Heirs are the most dangerous.
I won’t be murdered.
Here and now – I won’t.
Dietrich refused to go hunting. And for half a day was cursing himself for it. Yes, during the hunt it’s easy to shoot in the back. Or a horse would slip, throwing a rider into a ravine. But in the castle it’s not harder to strike with a dagger from behind a curtain. He was sitting in his room gloomily, staring at the wall and repeating as a spell, as a prayer: “Won’t be murdered. Won’t be murdered. Won’t...”
Thin blood veins were protruding on his cheeks.
A lump in the throat.
Hard to breathe. I have to breathe. I’ll remain alive.
He was looking at the yard slabs from out the window, at the faraway garden where there were walking his wife and daughters. He wanted to join them. He wanted to go hunting. He wanted to throw away the suffocation of fear – but danger awaited him at every step. Hold on, old man! I’m not an old man!!! At least one day... Why one day?! I’m still going strong! You’ll die! I’ll live long!..
He came to the door and called in a loud voice: “Priest! Call for my confessor!” When father Jeronim had arrived – without opening the lock he ordered the guard to search the priest. Zealously, bastards! There were no arms found with the cleric, but the margrave, having let the confessor in, withdrew with his own hands a rope that the monk used to girdle himself with. A rope can be thrown upon your neck quietly. During a prayer. Look how thick it is! He’ll strangle a man without batting an eyelid, this hypocrite...
“I wish to confess, father!”
“That’s a good deed, my son...”
During the confession the confessor was nervous, glancing every now and then with fear at the excited margrave. Dietrich felt angry, stumbled over his words, trying, on the one hand, to prepare himself for possible death, cleansing his soul by confession, and on the other – to look after the most suspicious priest; and eventually he kicked father Jeronim out.
The day seemed endless. Devils were knocking in the left temple, turning the world scarlet as Hell’s flame. To sign an abdication in his son’s favour? To save himself? Or is it just an illusory shield, ready to crack at the first push?! Live! I want to live!.. Every rustle in a corridor threatened to be an assault.
When in the evening somebody knocked at the door – gently, cautiously! – Dietrich von Maintz seized his grandfather’s flambard from the wall. Pressed himself into the corner, his back to the wall. The back should be secure. The sword is a bit too heavy, this two-handed one has always been too massive for the undersized margrave, but with a blade of such length it’s easier to keep conspirators at bay. Till help comes.
Help – for me? For them?!
Hold on, old man! I won’t be murdered...
An arbalest bolt struck the window. Thrust under the shoulder blade, penetrating the heart with red-hot iron. There, where the secret guest was tossing, bewildered – why? how is that? – crying out persistently: “Hold on, old man! Hold on!”
I hold on, Dietrich von Maintz wanted to answer.
I hold at the hilt... at the curtain... at the wall...
It’s over. I don’t hold on any more.
...Young Siegfried, in the nearest future – the new lord of the Maintz Mark, – was looking at his father’s body. What a pity. He had wanted so much to boast of his hunting trophies, in spite of the late hour. After death his father became as he used to be: imperious and confident. Quite not the man he had been today: cowardly, frightened, jerking little man.
Outside the window a pigeon was cleaning its feathers – the one that a minute ago had struck its breast at the glass.
“...A-a!.. a..”
Giacomo Seingalt was gulping air convulsively with his mouth. The old man’s face became crimson and seemed black.
“Good Lord! Giacomo, I beg you! Martzin, save him! Save him!”
“Hush! For all the saints’ sake, hush!”
“Calm down, Lukerda. Look, he’s already better...”
“W-water...”
“Sorry, there’s no water. But here’s the wine...”
Giacomo was drinking straight from the mouth of a braided bottle, swallowing convulsively, jerking the gristly Adam’s apple, spilling the wine on his clothes. Finally he breathed out heavily, wheezing: “F-fuh! It eased off...”
“You have tried!” Lukerda was nearly crying. “You’ve tried so hard, poor man!..”
“And for all that you didn’t sign an abdication, old man! Damn it, this was a real hell! I would have kicked the bucket at midday, probably...”
“It’s pity your attempt has failed, mister Seingalt. But not everything is lost yet. I think I’ll take the risk...”
“No! Now it’s my turn!” The girl’s face was glowing with resoluteness and righteous indignation. “You men are never able to bring anything to a close! You should just assassinate the margrave Siegfried – and there’ll be no war! Start it, Martzin. I know what to do!”
On the board a carved queen moved, as if in response.
From the draught, apparently.
“Today I’ll perform a feat”, vowed Belinda van Dayk.
The daughter of the burgomaster of the free city of Holne, doomed to vegetate miserably with the tambour and the gossips of other girls, she was secretly always certain: the time for a feat would come. A day would come, majestic and bright, which would allow her to step up, to stand abreast the heroines of old, leaving her trail on the steps of existence. So sang troubadours whom Belinda was ready to listen to day and night. So wrote poets whom she received affably and fed, in spite of her niggard father’s grumbling. Oh, father! This worthless, mean man, this pile of lard, this mount of fat, caring more for his bulging purse than for a decent place in the descendants’ memory – he refused to defend Holne! He threw into prison a small group of true patriots who were ready to die on the native walls! Together with others similar to him he opened the gates to Siegfried von Maintz and yielded to the enslaver, holding the keys of the gates on the pillow!
Interesting, how such a daughter was born of such father?!
What a pity that the mother died without confiding this secret to her daughter...
Belinda looked around stealthily. In the large city hall a feast was held. At the tables, mixed up with the Maintz usurpers, there were sitting scared members of the city council, syndics of guilds, judges and other respectable citizens. Many of them were choking on their food, terrified by the phantom of possible slaughter. At the head of the central table, in an armchair with a high back decorated with the coat of arms of Holne, there was sitting none other than the margrave Siegfried, surveying the hall with a bored glance. Having remained in light armour, the margrave was a personification of the valour and belligerence of his ancestors –only his peevishly protruding lip gave his young face a touch of vulgarity. Cold, still – snake-like! – Siegfried’s eyes became warmer only in one case: when they would rest on herself, Belinda van Dayk, purposely dressed today in her lowest-cut dress.
Yes, they became warmer.
Belinda felt it with her skin.
Hot. The guffaw of drunken men is confusing. The feat had been imagined differently: more beautiful, perhaps? However, true heroines don’t choose but act. Today at dawn Belinda had understood it once and for all. A secret guest that had settled in her soul whispered to her what should be done.