The Lightstep

by John Dickinson

  After another hour or so they halted to rest the horses. Maria, Anna and their two maids climbed out. They were in another little village: a collection of huts clustered around a small church, wedged between the forested slopes and the river. It was good to be able to walk and stand in the air after all that long swaying inside the coach. Two ragged, dirty children ran up and started to beg. She ignored them.

  'Are we in Erzberg yet?' she asked Ehrlich.

  'Still in Hanau, my Lady. But we should see the border-stone very soon.'

  'Good.' She walked a little by herself while Ehrlich began to unhitch the team and the maids shooed the urchins away. The road they had travelled swept back along the wooded banks, curving to the left with the line of the river. They had passed no one on it for the last hour.

  But there were people on it now.

  In the grey light she had to screw her eyes up to be sure. But yes, there was movement on the road, perhaps half a mile away. Horses and their riders, she thought. There were maybe a dozen of them. There were no carts. They must be revenue officers, or soldiers.

  A dozen of them. Maria did not think that the tiny county of Hanau could have even that many horsemen altogether. Who could they be, then? The colours of their uniforms were lost under the muddy greys and browns of their greatcoats.

  Her mind leapt to the picket on the road outside Mainz.

  'Ehrlich!' she called.

  'My Lady?'

  'How far is it to the border?'

  'Not far, my Lady.'

  'There are soldiers on the road behind us. I want to cross the border immediately.'

  Mother Mary! And he already had one of the beasts out of its traces!

  'Hitch it up again, and hurry,' she said.

  He stared for a moment over his shoulder at the road. Then he muttered something, and went to back the horse into its place once more.

  'Into the coach!' Maria snapped at her maids.

  'Who do you think they are?' asked Anna.

  'I do not know who they are,' said Maria. 'And really I do not think we should wait to find out.'

  They bundled into the coach. In a moment they heard Ehrlich climbing back into his place. The whip cracked. They were moving.

  Maria looked at the faces of the other women. They were drawn, tight-lipped. The two maids were holding hands. They were afraid. Maria knew she was afraid too. She had been afraid before all of them. It was carrying that packet from the Rhineland. It meant she could never leave fear behind her – not in Mainz, not in Frankfurt, not here. And she would flee from the sight of strange horsemen, rather than wait to discover if they were indeed the portly customs-men of Hanau that all reason said they should be.

  They were rattling up an easy slope above the river. How far was it to the border? They should have asked in the village. Maybe the horsemen would stop at the village. Maybe they would not come on. If only they could pass the frontier stone, they should be safe. How far was it?

  The carriage paused at the top of the rise. Through her window Maria could see the river foaming gently at the foot of a great bluff. The road did not go that way. It must circle the bluff inland. Where were they? Why had they stopped? Ehrlich must be looking back down to the village, to see if they were followed.

  Ehrlich cried out, and the whip cracked. The coach lurched forward, level for a space and then downhill. The women were thrown against one another. The window showed the forest beginning to rush backwards. Ehrlich cried again, and the horses broke into a canter. They were going at speed – at speed on this bad, stony slope. What if they were overset? The faces of the maids opposite Maria were white, and one of them was moaning. On, on they clattered and lurched down the slope. The wheels hit something with a bang that lifted Maria for a moment from her seat. Someone shrieked. They were all clinging to each other, because there was nothing else to cling on to. The ground levelled, but still Ehrlich was whipping and calling to the horses, and they trundled and swayed fast, fast along the forest road. Where was the border stone? Where in heaven was the border? Surely the horsemen would not follow them over it? Trampling on tiny Hanau's ground was one thing. Crossing unbidden into Erzberg was another. Erzberg had dragoons, patrolling. This road of all roads would be watched, surely. Oh, please Heaven . . .

  Now she heard the hooves – the heavy, multiple drumming of hooves close behind them. Men were calling. She could not hear the words. Something cracked loudly. Mother of God – was it a gunshot? But Ehrlich was still in his seat, still whipping and calling to the horses, and the carriage bounced and swayed as if it were a dice-box in a giant's fist.

  Where was the stone? Had they missed it? Surely they were past it by now!

  A great, brown shape appeared outside Maria's window. It was a horse, cantering hard along the verge of the road. The rider had his reins in one hand and a pistol in the other. She saw him actually duck under the branches of a tree that would have swept him from his saddle. For a moment the horse hung level with them, and then it seemed to leap ahead as the horseman saw his opening and set the beast at it. Even in that moment Maria was awed by the power and daring of it. She heard the man calling to Ehrlich, 'Arrêtez! Arrêtez ou je tire!' And the coach slowed.

  One of the maids was sobbing. Ehrlich was still calling to the horses, but his voice had changed. The relentless clatter of the wheels eased. They were down to a walk. Other horsemen were crowding up around them. For a moment it was a relief, a relief to have surrendered, and to be spared that headlong drive. Then the coach stopped. The door opened. A face swathed in moustaches and long bristles, topped by a battered tricorn hat, peered in.

  'Out, everyone,' the man said in French. 'Onto the road.'

  Slowly, stiffly they climbed out. The soldiers had brought the coach to a halt in a little forest clearing, so small that the coach and the horse-party crowded it. They gestured to the women to stand a little apart. Maria saw them take the pistols from Ehrlich and the other groom, and the purse from Ehrlich's belt. They made the grooms sit down. Then one of them walked behind Ehrlich and kicked him in the kidneys, viciously, so that he rolled over and lay groaning. The soldiers laughed, and spoke to one another.

  They were French. She heard their voices, and saw the blue uniforms peeping from under coats and cloaks. She saw them lifting trunks and bundles down from the roof of the coach. Knives gleamed and straps were cut. The lids were forced open.

  They were French. What were they doing here?

  'Maria, dear,' whispered Anna. 'Stand behind me.'

  One of the soldiers had looked her way and grinned. She shrank back. She could not help it. What would they do? Beside her one of the maids had begun to moan again. The stupid, animal sound sawed at her nerves. She wanted to shriek at the girl.

  'Keep behind me, dear,' said Anna stiffly.

  Anna had put herself between the rest of them and the soldiers. Her head was up. Her right hand, low by the skirts of her dress, was curled into an angled fist, as if she was holding an imaginary stick or riding-crop. Maria stared at it. She saw, in that moment, how very white the fingers were at the knuckles.

  Oh Father, she thought. If you could see me now . . . Oh Father, I don't think I'm going to see you again.

  They had opened her trunk. They were spilling her clothes and petticoats – things so familiar that they were a part of her – out onto the muddy road. One of them picked up a petticoat and held it against himself, did a few dance steps and laughed. Another lifted out a black dress and was about to do the same, when the package fell from its folds. He stooped and picked it up. He broke the seals and ripped it open. For a moment his body concealed it from Maria. Then he grinned, and held it out for his comrades to see.

  It was a painting, of the tortured face of Christ. Someone laughed.

  And someone bellowed with fury.

  Crack-crack-crack and smoke in the air! The clearing was suddenly full of riders, horses turning. Men roared in rage and in hatred. The Frenchman before Maria was trying to mount, one h
and still clutching the painting. Maria saw a white-uniformed horseman appear beyond him, point a short carbine at him as he rose into the saddle, and fire from a range of two feet. The man fell, heavily into the mud. The riderless horse bolted. Other horses were turning in the clearing. Swords flashed and there were more cries. Horses, some of them with riders, were galloping along the road. More horsemen followed, many in white uniforms, pounding after them with wild shouts and laughter.

  The sounds of pursuit diminished. Wisps of smoke drifted in the clearing and stung the eyes. A half-dozen mounted men, wearing the white uniforms and black boiled-leather helmets of the Erzberg dragoons, idled around the coach. One paused over the fallen Frenchman, who was moving feebly on the ground.

  'Ho, you naughty boy,' the dragoon said. 'You're not dead yet!' He lifted his carbine, sighted it down on the fallen man, and fired. There was a rush of smoke, and the Frenchman lay utterly still.

  'Are you all right, madame?' asked a sergeant, touching his helmet to Anna.

  'I believe so, thank you,' said Anna faintly.

  'Ehrlich is hurt,' Maria added. Her throat was sore. She must have been screaming. She hobbled over to the fallen soldier, and, closing her eyes, fumbled for the painting that lay on the ground beside him. Then she looked at it, at the oiled, dying face; in the clearing with the dead man at her feet.

  'I don't understand,' she said hoarsely.

  XXVI

  The Reading Glass

  Wéry sat at his desk in the barracks with his head in his hands. It was night. Before him, in the yellow light of a candle, lay a copy of the hurriedly-written report from the commanding officer of the dragoon squadron. He had read it three times. He knew every word that was in it. Now he was no longer reading but staring at the page.

  Once, in a skirmish, he had seen a soldier's hat knocked from the man's head by a bullet. The man had simply stood, in line with his fellows, looking stupidly at it where it lay on the ground. Then, all of a sudden, he had sat down. He had remained there, with his limbs shaking, until an officer had come walking along the line to put the hat back on the man's head and tell him to stand up again.

  Wéry knew how that soldier had felt. He felt the same now . . . By good fortune they were not inconvenienced, and only a coachman suffered injuries . . .

  The dragoons had had a good day. A half-troop of French cavalry routed, prisoners taken, and ladies – one of them goddaughter of the Prince – rescued from distress. The squadron leader must hope for promotion for this. Certainly he wrote to make the most of his foresight in arranging patrols up to the border markers. But he was also careful to emphasize that the clash had taken place within the borders of Erzberg. He said so more than once, leading Wéry to suspect that he was in fact not quite sure on the point, and feared that it might lead to trouble.

  Never, by God, never! thought Wéry. And if his word counted for anything, the dragoon would have his promotion and more. If anything had happened to her . . . (By good fortune they were not inconvenienced – what delicacy of phrase!) If anything had happened to her, he thought, he might have blown his brains out. Dear God – what had he been doing to involve them? What had he been doing?

  How could he face her – even supposing she was willing to see him again?

  But, he reminded himself, he had had nothing to do with her going. He would have begged her not to go, if he had known. And – and the danger she had fallen into had not been his making. Freelance banditry by the French was a common hazard of the roads these days, although it was unusual so far south.

  Or could he be sure even of that? A half-troop, with no wagons, or at least none mentioned in the report. That was a scouting mission, not a foraging party. Probably it had been part of a larger force that had divided itself to cover a wider area. Heaven knew what they had been looking for. But yes, couriers to Erzberg could be a possibility. They knew Erzberg was hostile. And they knew too (because Lanard would have told them) that in Erzberg there was the man Wéry. They would have guessed what he did, and why.

  And that was the truth. Whether he had asked her to go or not, whether they had been looking for her or not, he had made her a part of what he did. Against all the iron and powder of France, against that blind and savage will – how could he hope that she would not suffer, as Kranz had suffered, and some day he too must suffer, for what he was choosing to do? He could picture himself sitting here in this same room, with a report from the same man in front of him, except that this time the dragoons had arrived a half-hour too late to prevent rape or murder.

  Yes, in the small hours he might indeed have turned to his pistol.

  He sat and looked at the page. A bell in the city tolled eleven o'clock. He was still there when it tolled the quarter hour. A carriage rattled in the street and distant voices spoke in the barrack square. He knew that he should go to bed. Late nights and early mornings left him dazed and foggy, and he was due to see Bergesrode at dawn again the next day with the report that he had written about the Illuminati meeting in the Adelsheim house. But he did not think he could sleep.

  Steps sounded on the steep wooden stair – more than one set of feet. He wondered wearily who it was. The sounds stopped at his door. There was a knock.

  'Yes!' he groaned.

  The orderly sergeant looked in. His face was wooden.

  'Person to see you, sir,' he said, and withdrew.

  It was her.

  He jumped to his feet with an exclamation. His chair tumbled and clattered on the floor.

  'I am sorry to disturb you,' she said.

  In his astonishment he had to fight for words. 'Are – are you alone?'

  'My maid is on the stair.'

  She was tired – as tired as he was. It told in her voice.

  'I – regret I have nowhere for you to sit,' said Wéry. 'Please, er . . . please take my chair.' He turned and fumbled for it. In his confusion, and the dim light, he felt very clumsy. 'Please sit,' he begged, and then recollecting himself, 'When did you arrive?'

  'Thank you,' she said. 'We reached the house this afternoon. My mother supposes me to be resting, and has gone to Lady Jenz's. I must be back before she returns.'

  'Indeed you should be resting,' exclaimed Wéry. 'I have read . . . such terrible things.'

  'Thank you again,' she said. 'Indeed I have been much distressed. Yet I know it was nothing to what you and my brother and so many others must have seen. I have come with a message.'

  A message?

  Wéry almost sat down. Just in time he remembered that his chair was gone from behind him, and that she was sitting on it. He settled awkwardly on the edge of his desk. It put him above her, and also rather close.

  'I fear it is not what you were hoping for,' she said, looking up into his face. 'It is from Ludwig Jürich. He says you must expect no more help from his house.'

  He drew breath. 'I – see. Did he say anything more?'

  'He knew I had come to see if I could bring you what you wanted. But he – he fears for his house, and the people in it. He says he is under suspicion.'

  'I see,' said Wéry digesting this.

  She seemed to have been expecting some rebuke, or at least disappointment, for she said,'I almost decided to stay, nonetheless. But I was given something and I assumed it was what you wanted. He said it was for you.'

  'He?'

  'One of the servants. It must have come from Maximilian Jürich, but I did not know that.' She took from a bag a tattered sheet of parchment and spread it on the desk for him. The haunted face of Christ rolled its eyes at the low ceiling.

  'I see he has sent you one of these already,' she sighed, indicating the picture on the wall behind Wéry. 'He is mad, of course. I did not realize that he knew you.'

  Wéry stared at the painting. For a long moment he could not speak. Then he said: 'He is not mad. Well, I do not think he is.'

  'He paints this face, again and again. Nothing else.'

  'Yes, it weighs on him. This face . . . There was a man, you
see. One of his own men, when he was with the republican militia during the siege of Mainz. Maximilian had him arrested, and shot by firing squad. I do not even know why – perhaps he thought the man would betray us to the French. I saw the body afterwards, when I was waiting to cross the river. It was lying against the palace wall with the lice crawling out of its clothes . . .'

  He touched the painting with the tip of his finger.

  'This is the face of that man.'

  It lay on the desk, rolling its dying eyes in the gloom. It was real. It had come at last.

  'It is what I needed,' he said hoarsely. 'I am most truly grateful.'

  She frowned at it. Plainly she could not see how it could be so important. She said, 'Well, I am glad, then,' in a voice that had no gladness in it.

  'You should rest,' said Wéry.

  'I cannot rest without forgetting,' she said. 'And I do not think I can forget.'

  She rose to her feet. He copied her.

  'Lady Maria,' he said formally. 'I have said I am grateful. I cannot truly express how grateful I am. But I beg you to believe me that had I guessed what you would do or the risk you would run, I should not have suffered you to do it. Indeed I have slept poorly for many nights, thinking of you. And I wish . . .'

  Something in his tone had caught her attention. She looked at him.

  'I wish to say . . .' he stammered. 'How much – how much I admire you. I have feelings for you that I find it difficult to express. It is surprising but . . . I have to tell you this. I do not know that I can ask you . . . I mean, you are . . .'

  He flushed. There were no words that could tell her what she was in his thoughts.

  'You must not say such things,' she said.

  'I must not. And yet also I must.'

  She gave a weary gesture with her hand, and he fell silent.

  'I must go. Sir, you have helped us, but it will do no good to talk any more.'

  'Yes,' he sighed and looked at the floor.

  'All that I ask is that as little should be said of our journey as possible. My mother is already angry with both Anna and myself. The more she hears gossip of it, the worse it 'will be.'