‘For the moment.’
Ruth, unwilling to give any reason to hope, watches carefully as the strain begins to lift from the canon’s face.
‘Thank the Good Lord himself.’
‘You were praying?’
‘All night.’
‘Then pray some more for I shall not know if he has fully recovered until tomorrow’s sunrise.’
Exhaustion drains her voice of any inflection. Weary to within an inch of her life she stumbles in the direction of her sleeping quarters.
The count, not knowing how to house the midwife and fearing scandal, has placed Ruth in the room of his mother’s favourite maid, an old woman who died only a month before. The tiny chamber, little more than a sparse box dominated by a roof beam, sits off a top hallway which leads into a maze of corridors with peeling plaster and sloping walls that houses the rest of the servants. At night this labyrinth transforms into a treacherous forest of whispered endearments, of shadows that criss-cross the wooden ceilings, a lattice of sexual intrigue.
Tucked neatly in the corner of the room is a straw pallet covered with an ancient quilt which, Ruth surmises correctly, the poor woman must have inherited from her mother before being given up to service as a small child. The coverlet, lovingly embroidered by a woman who no doubt feared for the safety of her first-born, depicts the fourteen Stations of the Cross. Above the bed hangs a small icon of the Virgin Mary. Against the opposite wall stands a pewter washing jug and wooden bucket, the hallmarks of a good and clean Christian woman. Ruth’s journeybox, an embossed Spanish leather case she inherited from her own mother, sits against the chalky partition.
Ruth is grateful for the sudden tranquillity of the chamber. Although windowless it has the feeling of being securely embedded in the body of the hunting lodge, with life rustling above and below it. She pulls off the damp tippet and drapes it carefully over the beam. Leaning over she takes the icon off its hook. Pinned to the back is a small portrait of a young aristocratic woman who resembles Detlef in her fair colouring and the line of her proud mouth. Attached to the miniature is a faded lock of blonde hair. Ruth, realising that this is Detlef’s mother, is surprised by the sudden rush of intimacy she feels staring at the crudely painted likeness. Holding the picture under the spluttering taper, she can clearly see an earnestness tempered by a look of humour in the eyes, a characteristic she has glimpsed only momentarily in the son.
The maid must have loved the mistress, she thinks, and carefully leans the icon against the leather chest. She opens the journeybox and pulls out a small pebble. Etched onto it, the crevasses of the letters filled with gold leaf, are three kabbalistic words: Chochma, Binah and Netzach—revelation, reason and lasting endurance. Ruth mutters a blessing, kisses the amulet then places it under her pillow.
Outside she can hear the distant village bells pealing for midday. Too fatigued to think, she pulls off her overskirt then struggles to wriggle out of the tight corset. Now clad only in a simple cotton petticoat, she pours water from the jug into the bucket and washes herself with a small cake of salt. Throwing herself onto the pallet she falls instantly into a dreamless sleep.
‘Pray tell me, are we in need of an undertaker yet?’
The count sits at the centre of the long wooden table in the reception hall of the hunting lodge. Beside him is his land manager, a puny man whose self-effac
ing manner ill conceals his ruthlessness.
The canon, still in his clothes from the night before, paces restlessly in front of the huge granite fireplace. The count’s tone reminds Detlef of the dismissive manner of their dictatorial father. Knowing that his brother is deliberately humiliating him in front of his servants, Detlef is momentarily gripped by anger.
‘I received one of Maximilian Heinrich’s birds only an hour ago. The good archbishop panics. Along with myself, he fears the emperor’s wrath should his nephew perish.’ The count sounds peevish with impatience.
‘You will have to wait until tomorrow morning. The prince lives, but I am told we shall not know for how long until then.’
‘The incision was successful?’
‘I told you, he still breathes…I have made prayer for him.’
‘In that case we have no choice but to wait on God’s will. But of course, with a canon’s personal supplication I assume we are slightly advantaged, are we not?’ The count’s sardonic smile further enrages Detlef.
A knock on the door interrupts them. A page ushers in a tall emaciated man, weathered beyond his years by poverty and toil. The peasant, limping badly and dressed in his best but heavily stained clothes, shuffles in behind the page, clutching a cloth cap. His wooden clogs rattle against the stone floor. He stands before the count and stares at his feet in abject terror.
Knowing that his brother is critical of the way he oversees Das Grüntal, Gerhard deliberately postpones dismissing him. Let him see for himself the difficulties I face every day in dealing with these plebeians, the count thinks, ignoring Detlef’s obvious exhaustion. At least next time he launches into a diatribe of advice it will be more informed.
His land manager hands him a scroll.
‘Herr Braun, you have failed to pay rent for the last three moons for both field and hearth. Do you realise the penalty?’
The count looks up from the report.
‘Sire, I have a war injury and the winter’s been bad on it.’
‘Is that your only excuse?’
‘That and the frost—it got two crops of turnips and the barley will be nothing to speak of come summer. But fear not, I’ll pay the rent, just as soon as I have something to sell at market…’
The farmer shifts nervously, glancing apprehensively at both Detlef and the count. His eyes wander around the room, staring at the splendour of the candelabra, the silver ornaments, the bronze lion’s feet of the table. The farmer has never been inside Das Grüntal before and he is astounded at the opulence. Like Heaven it is; if he loses everything at least he will have seen this. Gazing up at a portrait of Katerina von Tennen, he reminds himself to tell his wife how like an angel the lady looks.