Iron Butterflies (13 page)

I still wore the garments in which I had been dressed on that day—now how long in the past—when I had gone to that fatal meal with the Gräfin and the Baron. The dress was creased, spotted with stiff patches which I thought might be blood, perhaps from my cut lip which healed slowly. The swelling along my jaw also subsided, though it still hurt me to open my mouth widely, and the teeth along that side of my face ached.

My hair had lost the pins which had held my braids in place and wisps of it were matted about my forehead and neck. I must be a grotesque scarecrow in comparison with that neat young lady, but there was no sliver of glass mirror here to tell me so. The dank chill of the narrow chamber brought me to edge the upper cover of my bed around my body to serve as a shawl.

In the wane light of that room, for want of better employment, I had examined that spread, for it had not the coarse feel of the other coverings of the cot. In fact I discovered it must have once been equal to such as were used on a state bed—such as that which had been mine in Axelburg. In spite of the grease and grime now ground into the fabric it was of heavy velvet, interlined with brocade now so dirty one could only guess it had once blazed with color.

There had been a design embroidered across the center of the heavy square. However, as I studied that, I thought that the threads had been deliberately loosened and picked out, some pulled with such force as to leave spreading tears in the cloth. I believed that I could dimly make out that some coat of arms, though so mangled, was the general pattern that was only a guess.

I had counted four comings of the dark that I believed meant nights before I had gained the strength to attempt to stand upon my own feet. Under my wrinkled stockings the chill stone struck as cold as if there was nothing between the stone floor and my flesh, while I
had to hold on to the bed and then the wall to steady myself.

Perhaps I was under observation, though I could see no break in the door to suggest a peephole for a guard, nor any crevice between the stones of the walls. However, for that I did not care. My objective was the window and a chance to see where this prison might lie.

One hand against the wall supported me as I began a very slow and giddy journey toward the slit, only the lowermost portion of which could be on a level with my eyes. The air blew strongly and I held my coverlet as a shawl closer about me.

However, all I could sight from this position was just open sky—not even a treetop, or the green of a bush was visible. Which was a puzzle, knowing the forest setting of the Kesterhof. I leaned against the wall, breathing deeply of that fresher air, drawing upon my strength. It was plain that if I were to gain any further knowledge, I must stand higher. Which meant bringing hither the stool and climbing up upon it. A feat I was not sure that I could accomplish in my present state of weakness. My determination was now such an obstinacy that I was driven to do what moments before I might have deemed impossible. Back I shuffled, and I moved that stool toward the window and the wall, by pushing it, first with one knee and then the other, before me. At last the wood struck full and solid against the stones.

Dropping the cumbersome cover from me, I reached up with both hands to catch the sides of the window slit where the stone of its casing protruded like a sill all the way about the edge. I lingered so for a moment, again gathering my strength, and then made the last effort, stepping up and at the same time pulling on the stone while my fingers were bruised by its roughness and my nails broke.

I tottered and half threw myself outward, against the slit so that the wall itself could support me, my hands locked on the frame. Once more I looked out.

No trees—nothing—but empty sky!

Where was I? This was not the Kesterhof, set as it had been in the valley with the remains of the old forest enclosing it. Slowly, with the utmost care, lest I become dizzy again and fall from my perch, I lowered my head so I could look down. I almost fainted then.

For I was gazing down from some great height, and never have I had a head to look so. I clutched at my window support, closed my eyes instantly against that swoop of descent, of the feeling that there was nothing to save me from toppling over to fall and fall, forever and ever—

I
must
know. There was a sharp stab of pain from my swollen lip as my teeth struck into it and I fought my battle, eyes still closed. I
MUST
know! What I did then was far harder for me than it would have been to face Konrad von Werthern at the height of his rage. I made myself open my eyes, and not only look down, but steadily, with a need for finding somewhere, on those plunging slopes, a clue to my prison.

I could see nothing that I recognized. There was forestland, yes, but far below me. With my bad head for heights I could not judge how far. So they had taken me out of Kesterhof, brought me to some place they probably considered far more safe and hidden. It could be anywhere within the boundaries of Hesse-Dohna and I would be none the wiser.

Having made myself stand through that survey, I at last slumped down upon the stool which had served me as a ladder. Burying my face in my hands, I tried to think coherently, but for some moments my mind was in a daze. How had I been brought here—and when—

Truda! My own situation had filled my mind so completely that my memory of the girl came as sharp as a blow. Me they might have good reason for keeping safe prisoned, but would Truda’s life mean anything when she would be able to disclose their plans? I did not place murder beyond the Baron if that would further what he wanted most. Of his desire I was entirely
sure—the treasure—that mass of gold and gems which had been my curse instead of any inheritance.

Almost, my thoughts became bitter, it would seem that that dying man in the palace had willfully arranged this to end once and for all any chance of his past arising to shame him! I could, after what had chanced to me, believe any diabolic intrigue.

I
had drawn Truda into the coils about me. It did not matter that I had been unaware that my enemies would have used me as ill as they did—I should have been far more wary. Never should I have asked Truda to accompany me to Kesterhof. At this dark moment I could well believe her dead and already buried in some secret forest spot by just such a man as that Gluck, a hireling of the Gräf, who had first proven to me that I was entirely in their power.

What did I have now that I could use in my own defense? There was nothinq that I could do for Truda—unless by some miracle I could indeed win out of here and appeal to the law—

The law? What law?—the Elector’s will was the law and the new ruler would have no reason to favor any tale of mine. I rocked back and forth, the misery of my case flooding through me like another and even more deadly illness.

No! I raised my head, my hands became fists as I stared at the door. I was still alive, I had regained a measure of my strength. While I lived I still could—must—do something!

The coverlet which had fallen from my shoulders lay in a coil on the floor. I gathered it up and threw the bundle toward my bed. Perhaps it was the heat of despairing anger which brought new strength into my body, for, when I got to my feet this time, I did not totter but stood firmly, in spite of the cold under my feet.

Then I began to take inventory of what I still possessed. Who ever had bundled me away to this cell had not bothered to search my person. I had sought the seam in my shirt slitted to allow a hand through to the
pocket in my under shirt. The packet was still there. I slipped that out, felt it carefully without unwrapping it, for I did not know when my silent wardress might make one of her appearances. The gold was still in it. Could that woman be bribed? I decided instantly that it would be folly to try, she need only take it all from me and give nothing in return. Good will or honesty were the last qualities I could hope to find in this place. Around my throat—yes, I still wore the iron necklace. Fingering it I thought it a pity that the workmanship was so delicate a thing, it offered no tool or weapon worth the considering now.

Since the door was plainly beyond my opening, I began to think of the walls. My experience in the palace had planted romantical ideas of hidden passages. Now I laughed at that idea, and then, hushed in an instant, for my laughter sounded so near crazed that it frightened me.

The cell was growing steadily darker. Still I went to that bench table—or whatever purpose it was meant to serve—hanging by the rusty chains. The wood of its upper surface was not smooth. There were many scratches and indentations. As my fingers swept the dust from those I realized that they had meaning. There were letters put together—forming names! Meaningless, save it made only more certain that this cell had been used before, perhaps for long years, I was not the first to be so imprisoned.

I pulled at one of the chains. Rust flacked off in my hand, but there was only a surface dusting of that, the chain itself was as immovable as the stone which held its upper end. There a last glimmer of light caught one line of letters, so deeply graven that even dust could not hide them. A line of letters with beneath them a symbol cut deep, very deep.

“Ludovika—” I had not known I read that name aloud until the sound echoed hollowly through the small room.

Ludovika! The evil Electress—who had vanished
into Wallenstein never to be seen again! Wallenstein—!

I swayed, caught at one of those chains to steady myself. I knew now where I must be—in that fortress-castle of such dark history that the very land around it was considered cursed.

My mouth was dry, I stepped back, staggered, fell once more on my bed. Wallenstein—!

All my courage of moments earlier fled. I shuddered and held my arms about me. Though I could no longer see that name so deeply scratched into the wood, it repeated itself over and over again in my mind.

I did not faint, though I would have welcomed that release from thought and fear. I was still conscious when the door opened and a very dim light shone in. The wardress was coming with her tray.

She looked for the stool where she generally set her burden before turning her attention to me. That it was gone for the first time seemed to make her aware that I was not as always, lying weakly at her mercy. She raised her eyes directly to me. There was no expression on her dour hag’s face. I might have been no more than the stool which had removed itself from its customary place.

She did not approach me, rather went on to the chained bench and there sat down her burden. Then, taking up the candle she carried, she turned away to the door. I broke—

“The light! Leave the light! I begged her.

She neither halted nor turned, but was gone. The door closed behind her with a sullen thud.

Chapter 13

I crouched in the swiftly fading light, my eyes still on
that door. Wild thoughts of lying in wait somehow when next I was visited, of attacking my wardress came and as swiftly were banished from my mind. I had no faith in my own strength against the woman, who, old and bent as she was, still gave the impression of the ability to hold her own with any captive. Nor could I be sure that she came alone—that there was not someone awaiting in the corridor without. Still I refused to believe that I could not discover some small weakness which I might not turn to my advantage.

In the meantime, for the first time in what might be days, I felt hunger. At least they still supplied me with food. I went to the chained bench and inspected what lay on the tray. There were two plates, wooden ones such as might have been found, I believe, in the hut of some very destitute peasant. The wood was old, and, even in this dim light, showed stains. But in my hunger I did not care. One was curved enough to be termed a basin and in it was a portion of what looked like thick soup or stew, congealing now so that gobs of grease rode on its surface. On the other there were two rounds of dark, thick bread. A battered mug held something which smelled like country beer. A horn
spoon as old appearing as the plates was the only eating utensil. I dipped that into the stew and ate, crumbling the hard bread bit by bit into the liquid, since it made my sore jaw ache even to consider chewing it unsoftened.

The serving was very far from the dainties of the Gräfin’s tables. However, it was generous enough to satisfy my hunger and I gulped it down. Though I found the beer—if beer it was—so distasteful that I could not finish that portion.

Though I sat waiting as the darkness grew thicker and thicker (so that at least even my eyes, adjusted to this gloom, could not make out anything inches away), the woman did not return for the tray. I guessed that perhaps her visits were over for this day.

I had never been afraid of the dark, but in this present sent thick black I felt smothered, as if I were already buried, dead or not. Also the chill of the cell became stronger and I huddled back into the bed, pulling about me the coverlet. As my hands ran over the unevenness of that old embroidery I remembered again the name so deep set in the wood of the bench—Ludovika. Had this old velvet rag been hers? One bit of her old luxury somehow transported with her into this grim exile?

That beautiful disdainful creature, whose ennui and power the dead artist had so well caught in that fabulous scene of the Electress’s birthday, had she come to this? I recalled the Gräfin’s words in the carriage—how long had she been able to exist in such a prison, reft of everything which had been her life, which she had taken as her right and not just a privilege?

I found myself moving, hardly aware of what impulse set me on my feet, back toward the bench, one hand outstretched before me. There was the palest glimmer of light which must mark the window slit, but none of that seeped beyond the sill. My wrist struck painfully against the edge of the bench, then my fingers swept back and forth, seeking, I could not say why, the
letters of that fateful name, so deeply scored into the battered wood that I believed no passage of time would ever erase them.

How long had it taken her to cut that self-set memorial? What tool had she found to use as her pen. Rage must have filled her—certainly it was rage, hot, consuming—never despair. I was as sure of that as if I had heard her outburst of hate in my ear now. My fingers slipped away from the grooves of that deep driven line of letters, moved, as if my wrist had been caught in near as strong a grip as that the Baron had used to force me to his will. What I touched now was that circled device which lay below the name.

Though my forefinger followed the lines of it about and about, I could not at first make any sense of its design. I tried to think of a coat of arms. No, this, even though I could no longer see it, held no seeming of armorial bearings.

Again my conviction was sure, even as I had been so certain that rage had been the emotion which had driven the prisoner to inscribe her name. Also— I brought my hand back with a jerk. Was I again drugged in some fashion, given in that unappetitizing food some mind-destroying poison? I thrust the hand which had explored back under the folds of my improvised shawl, retreating until my legs struck against the cot bed, and I fell rather than seated myself upon it.

Surely I had not felt that—a heat, a fast growing heat from the lines of the device, as if they shaped a basket in which coals smoldered? To believe that was to accept that my wits were indeed disordered. I was not—I had not—lost my hold on sanity no matter what lay behind me!

Feverishly I half whispered:

“I am Amelia Harrach! I have been imprisoned here—for a reason I do not know. I am me—myself—”

The hand which had felt—which had NOT felt—that change pressed now against the pendant of the butterfly necklace where it lay upon my breast. As if there were some saving amulet or charm, my fear left me.
Only to lift again as my thoughts repeated “amulet,” “charm”? Such things were the follies found only in old tales.

Still, nothing now would have brought me to my feet again, sent me across the room to touch that device carven in the wood. Though I tried to berate myself for my cowardice. This was superstition, the refuge of the untutored mind when confronted by that for which there seems to be no rational explanation.

What had the Gräfin said of the Electress—that one of her familiars, her trusted servants—had been a hex-enmeister—a dealer in knowledge not of this world? But that was also a belief dismissed by modern rational thinking. This land had once been drenched in the blood of the innocent, denounced by enemies, by those ridden by hysterical fears, as being the servants of the devil. It would not be strange that with so demon ridden a history such beliefs could still find rooting—or had a hundred years ago.

Be as it might I could not sleep. I did not even want to lie back on the muddle of my bed. Instead I sat there in the dark, finding myself straining to hear—what?

Once there did come a cry which startled me into a choked answer. Only that sounded from beyond the slit of the window. Some night hunter, winged and seeking its prey, I told myself. All else was silence, which was so abiding I fancied soon I could hear the beating of my own heart.

No, I must put my mind to other things, to thinking about what I could do. I must refuse to let myself be cowed by the past, even by my present helplessness. I was alive—I was gaining again my strength. Tomorrow I must try to learn what I could from my wardress—I must demand that I be heard by whoever commanded this place.

Truda—the Gräfin—both had said there was a garrison here. Very well, the commander of that must be my gaoler. If I created enough disturbance, might not that reach his ears? I could do no less than try—I must—

The sound this time was not any cry of a night bird—no! I tightened my grip on the coverlet around me as I turned my head in the dark—first to the slit of window just barely visible still—but in a moment or two I was sure it did not come from there.

Rather it—it was out of the wall—that very wall from which hung the bench bearing the Electress’s ill-fated name! As if, through the very solid stone, the sounds managed to seep like a trickle of water. Singing? If so faint, and perhaps faraway, that no words could be distinguished. Only, I was sure, it bore a rhythm which suggested singing—or a chant.

I strained so hard to hear, and at last I was sure I????? was right. That rise and fall of song was coming closer or growing louder, though still there were no true words within it.

The sound was thin, I thought that only one voice was raised. Now it grew so loud that I could distinguish the breaks between words. It was a chant rather than a true song. But the words were in a foreign tongue oddly accented, the tones running up and down the scale—sometimes so high they were like the cry of a small bird, other times descending near to a guttural mumbling.

To my ears it would seem to be just on the other side of the wall now. I threw aside the covering and did????? what I would not, could not, have done earlier, crossed the room, leaned far enough across the table shelf to????? lay one palm against the cold stone. With my right????? hand I dragged up the battered tankard, splashing the????? lees of the bitter beer wide cast, and used that vessel????? to pound on the wall.

That I could expect any help from the singer or????? chanter, I did not even stop to think of the possibility of that. However this was sound, produced by a human????? voice. I was not completely alone and forgotten in the????? dark, and I longed for some acknowledgement of my????? being.

The chant ended sharply at the first clang of the????? metal against the stone. Another prisoner on the other?????
side of the wall? That was my first guess. There followed utter silence, to my vast disappointment, though I was not sure what I expected. Then—words—not in any chant now—but uttered in a weird moaning:

“Death—death—”

A warning? Yet there was something strange about that cry. Firmly I raised the tankard and once more rapped sharply.

“Death—” the wail once more answered me.

“Who are you?!” I raised my own voice, hoping that it would carry through the barrier wall. “Where are you?”

“Fear death—”

Not fear, but a kind of irritation, gave me force to rap for the third time. I had begun to suspect that perhaps this voice was another device of my gaolers, meant to keep me unsure of my own sanity. Devious to be sure, but who could tell what refinements of torment the Baron might have designed to keep me under control?

“Who are you?” I demanded again.

There was only silence for an answer and at last I put down the battered tankard, feeling that I was going to get nothing more out of that frustrating wall this night.

I returned to the cot, but I felt more at ease, in a manner, than I had since I had come to my clear senses here. If they were playing such childish tricks on me, then that argued that I was still of such importance to them that they must take care in my handling. That gave me a little satisfaction, so that at last I huddled down among my covers and slept.

Nor did I dream. It seemed that within me there had arisen a new confidence. Perhaps because I had not been thrown into a panic by the wailing voice I had defeated that earlier shock my imagination had bestowed when I had thought that device on the table had glowed under my touch. I had conquered my morbid fears and stood confidently against the attempt to terrify me. At least my nerves were so quiet that I awoke from that sleep feeling far stronger in mind and
body than I had since that last clearly remembered morning in the Kesterhof.

The light of day lay across the cell in a shaft from the slit of the window. Sight of that added to my confidence, made firmer my resolve that this time I would not play the cowed captive. My chance to make good that resolve came soon after I awoke. For once more the grate of the massive door sounded through the cell. This time I stood up, away from any support, ready to face my wardress.

She entered as usual, this time her burden being a can of water, while over her other arm were folds of what looked like clothing. This she dumped without ceremony on the foot of my tumbled cot, setting down the can with a force which slopped its contents of water over the brim.

“Who are you?” I asked clearly, placing myself in her way as she turned to collect the dishes she had brought the night before. She looked at me as if I were no more than the stool, the chained table. Nor did she utter a sound.

I put out my hand and caught her arm under the tight gray stuff of her sleeve. With a surprising show of strength she gave a single twist which loosened my grip, then with a push of her flattened palm sent me near off balance, back against the cot. Pointing to me and then to the contents of the can, the pile of clothing, she made emphatic gestures that I was to wash, to dress in what she had brought. But she uttered no sound, and I wondered if she were indeed mute, or merely obeying some command that she was not to communicate with any prisoner.

Taking up her tray, and giving me no more notice, she went out.

I found two towels among the clothing, a bone comb, and a piece of strong-smelling yellow soap wrapped in a bit of cloth undoubtedly meant to serve also for washing. The clothing was coarse—a smock of heavy material, a petticoat, and last of all a dress of the same drab color and shape as that worn by the wardress
herself. All were clean and I was glad to be rid of my own soiled and crumpled clothing, even to put on what I was sure was prison garb. I washed, though the soap made my skin smart, and I could only dab lightly at my cut and bruised face. There was no mirror, but I unbraided my straggling hair, combed it well and re-braided it by touch, having to leave the braids hanging loose over my shoulders.

My toilet was hardly finished before the wardress returned. This time she had a tray in her hands, and, folded over one of her stooping shoulders some coverings for the bed. Slapping the tray down on the table, she dragged the present sheets off my cot, dumped the fresh ones in a heap in its middle, making plain that the task of spreading them out was to be left to me.

The food was gruel of some grain, gritty and without flavoring, but warm. There was also another tankard, this time holding thin and bluish milk. But that was all. She waited at the door, her witch face impassive until I had finished, then took the dishes with her and left.

My new garments, though clean, were clearly old and fashioned for someone shorter and of much fuller body than my own. The baggy folds hung about me. They had a musty smell, as if they had lain in close packing for a long time, while the skirts ended well above my ankles and the sleeves left both wrists and a goodly part of the forearm uncovered. I shook out the rough sheets and made up the cot bed, drawing out the process as long as I could for the need of something to occupy myself. Then I began a much more careful survey of the cell itself.