Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [40]
‘I pray also that God will soften the obduracy of that wretch who tries to keep from you what is yours, thus sinning doubly, since he hinders your carrying out your sainted father’s will, and prevents Holy Church from claiming its own . . .’
I couldn’t stand it any longer. I turned the sheet over and at the bottom found the name I knew would be there:
‘Your wife, Konstanze von Drachenstein.’
The letter contained nothing more except domestic details, and questions about – Tony had not exaggerated – Burckhardt’s bowels. I scrabbled through the remaining documents in the box. At the very bottom I found two more fragments.
It was obvious why these scraps had not been given to the author of The Peasants’ Revolt. Not only were they void of details about the rebellion, but they were in bad condition. The first one I had found was the best preserved. The other two were only scraps, each bearing a few disconnected sentences.
‘. . . send this by the hand of our loyal steward Nicolas,’ said one of the two. ‘I beg your return. The Bishop came agam today, to ask when the shrine will come to him. God knows I do not oppose him, for this was the desire of your blessed father. But I feel he regards me with coldness . . .’
I’ll bet he did, I thought. A sixteenth-century chauvinist cleric, and a woman who was both foreigner and scholar. The impeccable Latin was evidence of the countess’s intelligence. No doubt she had been educated by a family priest, as a few rare women were in those days. I thought I knew who had owned the volume of Trithemius in the Schrank.
I picked up the last scrap of parchment. It was written in a hasty scrawl that was very unlike the neatness of the earlier letters. I deduced that it was, in date, the last of the three.
‘. . . anxious. No news has come since you wrote you were sending it here, in the care of Nicolas the steward. It is too long, he should have arrived a week since. In God’s name, my husband, come home. The Bishop . . .’
The rest was gone, presumably into the interior of an ancient rat. I sat there staring at the dusty little bit of paper that had knocked my theories into a cocked hat.
Our second possibility had been the right one. The shrine had never reached Rothenburg. The caravan must have been ambushed after all – the steward killed, the shrine stolen. I felt tired enough to die. I tossed the papers haphazardly into the box and staggered to my bed.
I woke next morning to golden sunlight, the singing of birds, and a balmy breeze from the open window. I felt terrible. After a second I remembered why.
I was late to breakfast, but Tony was still there. After one look at me, he shoved a cup of coffee in my direction and remarked, ‘You look like hell. What’s the matter, did our little expedition last night scare you that much?’
‘It didn’t scare me at all. But it was odd, not to find her there.’
‘It kept me awake for a while,’ Tony admitted. ‘Konstanze may not be haunting Irma, but she’s beginning to haunt me. If it weren’t for the shrine, I’d be tempted . . .’
‘To pack up and leave? Go ahead. The shrine isn’t here.’
I told him about the letters.
‘The roll of maps is gone too,’ I concluded glumly. ‘I don’t suppose you took them? Okay, okay, I was just asking. I’m upset.’
‘Things are getting confused, aren’t they? Sorry you came? Willing to admit this is too much for your poor little female brain?’
I sneered at him over the coffee cup, and he grinned.
‘Then start using those brains you keep bragging about. You haven’t been thinking, you’ve been reacting intuitively and emotionally. The letters are only negative evidence. Our reasoning still stands. Why haven’t the jewels turned up, unless the shrine is hidden somewhere?’
‘Oh, I had no intention of giving up. I haven’t even begun to search yet. I just wanted to give you an excuse to cop out.’
‘I’m staying, whether the shrine is here or not.’
I stared at him in surprise. His voice was grave and