I took her meaning instantly, and set two fingers pinchwise to snag the edge of the square, so that when I had drunk my fill and she went to replace the cup, the square of cloth lay now under my hand.
I reached to draw the covers higher about me, and in so doing was able to spread out wider that bit of muslin, look down upon the lines marking it. This was truly no embroidery pattern. Rather it made little sense at all and until I saw that it was centered by a dot which had been so pressed in that it was very dark indeed and above that the letter “K” in a curl. Kesterhof? From it two roads—or so I deemed the lines to be. One I was sure was that which had brought us here—the other leading in near the opposite direction was that to the town over mountains where the Gräf’s influence also held. All else was blank and I could imagine it a wilderness which I had no doubt was patrolled by just such men as the forester who had turned me back this afternoon.
To take to that woods without a knowledgeable guide was such folly that I did not even consider it. Both roads would be well watched. So much for my hopes of escape in that fashion. What remained to me?
I squeezed the bit of muslin tight within my hand. Bargain with those who held me? I could have laughed aloud my scorn at that. Nor was there a single person to whom I might try to get a message now that the Colonel had been swept aside from this playing board as a discarded piece.
Something the Gräfin had said on her visit to me now flashed into mind—that fever was the forerunner of serious illness. I must play that part as long as I was able. The dose they had put into my wine had made me violently ill. Could I now assume the guise of one whose constitution had been so disordered by the severity of whatever potion had been used that I was no longer a trouble to them, only a seriously ailing creature who could be disregarded as any threat? My thoughts had reached and clung to that when once more there came an imperative demand for entrance from the door and even before Truda could reach it, that was flung open.
The Gräfin again and a man—first I thought it was the doctor—and then I saw the Baron behind her. There was no triumph on Luise’s round face now, rather I saw a grimace of fear. The Baron’s hand was clutching her shoulder, left bare by the low cut of her gown, for she was dressed with the same formality she would have shown at a dinner in Axelburg.
He was propelling her forward toward the bed as if he held her prisoner. But there was no anger nor fear in his expression, rather a contemptuous complacency, as if he had full control of not only her, but also some situation which pleased him very much.
“You.” He did not turn his head to even look at Truda, but it was plain that he spoke now to her. “Bring pen, ink, from the desk—at once!”
He gave the Gräfin such a shove that she near tripped, having to catch at the foot of the bed to hold herself upright. Then he paid no more attention to her, instead he spoke over his shoulder with the same tone he had used to Truda:
“Grotzer—to me!”
The man who came in swiftly at the Baron’s call did not wear a livery coat, rather the plain black of a city man. His face was narrow, his mouth pinched, as if speaking a word was to lose something precious. Steel-bowed spectacles perched on his bony nose. Behind those his eyes blinked as if they were so weak that even the lamplight hurt him.
In his hands he carried a portfolio and lying on it was a sheet of paper. He scuttled around the other side of the bed and pushed that forward as if he meant to hold it ready within reach of my hands. Truda had appeared on the other side with an enameled inkwell, a pen.
The Baron took both from her, not quite elbowing her away, but he was not yet through with her.
“Can you write your name, girl?”
“It is so, gracious lord,” she admitted.
The Baron nodded. “Well, enough—two witnesses—that is all that are needed, is that not the law then, Grotzer?”
“It is so, your lordship.” The man’s voice was as dry as a rustle of one old sheet of paper against another.
“Then, Baroness.” Now his master turned upon me. “We need only finish our business. You will sign!”
At a gesture from him Grotzer did drop the portfolio and the paper it supported upon my knees, while the Baron pushed the pen down with a determined jab into the inkwell and then spoke again.
He had thrust the inkwell itself back toward Truda, not even waiting to see if she took it or whether it and its contents would land upon the bed. Now he reached over, took up my right hand in a punishing grip and set the pen between my fingers. With his other hand he indicated the bottom of the paper which had been so summarily presented to me.
“Sign!” he commanded in the tone of one who would brook no refusal.
Chapter 12
So assured and brutal was his manner that fear itself brought me out of the role of half-conscious invalid I had hoped to play. There was that in his haste to get this done which was a strong warning. He had forced the pen into my fingers well enough, but he could not make me trace a single letter.
“What is this?” I managed to get out the question, refusing to be overpowered by his force.
The Baron’s face flushed, it was plain that he was prepared to allow no counter to his own will. His hand raised to strike, open palmed, against my face, bruising my lips against my teeth, sending a sharp lash of pain through my head. I was so startled at his blow that I gasped for breath. Never in all my life had I met with such usage as this.
He loomed over me until his anger-reddened face was only inches away from mine and the wine stench of his breath was strong. The hand which had thrust that pen into my fingers tightened its grip now about my fingers. Spatters of ink flew across the coverlet as he deliberately brought his strength to bear in a white-hot circle of pain about my flesh.
“Damn you!” There was a fleck of white spittle at one corner of his mouth. “If it is necessary to teach you who is master—then that I shall be very pleased to do—”
There was something in his eyes then from which, in spite of my attempt to hold courage about me as a cloak, I shrank. He must have guessed my fear, for he laughed coarsely.
My hand prisoner in his hold was brought up again to the paper.
“Sign—!”
There was no help against his forceful cruelty. I did not expect that Truda would dare stand up to him, and the other two were his allies. I looked down at the paper as he still loomed over me, his will a tangible weight on me.
The document was in legal terms, that much I saw. What did its words bind me to? Yet I knew that I had no chance at all against him. He applied more pressure to my wrist until tears of pain came into my eyes.
“If you break my bones”—again I found a small rag of courage left—”then I shall not be able to do what you will.”
He grunted, but his grasp loosened. Even through his mastery of me, the sense of that must have made him think again. That I had gained anything was false. So, because there was no other way out, I scrawled my name near illegibly at the foot of the paper. The Baron dropped his hold upon my half-numb hand and jerked up the document to near eye level, holding it so close to his face that I wondered if he had some weakness of sight.
Then he gave a sharp exclamation and rounded on me. His eyes were more than cruel—they could have looked out of the face of some medieval torturer who enjoyed his work. Once more one hand raised as if to give me such a punishing blow as would have rocked my head on my shoulders or driven me unconscious.
“What is this foolishness?” he demanded, his
voice the roar of an enraged animal. “This is not your name!” He waved the paper before my eyes. “You make mock of me—me! It shall not be so, you slut, you nameless whore of a whoring line!”
“That is my name. I have signed it with my name—”
His fingers bit into my shoulder, cutting into my flesh, and he dragged me forward and up, having thrown the paper toward the man in black. I saw the fist coming at me and could not dodge it. There was an instant of shock, of such pain as I never knew could exist, and then nothing.
My head hurt, there was a dull pressure there, as if someone had inserted my poor aching skull into an iron band which was slowly being tightened, ever tightened. Also there came sharp jolts of other pain, so intense and sharp-set that I strove to flee back into that place where there was no feeling at all. Yet I was not to have such comfort.
I did not think, I could only feel, and this torment went on and on. Slowly I became aware of the fact that my body was moving—that is, what I rested upon could not be a stable bed, rather a support which swayed and shook. It was that movement which brought to me those sharper stabs of agony. I tried to beg for rest, that I be left alone. Whether I uttered any sound at all I do not know.
It would seem that I was of tough stock, I was not to be allowed to once more slip away. In spite of the pain the outside world began also to return once again. Not only was I being carried in a moving support, but there was a wind, or at least puffs of air now and then, which touched my aching face. Perhaps it was those touches which were restoring me to fuller consciousness.
The pain was there, that I could not elude. Only now I was more just bruised and aching flesh. My mind began to awake. I had been on the bed in the Kesterhof and then— Piece by piece the details of that last scene crept back to me. The paper which the Baron had brought. Sign! His voice seemed to ring again in my ears, heighten the ache in my head.
I had signed—why, then—? I remembered his fist coming at me. His anger—why—? I had done as I had been ordered. It was now as if my cramped fingers again traced that name—
“Amelia Harrach—” My name—I had signed my name. Why, then—?
There was a jolt which snapped my head half around. The following pain was such I was once again mercifully released into darkness.
Cold, it was so very cold! I must be lying in the snow. Had I fallen somewhere along the path up from the river landing? I remembered that the snow sometimes drifted there. They would find me—they must find me—I was so cold—and the pain in my head—as if ice had thrust its way into my very brain. Cold—
But I no longer swung from side to side. I was lying still—it was a blessed thing to be still—even in the snow. James would be here soon—he would call Rafe, Peter, they would take me back to the manor house. Letty would come with blankets, and the stone jar filled with hot water to set at my icy feet. I had been having such queer, queer dreams. But I need not remember those now! I would be safe soon—out of the cold, back in my own safe bed at the manor.
For how long I drifted in and out of that dream I shall never know. Did I call for James—for Letty—for others who had watched over me from childhood? If I did, I am sure there was no one in those hours who would have understood, or cared if they had. There was no warmth brought me, no attention paid to my hurts.
I awoke out of that half-life slowly, opening my eyes upon gloom from time to time. Twice someone pulled me up, sending pain flaring through my head. The hard edge of a cup was pushed against my lips causing more pain, and liquid slopped into my mouth when I opened it to cry out in protest until I was half choked.
Only I discovered that the liquid allayed the parching of my mouth and my throat and I drank eagerly. I opened my eyes, but that made me dizzy and I could not see truly, nor know who fed me so.
“Truda—?” I croaked once, hardly knowing from which recess within memory I drew that name. “Letty—?” But no one answered and I was dropped back, to lie in my swing between one world and the next.
I was awakened more completely once by voices—one was angry in tone, though I could not make out the words—they were very strange. Only after that I seemed to be fed more often and I was no longer quite so cold. I think that my sleep became normal and no longer was the stupor of the very ill.
When I aroused next the pain in my head was only a low ache and I found I could open my eyes without feeling so ill. I was not at home in the manor—those light walls and many windows to let in the sun had no place here. Painfully I began once more to patch one piece of near elusive memory to the next.
The manor—but I had left the manor—how long ago?—a long, long time—numbers of days, weeks, months meant nothing now. Then there had been another room—one with a great bed, curtained, strange—and beyond that another room in which—
So I might have turned a key to open the door which prisoned much of my mind. For now I remembered—the Kesterhof—the visit of the Baron! Only this was not that room either! Where was I?
I tried to rise a little in my bed, to discover that that attempt now only left me sickly dizzy, but started once again a tormenting throb in my head. To even draw my hand upwards was a lengthy and exhausting business. At last I brought my fingers to my cheek, the touch of their tips made me flinch away. My jaw was swollen, painful.
Even as I tried to explore my hurts, so did I also look about at what I could see without attempting to turn my head. I was in bed, yes. But the covers over me were threadbare, old. There was a musty smell of dust here. Straight ahead was a stark stone wall which had a single break in it, a solid door crossed with bands of what looked like half-rusted metal.
What light was here came from no lamp or candle but was pale and grayish, like the daylight of a storm-ridden day. The room was dim and grim, also. I could see nothing but the foot of the bed, which seemed hardly more than a rough cot, the wall, and the door, while a chill appeared to spread from the walls—reaching out to cover me far more firmly than did the patched linen and musty upper spread lying over my body.
Where I might be I could not guess, but the more I stared at the wall, the closed door, and my thoughts grew clearer, the more I began to guess what might have happened. This was no room for a guest no matter how unwelcome—it was far more the cell of a prison! Did I lie somewhere in the underrooms of the Kesterhof, perhaps one which Frau Werfel had not been empowered to show a curious visitor? The belief that this must be the truth I faced and accepted. Also I understood what might have brought me here. That name I had signed—in truth it was my own and the only one I would ever acknowledge. Only as Baron von Werthern’s wife, no matter how much of a mockery that marriage had been and was, my name might not be considered here my legal one—Amelia Harrach. Whatever they had attempted to win from me with that document, their plan had failed, though I had lost by it also—or I would not lie here.
There remained one small hope I could hold to—since I had not signed as Konrad wished—then it was to their advantage to keep me alive. While I still lived, I could hope—
Once more I moved my hand, this time making a difficult thing of raising it so that I could see if that lying band was still upon my finger. It was. So weak was I that I must let my hand fall on my breast. At the same time there was a sound from the door, I was about to have a visitor.
I could not believe that it was Truda. For a moment I hoped that she had come to no harm. It might well be that the Baron and the Gräfin would want no witnesses to their treatment of me. However, there was nothing I could do now for any but myself. I watched the door, curious to see just who ray gaoler was—sure that the Gräfin herself would not have taken such a job.
The woman who stalked through, bearing a tray, was certainly no one I had ever seen before. She was tall and thin, but stooped forward, and had a face which awakened no thoughts of friendship. Time must have taken a wide toll from her score of teeth, for her chin, on which grew a bristle of gray hair, rose to meet the hook of her nose. She seemed to have no hair on her hea
d at all, for she wore a bonnet such as a hairless baby might have, the strings of it tied directly under her upward-pointing chin.
Her dress was of no style, rather a voluminous robe of gray, girdled with a leather strap, the free end of which bobbed back and forth as she strode toward the bed. Still holding the tray in her hands, she put out a foot to a length I would not have thought possible and raked into view a stool near high enough to be termed a table, on which she set the tray.
Dipping a coarse towel into a basin of water, she came purposefully????? to me and set about bathing my swollen face with little care for any pain she caused, taking up one of my hands after another and subjecting them to the same act of cleaning. She did not speak and I would not break the silence between us, not yet. Better play the game, I had decided upon in Kesterhof (though I had had little success with it then) of appearing less conscious than I was. Having made me tidy after her own rough fashion, she produced next a vessel with a spout, not quite a teapot in design, but having some of its features. Bracing my head against her bony shoulder, she put that spout to my lips as an inducement to drink.
The stuff was near cold and greasy tasting, but I discovered that I was hungry and even this slop brought some satisfaction. I finished the contents of the strange feeder and she slammed that back on the tray before she set about straightening my bed.
Her rough handling made my head ache, so I found that it needed very little acting on my part to lapse back into an apparent stupor once again, though I tried to sort out what little I could gather from her general appearance and actions.