The Lightstep

by John Dickinson

  He cleared his throat, fighting for composure. 'I shall do whatever I can. I will . . . May I see you to your carriage?'

  'I think . . . Thank you, but it is better not.'

  It was a quarter to midnight. Wéry lifted his head from his hands and groaned.

  Work, he thought. Work was the remedy.

  He lit another candle, and placed both candles close to the paper on the desk. He rose, took the other picture from the wall and set it on the desk beside the new one. Then he drew from a drawer a curved reading-glass. He looked at the two pictures, side by side. The anguished faces of the man on the cross writhed before him. With a dull heart he placed the reading-glass on the new picture and bent over it. The face of the dead Christ swelled from the canvas, blotting out the memory of the face that had left the room.

  He had to look beyond the suffering. That was the secret. As if he were a general or a prince, he had to look past it. He had to look at the detail of the background beyond.

  It had changed. Where the old picture had shown a general receiving his orders, there was now only empty middle distance. The town, with the camp around it, was still there – painted rather larger than it had been in the previous picture. And the river was still busy with boats crossing. Probably there was some significance in the detail here, but he could not see it at once.

  To the left of the face there were also changes. The picture of the Roman soldier stepping across the river had been replaced with a group of figures. The Roman was still there. He had his sword drawn and raised to strike. Moving the glass directly over him and peering closely, Wéry could see the letters at his belt: A d A – the Armée d'Allemagne.

  Kneeling before the Roman, with his head bowed for the blow, was a man in a bishop's robes and cap. On the robes of the bishop were a pattern of lions, like the lions on the arms of the Prince-Bishop of Erzberg.

  A number of other figures stood by, watching impassively. One wore an Emperor's crown. Another had an Elector's cap and the blue and white diamonds of Bavaria, Erzberg's largest German neighbour. And among them was a figure with two faces, holding an hourglass: the Roman god Janus.

  Janus: January. The Army of Germany will strike at the Bishop in January.

  January was already on them. But the left side, Maximilian had said, would be for the interpretation. The facts would be on the right. And Wéry could find nothing there that was new.

  He swept the reading glass over the right hand side of the picture again. Hills, trees, bushes, and the town in the distance with the camp around it and the river beyond. All was as before. He placed the glass over the camp and peered down at the enlarged, distorted image. He counted the tents. Seven, as before. And horses and cannons . . .

  Wait! The cannons!

  There were four shown, lined in a row before the tents. In the previous picture there had only been three. He re-centred the glass on the fourth and peered closely.

  It was shown larger than the others. A tiny figure of a man had been painted in by one wheel to make that clear. This was not a field gun. This was a siege weapon.

  So that was it. Fact: The Army at Wetzlar is being reinforced with siege guns. Interpretation: They are preparing to strike at the Bishop in January.

  This, these two sentences, was the message. This was what he had bought, at the price of Balcke-Horneswerden's honour, and his own.

  This was what Maximilian and Hartmann – yes, and the unwilling Ludwig, and his wife, and Maria too – had risked so much to bring to him.

  Now he must decide whether he believed it.

  He sat back and rubbed his aching eyes.

  There were so many drawbacks to this form of communication. Details might be missed, or misinterpreted. A page full of writing would have told him more. But even writing could only get him so far. He could not question the written page, demand more details, or check his understanding of the meaning. And a page of writing, even in cipher, would have betrayed itself to the enemy if ever it fell into their hands – as this one nearly had. This was a far better disguise. They will see only the head, Maximilian had promised him. And indeed they would. It was Maximilian's device, and Maximilian's way. The dead man from the streets of Mainz. The man whose face Maximilian carried in his head every moment of his day, whom he had had shot by his own men, and whose innocence, by this means, he proclaimed to all the world. No, he was not mad. Not quite.

  The Army of Wetzlar has been reinforced with siege guns. It was exactly the sort of thing that Hartmann, travelling up and down the Rhine, would be able to find out. Getting guns that size across the Rhine could not be done easily. Covered barges, gathered at night, loading . . . No. Even then there would be too much movement, business, noise. The crews and barges must come from somewhere. Man them with soldiers, and still the soldiers would talk. Take it as fact.

  The interpretation was another matter. Wéry remembered bitterly how he, how everyone in Erzberg – had mistaken the news of the return of Hoche to Germany. So there were siege guns at Wetzlar. Why should they be intended for Erzberg?

  Well, who else might they be intended for? Frankfurt was garrisoned by the Emperor. They would not strike at Frankfurt so soon after the peace. Indeed, if they had wanted Frankfurt they would have made the Emperor abandon it to them, just as he had abandoned Mainz.

  If they meant to march north, or east, into the lands dominated by Prussia, they would have to reinforce Wetzlar with more than just a siege train.

  But Erzberg, now. The walls were breached. But they would know from Lanard that the breaches were small and could be repaired. Erzberg, with its motley army, its control of the Vater crossings, and its position in the heart of Germany. They had what they needed, if it came to that. Had they a motive, now that d'Erles had fled? But only they would know what motive would be sufficient.

  And there was corroboration of a sort, if they were patrolling down to the Erzberg borders. That was the sort of action that discouraged spying and patrolling in the other direction. Certainly it would be harder for him to confirm the presence of siege guns at Wetzlar if the roads were alive with French patrols. It might mean more lives lost – more of his own people. And yet he must try, and they must try. The double faces of Christ groaned soundlessly on the desk before him.

  Outside a bell tolled the quarter hour. Midnight had come and gone and he had not been aware. And now he had a report to write, which must be ready before his meeting with Bergesrode tomorrow morning. He must write it carefully. He pushed the two paintings aside, found pen and paper, and set them before him. But before he began he remembered something else.

  Taking a small lever from a draw, he bent down over a floorboard before the hearth. The nails that held it were loose. It came up easily. Beneath it, wrapped in canvas, were concealed the reports and papers he considered most valuable, or most dangerous. On the top of the pile was his own report to Bergesrode, strung together from his recollections of Uhnen's drunken ramble, and from meetings with officers of the police. It was short, because he had had so little to put in it. And it began baldly: 'On the night of 13 October notable members of the Canon Rother-Konisrat's party attended a gathering at the house of the Knight von Adelsheim . . .'

  He removed it, wrapped the others back into their sack, and replaced the board. Then he made up the fire in the little hearth.

  With shaking fingers, he fed his report to the flames.

  XXVII

  The Testimony of Papers

  It was barely dawn when Wéry let himself into the Prince's antechamber, and found that Bergesrode's chair was empty.

  Fernhausen looked up from his desk. He had a candle before him, which cast shadows across his face.

  'Where is he?' asked Wéry. Never before had Bergesrode missed one of their early morning meetings.

  Fernhausen shrugged. 'Off somewhere,' he said. 'Yesterday was chaos, and we are still picking ourselves up this morning. You'll have to deal with me.'

  'What's happening?'

  'Oh, it's
everything really. Mainly the wretched ball for Candlemas. These things always take more effort than an imperial crisis. But Steinau has presented his report on Hersheim, and of course it's heavy against Balcke-Horneswerden, and last night we had half the Chapter in here one after another trying to find out what His Highness is going to do about it.'

  'What is he going to do about it?' asked Wéry.

  'How should I know? He just smiles and nods and hears each one out, and then it's on to the next one. And then right in the middle of it comes the news of d'Erles's assassination.'

  'Assassination! I hadn't heard.'

  'My dear fellow,' said Fernhausen smiling up at the ceiling. 'How should you? But no, it is true. Although . . .' he pulled a face. 'When I say "assassinated", that makes it sound deliberate. Apparently he was on his way to Rome, to seek asylum there. Of course he had to pass through French-held Italy. The French have been setting up this Cisalpine Republic of theirs, and there was a lot of excitement about it. A mob saw this aristocrat's coach, pulled him out of it, and, well, it ended with him à la lanterne.'

  'I'm sorry. I had thought better of him after he appeared at the Chapter.'

  Fernhausen rolled his eyes. 'You don't imagine that was his own idea, do you?'

  'He was put up to that?'

  'Of course. Although perhaps,' he glanced momentarily at Wéry, 'perhaps we shouldn't go too far into that. His Highness was not pleased. And now he thinks we all betrayed him, and betrayed poor dear d'Erles too. Of course he goes on smiling and nodding, but no one's getting anything they want out of him. And so we are all having to jump a bit.'

  'Did you put d'Erles up to it?'

  'Not me. Not Bergesrode either, if you want to know. He was all for fighting to the last man.'

  'So was I.'

  'Oh, I know. Fortunately there were wiser heads around. What can I do for you?'

  Wéry rallied his scattered thoughts.

  'Has he seen the report from the frontier dragoons yet?'

  'No. I have it here. I'll put it in to him as soon as I . . .'

  'No need. Here's the full story, in half the space.' Wéry handed over the pages he had written at midnight. Fernhausen lifted an eyebrow in surprise. But he took it, moved his candle over and began to frown at the page. Wéry sat back, aching with tiredness, and watched the light growing at the window.

  So! Once again he found that he was far behind events. He had come up here expecting his most important interview with Bergesrode for weeks – intense on the report from the Rhine, difficult on the Illuminati – and had found instead that he and his concerns were almost the last things on anyone's minds. Really, he thought wearily, he should get his office moved up here to the palace – into this very room, perhaps. That way he would not miss two-thirds of everything that went on.

  And d'Erles was dead. That wasted life, the waster of so much and so many others, was gone. And the man's one act of redeeming gallantry had been the gallantry of a dupe. Somehow, someone had manoeuvred him into offering to leave the city. And so he was dead.

  Weariness and depression felt very much the same, thought Wéry.

  'Yes,' said Fernhausen, after a little. 'Yes, he must see this.' He turned the page, reading with uncharacteristic attention. He came to the point where Wéry had told the story of the capture of the coach in four clipped sentences. Fernhausen read them, and finished. He frowned again, tapping the page.

  'You don't mention . . .'

  'No.'

  Wéry had not said who had ridden in the coach. She had asked that he should not.

  It was one of those rare moments when Fernhausen looked him in the eyes.

  'Shouldn't you?'

  'It is better not.'

  'But she's his god-daughter.'

  'All the more reason.'

  Still Fernhausen was looking at him. But now he was unsure of himself. Wéry kept his expression firm, marshalled his arguments (security, scandal, the reputation of the Prince himself . . .). He waited.

  'Very well,' said Fernhausen at last. He placed the report with a small pile of others. 'As you say, it takes half the space.'

  'May I have the dragoon's report?'

  Fernhausen hesitated. Then he said,'I suppose so.'

  He passed it over. Wéry took it and pocketed it. So much for the dragoon's hopes of promotion, after all. He was sorry about that. But she wished to keep her name from public notice, and he was going to track down every copy of that damned report if he possibly could.

  'He values you because you are dedicated, you know,' said Fernhausen a little sulkily. 'He likes people he thinks are incorruptible. It's why he's put up with my priestly colleague for so long. If he thinks a fellow has loyalties elsewhere, he starts to worry.'

  'I understand what you are saying,' said Wéry.

  In the heavy silence, he rose to his feet. 'I had better let you get on with the truly important matters – like the Candlemas Ball,' he said.

  Fernhausen smiled. 'For once,' he said,'that is not my concern. His Highness has asked Bergesrode to manage it.'

  'Unusual.' Such things almost always fell to the more junior aide.

  Fernhausen's grin broadened. 'I think Bergesrode was indeed a little surprised.'

  Maria was in her room, reading her dead brother's letters.

  She had kept them for so long, tied in bundles with ribbon. She had not touched them until now, because the thought of them had always been so painful that she had shied away. She had needed a reason, more than mere remembrance, to make her pick them from her trunk, untie them, and begin to leaf through the pages, covered in that achingly familiar hand. This morning, at last, she had one. Her reason was Michel Wéry

  Of course it had been impossible. Of course she could not have stayed, and listened to what he had been trying to say to her. She had done what she must, and had done it quickly, so that neither of them should suffer more than they had to.

  And yet – now that she had done it indeed, and left him there – why should she not look back after all and wonder?

  Who was he really? Red-faced and stammering last night, he had barely been able to speak for himself. But he did not deserve to be dismissed. He had seen and done so many things. Was his birth his fault? Someone should speak for him, since he must now be silent. She knew of only one person who could.

  Michel has returned from another of his forays, chattered Alba, halfway down the page she held. He seems surprised and a little disappointed to be still living, but I am glad to see him. Of course he is angry because the army has done nothing but sit and feed itself while he was away. He expects too much of everyone, and of himself most of all . . .

  The weak winter sunlight strayed across the room. Her bed was unmade and her fire unlit. She had sent her maid away so that she might be undisturbed. When the girl returned at the appointed time, she sent her away again. She read for hours. And, as the time passed, her pace of reading slowed. She no longer skipped half-seeing through the pages for Alba's words about his friend – who was mentioned in perhaps one letter in three, and sometimes only fleetingly. She began to read, at last, for Alba himself as well, as she had long wished to, and yet had never felt she could.

  All those half-familiar, half-forgotten phrases that he had written to her were there before her eyes again. They were bringing her closer to him, closer than she had felt for a year. They spoke to her in his voice, a little distantly, as if they came from another room, but nonetheless clear, and nonetheless Alba. She could smile at them again – at his stories of the ridiculous and farcical happenings in camp, at the practical jokes that he and young Friedrich Rieseck-Tauen had played on other officers, and at his triumph on the occasions when he had managed to entice even the earnest and dour Michel Wéry to join in.

  As she read, she began to feel grateful. She was grateful for the titbits about Wéry, but also she was grateful to Wéry himself, because she saw that it was because of him that she had come to remind herself of Alba in life. Because of him, she
could see now that the memory of Alba was something she should also feel grateful for. Strange friends! She could almost picture the two of them together, walking towards her across a sunlit lawn, one short and laughing, the other tall and abrupt. And though neither of them would speak of themselves, each might speak to her of the other.

  My dearest and most delightful Maria . . .

  . . . to Darmstadt with Michel to visit Friedrich in the hospital. Friedrich is worse, I fear. He did not rest himself when his malady first appeared . . . Afterwards Michel took me to the hospital for the ranks. I own that I was horrified. The poor wretches he in terrible conditions. There are not enough beds or even rooms, so some must lie in the corridors . . .

  'Lady Maria . . .'

  . . . I thought that Michel would be angry too, but he said that he had seen so much worse. It is a wonder to me that a man who can be so compassionate may also be so hard in his thoughts . . .

  'Lady Maria!' It was Pirenne again, the French maid. She bobbed in the doorway.

  'I have not finished, Pirenne,' Maria said. 'Did I not say you should come back in another hour?'

  (Another hour? What time was it?)

  'Yes, Lady Maria. But the Knight wishes to see you in the drawing room – he said now, if you please.'

  Father? And Now. What was the matter?

  Puzzled, Maria followed Pirenne down the stairs. A footman was waiting for her at the door. She was ushered in, as if she were a guest.

  He was sitting on the settee on the far side of the room, decked out in his great wig and frock coat as if for a formal occasion. He looked up as she came in.

  He saw her, and frowned. Still frowning gloomily, he looked at a point on the floor before him.

  'Father?' said Maria. 'Is something wrong?'

  'Displeased,' said Father, without lifting his eyes. 'Displeased.'

  'Your father is displeased with you, Maria,' said Mother.

  She was standing motionless by the fireplace, with eyes that seemed very bright and hard.