‘No, entirely sober, in fact I’ve never been more so. But I need to know: under that guise of servility do you, or any of the other
peasants you know, believe yourselves to be equal to your masters?’
‘Well, we’ve all got two arms, two legs and a pot, but that’s where it stops, if you ask me. I mean, some of them ladies your aunt used to have staying here, it wasn’t just that their lives were different, their heads was different too. I’m happy with my lot. I was born to serve, as was my mother and her mother before her. Does that makes us less or more? I don’t know. But it doesn’t make us equal. Why, that’s like comparing Brunhilde with Matti the hunting hound! What next, Master Detlef? Not that man Luther, I hope! You are to the manor born as I am to the pantry. That’s how it’s always been and that’s how it’ll end.’
‘The Dutch Republicans would have it otherwise.’
‘A pox on the Republic and on the Lutherans. Who’s been poisoning your ear, Master Detlef?’ she asks impertinently, forgetting that the nobleman before her is no longer the seven-year-old boy who used to chase geese around the orchard.
‘Who indeed?’
Detlef swings around. Birgit stands in the doorway framed by the sunlight behind her, dressed in riding clothes, hat and veil. She steps into the pantry with an air of confidence that belies her apprehension.
Hanna drops into a deep curtsy. ‘Meisterin.’
Birgit slaps her riding gloves onto the wooden counter. ‘No need to stand on ceremony, Hanna, you’ve known me since I was a child.’
‘Nevertheless, you are a married woman now and a wealthy one at that, so if you don’t mind I will stay with the formal.’
An undertone of disapproval taints Hanna’s voice; with another genuflection she leaves the room, the hock of salted beef still in her hand.
Detlef studies his mistress. Feigning a casualness, Birgit toys with the plume of her riding bonnet. ‘I knew you would be here.’
‘Why was that?’
‘It’s where you escape to when something has disturbed you profoundly. You came here after we made love for the first time.’
She sits, arranging her deep burgundy ferrandine skirt over the hard bench as a means of distracting herself from her growing anxiety.
‘You have ridden from Cologne, Birgit?’
Still he does not make one movement towards her. Birgit, distressed by the distant tone in his voice, decides to ignore his coolness. Smiling coquettishly she fills a pewter mug with wine and drinks it thirstily.
‘Not from Cologne but from Das Grüntal. I have some bad news. Prince Ferdinand collapsed during the hunt this morning.’
‘Is his injury serious?’
‘It is not an injury but some mysterious ailment. Gerhard’s physic attends him now.’
‘Hah, that humbug. Gerhard must be anxious. If the prince’s condition worsens it could become a major political embarrassment and we all know how my brother hates to be embarrassed.’
‘The prince won’t die.’
‘Is that what you came here to tell me?’
‘That and other matters. In town there is talk that the merchant Voss will burn. The bürgermeisters and the Gaffeln are up in arms about it. Is it true? Are the bürgers to be a sacrifice for Maximilian?’
‘I fear so.’
‘But the men are innocent!’
‘Don’t be naive, Birgit, it doesn’t suit you. Now, how did you know I was here?’
‘A wager with my heart; the instinct of a woman that links her to her lover. Some might call it habit.’
Ignoring his detachment she places her hand on his thigh. Surprised by his lack of response and curious to test the depth of his indifference, Detlef does not move.
‘I came here to be alone. There is much I have to ponder without the distraction of man or service.’