by Diane Duane
Konrad put his hand out too: Mariarta took it in turn. Theo held out no hand to her, only rocked back in his chair, and smiled. “Genosse,” he said: confederate.
***
There was more talk, generalities mostly. Finally Konrad and Walter went to their beds. Mariarta and Theo sat alone for a long time by the fire, Mariarta doing most of the talking.
When she was done, Theo stretched. “It’s been bad here...but nothing on some of the things you’ve been through.” He drank wine. “I’ve had reports of you.”
“What??”
“News gets around. The young hunter who never misses. Mattiu dil Ursera, they usually call you. That accent of yours—” He laughed. “I think I know where you got that northern sound, though your father would be scandalized. Young Attinghausen’s gone further north yet.”
Mariarta blushed. “How is he?”
“Well enough. Rudolf called in the rest of Attinghausen’s oath-service. The eldest two are in Talia: so off went the youngest son to Vienna with fifty spears.”
“I hope he does well. But Theo, reports from who?”
Theo laughed, the saw rasping away in the log as always. “Mustér first, then Chur. A man called Baseli—”
“Ah,” Mariarta said, smiling.
“One of us, in a way. Closemouthed, though, which is as well. His master is watching us closely. —No, not that way: he’s friendly. Anyway, Baseli didn’t mention this Arosa business. But my God, girl—were you mad? Messing with them’s not safe.”
Mariarta laughed, a hopeless sound. “Theo, going into haunted places makes no odds. I’m haunted, have been for years—will be, until I find her. And all I have to go on are hints and riddles.”
Theo sighed. “‘Maiden between the lakes....’” He shook his head. “I can’t think what that might mean. But we can ask. Meanwhile—other things are moving. Might be wise for you to be a townsman for a while. Keep that hidden,” he said, glancing at the crossbow in Mariarta’s bag. “The bailiffs haven’t been able to forbid weapons in the mountain lands, where the herds need protection from the beasts. Down here is another story.”
Mariarta nodded. Theo said, “One of the stories I heard about you, though—that you were hunting ‘the white one’.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever see it?”
“No. Others claimed to have...but it was some magic of hers; I don’t understand it.”
“Pity,” Theo said, getting up. “Some of the old stories you really want to be true. Then it turns out that some of the stories are true after all...just not the ones you want.” He laughed. “Mati, meet me around noon tomorrow and we’ll go make you known to some people. Then you can put your head together with ours while we work out how to get these damn Austriacs dealt with.”
She nodded and watched Theo go: less spry than he was a few years ago, the creaking in his bones as well as his laugh. But intent, for all that, and as sharp as ever.
Mariarta went to her bed and slept sound, except for one dream near dawn. She saw the white one, through the mist, on a granite mountainside, within easy shot. She reached for her bow: but she had none, she had hidden it away as Theo had told her. Mariarta shivered, for it was fatal to see the white one and not fire, or to fire and miss. Then a blink, a change of viewpoint, and she found herself staring at the white chamois, lying at her feet; a bolt had hit it heart-deep, a bolt with her fletching. Mariarta gazed at this for a long time in the dream, not understanding.
She awoke to the sound of Altdorf’s bells quarreling with one another, and lay there blinking. It was strange, how much she suddenly felt at home. And with something to do besides hunt her own destiny. That was important, no question: but there were other destinies too, ones which would go on after her own was settled. It was right to do something about them as well.
Mariarta got dressed, and went to see about her breakfast, and Theo.
PART THREE: The Pugniera
Give us freedom such as our fathers had,
Or death: otherwise, life self-governed—
(Dichter, The Confederates’ Oath)
ONE
Spetga ed hagies pazienzia,
Just wait without impatience:
Sch’il da ei grevs e stgirs,
if days have leaden skies,
Sche tut tias rosas han spinas
if thorns spoil all your roses
E tias notgs suspirs
and nights are full of sighs,
Vonzei sur las vals compars
soon, soon the frozen valleys
In matg etern, pussent:
the might of May will thaw.
Spetga ed hagies pazienzia
Just wait without impatience
Mo aunc in pugn mument!
a little moment more!
(Mo aunc in pign mument,
Sep Mudest Nay)
Mariarta went up the Schachental a few days later and found the stag waiting for her. “A different ride this time,” she said, and in the following days took him in a great circle, south of Altdorf and Burglen and into the hills, crossing the Reuss away from the cities. Up there on one of the peaks behind Attinghausen she explained to Grugni, as she removed the saddle, that she was going to have to be gone for longer periods, but would certainly come back. Those wise eyes understood; the beast nuzzled her and paced away into the woods, the look he gave her saying, When you’re ready, I’ll be here.
Mariarta came back to Altdorf on the twentieth of February. There she was invited to come openly to Walter Fürst’s house—as a potential match for his daughter, it was put about. Mariarta had to laugh at that when she met the young woman, a bright-eyed, fair-haired creature who knew Mariarta’s secret instantly upon setting eyes on her. Mariarta found young Nida congenial to talk to—a townsman’s version of what Mariarta might have been at the same age, her marriage not yet arranged. Nida was in no rush about it: her father’s mind was on other matters. So was Nida’s.
“And my poor brother-in-law,” she said to Mariarta one afternoon, as they sat in the kitchen together while her mother kneaded bread. “Poor Wilhelm... At least he and his wife and children have a tiny mountain place that Gessler’s people don’t know about. They’ll be there now.” She sighed. “It’s a hard life for them, this time of year, it’s dark so much, and they can’t go out...”
“He had cattle, didn’t he?” Mariarta said. “A place in the Schachental, near the end of the valley?”
“Yes,” Nida said. “You’ve seen it, then. A a good herd, it was doing so well until this trouble started. They’re scattered over three valleys now....” Mariarta nodded. It was only now she had realized that Willem, or Wilhelm, Tel, was also Furst’s son-in-law.
“Funny,” she said, “everyone around here seems to be related to everyone else, one way or another—”
“Everyone but the bailiffs,” Nida said. “We might have less trouble with them if they were related to us: they wouldn’t behave as they do....” And Nida frowned, leaving Mariarta wondering what she meant...
One afternoon as Mariarta was coming back from hunting in the Schachental, she was met by a most unusual sight: Theo, bustling up the trail toward her, all in a puff. “Oh, heaven,” he said, “I’m glad to have caught you. I thought you might come today.”
“Why, yes, I told Nida I would,” Mariarta said, “but, Theo, what’s the ruffle?”
“You’ll see soon enough. Just follow my lead.”
He led her into town, to the market place—convenient enough, since Mariarta had a pad of skins over her shoulder. She was astonished to see soldiers standing there, looking like they wanted to be trouble for someone. The strange thing was what they stood in front of. Someone had taken a cobble out of the paving in the middle of the marketplace, and had put a great post in the hole. Mariarta stared at it. “Theo, what on earth is that for? A tent?”
“Just look.”
The pole had a hat hung on top of it—one of those broad-brimmed northern hats, brown felt with
a pheasant’s feather in the band. “Bow to it,” Theo said, under his breath.
“What? It’s a hat!”
“Don’t make a scene, just do what I do—” They walked past it. Theo bowed to the hat. Mariarta did the same. They went on: and all the while, she could feel those soldiers staring at her back...
“What’s this about?” Mariarta whispered to Theo.
“Hush! Let’s go to the Lion.”
They made their way through the crowded common room, and settled themselves away from the fire. A group of men were sitting there, arguing noisily about the hat.
“Gessler’s idea,” Theo said finally, after the wine arrived. “He’s no fool, that man. Knows where to rub people raw—”
“Pride,” Mariarta said softly, looking around at the room. All around, faces were contorted with anger. “When did this happen?”
“A week ago. He had his people put this post in the market, then announces that since he’s the Emperor’s representative, he must himself be honored as if he were the Emperor. Even his hat must be so honored, as if he were standing there wearing it. And there stand his soldiers to see that the decree’s honored.”
“What are people doing?” Mariarta said.
“Oh, they’re bowing. Some as if it doesn’t matter at all. But a lot of people have taken to going around the long way—doing just about anything they can not to go into that marketplace.”
Mariarta shook her head. “Theo, people have to do their marketing sometimes. And what are the sellers supposed to do? Set up in the back alleys?”
“Some have. They’ve been fined.” Theo drank again. “There’s more to it, though. Gessler’s hurrying work on that new castle up the lake. Zwing-Uri, it’s supposed to be called—and he needs more labor for the building. So fail to bow properly—off you go in chains to work on the new castle. Or to rot in the old one. Kussnacht.” His mouth worked as if to spit.
“Nasty,” Mariarta said softly. Kussnacht had a dreadful reputation: dark, dank dungeons, the embrace of night, as the name said. Few people came out of Kussnacht, once in. “Tonight at Walter’s, then?”
“Yes. Late,” Theo said. “People are coming from the north. Don’t be seen.”
“I’ll be there.”
***
Many found it strange how the weather clouded suddenly, around suppertime. By nightfall the streets were blowing with whirling snow that stung the eyes and left one unsure of what was more than three feet away. No one could see anything in such weather, least of all the wretched soldiers in the market square guarding the Governor’s hat.
Inside Walter Furst’s house, chairs were pulled to the fire. Walter himself sat in one, in his shirtsleeves, big and gruff and bearded as always, drinking a great mug of the beer he brewed himself. Chief of the council of Uri he might be, but he was still all farmer at heart, and babied his brewing vats the way some men did their cows. Beside him, in shirtsleeves too, and sweating regardless, sat Werner Stauffacher: a smaller man, with short bristly hair, beaky nose, and eyes set close together, giving him a thoughtful look like that of a chough sitting on a fence and regarding you. He was drinking Walter’s beer in big swallows, looking troubled, as well he might; for as he came in, the wind rushing in past him had brought Mariarta his news, and it was bitter. She kept her peace, while the men got settled. Then Theo introduced her to Stauffacher and the third man who sat quiet near the fire, Arnold von Melchtal.
“He’s not here,” Theo had said softly to Mariarta when they first came. After their first words exchanged, Mariarta made it a point not to look much at him. But Stauffacher eyed her. “Theo,” he said, “what can you have been thinking of, bringing a stranger here? Unwise, with—” His eyes flicked to Arnold and away again.
Theo stretched. “Not a stranger. And not so unwise. Who do you think brought on this sudden snow?”
Mariarta raised her eyebrows: she had said nothing to Theo of why she spent the afternoon sitting in a corner in the Lion by herself, whittling and whistling softly, like someone idling the day away.
Walter and Werner stared at her. Mariarta shrugged. “It wanted to snow anyway. It took little convincing.”
Stauffacher said, “Nevertheless—”
“The fewer who know what’s going on, the better,” Mariarta said, quoting him his not-yet-spoken thought. “It’s late for that, though. And you have no more reason to mistrust me than you have to mistrust your wives and daughters. These others know me. I’m a Gray Country woman born and bred, with as much reason to hate the Austriacs as you have. But for them, my father and mother might still be alive. I have my part to play.”
“What part would that be?” said Stauffacher.
“I carry news. Who better than a free hunter who can come and go as she pleases? And I hear news in ways that might surprise you. Like yours, master Werner: shall I tell them, or will you?”
He looked at her, stolid. “Suppose you tell them.”
“You and your lady wife Margrethe,” Mariarta said, “were standing one evening last week out on the porch of your wood-house, when the landvogt Gessler came riding by with his retinue. He stopped to admire the place, and said, ‘This house is fair: whose is it?’ You knew he was looking for an excuse to make trouble, so you said to him, ‘Sir, this is the Emperor’s house, and your house and mine, held in fief of him.’ But he didn’t care for the fair words, did he? ‘You speak overboldly of “your” fief from the Emperor!’ says Gessler, all puffed up. ‘I am my lord Albrecht’s regent here, and I don’t want farmers building houses without my approval. Nor will I tolerate this fashion that’s sprung up, of people living as if they were free to do what they liked, as if they were their own lords. And you in particular I’ll watch to know whether you do my bidding or not!’”
Mariarta frowned. “The wretch! —Your lady wife, though—when Gessler and his people had ridden off, she told you that the strong men of the valleys shouldn’t bear such tyranny any more: you should meet with men from the countries around the lake, and all together should determine how the vogten’s yoke might be shaken off.”
Werner stared at Mariarta. “The very words,” he said. “His, and hers. This is witchery.”
Mariarta shook her head. “Only words brought me on the wind. Magic it is indeed. But not striegn, for this does good, and what striegn ever did?”
Werner sighed. “It makes me uneasy,” he said, “but all the same, when they have so much, armies and knights—I’m not sure we can afford to turn away such a gift, when it might let us know what the vogten have in mind.”
“We know what they have in mind,” Walter said. “Slavery, for us. Complete lordship for them. We’re meant to be serfs, like the lowest farmhand in the northern countries. We’re sold to the Austriac lords, to do with as they please.”
“And to think we really thought staying quiet would save our families,” Arnold said, and rubbed his face, a gesture Mariarta had seen her father use. It wrung her heart: he had always done it to scrub away tears before they showed. “It’s not working. Look at my poor father! Landenberg put out his eyes to punish me.”
Werner nodded. “And that poor girl in Arth, just now; the landvogt there shut her in a tower until she would have him—she leapt into the lake, rather. Died of it.”
Arnold let out a long breath. “What freedom we have had, we’ve had too long. Too long to bear this. Something must be done.”
“But who decides what to do?” Walter said.
Werner shook his head. “It’s a hard question. We can’t decide for everyone else. Otherwise we become no better than the vogten.”
“So ask,” Theo said. “Let the word go out that the free men of the Forest Towns are looking to see what must be done. Let people who think they have answers, come together in secret to say what they might be. Not too many, of course: that would be noticed.”
“Treason,” Arnold said. “Or so the vogten will call it.”
“By the time they hear of it,” Walter said, stretching h
is feet out to the fire, “it may be too late. And they can’t watch every quiet alp or mountainside.... I can think of a couple of spots. A meadow of mine by the lake. Another place, in the shadow of a wood, out of sight of the main road, but accessible. Axenstein, it’s called. Would that suit?”
The others nodded. “Then let’s say six days after Martinmas. A month will give everyone time to make the journey.” He glanced at Mariarta. “Can you make your way right round the Forest Lake within two weeks, mistress?”
“I can.”
“Then go to Yberg, and take our words to Konrad there: and to Konrad Hunn in Schwyz. These also—” He named men’s names, described houses scattered in towns around the lake: Brunnen, Seelisberg, Gersau, Weggis, Stoos. Mariarta committed them all to memory, as she had used to do in the old days when carrying messages for her father, and recited the details back.
The three by the fire nodded. Theo got up, gestured with his head toward the door. Mariarta went after him.
“They’ll have other things to discuss,” Theo said softly. “And Arnold, I think, needs to be with his friends a while. He loves his father dearly: but he dares not go to him, not while the vogten are watching....”
Mariarta shook her head as she put her jacket on. Before the fire, Arnold had been rubbing his face again: he now looked at his hands, the grief showing plain. Walter reached out and took one of those hands, and Werner grasped it as well. The gesture started as one of comfort, but as those three men’s eyes met, it became something more. “Before God I say it,” Walter said, his voice shaking with anger and pain, “we will overthrow this tyranny, and our poor lands will be made free again, whatever it takes: my life on it. My life.”
“Mine too,” Werner said. “And mine,” said Arnold.