The Lightstep

by John Dickinson

  'There is no purpose in remaining here.'

  'I am sure that there is as much and more as there has been over the past fortnight.'

  'Enough! Maria, this is scandalous! I cannot support this! You will go to your room and remain there, at once. And there you will make yourself ready to leave.'

  'But I believe that Father would also wish to stay!' cried Maria.

  Father made no sign.

  'Maria! You may not presume to speak for your father. You are at times a great disappointment to him and to me. No, it is impossible. He will accompany me. Nor, much though I might wish to abandon you, can I spare Anna to remain with you. Now go to your room at once!'

  Seething, Maria trod the stairs. She was furious with her mother, and with herself. How stupid – how stupid – to speak out before she had thought what she would say. It had been stupid, too, to invoke Father. Mother could not allow herself to lose control of him. Of course not. Without him, what was she – except for an over-educated woman with a sharp tongue? So Father must go. So must Anna. They all must. Mother would drag them all along with her, accessories to her existence. And Maria would never be free of her, until at last Lady Adelsheim stirred herself to bring about her daughter's marriage.

  There is no purpose to us remaining here. Was there not, now that all her petitions had failed? But a terrible hour was coming for the city. Everyone knew it. Even in Bohemia they knew it. Would they flee now? Like lice that could not longer live on the body that had fed them because it had become a corpse?

  Mother was a louse. She was a louse, heavy with the blood she had sucked, heavy with the things she had stolen! She had stolen Father. She had stolen Albrecht. She had even stolen Michel Wéry – or the man Maria had imagined him to be.

  He would stay – the flawed, twisted, brave man. He would face the spirits of war that he had once summoned in Paris. From the window of her room she could look south along the crags above the river and up to the walls and angled bastion of the fortifications around the Celesterburg. There, in the breach made last autumn, a crowd of tiny figures were labouring, digging out the rubble that had fallen into the ditch and dragging it, in barrows towed by long ropes, up to the line of the wall again. Things that looked like hurdles had been placed along the gap in the wall. Slowly, painfully, the earth was being piled around them to fill the defences in.

  'I cannot help it,' she said, to the man she imagined was looking down upon her. 'I cannot help it. I am her prisoner.'

  'This will be your room from now on, your Excellency,' said Wéry, lifting the lantern. 'Your servant will sleep here. There is a sleeping chamber for you beyond that door. I regret that it is not as convenient as the gatehouse, but it will be more sheltered from cannon fire. You have my word that we will do everything in our power to make you comfortable.'

  Canon Rother-Konisrat peered around the slit-windowed, narrow room in the south-east bastion.

  'Your powers appear to be limited, Commander,' he sighed. 'Although I do not blame you.'

  'There will be a guard at your door, to whom you may pass requests at any time. Nothing in reason will be refused you. You will continue to have the opportunity to walk the walls for half an hour in the morning and again in the afternoon.'

  'And what hour is it now?'

  'It is just past ten of the clock.'

  'I did not hear the bells.'

  'The cathedral bells are being taken down, sir, to be placed in hiding in case the city falls.'

  1 see.

  Wéry watched him moving around the narrow room like a man in a dream. The Canon paused by the plain wooden chair and ran his fingers over the back of it as if to assure himself that it really was there.

  'Did I see my colleague Steinau being brought in under guard last night?' he asked suddenly.

  'You did, sir.'

  'So our Prince has now turned on the Ingolstadt set too. I warned Steinau that he would. And what of our friend Bergesrode?'

  'He has been dismissed from his post, sir, for association with the Ingolstadt clergy.'

  'Arrested?'

  'I believe not, sir.'

  'The man shows some gratitude, in the end,' muttered the Canon. 'Yet I cannot see how he strengthens himself by making enemies of two-thirds of the Chapter. We have no sympathy with the Republic. We have only a certain lack of sympathy with those who wish to gather all power into their own hands. Was it thus in Paris, Commander?'

  'I beg your pardon, sir?'

  'That the rulers, having seized power against one faction, then persuade themselves they must remove all other actors from the scene, in order that their power should be secure?'

  Wéry swallowed uncomfortably. 'Sometimes, sir, yes it was.'

  Canon Rother smiled thinly at the chair back. 'You see,' he said. 'Well, it seems I now have no part but to wait upon events. Many more worthy than I have been persecuted for their faith. I shall make their example my own. Is there such a thing as a Bible in your citadel, Commander?'

  A Bible? Wéry had no idea. After ten days in this neglected fortress he was still reckoning the ratios of powder and shot to cannon on his walls.

  His mind was so full of many things now that siege loomed: duties and manpower and stratagems and supplies; a hundred little blows that could be struck, a thousand preparations to be made. His thoughts consumed him all the time: at table, in the middle of conversations, striding from place to place, and waking in the night from dreams of the days to come. And deep beneath the turbulence of his brain was the voice of the demon within him, bellowing, At last! The fight! At last!

  'Sir,' he said. 'Your books will be brought across from the gatehouse as soon as possible and I am sure . . .'

  'Perhaps you would grant me the loan of one for the morning. There will be one at least in the chapel.'

  'Yes, sir,' said Wéry.

  He was turning to go when the Canon, now peering through the narrow slit of the window, spoke again. 'And how does our Prince think he is going to deliver himself from this situation?'

  'I believe he has a plan, sir.'

  'I hope it is something other than to stand and be crushed.'

  Maria walled herself in silence on the morning of their departure. It was the only protest she could make.

  She sat by herself with a stole around her, eyes on nothing, waiting to be called. And when the time came to leave she climbed tight-lipped into the second coach and took her place by one window. Everyone knew she had been put in the second coach because she was in disgrace. Franz was to travel with her, but that was only because Lady Adelsheim could not endure the way he would fidget on a journey.

  'I do not want to talk,' she said bluntly.

  'I know that,' said Franz, and gawked out of the other window at the leading coach, which carried Father, Mother and Anna, and also Icht, so that Lady Adelsheim would have someone to converse with during the day.

  At length the grooms stirred the horses, and the coaches lumbered into motion. Maria stared hard at the house front as it rolled past, as if she could hook herself to it with her eyes, Dietrich, Johann, Pirenne and the other servants drawn up at the door. She wondered if she would ever see them again. She wondered, too, what instructions Lady Adelsheim had given to them should the French come. Very likely she had told them to count the spoons!

  They crossed the bridges, climbed to the Church of Saint Simeon, and passed on down the broad Bamberg Way towards the eastern gate of the city. There they were halted and soldiers asked to see their papers. Maria prayed that they would be turned back. Her hopes grew when she heard her mother beginning to protest to the officer from the window of the leading coach.

  'I beg your pardon, my Lady,' came the officer's voice. 'It's the siege, you see.'

  'There is no siege,' said Lady Adelsheim. 'And, Captain, I am not used to being treated this way.'

  'I beg your pardon, my Lady, but we have our orders.'

  'Do not speak to me of your orders. I see no sense in them. I see no sense in what yo
u are doing on these walls, sir. Your duty is folly, Captain, and I think your uniform a butcher's apron.'

  'Damn her,' muttered Maria aloud. 'I am going to scream.'

  Franz gave her a startled look. Then he went back to leaning out of the window.

  The grooms must have found the papers, for the voices sank to murmurs. Maria sat, fists clenched, waiting for more expostulations from her mother. There were none. Perhaps Anna had managed to soothe her. Perhaps she was simply preparing her next salvo.

  The next salvo did not come. There were friendly calls ahead, and suddenly the sound of the leading coach beginning to move. The next moment their own followed it. They passed out of the city. Goodbye, thought Maria, looking at the faces of the soldiers and the last few people at the roadside.

  Goodbye. We are abandoning you. I cannot ask you to forgive us.

  The faces were gone. No one called after them.

  'How far is it now?' asked Franz sullenly.

  She was silent for a moment longer. And then she realized that with Franz there was no point.

  'It will be most of the day,' she said. 'You must be patient. We are going to spend the night at Adelsheim. If we stop before that, it will only be for horses.' She supposed that there were still horses to be found on the roads that ran to war.

  Franz's face brightened. 'Can I go riding when we get there?'

  'It will be dark.'

  The roads were busy. They passed cart after cart heading for the city. Some were in trains with what must have been supplies for the garrison. Others carried families with their belongings: people who had heard that invaders were coming and feared to wait in their villages to find if it were true. They also passed small columns of soldiers on the march – poorly uniformed peasants, for the most part, led by some landlord or landlord's bailiff on his horse to assist in the defence.

  Goodbye, thought Maria bitterly. I would be with you. I would carry a pack and a musket gladly. I have seen a man die, and I am not afraid of it. But I am luggage, no more.

  An hour and a half from Erzberg the coaches stopped at an unmarked turning in the road. Craning through her window, Maria saw that another file of soldiers was approaching down one of the roads. The way was narrow. The coaches had checked at the junction to allow the men to pass.

  On they came. She could hear the patient squelch, squelch, squelch of their feet as they legged another mile away. She heard the horse blow and the rhythm of the noises change as they sidled past the coaches. She heard calls exchanged between the grooms and the horseman – friendly, surprised calls, as if the men had recognized one another. She leaned from her window again. It was a very small file – twenty men at most, and one on horse. The horseman was guiding his mount past at that instant.

  And she did know him. It was Windhofer, the bailiff from Adelsheim.

  They were from Adelsheim! From their own estate, going up to the war.

  She pulled herself hurriedly back from the window, thinking, Please! Mother Mary, please! Don't let her realize! Don't let her see!

  'Stop!' said Mother's voice. 'You there, stop, all of you!'

  The door of the leading coach swung open. Lady Adelsheim stood on the step, steadying herself with a hand on the door. The horseman checked his mount and looked back at her.

  'My Lady!' he exclaimed.

  'Down you come, my man. Come and speak with me.'

  He dismounted obediently.

  'Where are you going?'

  'To the city, my Lady. Lord Harzen, he says all militias in our district to go up to the city.'

  'You are not Harzen's people but mine.'

  'No, my Lady, but Harzen always . . .'

  'If Harzen has orders from the Prince, he can furnish him with his own men. But it is wrong of him, and wrong of you to go without my let—'

  Franz suddenly exclaimed, 'That's my horse.'

  Maria looked at it. And yes, it was Dominus, the horse that had been Albrecht's: a great, brown, handsome animal, waiting patiently there in the road.

  Windhofer had taken Albrecht's horse! That was impertinent of him. But perhaps there had not been much choice. And perhaps Albrecht would have given it to him freely, if he had known where Windhofer was planning to go.

  Yes, he would have done. Albrecht – the real Albrecht – had been like that.

  Franz had climbed out to pet the animal. But Dominus lifted his head away from Franz's hand, as if there was no time for that now, and other things that an honest horse should be thinking about.

  'It is a shameful thing – shameful – that he is calling you to do. I will have no part in it. I will not sully myself with support for what this Prince does . . .'

  Maria's fists were clenched. She could not shut her mother's voice out. She looked at the horse, Albrecht's horse, still facing back the way they had come, waiting to continue his journey. The memory of her brother sat in that long, gentle face.

  Where are you going, Dominus? she thought suddenly, remembering the apostle Peter on the road outside Rome. Domine, quo vadis?

  Venio Romam, the Lord had replied. Iterum crucifigi.

  To be crucified again.

  'My Lady, I have been sent papers . . .'

  'He's taken my horse, Mother,' said Franz. 'This is my horse, from the stables there.'

  'Begging your pardon, my Lady, but there were not many suitable . . .'

  'It is an outrageous liberty,' said Mother. 'I will not countenance it. Now, you will turn these men around and we will proceed to Adelsheim together. And when we are there . . .'

  'They are not your people!' Maria cried aloud.

  She jerked herself out of the coach and stood swaying on the step. All the faces were turned to her. Mother, on the step of the other coach. The factor, the men, even Franz looking up from where he stood at the horse's head.

  'They are not your people!' she screamed. 'They are Father's! Have you asked him?'

  She swayed, and nearly lost her balance. To steady herself she put out her hand and touched the horse's saddle. It shifted. The stirrup was near her foot.

  'Maria!'

  It began as an effort to save herself from falling. Her toe found the stirrup, her hands the saddle. And then it was just natural, one move following another with the inevitability of a dance, that she should swing herself up onto the horse's back.

  At once she found that her dress was wrong and the saddle was wrong too. She swayed. Her hand reached instinctively for the rein. Everyone was staring at her. No one, not even she, knew what was going to happen. (And whatever happened she must not fall!) She controlled the beast beneath her.

  'Let go!' she cried to Franz.

  Gawping, he obeyed.

  'Maria – get down at once!'

  'I will not get down,' she said over her shoulder. She had her voice under control now. 'I will not get down for you.'

  She steadied the horse, swayed – it was impossible to ride sidesaddle in a seat like this! – and spoke over her shoulder again. 'I am going back,' she said.

  'You will not!' exclaimed Lady Adelsheim's voice.

  Maria laughed, and set the horse at a walk along the road.

  'Stop her!' commanded her mother from behind her. 'Stop her! Catch that horse!' Lady Adelsheim repeated.

  Maria looked back. The men were still standing there, astounded. Now three or four of them were moving towards her. She kicked the horse, and it lumbered into a short trot that nearly threw her from the saddle. There was nothing for it but to bring her leg, dresses and all, over the beast's neck and sit astride with all her skirts rucking up and her shins and ankles in view to every man's eyes.

  'Maria, it's my horse!' called Franz plaintively. But he had stopped coming after her, knowing it was hopeless. Some of the militia, weapons discarded, were still chasing her. She could not stay.

  'Catch me if you can,' she called cheerfully to the men.

  Then a last look, back at the coaches. Mother still on the step, watching her go. Anna, dismounted on the far side.
Franz. Father was the only one she could not see. Only the hulk of the coach, like a sturdy old gentleman oblivious to all around him, faced on down the road to Bohemia.

  'Goodbye,' she whispered.

  And then she rode, hard, until the last of the militiamen gave up their vain pursuit.

  Never in her life, never in her dreams, had she been so alone. There was no one to help her but Dominus (a good, responsive animal). There was no one to point the way – she must find it for herself, making her own choices when her memory of the morning's journey failed. There was no one to house her, dress her, feed her. She had no money, unless by the mercy of some saint, Windhofer had been carrying his wallet in his saddlebags. She should stop and search them. There might be many useful things. But she did not want to stop. If she stopped she would have to think. She would have to think about what she had done, and about what could possibly happen now.

  They might be pursuing her. They could have turned the carriages around and be hurrying after her. They would not move very much slower than she. So of course she could not stop. Because she was never, never going back. She saw again her mother's face, looking at her from the coach step.

  'Never,' she said aloud.

  She would starve or drown herself first, she thought.

  She was going to the city. That was what she was doing. She was going back to be one of the people there. Perhaps people under siege all cared for one another in a way that they did not when at peace. She did not know. Whether or not they did, the city was the only place to go.

  Saints grant that the enemy had not already arrived! The long miles passed. She grew saddle-sore because she was not used to this way of riding.

  She saw people in fields and on wagons. They stared at her. They stared at the long white gleam of her stockings exposed by her rucked-up travelling gown. She looked firmly ahead. Let them think as they wished. This was war, was it not? And they did not know who she was. They could not possibly know, because she no longer knew herself.

  But when she saw a file of militia ahead of her, struggling under load towards the city, she turned off the road and made a wide circle across country. She did not want to be stopped and have questions asked of her. And she was not sure she would be safe with soldiers, even those of her own side. So it was that when she finally approached the city, it was from the north-east and not the north, and it was to the Saxon Gate that she came.