It would be the morning after his wedding breakfast on new wine and old
bread with fear for a sauce, that _she_ should come to the Office of
Pedigree again—with her bands of light hair, fine chin line and
cheekbones, and the pointed coronet badge in her hat that showed her a
baron’s daughter. All morning Rodvard had been dozing and drowsing; she
greeted him gaily; “Have you found more of this matter with which the
stem of Stojenrosek is to confound Count Cleudi, or has the weather been
too fine for work indoors?”
“No, demoiselle.” (There was a twist in his chest, he could barely get
the words out.) He passed the chair where she showed a turn of ankle, to
one of the tall dark wall-files, and took out a parchment. “One of the
recorders lighted on this—see, it is from the reign of King Crotinianus
the Second, the great king, and bears his seal of the boar’s head, with
that of his Chancellor. It is a series of decisions on inheritance and
guardianship for the province of Zenss. At the eleventh year of the
reign there is one here—” he handled the pages over carefully “—giving
the son of Stojenrosek leave to wed with one Luedecia and pass the
inheritance to their daughters, though she’s but a bowman’s daughter
herself, there being no heiresses female to take the estate, which would
thus have fallen to the crown.”
She had stood up to look at the old crabbed chancery hand of the
document where he spread it on the table and her shoulder brushed his.
Said she; “Did they wed, then?”
“Alas, demoiselle, I cannot tell you.” (Shoulder did not withdraw.) “So
many of the records of that time were destroyed in the great fire at
Zenss a quadrial of years ago. But I will search.”
“Do so . . . I cannot read it,” she said. “What does this say?” Her
fingers touched his in a small shock, where they were outspread to hold
the parchment, and the contact rested as she bent to look, in the spring
light filtering through the dusty panes. The inner door to the cabinet
adjoining was closed; down the corridor outside, someone was whistling
as he walked, she turned her head to face him slowly, he felt the
witch-stone cold as ice over his heart, and to shut out what he feared
was coming, Rodvard croaked chokingly;
“What is your name?”
“My name is Maritzl.” (No use; it came over sharply—if he kiss me, I
will not stay him, I will marry him, I will take him into my father’s
house, I will even be his mistress if he demands it . . . this
disappearing in the lightning-flash of Lalette saying, “If you are ever
unfaithful—” and flash on flash what would happen if he lost the Blue
Star for which he had sacrificed so much. Sold, sold.)
She caught her breath a little. He disengaged the parchment from her
hand. “I will have it copied for you in a modern hand,” he said.