Imogen Robertson - Circle of Shadows

Pegel hardly heard him. ‘Now get out of my way.’ Pegel clambered up onto the window-ledge and pulled a loop of the improvised rope around him. As his foot pressed against the ledge his ankle screamed at him, but he set his teeth.

‘What’s to stop me cutting the sheet and sending you to your death?’ Florian said, desperation in his eyes.

‘You haven’t got the guts,’ Pegel said simply and began to lower himself down the wall.

At the end of his rope, he hesitated. It was still perhaps ten feet left to fall, then a long sloping roof leading into one of the internal courtyards. He found himself wondering what would be better, to further injure his right leg, or to risk his left and aim to fall on that side. He closed his eyes and let fate decide. He landed on his side, then slid down the deep slope of the roof. Even as he fought for a grip on the tiles he felt a certain peace. It was as if he was watching the whole from above. I wonder what will happen now? some calm, mildly interested voice asked in the back of his head as he tumbled forward, his chin scraping and bouncing, the wounds on his hands opening up. He rolled off the guttering and something hard struck him at the base of his skull.

My child ,

This is a love story. I know that when you have read these pages you will understand this. Love gave me life, love took it away. Love gave me the power I now have. With it, I serve love .

Your mother and I were married to join two houses, two estates, never two hearts. She was a good wife to me in the brief years of our union and I grieved for her sincerely, though I could not then understand the fierce passion of loss that you felt as a child. How can one imagine what one has never felt? I thought you weak and unreasonable and I fear you must have seen that, must have felt it. I hope others were more generous to you than I. Is it any comfort to you to know that I have experienced all the horrors of grief since then? And in feeling them have thought of you?

I remember your delight in my automata; the minutes we spent watching them together were the happiest we had as father and son, I believe. It was such a pity that you never would understand that these little wonders were far too precious for a child to touch. In time, had you been obedient, I would have let you turn the key, or start the mechanism. To steal the little walking figure I imported from Spain and all but destroy him in your attempt to see how he moved was not a crime I could forgive. But I regret that sending you away deepened the rift between us .

Do you know your step-mother pleaded for you? Not that she was your step-mother then, simply a widow of narrow means living on the charity of our neighbour, some cousin of hers. She heard of your crime, and of your punishment, borrowed a horse and rode alone up to my gate to try and convince me that your foolishness was a sign of a curiosity to be encouraged. She did not manage to do so. I see her now striding back and forth across the room, in a passion that a weakling child such as you be sent away from those he loved. I should have been shocked, disgusted even by such a display, but instead I longed for her to stay. You went to school the next day, and I went to her. For the first time in my life I tried to please a woman. We were walking in her cousin’s gardens the first time I made her laugh. It was not that first day, or even in that first week. I cannot remember how, only that it was against her will, angry as she was still for my treatment of you. Grieving as she was for the wrongs done to her. But I remember the surge of joy I felt at the sound, at my victory. That simple little wedding day we shared was the happiest day of my life. I think you liked her. You would have loved her .

It is a matter of regret to me that you never knew your step-mother. I hope you believe me when I tell you it was through no fault of hers. She often suggested you return from school or take some visit with us rather than with your mother’s relatives. In truth I was jealous. Any look, any smile of hers that fell not upon me I felt lost, stolen from my store. I did not want her to try and win your affection, I did not want to see her affection spent on you. Such a terrible happiness is love. Such an impossible gift to bear. At that time I was even glad rumour had driven her from court, because it led her to me. She knew she had been conspired against, though she did not know who had done so, and suspected it was because some of those close to the Duke had seen he favoured her. Fools. She would never have accepted Ludwig Christoph as her lover. She was too noble, too good. They slandered her, destroyed her reputation and separated her from her son for nothing .

Her pregnancy delighted her. She talked of giving you and her own boy a brother or sister to care for. I convinced myself it would change nothing if the child lived. The house was large enough, the household had servants enough and the village wet-nurses, but perhaps one corner of my mind hoped from the beginning it would not survive. I did not wish to see her love divided; how could I accept only a share of her heart, when the whole was not enough? Yet she flowered as she grew, took delight in the child’s quickening. She was seated at her sewing when she felt it first, that strange stirring beneath the skin. Life somehow appearing within her, trapped within her belly some flame, some spark. We reach towards these images of fire when we talk of life; how dead wood stirs into sound and movement, and she cupped it in her hands and gasped. Such a simple thing to women, but what sacrifice, what learning, what bargains with devils and angels it requires from a man .

And there was the matter of her first child. Oh, if I have sinned against you, my son, how much more did I sin against that poor boy. She was desperate to bring the child home. She was sure his constitution was weak, that he would not survive without the care of his mother. I told her I had written to the Duke to request the boy be allowed to live with us. I told her I had petitioned him in person. I told her he wanted the child to complete the year at the school. I told her I would petition again. I did none of this .

In truth nothing prevented me from collecting the child on the first day of asking, except that I did not want him here. I grieved to see her suffer, I suffered just as much to deny her, but it still seemed in the passion that held me, preferable. There was an outbreak of fever at the school. If then we had heard of the danger perhaps I would have finally relented. I do not know. The officials at court were informed, but no one there thought to get word to his poor disgraced mother, and the first we knew of any illness in the place was when one of the teachers made the journey to my home carrying the news of his death and his few possessions. Can I describe that day to you? She had not been allowed to write to him, by order of the Duke, though I discovered she had managed to bribe Christian to convey to him the occasional note. They were love letters. Love letters that showed a depth and strength of feeling never present in her affectionate manner towards myself. I think my dislike of him deepened to hatred then. I am ashamed of that. The letters told him of our marriage and promised, with what fervour it was promised, that his mama was coming for him very soon. How did I know these things? How did I come to read them? Because the child had stored the letters in the lining of his Bible. Each one had been folded and unfolded, reopened and reread so many times they were in danger of falling apart. The teacher had found them, and thought they should be returned. I cannot say if that was a kindness or a cruelty. It is strange how the simple fact that the fold in a piece of paper has worn through almost to nothing can tell so clear the story of a boy’s hope, his loneliness, his longing for his mother .