‘How do you claim to be a civilised nation?’
Brandt came up close to him. ‘What do you know about humanity, you British? German children are starving to death because of your blockade. People are dying for lack of medicine.’
Robert seethed with rage – but knew there was nothing to be gained from a quarrel. And these British men might well be punished for anything he said. He saw how cowed they were; they knew well who their masters were now.
‘All right,’ Robert said, swallowing back his anger, ‘but may I at least speak to these men? Enquire after their welfare?’
‘You’re not responsible for their welfare now. Let’s go.’ Someone jabbed him with a rifle barrel from behind and they set off again.
‘Good luck to you, sir!’ one of the British men called out.
‘You’ll bloody need it,’ someone else added wearily.
Eventually, they entered the vast area of activity at the rear of the front line, with its countless tents, depots, stables and stores. As the light faded, they reached the village of Levassy, where the square spire of the medieval church was still intact above the jumble of roofs.
The sight of it brought up such a huge swell of feeling that tears came to Robert’s eyes. Until that moment, consumed with thoughts of escape, he hadn’t realised quite how wretched he was feeling. But here, among all the devastation, after all that had happened, was an undamaged church, a thing of beauty – a palpable symbol of civilisation and hope.
‘I’ll leave you for now, Herr Hauptman,’ said Brandt. ‘You will be held here until you are needed.’
‘Needed for what?’
But Brandt merely clicked his heels together, saluted and was gone. Two guards at the door of the church motioned Robert inside with their rifles.
It was dark and his eyes took a while to adjust. But when they did, he saw that the little church was exquisite, and his heart swelled again. Above the altar there were three stained-glass lancet windows depicting the Virgin Mary, the Passion and the Resurrection. The dimming light spilled down through them to pool on the ancient floor tiles. Next to the altar a rack of votive candles flickered, their soft light smoothing itself against the walls in a sort of supplication. He felt Louisa, closer than ever.
And he saw himself as a child on Christmas Eve, Nanny MacKenzie leading him by the hand into the drawing room, her hand over his eyes, telling him in her soft Scottish burr:
‘Not yet, Master Robbie, not yet, my lamb… Ye can open them now. Well now, what d’ye think, eh, laddie? Isn’t it fine?’
And there would be the newly decorated Christmas tree before the bay window, candles gleaming in its branches; his mother and father waiting by the hearth, where a good fire was burning, beaming, exchanging glances, enjoying his childish pleasure in the magical spectacle; his grandparents, and his great-grandfather too, sitting in the tall old chair by the fender – his wooden leg, from when he’d been shot off his horse at the Crimea, propped awkwardly in front of him.
Robert’s emotions choked in his throat now as he looked at the old Catholic murals of pitying angels and suffering demons, and the serene, transfigured faces of the saints. He felt as if he were standing with Tangle and Mossy in The Golden Key, about to enter the land from which the shadows fall, where she – Louisa – would at last be waiting for him.
The aisle was full of rainwater. Most likely, the Germans had plundered the lead from the church roof. There was none of the usual brassware either – no candlesticks or chalice, not even a crucifix. Those would have been taken for bomb fuses. But above the altar there was still a gilded reliquary, studded with gems that glowed in the candlelight. Behind the glass was a skull, blackened with age, wearing a coronet of flowers and jewels. Crâne de Ste Héloïse de Bellonnes – Martyre, the sign beneath it said. The Germans were clearly far too superstitious to take it.
He looked around. In front of the south transept was another guard, and two more stood either side of the altar. He wouldn’t get far. Hopefully an opportunity would present itself soon. He lay down on a pew and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
He awoke to the sound of Brandt’s voice.
‘Come with me,’ he ordered. Outside, a car was waiting. But not some tatty workhorse of war, a Stoewer; a proper staff car with a driver, all soft leather seats, fluted radiator and gleaming bodywork. The chauffeur got down and opened the front passenger door.
‘Where are we going?’ Robert asked.
‘Just get in.’
He climbed in. Brandt sat behind, pistol on his lap.
‘Surely you can tell me where we’re going?’
‘We ask the questions, not you.’
Ah, of course. They were taking him to be questioned. Well, good luck to them. They wouldn’t get anything out of him even if he did know anything. Which he didn’t.
The powerful car motored through the darkening countryside. After a while they turned onto a long driveway which skirted a lake. Eventually, Robert made out a handsome chateau with an elaborate, pale-brick frontage and deep mansard roof. Its tall fanlight windows gleamed with the light from scores of chandeliers. A man dressed in a mess waiter’s uniform hurried down the front steps to open the car door.
‘Good evening, sir,’ he said politely in German, just as if Robert had arrived with dinner reservations at the Hotel Adlon in Berlin. ‘This way, please.’
Brandt close at his heels, Robert climbed the steps and went inside, finding himself in an elaborate marble hallway with a sweeping staircase beyond, all thick carpet and gleaming brass stair rods. The servant took his coat, then showed him into a high-ceilinged, baroque salon with cream panelling and gold-leaf coving. A series of French windows led onto a terrace which overlooked the lake. In the middle of the room was a table prepared with immaculate white napery and laid for dinner for two. Brandt took a seat by the wall.
‘Exquisite, isn’t it?’ said a voice from the other end of the room. It was a German colonel. He was handsome, with a narrow face and dark hair that was not yet grey, although he looked as if he must be well into his fifties.
Robert stood to attention and saluted. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘And I’m sure its rightful owners think so too.’
The colonel, tapping a cigarette on his cigarette case, smiled.
‘Ah, but surely they would be mollified to know how much we appreciate their good taste. Cigarette? The English would undoubtedly think it bad form before dinner, but I assure you these are worth the breach of etiquette.’
Robert shook his head. ‘You speak very good English.’