Iron Butterflies

by Andre Norton

  One of my limp hands was seized by whoever stood to my left. The grip was brutal, I felt a stab of pain even through the overriding cloud of sickness as one of my fingers was possessed and had jammed around it a cold band, ground down almost viciously clear to the knuckles. I fought for freedom again and once more retched weakly, swayed.

  Surely in no dream could one feel so sick as this! Fear, yes, nightmares held the very core of fear, but not this illness of body. I closed my eyes, unable to bear the wavering of the lamps and candles. Then, for a period, I could not feel anything at all.

  Once more I crawled out of whatever nightmare prison had held me. My nausea was so great that I could not control sour bile rising in my throat. I was leaning forward as someone steadied my head so I could spew forth that accumulation from my stomach, heaving weakly with one sharp spasm after another. Now I had no doubt that I was awake, nor that I was ill with such violence as I had never felt before.

  Hands steadied me. A cloth wet and fresh smelling patted against my sweating face. For the third time I vomited, the retching now dry and without result, making my body sore with effort. I hung above the waiting basin prepared for another such attack. But the moments passed and it did not come.

  Then I was gently eased back on a pile of pillows, the basin vanishing before someone stepped between me and the light. I found my vision was not so blurred.

  “Truda—?” I whispered.

  “Lie still, gracious lady.” She brought once more that dampened towel, wiped my sweating hands, and then my face. I was propped high enough so that I could see where I was, though my mind seemed very slow and sluggish and it was hard to remember much.

  I had been at the table—and now I was here, back in the room upstairs, lying on the bed in the chamber which had been assigned to me. Those two facts were very clear. But in between was—

  “Truda, have I been ill?” I got out that question with little pauses between the words, for even to say that much was an effort. My body seemed utterly drained of any energy.

  “It is indigestion, gracious lady—of no serious matter now that the poison is out—”

  “Poison?” I echoed. There had been something—something very wrong—I had been a part of it, but to force myself to remember it now was a task beyond my efforts.

  “Oh, not real poison.” Truda’s face appeared unnaturally pale, or was that another trick my eyes were playing on me, part of the acute attack I had suffered. “It is only that you ate something which was not good for you.”

  “Not good for me—” I seemed only able to repeat her words. I tried to remember better the table, those dishes which had been offered me in almost endless procession. What had I eaten? A few bits of fish, the very thought of recalling the sight of my plate made me nauseous again. My throat was sore, as if scalded from within. However, I fought against the lassitude which held me, for deep within my mind, hiding, from whence I could not seem to bring it to light, was that spark of fear. Something had happened, something worse than just this illness.

  Fish, yes, some peas, and that portion of spicy omelet which the Gräfin had so firmly insisted that I eat. But the others, all of them had also helped themselves from those same plates.

  “Others—sick—too?” I made the effort and got out the question as Truda came closer, her eyes watchful, her expression one of concern.

  “Only you, gracious lady.” There was a firm note in her instant reply, I saw her glance away as if there was someone else here to listen and she would so slyly warn me.

  Listening—listening outside doors. The Colonel—he had made me first aware of that. The Colonel—where was he?

  I sat up suddenly, setting the room whirling once more, gripping the bedclothes on either side of my body to maintain myself erect as best I could. The Colonel—

  “He was arrested—” I had not realized that I spoke aloud that thought which memory capriciously supplied until I saw Truda’s finger fly to her lips in warning.

  My memory was flowing back, as if that single fact had unlocked the door behind which it had temporarily been barricaded. I recalled now my interview with the Gräfin, in the other room of this suite, of my second with the Baron. I allowed Truda to ease me back on my pillows, but I did not loose my hold on memory.

  All they had urged upon me returned clearly now. To be ill just when I needed all my wits about me! That seemed a very wry blow of fortune. That my illness was not natural, of that I was sure. Perhaps those two had taken steps to see that I would be in no way able to assert myself for a time.

  I had been watching Truda but thinking my own thoughts, which, to my joy were now free and I had full command on them. My body was weak, yes, and I do not think I could have done more than totter feebly if I had tried to walk across the room—but my mind was clear and my sight no longer played tricks on me. It was my sudden realization that Truda was watching me oddly that shook off my preoccupation with myself.

  “What has happened?” For I was sure that something had occurred, more than the fact that I had been obviously taken disastrously ill at the dining table. That dream—or was it a dream?

  She did not answer me in words, instead she lifted my left hand from where it rested by my side and held it up before me. For a moment I could not understand what she was attempting to show me. Then the lamplight shone on that massive band about my third finger. I must have stared at it bemused, half thinking myself back in my dream again, when Truda spoke with great distinctness but in a half whisper.

  “That is what happened, Baroness—”

  Baroness? Konrad’s proposal! But I had refused it—said I must have more time. I could not have married him!

  “No!” I turned to Truda, demanding that she assure me that this could not be so.

  She had the dampened towel in her hand once more, bent over me to wipe my forehead. As she drew that close she whispered again.

  “They drugged your wine—they had a priest waiting. It is true, gracious lady, you are wedded. The household were told, they are celebrating it now—”

  “But it is no true marriage! Surely the priest could have seen I was not myself, not competent to give any response—”

  “Gracious lady, the priest is their man. All on this estate, in the village over the mountain also, for some leagues around are their people. They will keep you here and when you go forth again—when they permit it—then you must, for the sake of your own honor, agree that the marriage was a true one.”

  My fingers were already working at that lying band, striving to loosen it, hurl it from me. It was too tight, it had been too firmly forced upon my finger. I thought that if I would rid myself of it, it would need cutting off!

  So that confused picture of the man in black, of being held upright before him in spite of my illness—that was a marriage! My anger gave me strength. Did they believe that they could bend me to their will in this fashion—with a play of marriage? They might deem me utterly helpless, a tool in their hands to gain the inheritance, for I now had no doubt at all that that was what they strove to gain through this trickery. Yes, they might think that they had the game nearly won—but they did not know me!

  They had been so careful to show me every difficulty and danger which might lie ahead. Still—my mind seemed wholly free of any drug-induced cloud now—and my thoughts fastened on one thing which I thought proved that they were not as sure of their plans as they would have me believe. To risk this mockery of a marriage meant that there was some reason why it must be hurried through, that time itself was a menace to their plans.

  I must learn what they had to fear and whether that source of fear could be turned to my own account. So—

  Settling back on my pillows, I ceased trying to worry off from my finger that band marking an infamous piece of trickery. Instead I looked directly at Truda.

  “I feel most ill,” I said in as faltering a voice as I could manage. “I cannot be disturbed—” Was she quick enough to catch my meaning? I had begun to believ
e that Truda indeed was sharp witted. There was no one else I had to depend upon, so trust was forced upon me now.

  “You are indeed overcome, gracious lady. If you try to rise from your bed, you will find yourself very faint—”

  I was right! She had understood my pretense at once. I sighed, laying limply among the pillows, my hands at my sides, glad for a moment I need not look at that hateful ring which seemed to weigh so heavily.

  “No one but you, Truda, I am too ill.”

  “That is understood, gracious lady. I shall send a message that you have been very ill and are now so weak that only a long sleep will bring you to strength again. Also I shall see that your food passes only through my hands—” She had anticipated me there and I was thankful for her quick wit. Whatever they had used to make me a puppet in their play wedding certainly had been near poison, as Truda had named it. I could not afford many more such bouts. But if they believed that I was left weakened, ill, I might not be for a while the target of any more attempts to bend me to their service.

  “I shall not leave you, gracious lady, save when it is necessary. This I have already told Frau Werfel—”

  “And the food?”

  “Must I not eat? They will bring me at least bread and cheese if no other— Now it would be well for you to sleep—if you can now—for in truth you are not strong.”

  She was right. Any effort caused moisture to bead my forehead, left my hands shaking. Had they misjudged the dosage to leave me so reduced, or had it been a gamble? A wife safely dead even just after marriage might mean more success for their plans. Only I hardly could believe that that was so. Even though by European law upon marriage a wife became but another possession of her husband, her whole estate forfeited to his control, I did not think in this case they had gone so far as to wish me dead. That might have defeated them by bringing up too many questions from those such as the Princess Adelaide, who would have every desire to get to the bottom of an arrangement which removed the major part of the Elector’s inheritance from her own grasping hands.

  No, I thought I could shift this much truth from the Baron’s and Gräfin’s arguments—a marriage was necessary in order that the treasure pass into their hands. And a marriage would have to be proven before the world—therefore, a bride, willing, must be presented in due time to public notice. I thought that murder wag not within the scope of their planning—not yet.

  Lying there, my eyes closed, I did not sleep. My body was sore with the violence their potion had wreaked upon it, my mind was alert, trying to find this path or that out of Kesterhof to freedom. To appeal to the priest would, of course, avail me nothing. I had not seen anything in the man earlier to make me believe that he was one who fulfilled his office with honesty and honor. He would not have lent himself to the charade they had staged this night had he been an upright man of his calling.

  Kesterhof and all those within it—even around it—if Truda’s belief was to be accepted—would be stolidly loyal to the Gräfin’s wishes. Was her lord also part of the plot? I thought I could accept that he was.

  What could I marshal against all this? My own will and determination and such assistance as Truda could offer. It seemed that David might once more be pitted against Goliath. But my anger was hot, and in me those traits of character which must have been my heritage from my grandmother were ready to carry on a war, unequal though that might be.

  I had been used ruthlessly, in such a manner that they appeared to think that I had no method of defending myself. Therefore, suppose I outwardly became the weakling they imagined me, perhaps to weep and pine, but show no will to fight? I did not know how good I was at playing this game, for never in my life had I been forced into such duplicity.

  Truda moved softly about the room. My illness, which had begun about midday, must have lasted well into the night, for I could see that the curtains were drawn at the windows, lamps lighted. What were they doing below, or in the Gräfin’s room—plotting, and planning—what?

  I raised one hand as Truda came near the foot of my bed and beckoned to her. Again I saw her glance toward the door. It was there that she went first, to set her ear against its panel, listening. I waited for a long moment and another thought came to trouble me. For I remembered that secret way through which the Colonel and I had gone when we left the palace. In a place as old as this there could be such secrets also—how could I now be sure that I was not under observation from some hidden point?

  So my eyes searched the walls where the very seeming innocence of those flowers and silken ribbons made a mockery of deceit. I shivered, knowing that I would never feel safe again, that I must use all my wits and determination, though I felt woefully weak in both.

  Truda picked up another cloth, dipped it into a waiting basin and wrung it out. I caught the scent of herbs, strong enough to battle the odor left by the shame of my sickness. The refreshing towel in hand, she came to me.

  As she bent over to wipe once more my face the towel formed a screen for my lips and I understood by her clever move that perhaps she also feared that we might be spied upon in some manner.

  “Is there a way out—for us?” I whispered.

  “Ah, gracious lady, let this lie across your poor head. The ache will lessen if you but rest,” she answered aloud and then her lips added in a whisper as faint as mind. “I see none—yet—”

  “I am so sick—” I actually achieved a moan to end my complaint. “Water—if I might have water—”

  “At once, gracious lady!”

  I lay against the pillows, my eyelids a little closed, but not enough that I could not view the room. As Truda went to fill a cup from a jug standing on a side table, there came a sound from the door. I willed myself not to stiffen, to show no sign of fear as the maid went to open it.

  The Gräfin stood there. Her expression was one of deep concern. How much of that was feigned? I wondered as she brushed past Truda to approach my bed.

  “Amelia!” I could smell her scent, thick and sickeningly sweet. She must be leaning very close to me. “Amelia—?”

  I allowed my eyes to open fully, slowly, striving with any art I might possess to give the appearance of one dazed.

  “Amelia, dear one, how do you feel?” She had taken up my left hand, the one bearing that repulsive sign of betrayal, was holding it clasped in both of hers. Though her flesh was warm, moist, to me it was like being touched by a snake and I had all I could do to subdue my instant desire to jerk away. That I did not was a triumph, small, yet still a triumph.

  “So—sick—” I said weakly. “My head—it aches—”

  “Yes, you are sick—but you shall be better soon. Lie still my dear, sleep if you can. Sleep—”

  She put my hand back upon my breast gently. There was a small shadow of a smile about her full lips. In the light of the lamps—or was it because I was alerted to her—her face had a new look—she was a different person from the frivolous woman of fashion who had been my companion for what seemed now a long time. As she straightened up and turned away from the bed she spoke abruptly to Truda:

  “Tend your mistress well, girl. She must be carefully watched. These sudden fevers can be of great danger—so do grave illnesses often begin. We have sent for the doctor from Grumlu, but he cannot possibly arrive before morning.”

  Truda curtsied, her eyes downcast. I watched her follow the Gräfin to the door. Her hands moved about the latch when that had closed and then she glanced back at me, a shadow of alarm upon her face. She stood for a moment, running one fingertip across her lower lip as if thinking deeply, and then returned quickly to my side, reaching to the pillows which supported me, moving them about with one arm as she drew me, as one too weak to shift herself, to lean forward against her own shoulder. As she did so her very soft words were spoken into my very ear.

  “There is no lock upon the door, it cannot be in any way bolted.”

  As a last resource I supposed we could barricade it in some fashion with what furniture that could
be moved. But the time for that was not yet, I was sure we were not yet reduced to such desperate straits.

  “A map—” I whispered, “can you find me a map?”

  To get out, of not only Kesterhof, but also the part of this damnable country where the Gräf was all powerful, was my first thought. We were two women alone and easy prey for any one else under this roof. I remembered with a sick horror Truda’s suggestion that when I left here, if I left here, I would only be able to meekly accept the role they had forced upon me. The Baron’s suggestion of a marriage of convenience might mean nothing at all. Such could be too easily annulled by either party.

  “I do not know,” was the answer she gave me.

  I rested back once more against the pillows she had shaken up. She brought me the water I had asked for earlier and I drank, really as test to see if that might once more induce a drastic reaction. But the liquid went easily down my throat and no nausea followed.

  Truda sat in a low chair near one of the lamps. She had opened a box, brought out sewing things, presenting a proper picture of a maid who was too well trained to sit with idle hands, even when at watch in a sick room. I was left to thoughts which went round and round, wearing ever deeper a path of helplessness in my mind, giving me no hope of clear action.

  There was a small china clock on the mantel and the ticking of it seemed to fill the room like mocking, tittering laughter. I had time in plenty, but that was playing me false, if I could not use it to any advantage.

  It is in the night that all the brave resolves one may hold to by day are shaken, that our courage shrinks and grows the less. I made wild plans and saw their folly even as I did. Truda had laid her work, a square of white, out upon a tabletop and now I saw her bring out from her box a small tool with a leaden tip. Such I had used for myself—for the marking out of an embroidery pattern. Now and then she consulted, or seemed to consult, a small book which probably contained the pattern she would copy, so absorbed in what she did that I first wondered and then resented that such could hold her attention at such a time. Perhaps her help was all a sham—meant to entice me on in trust until I revealed myself utterly and then she could betray me—