Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [19]
‘Burckhardt was a rat. A bloodthirsty, illiterate lout. His repulsive personality is even more apparent in the unpublished letters. I guess that’s why they weren’t published; they tell more about Burckhardt than about the war. He was obstinate, unimaginative, arrogant – ’
‘My goodness,’ I said mildly. ‘You really are down on the lad.’
‘Lad, my eye.’
‘He couldn’t have been very old. What was the average life span – about forty? As you say, he was fairly typical. Why the prejudice?’
‘Not all of them were hairy Neanderthals. Take Götz von Berlichingen; he supported the peasants.’
‘Under protest, according to Götz. I don’t think he’s a good example of a parfit gentle knight. He was a menace on the highways, a robber, looter – ’
‘At least he had courage. After his hand was shot off, he acquired an iron prosthesis and went on robbing.’
‘I stayed at his place once.’
‘Whose place?’
‘Götz’s,’ I said, spitting a little on the sibilants. ‘Schloss Hornburg, on the Neckar. It’s a hotel now. They have his iron hand.’
‘I wish you would stop changing the subject,’ Tony said unfairly.
‘You were the one who brought up Götz.’
‘And stop calling him Götz, as if he were the boy next door . . . To return to Burckhardt – he was only heroic when he was up against a bunch of serfs armed with sticks. And did you notice the hypochondria? All those complaints about his bowels!’
‘Maybe he had a nervous stomach.’
I could have said something really cutting. Tony’s prejudice against the valiant knight suggested a transferral of resentment against men of action in general – not mentioning any names. But I didn’t even hint at such a possibility. I didn’t like Burckhardt either.
‘He had one good point,’ Tony said grudgingly. ‘He loved his wife. That comes out, even through the stiff formal phrasing. I couldn’t find much information on her. All I know is that her name was Konstanze and she was beautiful.’
I started. I shouldn’t have been surprised. The dates on the portrait in my room would have told me that the woman portrayed had been the lady of our count. But it was – uncomfortable, somehow.
Tony gave me a curious look, but asked no questions. He went on, ‘The third character was named Nicolas Duvenvoorde. He was the count’s steward, majordomo, or whatever you want to call it. He was Flemish, by his name, and a trusted, efficient servant, to judge by the references to him. Now one of the unpublished letters, if you remember, says the count has sent ‘it’ to Rothenburg in the care of this steward and an armed escort of five men. The countryside was in disorder; bands of marauding peasants and men at arms marauding after the marauding peasants – ’
‘Don’t be cute,’ I said. ‘I’m not one of your giggly girl students.’
‘Then you tell me what happened next.’
‘I take it you found no further references to the shrine? Neither did I. But, assuming the caravan started on schedule, there are only two possibilities.’
Tony nodded. ‘Either the shrine arrived in Rothenburg as planned – no reason why not; a group of armed men, on their guard, with their precious burden a secret, had a good chance of getting through – or else they were attacked along the way and the shrine was stolen.’
‘No reason why not?’ I echoed. ‘But is there any reason to suppose the reverse? If the shrine was stolen, that would explain why it hasn’t been heard of since.’
‘Obviously. But if thieves seized and burned the shrine, what happened to the jewels? Such stones are virtually indestructible, and they have a habit of reappearing. Look at the great historic gems; you can trace them through the centuries, usually by the trail of blood they leave behind them. The fact that the jewels, as well as the shrine, have not been heard of since fifteen twenty-five is suggestive. They must have been hidden – hidden so well that all memory of the hiding place was lost.’
‘Suppose your hypothetical peasants