Iron Butterflies Read online

  Hunger and thirst appeased, my next thought was the passageway and the need to discover whether the prisoner Lisolette spoke of was Colonel Fenwick. If he was under such constant inspection by his guard—to bring him into the passages might be highly risky. On the other hand, I wanted not to be drawn any farther into Lisolette's mad world as she had suggested just before leaving. There was no telling when the girl might turn on me if I failed to humor her belief in the dead Electress's “power.” With Colonel Fenwick beside me I felt that I might face anything—even confrontation with all the might of Hesse-Dohna at their strongest—and that of the devil, who appeared to be thought present here, into the bargain.

  I discovered that one of the thick candles could be wedged into an old iron holder, tall and clumsy, but still sturdy under its coating of rust. There was an old fashioned tinderbox beside that on the table which perhaps Lisolette used for her own midnight lighting. With the aid of that I put flame to my candle and prepared to reenter the hidden ways within the walls, having shed my cumbersome gown, and pulled its folds once more about me for a shawl. Pressure on the eye of the beast was followed by a faint sound and the panel opened to let me through.

  For a moment after the panel had shut once more behind me I knew a thrust of panic as sharp as any pain. However, as I swung my candle about, I could see that inner latch on the wall which marked the opening on this side. I was not sealed in, though to venture these dark ways alone drew upon my fortitude to an extent I had not foreseen.

  Back I went along the same path Lisolette had used the night before. Again I paused to look into that hall which was also a guardroom. There were men there, but fewer than there had been when we had spied upon them earlier. Among them stood an officer. Apparently he was inspecting a group of four about to go on some guard duty. He was a stout man, red faced, with a brush of coarse mustache which was pied black and gray, though his thick brows were wholly black, as was the bristle of hair which showed below his high-crowned helmet. He strode back and forth before his very small company with an impatient stamp of the feet and his whole attitude suggested irritation, or perhaps some worry with which he battled within to more purpose than he busied himself with the outward defense of this sprawling fortress.

  The commandant? I wondered. Though I certainly could see little resemblance between this bulky and stolid man and Lisolette's thin face, large eyes, and general air of one who could well assume a wraithlike state when necessary.

  Again I could catch a murmur of voices, perhaps the officer exhorting his followers. But the sense of the words did not reach me. Then they turned and marched off with the stiff-legged precision of mechanical toys behind their stamping leader, and the room was left vacant.

  My lookout hole was well above the level of the floor and on this side of the wall there were none of those projecting handles. Certainly there was no way out here, not that one would dare to try it at such point. The hall itself had certainly been more than a guardroom in the past, for the arches between the pillars supporting the vaulted roof were carved, surmounted with shields bearing arms now shadow-concealed.

  The racks of weapons were at present installed on a dais, and though the stone was bare, there was only the most clumsy and solid of furniture remaining (such as might be found in an inn where peasants gathered). I believed that perhaps at one time a semblance of court might have been held here.

  I came to the flight of stairs and descended those one at a time as does a child who is uncertain of her footing. They appeared even steeper than they had the night before, and I longed for some kind of a rail I could grasp to steady myself.

  Now I was in that lower passage and I held the candle out before me, watching the wall avidly for that projection which would mark the other cell where Lisolette had stopped to play her ghostly game. It was there, and my hand fell upon it. If I only knew who lay beyond!

  Lisolette's account of her father's frequent visiting to make sure his prisoner was secure kept me now from bearing my weight upon the hidden spring. Suppose my guess was wrong and it was not Fenwick who lay beyond that wall, but rather some stranger who might even be ready to use me as a bargaining point with his captors—turning me over to them in return for favors for himself? Wallenstein soon bred within one mistrust of all one's fellows. I had been surprisingly lucky in that I had somehow caught that girl's twisted fancy. Could I hope that any such good fortune would continue?

  I should have waited until night. Only then Lisolette would have returned. In what was close to true agony of indecision I pressed as close to the wall by that lever as I could get, near grinding my ear againat the stone in an effort to hear what might be beyond, I had heard Lisolette's wailing from my own cell, she in turn had heard my hammering with the tankard.

  Now I fairly held my breath to listen. Perhaps there were some cracks between those seemingly so solidly set stones which would allow sound to pass, even if there were no spyholes. For now I could hear a regular beat—a noise my hopes suggested was caused by the ring of boot heels against stone, the measure of someone pacing back and forth.

  No voices—nothing but that marching sound like a sentry at his post. A sentry—? Had this prisoner one within his cell, had the commandant's uneasiness led him to that precaution?

  What must I do? If I could only be sure—!

  I turned the heavy metal candlestick around and around in my two sweating hands. The dress I had huddled about my shoulders as a shawl slipped to the pavement. I could not continue here so indecisive.

  Sheer anger at my own lack of courage led me to a move which might well be fatal. I raised the candlestick and struck against the stone of the wall inches away from the lever. Twice I struck, forcing myself to action.

  The pacing sound had instantly stopped. I waited, breathing very slowly, listening—

  There came nothing but silence. My imagination sped to show me the worst which might be beyond the wall, a sentry facing the stone, alert to the sound, looking for its source, ready to raise a call for help in tracing out—

  Then I near cried out. For almost at the same point where my ear touched the rough, damp stone there came a click of sound and then another. I was heard and, unless the sentry I had imagined was unusually resourceful and cunning, that answer must have come from the prisoner. I wished wildly that there was some sort of code known to us both, a pattern of rapping which might make me sure I had nothing to find beyond but another prisoner. However, that was denied me.

  I could only experiment. This time I tapped three times, with the space of two slow breaths between each blow. My answer came in the same pattern. It must be the truth—that it was the prisoner. And he was alone or he could not have risked answer.

  There was only the final action left. I put the candlestick on the floor and bore down with both hands and all my strength on the lever. For a long moment I feared that whatever lock held was so time-set into place I had not the strength to move it. Then, grudgingly, with a grating which near frightened me into quick retreat, there opened a line between the stones I faced.

  I bore down harder, dragging at the lever, and the crack grew wider. Finally it became an opening the width of my palm. Midway along, it showed part of a face, eyes peering into the passage.

  Eyes—and there was no mistaking for me even that small fragment of a face. I knew that slightly lifted eyebrow, the old seam of scar causing it. It was the Colonel. I saw his gaze in turn widen as he looked up to see me in turn.

  I stopped to snatch up the candle, hold it high.

  “Are you alone?” My foremost fear made me demand that.

  “For a time, yes. They have been checking on me as if they fear I might melt into the stones. But how—and why—?”

  “No questions. Listen, I shall do what I can to get this open, but I may not have the strength—it has been shut for a long time, I think—”

  “Do what you can.” His voice held the old note of command. “There may be also some way I can aid.” His fingers appea
red, gripping the stone. “How does this go?”

  “Upward—” I had returned the candle to the floor and was once again bearing down on the lever.

  “Upward it is!” His fingers closed on the upper edge of that narrow opening and I knew that he was straining as best he could against the same stubborn stone. Inch by inch it gave, though sometimes I thought it would never move another fraction of the way. Then the same amount of space was open that had shown in my own cell. I had gotten through there, but could he? Eyeing that, I greatly doubted it, and leaned limply back against the wall facing the despair of having gained only so little.

  “It will not go farther, I think,” I told him. “Can you come through?”

  “We shall see.” There was no despair in his answer, just a note considering, as if he were weighing one chance against another. I heard movement on the other side, but he was now out of my sight, for I did not have the energy at that moment to move away from my wall support, save to gather up the candle so that it might be out of his way should he make the effort to scrape passage to me.

  It was not his body which was thrown in to me, rather a bundle of clothing, weighted by boots. I understood that, just as I had had to strip off much of my clothing to try that door, he was doing likewise. I reached out and caught that bundle, dragging it to one side.

  His head, arms, bared shoulders, came into view,! those shoulders scored and in some places showing welling blood in deep scratches. He fought, and, I, regaining my wits, put down the candle and the bundle of clothing and went to give what aid I could.

  My pulling may have helped, but his battle against the stone was a cruel one, leaving his near naked body scratched and abraded, blood oozing in many places. It was only due to his courage and determination that he made it, to half lie at last against the wall, his breath coming in deep gasps. All which covered him was the remains—the scanty remains of torn drawers, but this was no time to think of any proprieties.

  I was already back at the lever, fighting its stiffness until the slit closed, with a little more speed than it had opened. Near as exhausted as he looked, I crouched on the floor also, the candle between us. He was breathing more normally now and I saw him shiver. Quietly I opened the bundle he had thrown and hunted his shirt.

  I drew him slightly away from the wall and wrapped the shirt about his shoulders, noting that the patches of blood now welling on his skin were not the only hurts recorded on his body. There was a puckered scar along his ribs and another seam on his upper shoulder.

  My hands on him appeared to arouse him at once, and I saw he was looking straight at me. Then, for the first time during our acquaintance, I saw Colonel Fen-wick smile—not only smile—but he laughed softly! For a moment I wondered if he were as mind-turned as Lisolette. Then he raised one of his bruised and bleeding hands to push away from my face a strand of hair which kept looping itself down over my eyes.

  “We are a pretty pair,” he said softly. “Where do we go now, my lady? It seems that you have learned something here which is to the advantage of any prisoner. But why and how?—”

  My only thought now was that we must get away. If one of those periodic visits should be made to his cell soon—then indeed the whole of castle would be aroused— even if my own escape had been kept a secret.

  “We must go—up—” I pointed in the direction of the passage.

  He pulled himself away from the wall and dragged his bundle of clothing toward him.

  “Give me time to get on my boots,” he said. His lips were still quirked in that smile, which began to irritate me. I was honestly afraid, and I saw nothing in the least amusing concerning our present predicament.

  I waited for him to draw on breeches and then boots, but he left his shirt loose about his shoulders, and carried his coat over his arm.

  “I'm a little too sore for this. Now—if we go up— then we must.”

  He turned back to give one more keen glance at the wall and I guessed that he was trying to make certain that the aperture was entirely closed. I scuttled ahead, wanting nothing more now than to gain that chamber where I could bar the door, be sure of a breathing space before I was goaded again into some perilous action. Such good fortune could not continue, of that I was dismally sure. I could hardly believe, as I edged up the steps, and heard the sounds of his passage behind me, that all had gone well even this far.

  This time I did not pause at the peephole on the guardroom, but kept on, the candle ahead of me like a banner, until the welcome sight of the wood paneling told me we were near our refuge. I found the latch and stepped through, he pushing his way with greater difficulty behind me.

  The panel snapped shut and we stood together in the very dim light as I hastened to blow out the candle.

  “Now.” His voice no longer held that amused note, but it rang with all the old note of command which had ever aroused antagonism within me. “How did you come here, my lady? What has happened?”

  Chapter 16

  I hurried to the basket and that flask of water which had been so refreshing to me earlier. Surely there was enough left to tend his wounds, for I feared that if they went uncared for, they might be the worse for the dust and ancient filth of this forsaken room.

  “Sir.” I gestured him forward, pointing to the stool by the window where I had spent those earlier hours. “Let me see to those cuts and scrapes.”

  He shrugged and I saw that even so slight a movement of his abraded shoulders brought a wince in answer. As he dropped his jacket to the floor I went about the end of the bed and pulled on the shapeless dress. Then I jerked at the covers across the massive width. The upper ones tore in my hands, ancient satin and velvet yielding quickly to the strain of my efforts. Underneath those was linen, frail and thin, to be sure, but still clean of dust and the only thing hereabouts to serve my purposes.

  With strips and wads of this in my hands I went back to where my patient waited. He had seated himself on the stool, but was now leaning forward, peering through my own watchhole between the drapes. There was something so tense in his pose that I feared Wal-lenstein must have at last come to life, that we were indeed to be the hunted.

  Yet when I came close enough, the flask with the remaining water in one hand, my bundle of old linen in the other, to look past him—I could see nothing but the same emptiness I had watched for so long.

  “Your shirt—” I swept the garment from his shoulders and dropped it beside his jacket. At the manor I had learned nursing of a sort—the care of minor hurts, fevers. My grandmother had kept her own herb garden and had made a study of such things, since the aid of a physician might often be several days away. No false delicacy had kept her from seeing that I also learned what was to be done for our people should some emergency or accident occur.

  Still now, as I moistened my pad of linen with care, keeping in mind that none of the precious water must be wasted, I found it oddly disturbing to set about the business of doctoring. It was a kind of shyness I bad never experienced before as I made myself matter-of-factly swab at those bloody smears along his upper arms, across his chest and his shoulders. Because I felt that discomfort at such employment, I launched into speech with a quick desire to turn his mind, if not mine, away from my embarrassment.

  “Sir, why were you sent here?”

  “That ia easy enough to answer.” He sat quite still under my ministrations. I longed for some healing salve, for more water—there were gouges in his skin which seemed to me dangerously deep as I washed them, very close to open wounds. “I was—am—loyal to a past which a great many now wish forgotten. I know too much to make them comfortable. But the greater question—why are you here, my lady? Wearing such a dress.” He reached out to flick with a finger that voluminous and musty skirt. “What happened to you?”

  I glanced at that infamous ring on my finger. Above the band the flesh looked swollen, so hard I had worked to try and rid myself of it. Answering, I strove to make my voice as level as I could, to keep my hands steady
as I tried to ease his hurts and give an account of myself.

  The beginning was easy enough, my journey from Axelburg to the Kesterhof. Then I chose my words with more care, trying not to allow my horror and disgust at what had happened to me break through to color my account of the drugging, of Konrad's visit to my bedroom, and his demand that I sign the papers he presented.

  I was not prepared for the Budden clutch upon my wrist, for being jerked around so that I faced my patient in the small light from the window. His eyes—I had seen them cold, measuring, marking his aloofness from anything but his duty. Once—down in the passage—I had seen them soften for the first time, perhaps with exuberance brought about by his release from the cell. Now I saw them filled with near devilish fires. So grim was his countenance at that moment I would have shrunk away had it been possible, but he held me fast.

  “This is the truth?”

  My old antagonism stirred. “Why should I lie? Look you!” I brought up my other hand, held it out into the full light so he could see the ring. “Would I wear that— not that I wish to—but it sticks so tightly I cannot rid myself of it—either actually or figuratively? How I came here afterward—” I shook my head. “They drugged me again, I believe—” Hurriedly I told him of my final awakening in the cell below. “I think they still hope to get something from me—or I would not be alive.”

  That first fire had faded a little from his gaze. He loosed my wrist.

  “Your pardon. You have indeed been badly used.” His eyes were hooded now, I thought that even his apology was a little absent, as if he were thinking deeply. “Only, I cannot see— No.” Now he shook his head with some decision. “I would not have believed that Von Werthern had the influence to have you sent here—even secretly. Von Zreibruken has always been a disappointed man, yes. He felt that taking a wife (one whom he deemed of mixed blood) from a close connection with the Harrach line should have given him a higher place in the Elector's council. Only, that he would concern himself with this—no. I do not think you have more than guesses—