The Florian Signet

by John Burke

  I touched his lips with my fingers; and then again with my lips.

  ‘You may ask what you will,’ I said, ‘when we’re home, and safe, and everything is ordinary and everyday and we see each other in the ordinary everyday light. So that you are sure.’

  We were in such harmony that he did not argue, and we settled ourselves again, propped uncomfortably yet blissfully against the wall.

  When I awoke in the first light of dawn my neck ached, the fire had burned down and I was pinched with cold, and I could not be absolutely sure that some of the things we said had not been part of a dream.

  Dominic was no dream. His arm had slackened and fallen back against the wall, and he looked as if he might crumple between the bench and wall at any moment. I was about to move him into a more comfortable position when I realized that such a movement would almost certainly wake him, and then we would have to resume that crucial argument we had abandoned last night.

  Cautiously I stood up and stretched, marvelling that my bones did not crack like pistol shots.

  Dominic did not stir.

  I went to the door. Taking an age to lift the latch and coax the door inwards so that it would not squeak, I saw a still, white landscape outside. The snow had stopped. It would not take me more than twenty minutes, in such conditions, to find my way back to the track off which I had been frightened by Dominic’s sudden appearance. If Florian still kept watch, my task could be completed and I could be back here within an hour, or very little more.

  I pulled the door shut with the same care I had employed in opening it. The crisp snow crackled about my buttoned boots. On impulse, feeling absurdly light-hearted about it, I stooped and with one finger wrote clearly in the hard surface: wait.

  The horse snuffled. I put a warning hand on her muzzle, carefully unhitched her, and led her into the trees.

  Jan would already be furious at my disappearance. Dominic would soon be equally furious. I could only hope that Count Florian’s welcome would make up for it all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The mare, like myself, was chilled and stiff from the night but glad to be on the move. When we were a fair distance from the hut I mounted, and we picked our way through the clustering pines. All obvious paths had been blotted out by the snow, but it did not lie so thickly here under the canopy of trees. I ducked below a few straggling branches.

  Yesterday, in fright and swirling snow, I had lost my way. But the twists and turns of the ascending path were engraved on my memory. I had to retrace the route but avoid the fringe of the mine workings, where Michael must still be on the look-out.

  A scarp of rock hid me from the mine crater. I followed it round and came, on the edge of a cluster of saplings, to a steep descent. The surface of the track below was invisible, but its coating of snow cut a wide swathe through the woods and blurred the edges of the peat bog. Now I could see where I was. I urged the horse down on to the level.

  It was a pallid but lovely morning. The mare settled to a steady, swishing pace through the snow. I felt like singing. Whatever happened now could be only a brief postponement of the happiness in store. I had been hurt and Dominic had been hurt, but the wounds were not mortal: a few months from now, we would look back and wonder why such minor scratches had pained so much at the time.

  Round a bend in the road I came upon a small logging camp. My first impulse was to stop and turn back. Then I thought that this might be the rendezvous. I urged the mare steadily, unhurriedly on.

  The loggers were up and about early. As I drew level with the largest shack, two men turned to look at me; and called to someone in among the trees at the edge of a bare, shaven clearing. Two more came out, leading horses by the bridle. They stopped dead. Then the shorter of the two vaulted on to his stallion and raced it along the edge of the encampment towards me.

  At the same time another horseman emerged from the coppice on my left.

  There was no point in fleeing. Once I had raced away from Dominic and had mercifully been overtaken by him. Again I had run from him, and this time he was not here to rescue me. I could not escape. Flight would arouse more suspicions than must already exist; and in the frenzy of a hunt I thought I would not find Jan merciful.

  He reined in beside me. His face was so livid that I detected a scar I had not even noticed before, making a thin blue weal above his left ear.

  ‘Where have you been?’ His voice was as thin and pale as the scar. ‘Where have you spent the night?’

  ‘I lost my way. The snow came down so fast, I had no idea where I was. There was a hut – a woodcutter’s hut, I suppose –’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘A long way from here. I’ve come miles already this morning, I thought I’d never find my way.’

  ‘Where was this hut?’

  ‘I don’t know. I told you, I was lost.’ I waved my arm in the opposite direction from the mine workings and the lake. ‘Somewhere over there. I’d hate to have to find it again.’

  ‘You left the castle when my back was turned, in defiance of my instructions.’

  ‘Jan.’ I spoke his name with difficulty. ‘I told you I took little pleasure in being a prisoner –’

  ‘We have been searching for you. You saw nothing, did not hear us calling?’

  ‘The snow muffled everything.’

  We sat like mortal enemies agreeing the preliminaries to a deadly joust. ‘And you met no one?’ he said. ‘No one at all?’

  ‘Who should I have met in this wilderness?’

  I thought he would accuse me of prevarication; of lying; even strike me. He held himself in and said: ‘I was afraid you had fallen in with Dominic Warrington.’

  ‘If I had, I would hardly be with you now, safe and sound.’

  We rode back to Kirchschlag. I wondered if we were being observed from some crag or the depths of some wood. My head whirled and my heart beat so furiously that I was afraid he might hear it. Now that I had time to collect my thoughts I was tempted to make a dash for freedom after all. Somewhere there must be sanctuary. Somewhere Dominic and Michael would come to me or Florian would emerge at last and snatch me from his hunters.

  I was slumped low in the saddle as we rode back into the castle courtyard. When I yawned it was a genuine, uncontrollable yawn.

  I dismounted and, when Jan started up again with ‘You deliberately flouted me by leaving the castle,’ I yawned again and pleaded the exhaustion of a sleepless night. I was in no fit state for an inquisition. Sullenly he consented to my going to my room.

  With hardly the energy to hang up my clothes, thankful to be out of them after what seemed a week rather than some twenty-four hours, I washed and donned my nightdress and climbed into bed.

  The onset of drowsiness was as real as the yawns. I fought it off, needing to work out what I must do next.

  I had one valuable card up my sleeve. I understood Jan and all his motives now, but he was not aware of this. He did not know if I had reached Florian: did not know whether the signet had been handed over and Florian was by now racing away, or whether it was still in my possession.

  Was it best to let him think the quest was over, so that there would be no point in his holding me here?

  Or should I leave him in doubt, play him cunningly along, so that I could stay at least a few more days and make another attempt to get to the Count? To have come so far and then to turn back without handing over the ring and my first-hand news of Caroline would be galling.

  The bed was luxurious and bewitching after last night’s discomfort. But I would have been happy back on that bench with Dominic, lying in the protection of his arm and hearing the voice I had known from childhood and wished to go on hearing day in, day out, for the rest of my life.

  I felt sleep warming me, and my mind warmed to it and writhed free of its waking restraints. I thought hazily of Dominic here beside me, of the delights we could share, of his hands and his body; and I was horrified and exhilarated by desire and shamelessly wanted him to be here, and
turned over and burrowed my head into the pillow, letting my limbs relax into a sensual dreamland.

  A rustling noise, in my dream the plop and whisper of snow against a window, brought me back to wakefulness.

  Cautiously I half opened one eye.

  Betka had my riding habit across her arm and was feeling in each of the pockets. Unrewarded, she put it over a chair-back and carefully lifted a skirt from its wardrobe hanger, fingering along the hem. Still she had no success. As she turned away I closed my eyes until I was sure she had reached the far side of the bedroom. When I deemed it safe to risk another peep I saw her bending over the little table on which I had laid my muff and a pair of gloves.

  The Florian signet was in the silken pocket of the muff. Before she could insert her fingers I sat up.

  ‘What are you looking for, Betka?’

  The poor child let out a squeal of terror, and nearly fell over. I began to berate her, even though she did not understand a word, until after a few hapless seconds she ran out of the door without even trying to close it behind her.

  I got out of bed and took the ring into a handkerchief, which I tucked up in my nightgown sleeve.

  Betka soon returned, hiding behind Countess Lomnica’s skirts. Obviously she would have been ordered to report on whether the signet was still in my possession. They still could not be sure, so would have to deploy their forces anew.

  The Countess said: ‘Betka is upset. She thinks she has displeased you in some way, that you are angry with her.’

  So I was to be put in the wrong! ‘She was going through my belongings while she thought I was asleep,’ I said. ‘Why?’

  ‘I am sure she would not do such a thing.’

  ‘I woke up and found her doing just such a thing.’

  The Countess spoke to Betka, who spoke rapidly but without the panic she had shown when running from the room. They had coached her swiftly in the correct attitude to take.

  The Countess listened, then smiled reproachfully at me. ‘The girl says she has mislaid a perfume sachet, and is afraid it might have dropped into one of your garments. If it went stale you might be annoyed, not knowing what caused the smell.’

  I was wide awake now. I would dress, and face whatever challenge they might offer. But I preferred to dress without Betka’s assistance, and said so. When she had gone, the Countess continued to look critical.

  ‘The child meant no harm. She was not seeking to steal anything.’

  ‘I will let her know,’ I said, ‘when I come across the perfume sachet – if ever I do.’

  I had hardly completed my toilet and set off down the great staircase when Jan appeared. He was dressed as I had encountered him earlier this morning, evidently ready to set out again.

  ‘Your inexplicable conduct slowed down our pursuit of Warrington.’ He sounded so convincingly offended that it was hard to believe he had been using me as a decoy all along. ‘Does it occur to you that you could have paid with your life?’

  ‘You were so confident your own people would have delivered him up before now.’

  It was impossible to keep the distaste out of my tone.

  He looked me up and down, piercingly. ‘You have deceived me, Leonora. You did not come here because of any affection for me. You are playing some devious game of your own.’

  ‘And are not you doing the same?’

  Now that I knew him for the fanatic he was, I could see that he took this genuinely as an affront. He might criticize others, but was himself above criticism: what he did was right because he was who he was.

  ‘We will talk later. There is much to be settled.’

  Before he could turn away I made a decision. Whatever it provoked, it might in some way draw him out. I said: ‘I think it best that I should make preparations to return to England.’

  He adjusted the silver chain at the throat of his cape. ‘I shall not consider it.’

  When he had gone, the Countess was quick to come to my side and suggest that I sit with her in the small salon above the courtyard. I said that I intended to pack my cases – without Betka’s assistance. This caused her a flurry of agitation. I could not contemplate leaving now, it would be such an insult, cause such an upset. If there had been a misunderstanding between Jan and myself, it would soon be smoothed over. After all he had done for me, after all he had hoped, I could not simply flounce off in a tantrum.

  Although I was not sure how and when I could leave, or how I would cope with the still unsolved problem of Count Florian, I did want my clothes and belongings ready for a speedy departure when the time came. But the Countess was so disturbed that I weakened, and let her lead me to the deep window-seat.

  She began to sing the praises of Jan in much the same key as the one she had adopted on our stroll back from Svetlik. I felt embarrassed for her: she was no more than a parrot in fading plumage, chattering sentiments which had been dinned into her by her master. It would have been a relief to tell her outright that I knew her reasons and that she should stop demeaning herself. But it was unsafe to give away the full extent of my knowledge. The affair was dangerous enough as it was.

  In the end, finding me so unresponsive, her pleading of Jan’s cause faltered and dwindled away. She made no more than a faintly protesting flutter of the hand when I got up and, with a few inconsequential courtesies, left her.

  I packed my cases; and wondered whether I should firmly go through with my declared intention of leaving without more ado – and whether I should be allowed to do so.

  I was fitting the trees into a pair of morocco boots when, rising and glancing out of the window, I saw a little procession on the bend of the road far below. Two men seemed to be carrying something on a hurdle. They disappeared under the flank of the castle.

  There was a window on the landing giving a partial view of the hill up the gate: enough to show a humped shape, covered with sacking, on the hurdle. Jan, on horseback, led the cortège.

  Not Dominic! No, it couldn’t be, mustn’t be, Dominic.

  I rushed to the salon, where Countess Lomnica still sat in the window.

  ‘So they have found him,’ she said uncertainly as I reached her side and we both looked down, watching the men plod in through the gateway.

  Jan snarled something over his shoulder. His face was convulsed with rage.

  Not Dominic, it can’t be Dominic, I was saying over and over again to myself. Please, God, don’t let it be Dominic.

  They were almost below us now, heading for the stable arch. The man at the front of the hurdle must have turned an ankle on the cobbles, for he slipped sideways and had to adjust his grip on the end of the wood. A corner of the sacking slid from the face of the corpse.

  I looked straight down into the staring eyes.

  Countess Lomnica screamed.

  It was the dead face of her son Michael.

  *

  ‘An accident,’ said Jan. ‘The fools, they were clumsy. It was not necessary – not what I wanted.’

  The Countess was wailing very softly, rocking to and fro, keening like a gipsy woman.

  ‘I am grieved,’ said Jan. ‘But what was Michael doing in these parts? What brought him here?’ His voice hardened. He took her shoulders to steady her and made her meet his gaze. ‘Why should he be riding with Warrington? For they were together, I’ll swear it. How else could Warrington have found a hiding-place in a country so foreign to him? The two of them, conspiring against me, against law and order – a madman and a murderer.’

  ‘No!’ sobbed the Countess.

  ‘A madman. For that is what my cousin is, Leonora. Or what he was. Did you know why he was never brought forth for you to see? Because . . .’ He was improvising, and I knew it: ‘Because he had been incarcerated for years in an asylum.’

  The Countess tried to control her sobs. ‘Never.’

  ‘All the finest alienists could do nothing with him. And then, foolishly, he was allowed home provided he was kept in strict seclusion. A madman – in the company of a murd
erer. What lies they fed each other, one does not dare guess.’

  ‘He was not your cousin,’ said the Countess, ‘and he was not mad.’

  ‘I am sure he was not,’ I said.

  She put her head back and blinked gratefully at me through her tears.

  Jan said ominously: ‘And how can you be sure of such a matter?’ When I did not answer, he took my arm and turned me away from the Countess. ‘Let us leave her.’ Would he have turned his back so contemptuously on me, deciding my use to him was ended, if it had been Florian’s body brought in on the hurdle? ‘There are many things you know which you conceal,’ he said. ‘I think the time for acting is ended. We must speak the truth now.’

  I tried to struggle, but his fingers bit cruelly into my arm. He forced me along the corridor to a half-landing of three steps down, and on through a door into a small room with a barred window, like a gloomy nursery – or a cell.

  There were two wooden chairs, a table, and one armchair.

  ‘Perhaps you will find it easier to think here. There are no distractions.’

  ‘You can’t lock me up like . . . like . . .’

  ‘You will be escorted to your bedroom, and watched by a suitable companion, each evening. And when you wish to talk, I shall be only too ready to listen.’ He let me go, and I stood braced against the table. I wanted to rub the aching part of my arm, but would not let myself. ‘Please, my lovely Leonora: please think well, and let us have an end to these subterfuges.’

  ‘You must let me out. At once. There will be questions, there –’

  ‘Do not count too much on the intervention of your countrymen. We do not take kindly to foreign emissaries who encourage traitors in our midst, and your own Foreign Office is unlikely to feel much sympathy for you.’ He went to the window and tried one of the bars. ‘I apologize for the bareness of the room. But it has a fine tradition of its own. A tradition of honour.’

  ‘Honour?’ I said derisively.

  ‘Under the wise leadership of Archduke Albrecht, our Imperial and Royal Army has established a rigid code. In any case of a breach of honour, the culprit is left alone with a formal statement of his case in writing, a sheet of paper on which he may write a defence if that is in his heart – and a loaded revolver.’