The Lightstep (44 page)

The militiamen at the door escorted the Frenchmen out of
the room. Their footsteps thudded dully down the corridor and
clattered distantly on the gallery steps. The silence after their
departure seemed as thick as the air before a storm. The officers
were waiting for him.

They were waiting for him, with pale cheeks and shaken eyes.
Faces, faces . . . the gentleman from Zerbach; the official from the
mayor's chambers.
How many of us will live through this?
they were
thinking.
Half? Less than half?

And seated at the very end of the table, the gaunt Knight von
Uhnen himself.

Their eyes met. The old aristocrat was as grey as weathered
stone. His nose was sharp, and his mouth a little line. His gaze was
absent, as if his thoughts were all turned inwards upon some
hidden pain.

Hussars will be hussars, Lanard had said. I regret to tell you . . .

Another face to remember: the Knight von Uhnen, who had
just learned that his son was dead.

He is dead, your son, thought Wéry. Following a plan that I
helped to devise. And if he had not died, then I would have met
him with pistols anyway. He would have killed me, or perhaps I
him. And why? For a woman. For a crazy notion of honour that
should have died long ago.

How can I tell you that I am sorry?

He drew breath, and found that he was trembling.

'I prefer it when they are firing cannon at us,' he said aloud.
'At least we know they mean it, then.'

No one laughed. He must take command again. Now, if never
before, he must
not
fail.

'Knight von Uhnen. I should be grateful if you would follow
our French guests and avail yourself of their offer to interview
those of our officers they may be holding. The more we can learn
about what happened out there, the better.'

The Knight glared at him. He seemed slow to understand
what had been said.

'Why should it be me?' he asked, in a voice as hoarse as a
crow's.

'Because you will know them, sir,' said Wéry He kept his tone
short. This was no time for empty condolences. The Knight
would not welcome them either. 'The rest of you gentlemen,
please rejoin your units. I will begin an inspection at nine
o'clock, beginning with the Mercers' Bastion.'

But of course they did not all leave at once. Many of them had
matters for him to resolve – disputes with other units, and
excuses for what he would find when he came around. One by
one he dealt with them and the group around him diminished.
At last there was only one man, standing on the opposite side of
the table. It was Bergesrode, frowning at him from under those
dark, crossing brows.

Yet one more face. One more past: the man who had held
power in this very room, who had fallen and whose seat was now
occupied by Wéry himself. His hopes: to be a martyr for his faith.
And his future: his wish granted.

'Yes?' said Wéry.

'There is a matter we must discuss.'

'Sit, then.'

Slowly Bergesrode drew up a chair on the opposite side of the
table, in the room where he had once had his power. His face
showed no emotion. Wéry watched him, and wondered what was
coming.

'The Knight von Uhnen,' said Bergesrode. 'He is not to be
trusted.'

'Why do you say that?'

'He resents your position. He believes he should command the
defence.'

Wéry shrugged. This was hardly a surprise. Von Uhnen was
one of the few remaining Imperial Knights in the city. It must
have irked to find that his Prince had put him under the
command of a foreign-born upstart.

'He plans to arrest you, and take your place,' said Bergesrode.

'What is your evidence for that?'

'I cannot tell you.'

'I have to trust what you say. I have to act on it.'

'I know.' Bergesrode looked down at his hands. 'But . . . It is
difficult.'

Wéry raised his eyebrows and waited. (How like Bergesrode
he had become!)

'Again, no one has taken the Prince's gold for this,' said
Bergesrode grimly.

'Nevertheless.'

'Can you not take my word?'

'In the Terror, a word was enough,' said Wéry dryly. 'But I
believe our standards should be a little higher.'

'You are asking me to violate a sacrament.'

'It was a Confession?'

Of course it would be. Half the city would be confessing
themselves now.

Bergesrode hesitated for a second more. Then he nodded,
abruptly. 'One of Uhnen's men came to the cathedral yesterday
evening. We hear many things in the booths. Little shocks us.
Even so, the priest who received him was troubled and came to
me.'

'And you in turn have come to me.' Wéry thought for a
moment. 'Why?'

'I believe it is God's will that the city should be defended. Von
Uhnen is not the man to do that. I think you are.'

'I see,' Wéry said, and sighed. 'Thank you.'

There was something awful about Bergesrode's faith in him.
Twice, at least, he had betrayed the secretary's confidence – over
the Frenchman's passport, and the meeting of the Illuminati. And
none of the services he had provided to Bergesrode had been
enough to prevent the man's fall from office. Yet here he was, now
the subordinate, uncomplaining of his demotion, dedicated only
to his cause. And he was ready to break even the sacred rules of
his church, to insist that Wéry was the one to defend the city.
Why?

Because of the seed of hate in his heart. Because he knew it in
Wéry, too.

Wéry felt very tired.

He should call Uhnen in, harangue him, turn him around.
Perhaps he could even appoint the gaunt old aristocrat as his
second-in-command. The defence was weak enough already. A
struggle at the top would shake the men badly. But . . .

But he could not see himself succeeding. He could not
imagine that anything he said would persuade that arrogant old
noble. Not now. All he would achieve would be to put the
plotters on their guard.

The man had just lost his son. And that must count for
nothing. It would only make him the more unpredictable.

The safe thing to do – the only thing to do – was to strike
first. What mattered was that Uhnen's subordinates should still
take orders afterwards. So the blow should not be struck in front
of them. Once it was done . . .

Bergesrode was waiting for him.

'Your cathedral troops,' Wéry said. 'Are they loyal?'

'Yes.'

'Could you arrange an arrest?'

Again Bergesrode looked at his thumbs.

'If I must,' he said.

'When he returns from the French lines. He will come to the
Saxon gate. Do not wait until he has rejoined his troops inside
the city. Take him to . . .' He hesitated.

It would be a risk to hold Uhnen in the citadel. Some of the
garrison might be sympathizers.

'Is the cathedral secure?'

'It could be made so – if necessary.'

'To the cathedral, then. And see that you hold him there.'

To fight them you must be like them, he thought, as he
watched Bergesrode's retreating back. The Prince had said it, and
denied it. Then he had gone on to arrest and imprison his
political opponents one after another.

And he, too, had denied it. And now he, too, was striking out
like a tyrant: striking at an innocent man before he could become
guilty.

'Commander!' called a voice from the door.

'Wait,' he said.

He put his hands over his face.

He had become the very thing that he most hated.

In her rooms in the Celesterburg Maria lay between waking
and sleep. Her body was weary but her mind could not rest.
She dreamed that she was wandering through the palace around
her, and that it became her home at Adelsheim, which she had
never left after all. The place was full of people, many people, and
the fighting had begun. Before her stood the doctor's wife, with
her arms about her son.
Naughty boy, you're not dead yet,
said a
soldier and fired his gun. And the boy was dead after all, and the
woman stood with her arms around him and looked at her, and
her eyes said
How could you?

In her dream she escaped through a door into the study of the
green judge. The room was empty. She looked and looked for
the thing she was trying to remember. It was not there. But she
knew that if she waited for it, it would be brought to her. And
yes, here was the servant standing there at the door. (Only it was
not the servant. It was Ludwig Jürich, with his green coat and his
patient eyes.)

This is for your friend,
he said.
He must have it as quickly as
possible.

She recoiled at the memory of the tormented head. But the
thing in his hand was not a painting. It was a book. And his finger
marked a page that she remembered. 'When he was set down
upon the judgement seat, his wife sent unto him, saying Have
thou nothing to do with that innocent man . . .'

She woke, sour and confused. She tried to think where she
might go and what she might do, but could not. The only thing
that seemed to offer her any purpose was to find Michel and stay
with him, as she had stayed all the night before. She remembered
that Father Bergesrode from the cathedral had said that there
would be a mass at six o'clock. He might be there. Indeed he
certainly should be, since the purpose of the mass was to allow
the garrison and the city to pray for deliverance. He should be
there for everyone to see.

Strange that a young foreigner, of no great birth, should be
their Hector now! Strange, too, that she should hardly think it
strange. The time brought these things, just as it brought wild,
bare-legged rides to the city without thought for censure. The
city looked instinctively for a leader, and one had been appointed
for them. But was he ready? How would he carry himself?

She must find him.

There was no clock in her room. To judge by the fading light
she still had time, but not very much. She roused up Pirenne, who
was dozing by the fire, and made her help her get ready. She sent
for Bottrop, but after waiting for him for ten minutes she lost
patience, and the two women set out on foot for the cathedral
together. By now it was nearly dark. There were no lights on the
looping road that led down from the Celesterburg gate to
the river.

It was as they were crossing the Old Bridge that she heard the
cannon from the east wall. The sound, coming from the far side
of the low rise on which the cathedral and much of the city
stood, was a dull
thump,
like someone dropping a sack of corn
onto hard ground. After a few seconds it was repeated. And then
it was repeated again. Something was happening out in the dark
beyond the wall. She quickened her pace, as if the cannon shots
only made it more urgent that they should be at the cathedral on
time.

In fact they were early. And yet already there were a number
of people there, gathered in little groups in the aisles for the
comfort of one another's company As she stood by the door
many more were coming in, rich and artisan and poor, all with
the same pale faces and worried eyes. Again and again she
heard the question asked: was it the enemy, firing into the city?
Or was it only our side, so far? Voices, some anxious, others self-important,
declared this or that about what was happening and
what was going to happen. But she did not understand how anyone
could be sure. There were very few uniforms in the crowd.
She looked and looked for Michel. She stood by the great doors
and searched every new knot of entrants with her eyes as they
came in. But he did not appear. Perhaps . . . perhaps he was on
the wall instead. Perhaps he thought it was more important to be
there rather than here. She did not know. But the townspeople
would miss him. She was missing him too.

Thump,
went the guns on the wall.
Thump-thump.

The choir was filing in, in silence. The people were drifting
forward up the nave. Still she hung by the door, waiting for each
late entrant, to see if he might come after all. He did not.

When the first Kyrie Eleisons began, she crossed herself in the
direction of the distant altar, muttered to Pirenne and left.

It was night outside now. She turned at once for the eastern
exit from the cathedral square. She heard Pirenne exclaim and
sensed her footsteps falter as the maid realized where they were
going, but she pressed on, down the broad Bamberg road towards
the east gate.

Something flashed, like weak lightning, and the dark shapes of
the roofs and the buildings showed black for an instant before
retreating into shadow. The thump! followed a second later and
much louder than before. And then there was quiet, and nothing
but the darkness and the sound of their feet hurrying as they
made their way down the hill. She could hear nothing else – no
voices, no screams, no crashing among the buildings. The eastern
side of the city seemed quiet and dark, indifferent to the
cannonade and to the two women who scuttled through its
streets like mice.

Thump-Thump!

It was much louder now, and sharper. It was coming from a
little to the left of the Bamberg gate – from the bastion just south
of the breach. That was where they would come, the old soldier
had said. Were they coming already? But there were no sounds
other than the irregular beat of the cannon on the wall. The sweet
smell of smoke eddied in the night air.

'Lady Maria . . .!' exclaimed Pirenne. She was afraid.

'Come on!' Maria muttered.

They scurried into the deep shadows behind the Bamberg
Gate. There were people here, muttering, handling weapons.
White uniforms drifted ghost-like in the darkness. Within the
bastion a cannon barked its coughing roar, and now she heard
the rattle and squeak of the wheels as it hurled its huge weight
backwards with the force of the shot. She could see the light of
the lanterns in the casement, filtering out through the bastion
door.

And now her heart almost failed her, as she stood with her
foot on the open stair that led up to the platform. What was she
doing here – here of all places, in this hell of noise and smoke?
Her limbs congealed with the thought of the open space
above her, and the men and the guns and the enemy in the night.

But surely he would be up there – surely he would! And if she
did not move in a moment, she might never move at all.

'Come on!' she exclaimed to Pirenne, to herself. And her feet
forced her upwards.

He was not there. Her eyes hunted among the crowd of men
at the wall, but she did not find him. The men were aiming their
muskets outwards and peering at the darkness. Someone called
and pointed. Out there below the walls, perhaps three hundred
yards off, a lantern had showed fleetingly. The men in the gun casement
below her must have seen it too, for again a cannon
bellowed and the air was full of smoke.

'Quiet! quiet!' called a voice among the men.

Silence flowed in behind the gun-shot. But it was a silence
that prickled with little noises. From somewhere away before her
came the low
chink, chink
of picks and spades in earth. It seemed
to be coming from more than one place. And it seemed to be
horribly close. Even at so innocent a sound, Maria could not help
shuddering.

'Listen!' said one of the men.

That was not digging. That was a softer noise, and much closer.
In the blackness out beyond the ramparts, someone had
stumbled.

The men were pointing their weapons.

'Shoot! Shoot!' cried the officer suddenly. The muskets flashed
and spat. Maria fled down the steps into the dark behind the wall.

Pirenne had disappeared. She had not come up the steps. Now
the shadows behind the bastion door were empty of her. Maria
cast left and right, and saw no sign of her. Deep in the casement
a gun bellowed, and she ran.

She ran north from the Bamberg Way, up the long
Craftmarket, which curved along the inside of the wall. The
thought in her head was of reaching the bastion on the north side
of the breach, because if he was not at this one then surely he
must be there.

Or perhaps he was here, at the breach itself, where the line of
the wall above her broke down into a low dyke of rubble? The
Craftmarket seemed to be full of lanterns and white uniforms.
The heads of men looking out over the makeshift palisade
showed clearly against the sky. Calls and orders filled the air. Men
hurried along the inside of the fence, stumbling in the darkness
on the uneven ground. A long, thin man in a greatcoat was up
there, turning now and then to shout more orders at the men on
the wall and in the street. Maria came up to him.

'Please . . .' she said, and her voice was a whimper.

His head was only a black shape as he turned to look down at
her. But he must have been able to see enough in the light of the
lanterns to know who she was.

'Is he coming?' he asked her.

It was the question she had been going to ask him.

'I don't know where he is!' she pleaded. 'Have you seen him?'

'No, I damned well haven't!' he snapped.

'Captain!' called a voice along the wall. Again, muskets were
being pointed outwards. The long man craned to look.

'Please . . .' said Maria again.

At that moment the muskets went off
crack-crack-crack!
on the
palisade to her left and were answered by more shots from
outside. Something went
spat!
against the wall of the building ten
yards behind her and dropped lightly to the street.

'Get out of my way,' the man screamed at her. '
Get the hell out
of my way!'

So many times that night she asked for news of him, from
uniformed men hurrying or loitering about their duties on the
wall. On the north-eastern bastion a militia officer whom she
knew slightly said that the Commander had been there perhaps
an hour before, but he did not know where he was now. He had
gone back into the town perhaps. She went in the direction that
he pointed, almost feeling her way in the dark streets, and found
more soldiers crouching in the doorway of the Ironworkers'
Guildhall. They had not seen the Commander but they pointed
her on to other places where he might be. And so it went on.
Some of the men were tense and excited, some angry, some
pretended to be bored. But each time she heard that hesitation in
their voices as they answered her.
Where is he? Yes, where is he?
The
Prince was gone, and the Governor was gone, and now where
was the Commander? But he was there, somewhere. He must be.
Lost in the night of the besieged city, they would point off hopefully
in the direction that they supposed their orders were
coming from.

And then, well after midnight, there was the sentry, standing
by a lamp-lit arch in the Saint Lucia street, who looked at her
with sleepy eyes.

'The Commander?' He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
'He's inside.'

This man, too, must have known who she was, because he let
her pass without a word. She walked down a short gate-tunnel,
and found herself in a courtyard so filled with wagons and
indistinct piles of supplies that for a moment she did not know
where she was. Then she realized that she was standing in the
barrack square of the hussars. She could still hear the sullen
thump of the guns, but all around her the building was dark and
quiet. The wagons were lined up wheel to wheel and teetering
with high loads, which smelled like baulks of freshly-cut timber
under canvas, but might have been something else altogether.
There was no one else there.

But there was a single light, high in the building on her left
hand. He had had his old office there. She had come here before,
and had climbed up there to give him the painting. It seemed
very long ago.

She felt her way among the wagons and found the door to the
building. It was open. The stair inside was utterly dark, but she
groped her way up it, counting the flights one, two, three, until
she was greeted on a narrow landing by a thin line of lamplight
coming from under a closed door. She stole up to it and knocked
softly. When there was no reply, she went in.

He was there, kneeling by the grate in which a small fire was
going. He had placed his lamp upon the bare floor by the hearth.
Scattered in front of him were a range of papers. It looked as
though he had taken them out from hiding, because a floorboard
was up, showing the black and filthy space beneath.

He looked up at her in surprise. He must have been so preoccupied
that he had heard neither her footstep nor her knock.
There was a dazed look in his eyes. She remembered that he had
not slept the night before and probably not during the day either.

'What is it?' he asked, as if he thought she must have some
message for him.

'I heard you were here,' she said. 'So I came.'

1 see.

He looked back at the papers in front of him, picked one up,
looked at it, and lit it carefully in the grate.

'Thank you,' he added.

With a whispering noise the paper withered into brittle black
talons of ash. He picked up another and looked at it.

He had moved his chair and desk to one side to give himself
more room. She set the chair to face the hearth and settled in it.

'They are fighting, on the walls,' she said. And as she spoke a
cannon thumped distantly in agreement.