The Lightstep

by John Dickinson

  She was free, to do as she chose. In a few days it would not matter. Why had she not dismissed the maid, walked around to his side of the table and let him see with her eyes that the corporal must go too? Oh . . .

  Thump, thump went her heart in the darkness of her sheets. Who cared what was thought or said? In just a few days . . .

  But why him? Why him? Simply because he was the first man here she had spoken to? No! She would do as she chose, but she would not choose to be a harlot. They had parted properly. However wild her thoughts now she would act properly again when they next met.

  She had determined to be herself. Should she therefore throw herself away at once, just to prove that it was true? This was madness. These were just night-thoughts, loose from the restraints of reason. She was longing to be in love. Yes, she was. And so she must take care. Not for the sake of society, or the fear of gossip. For her own sake, she must.

  He did not regard himself. It seemed to her that so many people regarded themselves – Mother most of all. He did not. He had his own belief. It was a terrible one, but it was not of himself. She remembered Hofmeister's words over wine in the Rhineland – 'Ay there's a man I envy!' She did not envy him. His beliefs meant pain to him, and pain to those around him. Like the words of Nero, or Pilate, they brought death upon the innocent. She could not share them.

  And yet if she did not, why was she here?

  She turned over again, and put her arms around herself to embrace her own body.

  I shall invite him, she thought. Tomorrow, he will dine with me.

  Even Pilate had had a woman who loved him.

  XXXII

  The Last Dance

  She had come to the city full of vague notions about helping in its defence. Now she rose the next morning with one clear plan in her head – that Michel Wéry should dine with her that evening. She spoke with the maid who came to dress her. A senior footman came to hear what My Lady wanted, and she instructed him as if she were in her own home. Then, commandeering a maid for escort, she set out to find the citadel Commander. She had decided that it would be better to give her invitation in person. He must be beset by so many duties. It would be too easy for him to decline a note that had been put into his hand.

  At the Commander's house they told her that he had gone out before dawn. They believed there had been a conference in the Prince's antechamber. She remembered the antechamber, and went there boldly. It was empty. But a militia officer in the corridor told her that the Commander had gone to the west wall of the citadel. She smiled ruefully at her maid, and they went out to the wall together. It was a vast, long sweep of masonry, with many soldiers on it looking out to the west. She searched among them for one man only.

  She found him on the gun-platform of the north-west bastion, among a group of his officers. He was looking through a small telescope at something on the hill opposite. Some of the others had telescopes too. She hesitated. She did not want to give her invitation before so many witnesses. He might be embarrassed. But if she waited a little way away from them, he would see her and maybe make his way across to her.

  Beside the group of officers were half a dozen soldiers gathered around one of the long cannons. Their leader was looking now to the officers, now to the hillside opposite. She stepped up to the next embrasure and looked out, too.

  At first she saw nothing to be interested in. The side of the Kummelberg was as it always was. There was the farm and the road. The hillside was mainly pasture but the crest was crowned with a stand of trees. That was all.

  Then movement caught her eye, and she saw the horsemen.

  They were moving in a little group, some way down the pasture from the hill line. There were – she could not count them but she thought there were more than twenty. More than twenty men, on horses, to the west of the city. The riders' coats seemed to be blue and white.

  The enemy!

  There they were, in full view, moving gently down the hillside towards the city. Maria stared at them. In the bright air she could see the detail of their hats and boots and the lift of a horse's head as a rider controlled its reins. Already they were a little below the level of the bastion on which she stood. The space between her and them must be less than a thousand paces. Her heart had begun to tap against her ribs.

  They were such a short distance away! She felt she could have launched herself from the walls and flown down to them. Certainly she could have walked down to the lower gate and on down the hillside to meet with them in the valley bottom in a matter of minutes. And if she did? The air between her and them was as thin as the verge of death. What was it, really, that moved on the far side of it? What demon cloaked those men that seemed to be only men and yet would kill her if she stepped down to join them? Soon – today, or in a few days – she would know, because soon she would meet them indeed. She dreaded knowing it. But she longed to know it too. And for the moment, in the bright sun with the tense and excited men around her, she felt as strong and cheerful as she had ever been in her life.

  The gun captain was gesturing to the crew. Inch by inch, on the gun trail and the wheels, they were levering it around so that the barrel followed the progress of the doll-like horsemen on the far slope. The captain stepped forward to do something at the breech of the gun. The barrel dropped an inch or two. Now the man was looking across at the officers again. Michel lowered the glass from his eye.

  'Try it,' he said to the gun captain.

  The captain squinted along the line of the barrel. He seemed to be waiting for something. On the far slope the horsemen were still moving.

  'Stand clear,' said the gun captain and stepped aside. He jerked on a string. There was a spout of white smoke at the breech.

  FAGH! barked the gun, bounding back with appalling weight and speed. A cloud of white smoke flew over the battlements and into Maria's eyes. She knew the smell of it at once. A clearing on the road. A wounded man. Naughty boy you're not dead yet! And her ears rang and stung with the violence that had been done to them.

  This is it! she thought wildly. I am in a battle!

  The smoke thinned. Michel and the other officers had their glasses to their eyes again.

  'Short,' said one.

  'Short, and to the left.'

  'There they go.'

  Her ears were still ringing. The voices of the men sounded light and dead to her. She wondered if her hearing had been damaged. There was a tear in her eye from the smoke. She put up a hand to wipe it away.

  On the far hillside the horsemen had changed direction. They were moving steadily back up the hill in the direction from which they had come. They showed no sign of hurry or panic. Had none of them been killed? She almost felt disappointed. She had not seen where the shot had fallen.

  'Sketching party,' said one of the officers. 'Taking a look at us, that's all.'

  'If they come that close again, you may fire on them,' said Michel. 'Otherwise, save your powder. We don't want to let them know how far or hard we can hit, yet.' He bent to listen to a portly, grey-haired officer who had come panting up to the group. His eyes met Maria's. For a moment her heart leapt. Then she realized that the officer must be speaking about her.

  'Lady Maria.'

  'Yes, Commander?'

  He made his way over, and bowed over her hand. Plainly he wanted to be formal in front of all these officers.

  'I am informed that a coach has come up from the city,' he said. 'There is a woman in it who is asking for you.'

  A coach. A woman. It would be Mother, come to storm at her and insist that she be carried away. Her heart deadened within her.

  Why could they not leave her alone?

  'Where is she?'

  'In the palace courtyard.' He looked at her, and his eyes were concerned. 'If we may be of any assistance to you . . .'

  'You are busy already, Commander,' she said.

  They were standing a little apart from the others. The men were watching them, but there would be no better chance than this. Now, su
rely, was the moment to thank him for his hospitality the night before, and to offer her invitation. She looked at his face, and thought the words she had prepared to say to him. But she did not say them. It seemed too great a step then. The enemy was below the western walls. And another enemy was waiting in the courtyard of the palace. She must face that first. Gently, almost reverently, she restored her words to the closet of her heart.

  'I only ask that your messenger may return with me,' she said. 'To see that I am taken nowhere by force.'

  'You will stay, or go, as you please and for no other reason,' he said.

  Her ears were still ringing as she left the gun platform.

  It was an Adelsheim coach, with Ehrlich in the driver's seat. And a woman was pacing slowly beside it, with little short steps as if she was waiting for someone who was making her late for church. She looked up as Maria and her maid followed her officer escort into the courtyard.

  'Anna!' cried Maria.

  She ran. She flew across the courtyard and embraced her governess in a whirl of dresses.

  'Oh my dear,' said Anna. 'I am so glad you are safe.'

  'But how did you come here? How long have you been in the city?'

  'I came back yesterday, my dear. I went straight to the house, because I thought you would be there. Since then we have been searching the city for news of you.'

  'We?'

  'Ehrlich and Dietrich and I. Your mother and father and Franz are all in Adelsheim.'

  'In Adelsheim!' repeated Maria, relieved.

  'Yes, my dear. They are waiting for us there.'

  So mother had sent Anna back to bring her. How very like her.

  'Anna, I do not wish to go.'

  'Oh but, my dear – you must. Your mother . . .'

  How like Mother, thought Maria, to send poor Anna on an errand like this, assuming that the errand would succeed simply because she willed it. If she had come herself there would have been a battle indeed. Perhaps her mother had foreseen even that, and had sent Anna simply because she was unwilling herself to enter a confrontation she might not win. And of course she must guess, without ever voicing it to herself, that it would hurt Maria far more to reject Anna than it would to reject herself.

  'I know you were angry with her, my dear. But really you must not let that overwhelm your reason. Surely you see what danger you are in if you stay here? Surely you do.'

  Danger – the siege?

  'This man,' said Anna, moving closer to her and lowering her voice so that the bystanders could not hear. 'This man – what is he? No doubt he is very clever. But he has no birth, no means – your family could never permit a match. Surely you see that? If you stay it can only be ruin on your name. You have such prospects, and you will throw them all away.'

  'Oh!' said Maria. She put her hand to her mouth as if to stifle a laugh. 'Why is it,' she asked gaily, 'that all the world imagines I am in love with Michel Wéry?'

  Anna eyed her doubtfully. 'Are you not? But you have come here! You have passed a night in the citadel already. Really, you should not be surprised if people begin to think things. And what they think matters, my dear. It does.'

  'Why should I listen to gossip? This is simply idle tongues, Anna. It always has been.'

  'My darling – it does not need to be true. It only needs to be widely supposed. Even if your mother chooses to believe you, the world will not. You will not be received. No proper house will look at you for a marriage. You must see that surely!'

  See it? Of course she did. She had ridden up to the gate of the city, unescorted and with her legs showing. She had thrown herself into the company of a foreign officer, who was more a mercenary than a gentleman in the eyes of the world. I have killed the person I was. She had.

  'It is madness!' exclaimed her governess.

  'It is war, Anna. And what you call "the world" has fled away.'

  'Oh, but the war will not last forever. Next year, things will be as they were . . .'

  Maria laughed. How ridiculous, to think that!

  'Dear Anna. We have already seen their scouting parties. We have fired on them. Soon they will be swarming over the west bank. You must leave. Now, or at the latest tomorrow morning. After that they may have crossed the river, and it will hardly be safe.'

  'But I am not leaving without you, my dear.'

  'Anna – I am staying here.'

  They stood facing each other under the bright sky of the courtyard. After a moment Maria added, 'I feel it is my duty to stay. And I will not go back to my mother.'

  Anna sighed. 'Then I suppose I must stay with you.'

  'Oh no! Anna dear, it will not be safe!'

  'It will be as safe for me as for you,' said Anna dryly. 'Perhaps even more so, since I am old and unattractive.'

  'Oh, Anna, dear Anna, no!' cried Maria. She took her governess's hands and caressed them. At all costs, she was determined to prevent this. She did not want Anna in danger. And she did not want Anna at her shoulder now, in this world of glory and freedom that she had barely begun to explore.

  'You must go to my father and mother,' she said. 'They will need you. I have caused them great grief. And . . .' she hesitated.

  She hesitated, because the thought that had suddenly presented itself to her was enormous. The consequences would go on, and on, far beyond the horizon of her understanding. In a flash she saw that. And also she saw how very little, indeed, was required from her. People were already thinking it and saying it. It was almost as good as done already.

  'Anna,' she whispered. 'You must tell them it is too late.'

  'What . . .'

  'The thing you feared, about that man. It is true.'

  A sudden blankness, as if of pain, had entered Anna's eyes.

  'Oh, my dear . . .'

  It is true, thought Maria firmly. It is true, for the moment, for this hour, because I will it to have been true. Mother, see how I use your weapons against you!

  'It has already happened, Anna. And I have never been happier.'

  'I so wished I had been in time,' groaned Anna.

  'Anna! You must not blame yourself! Blame me, if you must. Blame him, although truly he has done no more than I desired. Blame my mother, who has driven me to put myself beyond her recall. You are guiltless. You are the most wonderful creature that ever lived . . .' (Oh, she could believe that, and say it, and say it all the more fervently because it was true, even buried in the middle of her lies!)'. . . and Anna, I tell you this, because I believe you will understand it – although I cannot hope that Mother will, and I know she will say such things to Father and to Franz that they will surely disapprove. But I truly believe that if Albrecht were still with us, he would counsel me to stay. You must see that, Anna. For you truly loved him, too.'

  'Yes, my dear,' said Anna, in a horrible, tired voice. 'And now I have lost both of you.'

  'No, Anna. You have not lost me. You can only lose me if you will it, for I do not renounce you! And I do not believe you will it. Wherever you are, and wherever I am, I shall think fondly of you as long as I live. Oh, Anna,' (for now she was borne along by the flood of her own drama, saying all the things she felt and that normally she might have hesitated to give voice to).'I would keep you here with me, for just one night. You will dine with me in the palace, for I have rooms here. And I shall have a room made ready for you too. Say that you will, for me?'

  'My dear – I cannot meet him. You understand that.'

  'You will not, I promise. You and I will dine alone. Say you will, please, Anna. For I do not know when I shall see you again.'

  'Of course,' said the older woman. There was a hoarseness in her voice and a shimmer in her eye. 'My dear, of course.'

  So her plan to invite Michel Wéry to dinner was discarded, at least for one night. And instead she played hostess to Anna, who came sober-faced to her rooms in the palace at seven in the evening. With her came servants from the house in the Saint Emil quarter, carrying a trunk of Maria's things, and Pirenne, her own French maid, to
look after her. Maria hugged them all, and thanked them, and the servants blessed her gruffly and went back down to the coach with instructions to return for Anna in the morning. Then she led Anna into the room opposite, where footmen of the palace waited with the furniture cleared and a table laid, and they sat together at the meal that Maria had intended to share with another.

  Maria was gay. Some of her gaiety was natural, out of the lingering abandon that came from declaring herself to be a fallen woman. But some of it was an act because that was how she supposed a fallen woman might be expected to behave. She realized that if Pirenne stayed she would not be able to keep up her pretence for long. But that did not matter. All that mattered was that Anna should believe, for the next few hours, that there was nothing left to save or to chaperon in the woman who had once been her charge. Out of respect for Anna's feelings she did not mention her supposed lover once. But absorbed as she was with matters of the siege, she could not help speaking of things that she could only have learned from him.

  'There is just one company of regulars left in the town,' she said. 'That is the depot company of the Erzberg battalion, here in the citadel. The walls are held by a mix of the country militias and the volunteers supplied from the guilds.'

  'Really?' said Anna politely.

  'The countrymen are the more reliable soldiers, I am told,' said Maria. 'That is because they do not think as quickly as the townsmen.

  And also the townsmen have not been friendly towards the army this last year. But the townsmen will be fighting for their homes and their churches, so we warrant that they will show spirit enough.'

  'I am sure, my dear.'

  'But it was so wrong of Mother,' she exclaimed,'to turn those men around when in truth they need everyone that they can have here!'

  Anna pursed her lips and looked down. Instantly Maria felt a pang of guilt.