Without glancing back, Ruth climbs up, helped by Alphonso and La Grande.
The spy, Georges, huddles in the doorway of a bakery three doors down and across from the count’s townhouse. Fuck this weather, the winter will be bad if it is this cold in October, he thinks. Shivering, he wonders whether he should send his manservant out for more burning peat in the morning. Deciding that he will, the informant pulls his wide-brimmed hat further over his freezing ears. As an owl hoots in the distance he glances back at the aristocrat’s dwelling.
Several shadows move across a pool of moonlight. Georges leans forward, squinting as he tries to penetrate the darkness, muscles tense with expectation. The silhouettes shorten as a pack of stray mongrels emerge silently from the gloom and trot swiftly around a corner.
Disappointed, the spy swings his gaze back to the house. Just then the dull glow of a candle flares in an upstairs bedroom
, illuminating the shape of a tall man wearing a hat passing the window. By Georges’ calculations he has a quarter of an hour left. Pulling his cap low, he sprints towards the cathedral.
The knife glints as a sliver of moonlight catches its blade. The tip presses into the soft sagging neck of the drugged man, pushing as far as it will go without breaking the skin. The white pores stretch and flood pink at the point where steel meets skin.
Detlef has been crouching over his brother for what seems like hours. His stilled body, motionless like that of the hunter, is deceptive for within him a momentous struggle is taking place.
He could kill him so easily with one swift cut to the throat; it would be almost painless. He wants to, there is an instinct within him screaming with rage, a silent diatribe that roars from his thudding heart to his pounding brain. His brother stole his child from him; he has almost destroyed all that Detlef has fought for. But to murder is a sin, it would reduce his soul to less than an animal. Regardless, anger, revenge and blind fury surge through him like a torrent.
Finally Detlef lifts the knife away and stands, trembling violently. Lifting a jug of water he throws it across his brother’s face. Gerhard groans, opens his eyes, then rolls to one side to vomit onto the woven rug next to the bed.
Somewhere in the room the count can hear a voice. His brother’s. For a moment he struggles to remember the sequence of events: a memory of Hermann…the sense of him, his touch, mouth, face come drifting back. How is that possible? The man is dead, you sentimental idiot, long gone, the count chastises himself. Finding that his thoughts still spin, making it difficult to form a cohesive image, he realises he has been administered an opiate.
‘Gerhard!’
Blearily the count turns his head. In the dim light he can just make out his brother’s profile as he leans over to light a candle. The flame flares up and, as Detlef crosses the room again, Gerhard can see that he holds a naked blade in his hand. The aristocrat tries to swing his leaden legs off the bed but finds he cannot move.
‘Are you to kill me?’ His words, slurred, hang in the stale air.
‘I tried but found I could not. To do so would reduce me to as lowly a creature as yourself.’
The count labours to pull himself upright. ‘How predictable of you to hide behind that moral superiority of yours. It is all you have ever done your entire life, Detlef. You never had any sense of reality, always hiding behind the skirts of the church, only emerging to play the noble crusader. Well, what real morality lies in your actions? Have you truly examined your soul? You have betrayed both your race and your title.’
‘I have betrayed nothing. I am guilty of nothing except following the logic of my heart.’
‘Idealistic fool. You have no idea, have you? They are threatening to take the lodge, our lands, the von Tennen title. Three hundred years of ancestry obliterated, just like that. And all because of your stupidity!’
‘You would sacrifice your own brother?’
‘There is no sacrifice, all they want is a public repentance. Besides, the family is more important than your paltry ethics. The lineage must go on.’
Witnessing the unquestioning conviction of the zealot that makes ugly his brother’s face, Detlef has to muster all his strength to stop himself attacking Gerhard there and then. Instead he takes a shuddering breath.
‘I forgive you your ignorance and pray that one day you may find enlightenment.’
A sudden thud is heard downstairs, then the sound of running footsteps as soldiers burst into the house. Detlef glares at Gerhard with absolute disdain before bolting for the door.
The moth, a stubborn creature with inky-blue wings that are barely distinguishable from the soot that covers the walls of the prison, crawls slowly but with immense determination from the great cold outside through the narrow hole between the granite blocks. It emerges from the tunnel, its furry antennae waving blindly. Delighted to discover a draught of warmer air, it takes off, fluttering around the prison cell until it alights for a moment upon the grimy hand of a man.
Detlef, gazing down, wonders if the fragile creature might live longer than himself, and if, by some wondrous sorcery, it might squirrel him out through the minuscule crack to freedom.
My love,
My foolishness has landed me in this hell. My brother has betrayed me, and with this treachery I fear he has bartered my life.
Forgive me my impetuosity. This trait has led me to tragedy, but also to great joy for without it we would never have come together and I would never have found my soul’s work.
My dearest, I pray that you and our child have crossed safely into the sanctuary of the Netherlands and that soon we shall be reunited. I know not what my future holds but I take solace in my belief that they cannot dare to execute a Wittelsbach. The worst I fear is a forced conversion—they will ask me to betray my new faith. Yet there must be some means of escape…
‘Canon?’
Groot peers through the prison bars. His old master is staring at the wall, mouthing a silent missive.