Burleigh regarded the baker with an empty, uncomprehending stare, then mumbled, “I shall go out again tomorrow.”
Etzel smiled and nodded. “I would do the same. And tomorrow you must buy some new clothes and get a haircut too, I think.” He rubbed his hand over his own round head. “Yes, I think so.”
Burleigh looked down at his ragged clothes and rotten shoes and what he saw struck him as indescribably funny. He threw back his head and laughed, his voice pattering across the swiftly emptying square. The few passersby who heard him stole anxious glances in his direction before hurrying on. “You might be right,” Burleigh admitted and, still laughing, went inside and up to the room Engelbert had prepared for him.
That night, Burleigh and Engelbert dined together in the kitchen of the Grand Imperial; they were served by some of the younger staff and kitchen helpers who then joined them at table. It was simple, satisfying food of wurst and cabbage, fresh bread and butter and beer; and Burleigh ate, chewing his food with the grim determination of a stoic under torture. After the meal, exhausted by the turns of the day, the earl took a candle from the table and went up to bed. Closing the door behind him, he stood for some time gazing blankly around the room—at the solid oak bed with its clean white linens and down-filled pillow, the little table and basin of fresh water, the chair at the foot of the bed, and the rug on the floor.
“You knew I would be released?” he had asked Etzel when first shown the room. “You never doubted?”
“The magistrate is a reasonable man,” Engelbert had told him. “And reasonable men cannot remain unreasonable forever.”
With these words echoing in his mind, the earl slowly came to himself once more. He crossed the floor and placed the candle on the table. He then shed his clothes, washed in the basin, and donned the oversized nightshirt Etzel had laid out for him. He slipped between the cool, fresh sheets and immediately fell asleep. The moment he closed his eyes on that eventful day, perhaps that is when those innocent words began their work; perhaps that is when ferment began.
Though the sleeper passed the first hours of the night in blissful repose, in the small hours before dawn he grew agitated and restless and, at last, wakeful. He opened his eyes, and panic descended upon him like a sodden blanket. One moment he was at rest in peaceful slumber, and the next he was wide-awake and staring into the darkness as into the abyss. When he could endure that no longer, he threw back the blankets and rose to pace the boards in the pale, silvery moonlight seeping through the shutters.
His mind was a confusion of half-formed thoughts and words and voices and he knew not what—all churning and sliding, emerging and fading . . . only to materialise again before shading into other yet more outlandish fragments. He could not seem to hold on to any thought or idea for more than a mere second or two before it was snatched away and replaced by another equally short-lived scrap of mental detritus. Perhaps it was the darkness, or being shut up in a room after so many months in an underground cell, but whatever the reason, Burleigh could not remain still any longer. Pulling on his ratty coat and stuffing his bare feet into his shoes, he reached for the doorknob and, pausing to take a breath, twisted it and threw open the door—half expecting to be met by the gaoler. There was no one waiting for him, however. Burleigh stepped out onto the landing and stopped to listen. The house was quiet; all was at peace and rest.
Stealthy as a shadow, Burleigh crept to the next room and opened the door. Moonlight from a half-open shutter bathed the form of Engelbert, asleep in his eiderdown bed, his head cradled in the crook of his arm. The earl saw the sleeping man and stared as if at an apparition, or the luminous vision of a saint, an angel made flesh: innocent, trusting, beyond the vulgar cares of the world. The sight of the virtuous Engelbert produced an instant and violent reaction in Burleigh. Such holy and blameless virtue must not be allowed to live in this world unscathed; it must be punished, eradicated, obliterated, destroyed.
This was not a thought that crossed the earl’s rational mind: it was a visceral reaction, a raw emotion untamed by any process of reason. Burleigh saw Engelbert upon the bed, the soft silver moonlight bathing his benign features, and a terrible rage and loathing gushed up inside him, sweeping away any last vestige of coherent thought.
Two silent steps brought him into the room. Three more carried him to the bed where he stood, looming over the tranquil figure—so defenceless, oblivious to all harm, sunk deep in the untroubled slumber of a righteous man, the whisper of a smile on his broad, cheerful face. The urge to smash that face, to crush that skull, to deform and debase those inoffensive, good-natured features seized him, and Burleigh felt a thrill of pleasure ripple up his spine to the top of his head. Here would be recompense for the suffering he had endured; here would be sweet, satisfying revenge.
Burleigh clenched his fists into hate-filled clubs and his lips tightened in a grimace of primal rage. He raised a hand to strike, savouring the moment of release, and . . . the moment passed, and then another, and still he did not strike. He wanted nothing more than to demolish that gentle cherubic face—but wait! He had already done that!
Once before, all those months ago, unrestrained by any will or authority other than his own, he had completely given in to that urge and had struck; he had reduced that benevolent visage to a sodden mass of bruised and bloody tissue, and what happened? What had happened, indeed? Here was the same face—more winsome, more pleasant than ever—while his own handsome features had grown haggard and grey and ravaged by a short eternity in prison. But that was not the worst—far from it!
In a flash of insight, Burleigh glimpsed the barrenness of his own existence; his heart was an immense, hollow cavity that could never be filled. The mere sight of Engelbert threw his lack into painfully sharp relief. In that instant, he understood that the paucity of his own life could not abide the rich fullness enjoyed by a simple, good man like Engelbert. Those two things could not exist in the same world: one of them would have to go. And since he was powerless to do away with Engelbert—he knew that now—it was himself that must be eliminated.
Burleigh saw this clearly, and the sight was marvellous to behold. It was as if he had been walking through life with his eyes swathed in burlap, and now the binding strips had been stripped away. Instantly, he understood how the man born blind felt when the physician removed the surgical bandages and glorious light suddenly flooded into his dark world. He was that man.
“I see it now!” he murmured, his breath catching in his throat. “I see.”
Up from the bottomless pit of loathing rushed a flood of disgust and revulsion—disgust for the vicious, venomous wickedness of his life, and revulsion for the depravity of his existence. He had given himself wholly to the unstinting pursuit of ruthless ambition and unrestrained greed, where every kindness had been either shunned or abused, and every good encountered returned with evil. He was a liar, a cheat, and a fake—even his name was a deceit! His entire life was one monumental fraud.
With his new clarity of vision, Burleigh saw himself as a poor, crabbed, miserable creature, with a soul as tiny, black, and hard as a burnt-out cinder. In the blinding flash of revelation, guilt came crashing down on him with the deadweight of all his crimes and transgressions; heavy as a tombstone slammed onto his shoulders, he staggered beneath the crushing burden of his guilt. He could not stand.
Beside the bed of his saving angel whose face shone so brightly and serenely in the moonlight, Burleigh sank to his knees and felt the limitless disgrace of the wretch who knows himself to be lost and doomed, fit only for well-deserved destruction. Dry-eyed—beyond sorrow, beyond remorse—for with sins and iniquities beyond counting, what would a few salty tears avail? Instead, he beat his breast with a fist clenched like a rock and his face burned hot with shame.
The shame! The shame was devastating, more distressing than anything he had endured in prison, greater even than the guilt that bent his back, greater than he could bear. “God!” he moaned. “Please, God, please.”
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The words escaped his lips before he knew what he said, or even what he expected God to do for him. What did he expect of God?
Instantly, words came back to taunt him. His words, spoken to another blameless soul he meant to destroy, spoken with spite and spleen, and with supreme certainty: There is no God! There is only chaos, chance, and the immutable laws of nature. In this world—as in all others—there is only the survival of the fittest.
The arrogance of those words appalled him. The insufferable vanity stole the very breath from his lungs. The wilful, pig-ignorant folly of that proclamation and the ghastly conviction with which it had been declared astounded and unnerved him. How could he have been so stupid, so absurd, so utterly, abysmally, unspeakably mindless? How could he have been so wrong? Prancing around like a bell-hung fool, spouting incoherent nonsense as if it were unassailable truth . . . How could that have happened? How was it possible to be so deluded, and deluded so absolutely?
Burleigh had no answer; he had only the abject humiliation of the realisation that much of what he previously thought and held to be true was a pile of stinking garbage. He realised that now, and knew just how very wrong he had been. Bereft of hope, he knew himself for the vile and wicked creature he was, and the knowledge pierced deep and hard in a stroke that left him desolate, demeaned, and broken. Like an insect first dazzled by the flame, then destroyed by it, Burleigh felt the searing heat of his destruction and, past the point of no return, reeled toward it.
Down the stairs and into the kitchen he went—he did not even remember leaving Etzel’s room. Two of the young serving boys were curled up on the floor near the big oven; otherwise the shop was empty. A hollowed-out automaton, an animated shell of a human being, the earl walked out the kaffeehaus door and into the night. He thought—if it could be called a thought, for it was more of a compulsion—that he would end the madness. He would walk to the river and throw himself into the water and rid the world of his empty, meaningless existence.
The Old Town Square was deserted; there was no one about this time of night. Burleigh was alone with his agony as he stole along the moonlit streets, hastening toward the city gates and the river where he would consign himself to the unforgiving water and put an end to the misery. How he would open those barred gates, he did not know. His was not a rational plan; there was no plan, no thought—there was only the bedrock conviction that the world would be a far better place without him in it.
CHAPTER 24
In Which a Pertinent Question Is Posed
Wilhelmina remained quiet through the day, and though Cass’ infusion of willow bark water seemed to ease her discomfort somewhat, she was still in no shape to travel that evening. Kit and Cass decided to give her another night to rest; the next morning, however, come what may, they would go.
Kit woke them before sunrise, and together he and Cass eased Mina over the rock ledge in the pale dawn light. As before, it was excruciating for everyone; but after being allowed to catch her breath following the ordeal, Mina seemed to revive somewhat in the cool morning air—she even went so far as to claim that she could walk on her own so long as they did not expect any speed records.
They paused briefly at the riverbank and took care of their necessities, and then set off along the river path. Kit led the way through the bracken and brambles; Cass and Mina followed with Cass at Mina’s elbow. No one spoke.
At first they made good progress, but by the time they reached the trailhead and started up the rising track leading out of the gorge, Wilhelmina was flagging. They paused twice to let her catch her breath before resuming the ascent, the early-morning mist clearing the higher they went, until at last Kit announced, “There’s the marker. We’re here.” He looked to Mina; her face was sweaty and the colour of putty. “Well done. We have a few minutes. We can rest a bit.”
Mina nodded, and Cass helped ease her down on the path to wait. The sky continued to lighten and took on a pale pinkish glow. After a while, Kit rose and began walking back and forth across the path until at last he said, “It’s live. That’s a relief. We can go.” He moved to Wilhelmina and stooped to help her up. “Ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” She winced as she took Kit’s hand and rose unsteadily to her feet; Cass supported her on the opposite side, and together they guided her to the place Kit had marked as the start of the ley line.
“Mina, you’ll have to walk as quickly as you can. Cass and I will hold on to you, and we’ll all do this together, right? Start on three—and we’ll make the jump on the seventh step. All together—okay, here we go . . . one . . . two . . . three . . .”
The three started walking and by the fourth stride were perfectly in sync, with Kit counting off the steps. On the seventh step they made the little hop to initiate the leap into the unknown, accompanied by Mina’s yelp of pain.
Nothing happened. They returned to the starting point and counted off the steps, made the jump, and remained firmly on the path.
“Blast!” growled Kit.
“Stop it,” warned Cass.
“This is what happened last time—”
“No!” Cass snapped. “Do not go there. This isn’t like last time. We’ll try it again.”
Kit craned his neck around to look for the rising sun, then nodded. “Mina, you good for another try?”
Jaw clenched, she nodded. “I have to get home. I don’t care what it takes.”
“Okay, once more.” Tightening his grip on Wilhelmina’s hand, he stepped to the mark. “On my count . . .”
As before, Kit counted off the paces, and somewhere between the fifth and sixth step he felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. His skin prickled to the play of static electricity, and a cool gust of breeze stirred the leaves of the trees. “Ready . . . jump!”
Their feet left the ground and did not connect again right away. The world blurred, as if seen through the frosted window of a high-speed train. The wind shrieked through their clothes, tiny pellets of sleet pelted their exposed faces, and rain drenched them head to foot. Kit closed his eyes against the welcome blast, and when he opened them again he was standing on a narrow path lined with beech trees. The fast-moving sheet of rain swept down the path ahead of them, dissipating as it went. A moment later the sun returned, making dappled shadows on a perfectly straight track. Kit recognised the place as the River Ley outside Prague. It was the right place. So far so good, he thought. Was it also the right time? There was one quick way to find out. “Stay here, you two,” Kit told them. “I’ll be right back.”
He jogged off along the track and came to the dirt road that ran alongside the river. Dirt, not tarmac—he took that as a good sign. Stepping from the shadows of the beechy grove, he moved to the edge of the road where he saw, in the distance, a horse-drawn cart plodding his way—not a motorised vehicle—another good sign. He waited beside the road for the wagon to draw near. From what he could observe of the driver’s clothes—the shapeless hat, the rough-spun cloth of short coat and knee-length trousers, the wooden clog on the foot resting on the kickboard—all seemed familiar and pointed to arrival within the desired time frame. When the wagon’s occupant came close enough to observe Kit’s outfit—the dark wool trousers, voluminous white shirt, and brown waistcoat he was wearing when they bailed out of Damascus—the fellow’s friendly expression turned suspicious and wary. Kit, suddenly self-conscious, raised a hand in greeting and then pretended to continue his walk along the road. When the wagon had passed and the farmer no longer seemed interested in the oddly dressed stranger, Kit about-faced and beat it back to the grove where Cass and Mina were waiting.
“Did you forget about us?” demanded Cass. “What took you so long?”
“It’s the right time more or less,” said Kit. “Fingers crossed—I think we made it.” He looked at Mina; her eyes were closed and her lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line. He took her good arm, draped it around his neck, and said, “Lean on me, old girl. Let’s get you home.”
; Stepping from the shady copse into a bright autumnal morning, the three set off on the river road. The sun dried their rain-rinsed clothes as they went, and after a few hundred metres, two more farmers on their way to market overtook them. The first farmer glanced at them, disliked what he saw, and turned his face away. But the second farmer recognised Wilhelmina as the lady who sometimes bought honey and eggs from his wife; he hailed her and pulled up to offer them a place in his wagon. Mina rallied to exchange a greeting and clamber into the wagon bed, and soon they were bumping along the rutted road to Prague.
They rolled through the city gates a short time later and proceeded to the Old Square, where the weekly market was open for business. The farmer let them off at the far end of the square, and they stood for a moment gazing out across that wide public space lined with shops and filled with kiosks and stalls and handcarts doing a steady trade. Townsfolk thronged the square, drifting among the merchants and vendors, haggling over prices, sampling the wares, and exchanging gossip while children darted here and there in games and races, or clustered around the jugglers and musicians. To the right they saw the soaring spires of the cathedral, and on the left the great, glowering, gothic eminence of the Rathaus; straight ahead, high and remote on its hill, sat the palace of Emperor Rudolf.
It was a scene Wilhelmina had witnessed many times, but in that moment it all seemed exactly as she had seen it that first day when, tired and aching with uncertainty, she had been befriended by a German baker on his way to make his fortune in Prague. Her heart moved within her, and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to see that baker’s sweet face once more.
The Fatal Tree Page 18
