pilfering a random assortment of small objects from the rittergut —wood scraps from the bötcher , a pouch of oats from the stables, possibly a rusty awl or other tools. Nothing particularly valuable, nothing that was even really missed.
Werner had beat him so severely he had lost the use of his right arm and the sight in his left eye.
Or rather, Werner had had Roulf beat him. It wasn’t that Werner had a problem doing it himself, no moral compunction or constitutional qualms about the actual physical act. He just hated the mess it created, the cuts and scratches it left across his knuckles, the drops of blood he could never get out of the linen of his trousers or the silk of his shirts. Much easier to have that stupid brute of a henchman he kept around do those bits of unpleasantness.
Werner would have been more bothered by the unmitigated gall of the boy and the inconvenience of finding another stellmacher , but he found such episodes were actually quite useful in running the rittergut . The servants had a tendency to become lazy and complacent if they weren’t given periodic reminders of the level of service and respect he required, and exactly what would happen if they failed to give it to him. Indeed, after the boy had been removed from his property and dumped in a bloody heap on his mother’s doorstep, the rittergut had run so efficiently, the servants so timid and reverent, he had considered making a monthly accusation of theft and meting out a like punishment.
A heavy knock at the door brought Werner back to the present. He rubbed his eyes, leaned back over his ledgers.
“Come in,” he barked.
Roulf appeared in the doorway, looking thick, stupid, and disheveled. His lederhosen were scuffed and cracking. The felt of his Tyrolean hat was stained and crumpled, the feather stuffed in the corded hatband drooping ridiculously. He looked like a yodeling, alpine idiot. He stood gaping at Werner, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and Werner suspected he was either already drunk or well on his way.
“What?” Werner snapped, letting Roulf see his irritated impatience.
“I sent some boys out, like ye said, to get more copper. Tol’ ’em to get whatever they could find, like ye asked.”
“And did I also ask for you to stop by the tavern on the way back?”
Roulf reddened and took a step back. “I didn’t—I mean—maybe jus’ for one, but I—”
Werner raised a hand, and Roulf immediately stopped his stammering. Werner waved him away, and Roulf nearly tripped over his feet as he scrambled back out of the door. Werner was not in the mood to deal with Roulf tonight, let him drown himself in cheap beer. Werner was far more interested in knowing he would soon have more copper—copper that the little madchen he had locked up in one of the old servant cottages would then make into gold.
Werner had been skeptical at first of Gregor’s claims that his daughter had discovered the secrets of alchemy. He wouldn’t put it past the old sot to fabricate stories in an attempt to wriggle out from under his debts. But then Werner had entered the cottage this morning and seen the gold nuggets on the table, and Werner knew Gregor had been telling the truth. The girl had done it. She had taken his iron and copper and turned it into gold. And as long as he had possession of the girl, he would have possession of all the wealth he could ever desire. And possess her, he would. He had told her he would let her go after two more nights, but he had no intention of keeping that promise. Her talents were simply too valuable. The fact that she was so tempting was just an added bonus.
Werner stirred at the thought of her. He remembered the carriage ride up to the rittergut on the night he had taken her. How she had sat across from him, cold and shivering. How the wet cotton of her dirndl had clung to her body, accentuating every young, firm, plump curve of her. How her breasts had quivered as she trembled from fear and
Werner had beat him so severely he had lost the use of his right arm and the sight in his left eye.
Or rather, Werner had had Roulf beat him. It wasn’t that Werner had a problem doing it himself, no moral compunction or constitutional qualms about the actual physical act. He just hated the mess it created, the cuts and scratches it left across his knuckles, the drops of blood he could never get out of the linen of his trousers or the silk of his shirts. Much easier to have that stupid brute of a henchman he kept around do those bits of unpleasantness.
Werner would have been more bothered by the unmitigated gall of the boy and the inconvenience of finding another stellmacher , but he found such episodes were actually quite useful in running the rittergut . The servants had a tendency to become lazy and complacent if they weren’t given periodic reminders of the level of service and respect he required, and exactly what would happen if they failed to give it to him. Indeed, after the boy had been removed from his property and dumped in a bloody heap on his mother’s doorstep, the rittergut had run so efficiently, the servants so timid and reverent, he had considered making a monthly accusation of theft and meting out a like punishment.
A heavy knock at the door brought Werner back to the present. He rubbed his eyes, leaned back over his ledgers.
“Come in,” he barked.
Roulf appeared in the doorway, looking thick, stupid, and disheveled. His lederhosen were scuffed and cracking. The felt of his Tyrolean hat was stained and crumpled, the feather stuffed in the corded hatband drooping ridiculously. He looked like a yodeling, alpine idiot. He stood gaping at Werner, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and Werner suspected he was either already drunk or well on his way.
“What?” Werner snapped, letting Roulf see his irritated impatience.
“I sent some boys out, like ye said, to get more copper. Tol’ ’em to get whatever they could find, like ye asked.”
“And did I also ask for you to stop by the tavern on the way back?”
Roulf reddened and took a step back. “I didn’t—I mean—maybe jus’ for one, but I—”
Werner raised a hand, and Roulf immediately stopped his stammering. Werner waved him away, and Roulf nearly tripped over his feet as he scrambled back out of the door. Werner was not in the mood to deal with Roulf tonight, let him drown himself in cheap beer. Werner was far more interested in knowing he would soon have more copper—copper that the little madchen he had locked up in one of the old servant cottages would then make into gold.
Werner had been skeptical at first of Gregor’s claims that his daughter had discovered the secrets of alchemy. He wouldn’t put it past the old sot to fabricate stories in an attempt to wriggle out from under his debts. But then Werner had entered the cottage this morning and seen the gold nuggets on the table, and Werner knew Gregor had been telling the truth. The girl had done it. She had taken his iron and copper and turned it into gold. And as long as he had possession of the girl, he would have possession of all the wealth he could ever desire. And possess her, he would. He had told her he would let her go after two more nights, but he had no intention of keeping that promise. Her talents were simply too valuable. The fact that she was so tempting was just an added bonus.
Werner stirred at the thought of her. He remembered the carriage ride up to the rittergut on the night he had taken her. How she had sat across from him, cold and shivering. How the wet cotton of her dirndl had clung to her body, accentuating every young, firm, plump curve of her. How her breasts had quivered as she trembled from fear and
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