Norton, Andre - Novel 07

by At Swords' Points (v1. 0)

  It was past five before Quinn left the Keeper and this time he prudently took a taxi and rode back to the hotel in style and safety—only to be met in the lobby by a visitor which he did not expect.

  The man was elderly, his cropped hair gray. But his clothes would have made him conspicuous anywhere. He wore a mulberry velvet coat which buttoned down the front with gold silk frogs. His breeches were white and he had on black and shining boots. In one hand he held a high silk hat with a mulberry cockade—such a hat as Quinn remembered having seen in pictures of old time coachmen. As the American approached the porter's desk the man came forward and, with a low bow, held out a note.

  Quinn tore open the crested envelope. On the single sheet inside, the thin and elegantly curled writing of an earlier day informed him that the Freule Matilda van t'Oosternberg would be pleased to receive Mijnheer Quinn Anders for tea at the Chateau des Dames the next day, four o'clock.

  Guessing at the proper form of reply, Quinn borrowed paper and pen from the porter and wrote an answer. The apparition in mulberry velvet received it with a second low bow. And Quinn noted with some amusement that the deference of the porter had increased some fifty per cent. Apparently being able to claim acquaintance with the Chateau des Dames gave him the status of V I P.

  "So Xante Matilda has recognized your existence." Joris came past the coachman to join Quinn. "You must have received an invitation to the den of the dragonesses.'*

  "Yes. And now I want you to brief me. Just what is this Chateau des Dames? There seems to be a touch of royalty to the procedure. Come up and rest your feet while you tell me all about it."

  Joris followed him into the elevator. "My feet do need rest, that I assure you. I have walked out good money in shoe leather this day—and with very little to show in return. You have a soft chair and perhaps a cool and refreshing glass of something to offer a struggling pen-pusher?"

  When Maartens was duly installed in the one really comfortable chair his room boasted, Quinn demanded,

  "Now tell me about the Freule Matilda and the Chateau des Dames."

  Joris unlaced his shoes and slipped his feet out of them. He wriggled his toes and sighed feelingly before he answered.

  "When you visit the Chateau you will be stepping backward in time—into the early nineteenth century at least— if not into the eighteenth. It is one of the most exclusive and magnificent homes for old ladies in the world. The castle itself is worth seeing—having been built at the height of the Renaissance. And since the middle of the eighteenth century it has housed only spinsters of noble birth. Originally one had to have at least sixteen quarterings to qualify for residence within its walls!

  "It is like this—a nobleman pays a fee at the birth of each daughter. If she marries or dies before the age of fifty that sum is forfeit to the Foundation. If she does neither, then she is eligible, as soon as a vacancy occurs, to have her apartments in the castle, her servants, her footman or coachman, and to live in a semi-royal or feudal style for the rest of her days. The system was founded by a Countess of Flanders five hundred years ago. At first the ladies took vows and it was a semi-religious order. But since the Reformation it is wholly secular. So, as a piece of a past which the rest of the world has long since forgotten, it should be of interest to a historian.

  "Now for Dirk's Tante Matilda. She, too, is a magnificent relic, well suited to her surroundings. In her early days she was a hostess of fame and of no small political influence—something on the order of that Princess Lieven who ruled the chancelleries of most of Europe for so long. But unfortunately Tante Matilda was born too late—the spacious fife to which she was so well suited was already passing before she was out of girlhood.

  "I think that she is one of the few noblewomen still alive who can boast thirty-two quarterings on her arms-more, you understand, than most royal families are en- titled to bear. In fact the van t'Oosternbergs look upon the House of Hanover, for example, as parvenu. At certain times in the year she commands her various family connections to visit her. And, I assure you, they all obey. She has no beauty, but a fine and well-disciplined mind and many talents—"

  "You have met her then?"

  "I have met her. An experience which I prize. She took my work to pieces in a few well chosen words, deflated my ego to the vanishing point, and then gave me some suggestions on which to rebuild my whole career. I care more for her good opinion than that of any other living person and I would shake in my shoes if she ever signified a desire to see me again—"

  Quinn sat down on the edge of the bed. "D'you know— you're not saying anything to encourage me—"

  Joris waved his hand. "Just preparing you, just preparing you. Tante Matilda must be taken in very small doses —but you will find her highly stimulating. That I can promise you. And a jaunt back into the past should be bait enough to get you to the Chateau. It is the kind of place one should rightly enter riding in a state coach behind twelve white horses. During the war the Nazi Commandant hereabouts went, uninvited I must add, to pay his so-called respects. He found the gates locked and the message left there for him was never made public but I understand that ever afterward he jumped to his feet and stood at attention when the Chateau was mentioned—he is also said to have turned a light shade of green—. That is only rumor but I can well believe it. Xante Matilda should have been allowed to deal with Hitler. There would have been none of that nonsense about any Thousand Year Reich."

  "My nerve is thoroughly destroyed," Quinn informed him. "I wish I had declined with regret instead of accepting with restrained joy. I would do better to lose myself in the St. Pietersberg Caverns—"

  "So? And are you planning an expedition there?"

  "I suppose I must in order to keep my good standing as a tourist. I've had two pep talks about them today. You have been through them, of course? No? Fine. Then you can come with me. I understand that if one does not go in a party one is apt to wander off and turn into a mummy —to be found years and years afterward and serve as an awful warning. You can hold my hand and save me from that fate-"

  "You are trying to tempt me from my duty," Joris complained. He had slipped down in the chair until he was resting mostly on the back of his neck. "But since I now believe that my Vermeer was merely a figment of some editor's overly active imagination I suppose I am able to spare the time. Perhaps your turning into a mummy would be worth at least two lines of type—"

  "If Vermeer has proved you false, what about your little man who isn't here—Tubac?"

  Joris wormed his way up to a more orthodox sitting position and put his hand in his coat pocket.

  "Tubac continues among the missing. However this afternoon I paid a second visit to his lodging. The Mevrouw's story remains the same—in detail and thrice-told. But upon my explaining to her that for my sins I am a member of the working press she became quite excited and escorted me to the unfortunate Tubac's late room and urged me to look for clues. I believe that she confuses me in some manner with the police—"

  "Maybe she thinks you're a private eye," put in Quinn.

  "Pardon?" Joris, momentarily at a loss, appeared to be engaged in mental translation. Then he nodded. "Ah, one of your very tough American crime 'busters.' But no, not me, I do not want to lie in an alley with my head broken into small bits and that seems to be the constant fate of such gentlemen, or so I have read in numerous accounts of their adventures. Me, I am a simple gatherer of news who wishes to keep whole his skin. But, at any rate, I looked over the room of the vanished Tubac. And on a table there was an envelope of papers. Among them this which Mevrouw allows me to bring with me when I explain it may aid in identifying Tubac in the past. It certainly is, I believe, the work of an artist. And someone should recognize the work—"

  Quinn took the small sheet of stiff drawing paper. On it in rich blues, greens, and touches of gold with flecks of vermilion, was a dragon, the legs raised as if in defiance, the snake tail in a round tight curl, the tongue lolling from open jaws. It had a suggesti
on of the heraldic about it and Quinn examined it with a puzzled frown.

  "You know it?" demanded Joris.

  "There is something which seems familiar. Doesn't it look to you as if it might be part of a crest or a coat of arms? But I can't identify it."

  "But you have made a good suggestion. I shall consult those who are authorities in that field. But the excellence of the drawing itself—"

  "Beautifully done," agreed Quinn. "I know just what it reminds me of! Those queer beasts looped about capital letters in the Books Of Hours or in a 'Bestiary'—it might be a copy of one of those."

  "I rather hope it's part of a crest. It will be easier to identify. Now," he stooped over to put on his shoes, "I am fast becoming faint with hunger. And if we are to go exploring the caverns we had better make concrete plans for doing so. Shall we consume nourishment as an accompaniment?"

  Quinn drew on his coat. "I am eating in the hotel restaurant. Since last night I have the oddest desire to keep out of the streets after dark—"

  Joris favored him with one of his rare grins. "Now I wonder why you have developed such caution? But I am willing to humor you in this, Mijnheer Anders."

  CHAPTER 11

  THIRTY-TWO QUARTERINGS AND MEMORY

  At four o'clock the next afternoon Quinn Anders, American, rode in a modern taxi—with two battered fenders-out of his own time into the past. The dividing line between the centuries was a gate of iron bars which closed off the circling carriage drive of fine white gravel from the utilitarian highway. A dour old man wearing the mulberry livery of the Chateau demanded Quinn's name at that barrier and then allowed them to proceed, with visible reluctance, at a pace not much faster than two miles an hour, through a grove of trees which must have already been sturdy and well-rooted saplings when men in body armor rode that way.

  Quinn got out and paid off his driver. Then he stood still, examining the pile of stonework before him. Twin towers jutted skyward for several stories above the main bulk of the building. It belonged, as Joris had promised, to the fifteen hundreds when fortified castles were being transformed into palaces for more gracious living. But to a modern s eyes it was an illustration from one of the

  Grimms' tales with its stone entrance gates carved with armorial bearings, its drawbridge now permanently down over a moat of ebony water where there were actually swans engaged in naval maneuvers. A lawn showed velvet green to a series of hedges clipped into fanciful shapes.

  It was perfect—like a square of tapestry come to life. Quinn could well believe the tale of the Nazi overlord who was never the same again after he had dared these gates without an invitation. This place would have little patience with transient conquerors—

  But, the American decided, as he followed a liveried footman down several long corridors, up two flights of stone steps, and through at least one gallery where the mullioned windows gave only a suggestion of light, this might not be the most comfortable place in the world in which to live.

  His guide rapped on a dark door, exchanged a few words through the crack. Then the portal was thrown open and Quinn was announced with due ceremony.

  "Mijnheer Quinn Anders, Hooge Staatsjuffer—"

  "High Lady of State," Quinn translated and wondered if that was the form of address he too should use to his hostess. He bowed in the direction of the high-backed chair installed by the largest window.

  "Goeden Namiddag, Mijnheer."

  "Good afternoon, Hooge Staatsjuffer." He plunged and moved on, hoping to see her better.

  She laughed, not with the thin tinkle of age, but with a deep note of real amusement.

  "Lady of State, is it, jongeling? That is a title which means exactly nothing but that I have outlived others until I have now some small authority in this community. For a nation which prides itself on its republican history we are strangely fond of mouth filling titles, are we not? But, Katrina, place a chair for Mijnheer. Here in this light so that we may see each other without invoking the skill of cats. Wait, Mijnheer, move not until Katrina has made all ready. I shall not be in the best of tempers if part of my masterpiece is blown to the winds by your passing!"

  Quinn obediently stood where he was while a small woman, gray as to hair, gray silk as to dress, and gray as to skin—as if she had only existence in this none too bright room, scuttled out from the far shadows, moved the light table which stood before the Freule some inches to the right and placed another high-backed chair a couple of feet beyond it.

  "Now!"

  At that imperious summons Quinn, feeling as if he should be progressing by a series of low salutations, moved gingerly up to seat himself. Now he was able to see that the small table before his hostess was covered with bits of colored paper which, as she talked, she regarded now and then through a large magnifying glass and moved back and forth across the surface of a black tray. Once or twice she left one in place, setting it just so with an approving tap from one of her long fingers before she continued the shifting of its fellows.

  Her hands were beautiful, slender, ivory white—not the hands of an old woman. Quinn guessed that they were perhaps her point of vanity. For he saw that what Joris had said was true—the Freule Matilda had never been even handsome. At the same time her narrow thin face with its sharply pointed chin, beaked nose and hard sharp eyes, was so familiar that he worried trying to recall where he had seen it before.

  He dared to believe that the mass of red, startling red, curls which covered her head had not grown there, yet even their artificiality fitted his teasing memory picture. A wig above a narrow, alive, intelligent face—an arrogant face— Arrogant—that was the key word! Why, this was Elizabeth the First of England—Good Queen Bess! And before he realized what he was doing Quinn repeated that name aloud.

  Her busy fingers paused, those bright, hard eyes swept him from head to foot in one swift measuring stare. He colored hotly. Then her too thin lips twisted in a grimace of amusement.

  "Good Queen Bess," she repeated in English. "And now —Raleigh's brother—"

  His breath caught in a little gasp. "Stark—"

  "Captain Stark Anders," the harsh voice continued. "Yes, he sat in that very chair. Raleigh—yes—a little too polished for Drake, not sensitive enough for Sidney. He sat there and humored an old woman— Tried to pick her memories. Now you come along in turn—persistent, you Anders men. Is it the Bishop's Menie that pulls you here too?"

  "What did Stark tell you?"

  For the second time she laughed. "He told me everything I wished to know. As you will too, jongeling. The Sternlitz may be gone but it seems that their treasure continues to make trouble. Now what do you have to tell me?"

  And Quinn found himself telling the whole true story from the arrival of the Trojan Horse to his own coming to the Chateau des Dames, omitting only his manner of escape from Dordrecht and the underground activities he had so been made aware of. As he talked the gray Katrina drew up another small table and set out on it the elaborate tea equipage she took from the footman.

  "So I have come to you—" Quinn ended.

  The long fingers made another pounce on a piece of paper, fitting it into place on the black tray. Then she laid down the magnifying glass with the firmness of someone who has made a decision.

  "Katrina! Tea."

  Quinn accepted a cup and saucer so fragile that he was sure a too tight grip could reduce it to shards, and bit into a paper-thick piece of bread and butter.

  The Queen—his confused identification continued to plague him—drank two cups of tea, ate three pieces of bread and butter and a large wedge of rich cake in rapid succession before she addressed him again.

  "Your brother showed me that knight," she began. "He was given it by a dying man—a man who had tried to escape into the western zone in Germany and had been shot by the border guards. From the little he was able to tell your brother he had found it in the ruins of the old Sternlitz hunting lodge. During the war he had been stationed near there and he and a companion had gone grubbi
ng around for loot. Your brother had no idea how many of the pieces they really found, but he was sure that it was not all of the Menie.

  "This Nazi thief was later caught up in the Russian attack on Berlin and sent to a prison camp from which he was later brought back for some mysterious reason—perhaps because of his discovery. What became of his fellow in crime and the portion of the loot he had, your brother was not able to discover. Captain Anders came to me to ask about the fabled hiding place of the treasure. I could only tell him what I shall now tell you—the legend of the family.

  “The Bishop's Menie had acquired over the years it was in the possession of the Sternlitz family a superstitious value. They believed that it was their luck. But its hiding place was known only to the Duke and to his eldest son. Since the last Duke had no son—"

  "But that may not be true—" Quinn dared to interrupt.

  The fingers were still. The black eyes raised to rake him again.

  "What do you mean?"

  Quinn told her of Wasburg and the coat of arms found in his luggage.

  She was silent and then she gave the table with her work on it a little push which Katrina accepted as a signal, for she appeared in her jack-in-the-box fashion and carefully moved it to one side.

  "I wonder—" The Freule was frowning. "I wonder— Katrina, my jewel case!"

  The little woman whisked the tea things away and in their place put a polished chest within easy reach of the Freule who selected a small key from a bunch which swung on a gold chain at her waist, fitted it into the lock, and raised the lid. There was a tiny sigh of air which had not been released for a long, long time. Velvet-lined trays, each bearing sparkling-stone set pieces, were lifted out as the Freule searched. When she reached the last compartment she gave a little exclamation of satisfaction and took out a miniature set in a circle of red stones. But the fine lace at her wrist caught in something else and jerked it out so that it flew across the carpet to Quinn s feet. He stooped to pick it up.