Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  ‘Sceptres are easy leading-staves,’ my lady answered deftly. ‘All these were kings, or the like.’

  ‘Then take Don John at Lepanto. He, too, was twenty-five.’

  ‘A king’s son,’ my lady replied quickly.

  ‘Then I will give you one to whom you can make no objection,’ he answered in a tone of triumph: ‘Gaston de Foix, the Thunderbolt of Italy. He who conquered at Como, at Milan, at Ravenna. How old was he when he died, leaving a name never to be forgotten in arms? Twenty-three, fair cousin. And I am twenty-three.’

  ‘But then you are not Gaston de Foix,’ my lady retorted, laughter bubbling to her lips; ‘nor a king’s nephew.’

  ‘But I may be.’

  ‘What? A king’s nephew?’ the Countess answered, laughing outright. ‘Pray where is the king’s niece?’

  ‘King’s niece?’ he exclaimed reproachfully — and I doubt not with a kind look at her, and a movement as if he would have paid her for her sauciness. ‘You know I want no king’s niece. There is no king’s niece in the world so sweet to my taste, so fair, or so gracious as the cousin I have been fortunate enough to serve during the last few days; and that I will maintain against the world.’

  ‘So here is my glove!’ my lady answered gaily, finishing the speech for him. ‘Very prettily said, Rupert. I make you a thousand curtsies. But a truce to compliments. Tell me more.’

  He needed no second bidding; though I think that she would have listened without displeasure to another pretty speech, and an older man would certainly have made one. But he was full of the future and fame — and himself. He had never had such a listener before, and he poured forth his hopes and aspirations, as he strode up and down, so gallant of figure and frank of face that it was impossible not to feel with him. He was going to do this; he was going to do that. He would make the name of Rupert of Weimar stand with that of Bernard. Never was such a time for enterprise. Gustavus Adolphus, with Sweden and North Germany at his back, was at Munich; Bavaria, Franconia, and the Rhine Bishoprics were at his feet. The hereditary dominions of the Empire, Austria, Silesia, Moravia, with Bohemia, Hungary, and the Tyrol, must soon be his; their conquest was certain. Then would come the division of the spoil. The House of Weimar, which had suffered more in the Protestant cause than any other princely house of Germany, which had resigned for its sake the Electoral throne and the rights of primogeniture, must stand foremost for reward.

  ‘And which kingdom shall you choose?’ my lady asked, with a twinkle in her eye which belied her gravity. ‘Bohemia or Hungary? or Bavaria? Munich I am told is a pleasant capital.’

  ‘You are laughing at me!’ he said, a little hurt.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said, changing her tone so prettily that he was appeased on the instant. ‘But, speaking soberly, are you not curing the skin before the bear is dead? The great Wallenstein is said to be collecting an army in Bohemia, and if the latest rumour is to be believed, he has already driven out the Saxons and retaken Prague. The tide of conquest seems already to be turning.’

  ‘We shall see,’ the Waldgrave answered.

  ‘Very well,’ my lady replied. ‘But, besides, is there not a proverb about the lion’s share? Will the Lion of the North forego his?’

  ‘We shall make him,’ the young lord answered. ‘He goes as far as we wish and no farther. Without German allies he could not maintain his footing for a month.’

  ‘Germany should blush to need his help,’ my lady said warmly.

  ‘Never mind. Better times are coming,’ he answered. ‘And soon, I hope.’

  With that they moved out of hearing, crossing to the other side of the court and beginning to walk up and down there; and I heard no more. But I had heard enough to enable me to arrive at two or three conclusions. For one thing, I felt jealous no longer. My lady’s tone when she spoke to the Waldgrave convinced me that whatever the future might bring forth, she regarded him in the present with liking, and some pride perhaps, but with no love worthy of the name. A woman, she took pleasure in his handsome looks and gallant bearing; she was fond of listening to his aspirations. But the former pleased her eye without touching her heart, and the latter never for a moment carried her away.

  I was glad to be sure of this, because I discerned something lacking on his side also. It was ‘Rotha,’ ‘sweet cousin,’ ‘fair cousin,’ too soon with him. He felt no reverence, suffered no pangs, trembled under no misgivings, sank under no sense of unworthiness. He thought that all was to be had for pleasant words and the asking. Heritzburg seemed a rustic place to him, and my lady’s life so dull and uneventful, my lady herself so little of a goddess, that he deemed himself above all risk of refusal. A little difficulty, a little doubt, the appearance of a rival, might awaken real love. But it was not in him now. He felt only a passing fancy, the light offspring of propinquity and youth.

  But how, it may be asked, was I so wise that, from a few sentences heard between sleeping and waking, I could gather all this, and draw as many inferences from a laugh as Fraulein Anna Max from a page of crabbed Latin? The question put to me then, as I sat day-dreaming over Heritzburg, might have posed me. I am clear enough about it now. I could answer it if I chose. But a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse, and a horse with eyes needs neither one nor the other.

  Presently I saw Fraulein Anna come out and go sliding along one side of the court to gain another door. She had a great book under her arm and blinked like an owl in the sunshine, and would have run against my lady if the Waldgrave had not called out good-humouredly. She shot away at that with a show of excessive haste, and was in the act of disappearing like a near-sighted rabbit, when my lady called to her pleasantly to come back.

  She came slowly, hugging the great book, and with her lips pursed tightly. I fancy she had been sitting at a window watching my lady and her companion, and that every laugh which rose to her ears, every merry word, nay the very sunshine in which they walked, while she sat in the dull room with her unread book before her, wounded her.

  ‘What have you been doing, Anna?’ my lady asked kindly.

  ‘I have been reading the “Praise of Folly,”’ Fraulein Max answered primly. ‘I am going to my Voetius now.’

  ‘It is such a fine day,’ my lady pleaded.

  ‘I never miss my Voetius,’ Fraulein answered.

  The Waldgrave looked at her quizzically, with scarcely veiled contempt. ‘Voetius?’ he said. ‘What is that? You excite my curiosity.’

  Perhaps it was the contrast between them, between his strength and comeliness and her weak figure and pale frowning face, that moved me; but I know that as he said that, I felt a sudden pity for her. And she, I think, for herself. She reddened and looked down and seemed to go smaller. Scholarship is a fine thing; I have heard Fraulein Anna herself say that knowledge is power. But I never yet saw a bookworm that did not pale his fires before a soldier of fortune, nor a scholar that did not follow the courtier and the ruffler with eyes of envy.

  Perhaps my lady felt as I did, for she came to the rescue. ‘You are too bad,’ she said. ‘Anna is my friend, and I will not have her teased. As for Voetius, he is a writer of learning, and you would know more about many things, if you could read his works, sir.’

  ‘Do you read them?’ he asked.

  ‘I do!’ she answered.

  ‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed, staring at her freely and affecting to be astonished. ‘Well, all I can say is that you do not look like it!’

  My lady fired up at that. I think she felt for her friend. ‘I do not thank you,’ she said sharply. ‘A truce to such compliments, if you please. Anna,’ she continued, ‘have you been to see this poor girl from the town?’

  ‘No,’ Fraulein Max answered.

  ‘She has come, has she not?’

  ‘And gone — to the stables!’ And Fraulein Anna laughed spitefully. ‘She is used to camp life, I suppose, and prefers them.’

  ‘But that is not right,’ my lady said, with a look of annoyance. She turned and called
to me. ‘Martin,’ she said, ‘come here. This girl — the papist from the town — why has she not been brought to the women’s quarters in the house?’

  I answered that I did not know; that she should have been.

  ‘We will go and see,’ my lady answered, nodding her head in a way that premised trouble should any one be found in fault. And without a moment’s hesitation she led the way to the inner court, the Waldgrave walking beside her, and Fraulein Anna following a pace or two behind. The latter still hugged her book, and her face wore a look of secret anticipation. I took on myself to go too, and followed at a respectful distance, my mind in a ferment.

  The stable court at Heritzburg is small. The rays of the sun even at noon scarcely warm it, and a shadow seemed to fall on our party as we entered. Two grooms, not on guard, were going about their ordinary duties. They started on seeing my lady, who seldom entered that part without notice; and hastened to do reverence to her.

  ‘Where is the girl who was brought here from the town?’ she said, in a peremptory tone.

  The men looked at one another, scared by her presence, yet not knowing what was amiss. Then one said, ‘Please your excellency, she is in the room over the granary.’

  ‘She should be in the house, not here,’ my lady answered harshly. ‘Take me to her.’

  The man stared, and the Waldgrave, seeing his look of astonishment, interposed, murmuring that perhaps the place was scarcely fit.

  ‘For me?’ my lady said, cutting him short, with a high look which reminded me of her uncle, Count Tilly. ‘You forget, sir cousin, that I am not a woman only, but mistress here. Ignorance, which may be seemly in a woman, does not become me. Lead on, my man.’

  The fellow led the way up a flight of outside steps which gave access to the upper granary floor; and my lady followed, rejecting the Waldgrave’s hand and gazing with an unmoved eye at the unfenced edge on her left; for the stairs had no rail. At the top the groom opened the door and squeezed himself aside, and my lady entered. The Waldgrave had given place to Fraulein Anna — whom desire to see what would happen had blinded to the risks of the stairs — and she was not slow to follow. The young lord and I pressed in a pace behind.

  ‘This is not a fit place for a maiden!’ I heard my lady say severely; and then she stopped. That was before I could see inside, the sudden pause coming as I entered. The loft was dark, the unglazed windows being shuttered; but my eyes are good, and I knew the place, and saw at once — what my lady had seen, I think, at a second glance only — that the man beside whom the girl was kneeling — or had been kneeling, for as I entered she rose to her feet with a word of alarm — was bandaged from his chin to his crown, was helpless and maundering, talking strange nonsense, and rolling his head restlessly from side to side.

  ‘Why, you are a child!’ my lady said; and this time her voice was soft and low and full of surprise. ‘Who is this?’ she continued, pointing to the man; who never ceased to babble and move.

  ‘It is Steve, my lady,’ I said. ‘He was hurt below, in the town, and the girl has been nursing him. I suppose she — I think no one told her to go elsewhere,’ I added by way of apology for her.

  ‘Where could she be better?’ my lady said in a low voice. ‘Child,’ she continued gently,’ come here. Do not be afraid.’

  The girl had shrunk back at the sound of my lady’s first words, or at sight of so large a company, and had taken her stand on the farther side of Steve, where she crouched trembling and looking at us with a terrified face. Hearing herself summoned, she came slowly and timidly forward, the little boy who had run to her holding her hand, and hiding his face in her skirts.

  ‘I am the countess,’ my lady said, looking at her closely, but with kindness, ‘and I have come to see how you fare.’

  It was a hard moment for the girl, but she did the very best thing she could have done, and one that commended her to my lady’s heart for ever. For, bursting into tears — I doubt not the sound of a woman’s voice speaking mildly to her touched her heart — she dropped on her knees before the countess and kissed her hand, sobbing piteous words of thankfulness and appeal.

  ‘Chut! chut!’ my lady said, a little tremor in her own voice. ‘You are safe now. Be comforted. You shall be protected here, whatever betide. But you have lost your father? Yes, I remember, child. Well, it is over now. You are quite safe. See, this gentleman shall be your champion. And Martin there. He is a match for any two. Tell me your name.’

  ‘Marie — Marie Wort.’ The girl answered suppressing her tears with an effort.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Seventeen, please your excellency.’

  ‘And where were you born, Marie?’

  ‘At Munich, in Bavaria.’

  ‘You are a Romanist, I hear?’

  ‘If it please your excellency.’

  ‘It does not please me at all,’ my lady answered promptly; but she said it with so much mildness that Marie’s eyes filled again. ‘I warn you, we shall, try to convert you — by kindness. So you are nursing this poor fellow?’ And my lady went up to Steve, and touched his hand and spoke to him. But he did not know her, and she stepped back, looking grave.

  ‘The fever is on him now,’ Marie said timidly. ‘He is at his worst; but he will be better by-and-by, if your excellency pleases.’

  ‘He is fortunate in his nurse,’ my lady answered, gazing searchingly at the other’s pale face. ‘Will you stay with him, child, or would you rather come into the house, where my women could take care of you, and you would be more comfortable?’

  A look of distress flickered in the girl’s eyes. She hesitated and looked down, colouring painfully. I dare say that with feminine tact she knew that my lady even now thought it scarcely proper for her to be there — in a house where only the men about the stable lived. But she found her answer.

  ‘He was hurt trying to protect me,’ she murmured, in a low voice.

  My lady nodded. ‘Very well,’ she said; and I saw that she was not displeased. ‘You shall stay with him. I will see that you are taken care of. Come, Rupert, I think we have seen enough.’

  She signed to us to go before her, and we all went out, and she closed the door. At the head of the steps, when the Waldgrave offered her his hand, she waved it away, and stood.

  ‘Bring me a hammer and a nail,’ she cried.

  Three or four men, nearly half our garrison, had collected below, hearing where we were. One of these ran and fetched what she called for; while we all waited and wondered what she meant. I took the hammer and nail from the man and went up again with them.

  ... with her own hands she drove the nail.... Then she turned ...

  ‘Give me my glove,’ she said, turning abruptly to the Waldgrave.

  He had possessed himself of one in the course of the conversation I have partly detailed; and no doubt he did not give it up very willingly. But there was no refusing her under the circumstances.

  ‘Hold it against the door!’ she said.

  He obeyed, and with her own hands she drove the nail through the glove, pinning it to the middle of the door. Then she turned with a little colour in her face.

  ‘That is my room!’ she said, with a ring of menace in her tone. ‘Let no one presume to enter it. And have a care, men! Whatever is wanted inside, place at the threshold and begone.’

  Then she came down, followed by the Waldgrave, and walked through the middle of us and went back to the terrace, with Fraulein Anna at her heels. The Waldgrave lingered a moment to look at a sick horse, and I to give an order. When we reached the terrace court a few minutes later, we found my lady walking up and down alone in the sunshine.

  ‘Why, where is the learned Anna?’ the Waldgrave said.

  ‘She is gone to amuse herself,’ my lady answered, laughing. ‘Voetius is put aside for the moment in favour of Master Dietz!’

  ‘No?’ the young lord exclaimed, in a tone of surprise. ‘That yellow-faced atomy? She is not in love with him?’

  ‘No
, sir, certainly not.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘Well, I think she is a little jealous,’ my lady answered with a smile. ‘We have been so long colloguing with a papist, Anna thinks some amends are due to the Church. And she is gone to make them. At any rate, she asked me a few minutes ago if she might pay a visit to Dietz. “For what purpose?” I said. “To discuss a point with him,” she answered. So I told her to go, if she liked, and by this time I don’t doubt that they are hard at it.’

  ‘Over Voetius?’

  ‘No, sir,’ my lady answered gaily. ‘Beza more probably, or Calvin. You know little of either, I expect. I do not wonder that Anna is driven to seek more improving company.’

  CHAPTER VIII.

  A CATASTROPHE.

  All that day the town remained quiet, and all day the Waldgrave and my lady walked to and fro in the sunshine; or my lady sat working on one of the stone seats, while he built castles in the air, which she knocked down with a sly word or a merry glance. Fraulein Anna, always with the big book, flitted from door to door, like an unquiet spirit. The sentries dozed at their posts, old Jacob in his chair in the guard-room, the cannons under their breech-clouts. If this could be said to be a state of siege, it was the most gentle and joyous one paladin ever shared or mistress imagined.

  But no message reached us from the town, and that disturbed me. Half a dozen times I went to the wall and, leaning over it, listened. Each time I came away satisfied. All seemed quiet; the market-place rather fuller perhaps than on common days, the hum of life more steady and persistent; but neither to any great extent. Despite this I could not shake off a feeling of uneasiness. I remembered certain faces I had seen in the town, grim faces lurking in corners, seen over men’s shoulders or through half-open doors; and a dog barking startled me, the shadow of a crow flying over the court made me jump a yard.