The Legacy (32 page)

“Why?” Sabina asked again. It was her own worst fear, spoken aloud, and she had to know if it was true.

The baronin leaned back in her chair. “Marcus is intent on a male heir. Despite my family history, I have proven to be barren. His third wife was not barren, but none of her children lived past infancy, and your mother—” she stopped. “Of course, you already know about your mother. If Marcus dies before you do, without a male heir, you inherit everything. I inherit nothing, except that which was given to me in my marriage contract, unless I provide him an heir. Everything else—the title, the landholdings, all of it—goes to you. And that, he cannot abide.”

Sabina sank slowly down onto the bench seat, stunned into silence. Finally, she located her wits. “But you are mistaken. My grandfather’s bequest stipulated the landholdings must go to a male heir, and any female descendents are to be allowed only a tenth of the inheritance,” Sabina pointed out.

“Who told you that?”

“Why, the baron, of course …” she stopped, realization dawning.

“And did you ever see these stipulations? Or some kind of document to prove this claim?”

Sabina shook her head. She had left when she was sixteen, and it had never occurred to her to ask to see it. Not that he would have shown it to her regardless. Her mother would not have been allowed to speak of such matters to her, either. Her adoptive father had exerted an inordinate amount of control over her.

The baronin continued. “I have seen the documents that prove what I have told you.” She gestured airily. “I felt it was in my best interests to be fully apprised of anything that could affect my ability to inherit. You understand. It seems your grandfather must not have had very much faith in Marcus’s capacity to hold on to his own inheritance. There are documents Marcus maintains with other papers in the false base of a heavy sea chest. These documents state he cannot directly inherit the lands. However, if a male issue from his loins exists, only then can Marcus receive the appropriate title to the land, to be held in trust for the heir. However, even if no male heir exists, everything goes to his eldest
legal heir.
There is no stipulation about whether that heir is male or female, natural or adopted.”

“So it is not to go to his cousin?” Sabina asked, astounded yet again.

The baronin shook her head. “A fact the baron conveniently neglected to mention to you while he was beating you for returning home so unexpectedly. The only thing that likely saved your life before is with you in the cloister, he still controlled the inheritance’s distribution and could have the illusion of being the heir. Once you returned, you became an immediate problem to be dealt with.”

Sabina absorbed all she had said. “But why do you think he killed my mother and his third wife? You said you had no proof.”

The baronin drew a heavy breath. “No. But the servants talk, and there are stories among the eldest of those who have not managed to find positions elsewhere. His last three wives have all had in common one problem—we have not borne him any male heirs. Two wives died under strange circumstances. Your mother and the third wife who was thrown from a horse while accompanied by Marcus for a ‘late evening ride.’ It would be a logical assumption I am next.”

Sabina stared at the young woman before her, who could be no more than twenty years old. “You think he intends to murder you?” She feared it was the truth, even as she spoke it.

The baronin nodded. “There have been certain—incidents in the last few weeks. Accidents had I moved but a moment sooner, or a moment later, would have ended in my premature demise. And I started keeping a little dog just recently. Last night, by the grace of God, I did not feel like eating my soup, and I put it on the ground for her to enjoy. This morning—” her voice caught, and for the first time she showed genuine emotion, “when I went to wake her, I found her cold body. I think she was poisoned.” She shuddered at the memory. “It is only a matter of time before he succeeds in doing the same to me. The way I see it, it is either him, or me. And I am too young to die. Let him.”

Sabina sat down heavily. “If what you say is true, you cannot return to the castle. You must stay here with us until Master Behaim figures out what can be done about this.”

The baronin shook her head. “Nay. I intend to make an extended visit today to my mother’s home. It seems she has developed a convenient and lingering disease requiring my presence to care for her, a fact I intend to inform her of the moment I arrive.”

Sabina smiled wryly despite herself. “How unfortunate for your mother. I hope her recovery is long and uneventful.”

The baronin cocked an eyebrow. “Indeed. However, it is why I cannot stay to speak to your husband. Knowing his feelings for Marcus, I had hoped to see Master Behaim and deliver to him the information of which I have spoken, but now I entrust it to you. I will give you the direction of my mother’s home so Master Behaim can send my compensation there.”

The baronin produced an address card and three iron keys, one large and two small, from the wallet hanging from her waist. “It was too dangerous for me to remove the documents themselves—the baron has grown mistrustful in his old age and checks them frequently. It was how I was able to discover their location—I pretended to be asleep and then spied on him several nights in a row until I had divined his secret and could make a wax duplicate of these. The chest is in the North Tower, which of course no one ever visits because of its decrepit state, a fact I am certain the baron has counted on to keep the documents safe.” She handed the large iron key to Sabina first. “This one opens the tower room at the top.”

She handed the smaller keys to Sabina next. “These open the chest itself. There is a false keyhole in the front of the chest—ignore it, for it is a spring-trap decoy. Put your finger in there to push down the latch, and you will get a nasty surprise. The real keyholes are on the bottom. Insert both of these at the same time, and the bottom will fall open. You will find all you need there to indict him.”

Sabina took the keys and examined them carefully. Then she looked up at her stepmother. “May I have the pleasure of knowing your Christian name?”

For the first time during their conversation, the younger woman looked uncertain. In that moment, Sabina saw the young girl the woman had never had a chance to be.

“Agnes. My name is Agnes,” she said, almost shyly.

“Agnes, I will pray for your safety. I will see my husband knows all we have discussed. If there is anything I can do, if you have need of anything—”

The hardness returned to Agnes’s eyes once again. “Ensure Marcus pays for what he forced us to become against our wills—a nun and a whore.” With that, Baronin Agnes von Ziegler stood. “Good day,
Frau
Behaim. Meeting you has been—very satisfying.”

Sabina rose as well. She took Agnes’s hand again, and after a slight hesitation, gave her a brief embrace. Agnes seemed startled and quickly pulled back. She was unaccustomed to kindness, it seemed to Sabina, another debt against the baron she would make certain he paid.

“God Bless and keep you, Agnes,” she offered.

Agnes’s eyes glimmered for a moment before she blinked. “And you as well, Sabina.”

She turned and hurried away, leaving Sabina standing alone in the empty withdrawing room with nothing but her riotous thoughts for company.

Chapter
23

S
abina found she could not wait until supper, when Wolf was due home, to tell him of Agnes’s visit and everything she had learned about the baron’s crimes as a result. After hastily changing her gown and wrapping the traditional scarf about her head and neck, she walked briskly to the center of Wittenberg to see him at the print shop.

She found him supervising the setting of type for a sheet of pamphlet paper. While most of the shop’s work involved the printing of books and woodcut images, it also published a quarterly Faire Market trade letter for merchants, and pamphlets and announcements of special events.

To Sabina, there seemed to be an unusual amount of activity in the pressing room this day, although she had visited only once before, so it was difficult to tell. Lead type clanked in trays as they were lifted from their cabinets, and gruff-looking men called instructions to one another. A young boy, apprenticed to the shop, scampered up and down a ladder to set the pressed sheets to dry on the rafters. The room smelled unfortunately of cat urine, used to soak the pressing balls to get them clean and supple, and lampblack, which was used as an ingredient for the ink.

Sabina, standing just inside the doorway, noted Wolf working with the typesetter. Wolf had removed his doublet and rolled up his sleeves, and now composited the lead letters into long lines of text. At his instruction, the typesetter’s hands flashed quickly over the small metal pieces shaped into letters of the alphabet, selecting the appropriate letters from two rows of cases. As a consequence of where the big and small lead letters were stored in their large divided boxes, typesetters had coined the terms “upper case” and “lower case” for each.

After some discussion, the compositor lined both upper and lower case letters into a wooden frame to create the words and sentences that would soon march across the page. Sabina watched with fascination as they set the finished frame into the area of the press known as the coffin, and the pressman used the round, stuffed inking pads to prepare the letters for the initial press. A second pressman gripped the hand crank on the side of the machine, set his foot up against it for leverage and, arms bulging, pulled down firmly. A large bore screw pressed the platen against the inked side of the letters, and the first pressman pulled the proof sheet from the frame and handed it to Wolf to review. Wolf made a few corrections, the type was reset, and the process started all over again.

Watching the muscular pressman labor, Sabina understood why Wolf was so strong if he had worked in pressing rooms since he was a child. The second pressman released the crank handle, and Wolf pulled the sheet of paper out, examining the marks critically for any further corrections. He made a few more changes, the type was quickly reset, and another sheet prepared.

This one seemed to pass inspection, and Wolf clapped the typesetter on the shoulder and nodded his head in approval. He ordered the first pressman to begin pressing additional copies of the pages.

One of the men glanced up and caught Sabina watching the activity from the doorway.

Surprised to see a woman silhouetted in the doorframe, the pressman’s mouth widened into a toothless leer. He suddenly realized who she was and, embarrassed, he nodded politely to her, pulling his forelock in greeting. He respectfully nudged Wolf and motioned toward the door.

Wolf looked up at her, and for a moment, it seemed to Sabina as if the two of them were alone in the room. She remembered when she had seen him last, just this morning, nestled around her in the comfort of their wide bed at home, teasingly suggesting he had time for one more romp if she was so inclined. She had been, and she had savored that early morning loving, as he had drawn out her response kiss by sensuous kiss.

She admired his strong form now, the power in his forearms and chest evident even under his full shirt, his thighs sculpted beneath his hose. She could eat him alive, she thought meltingly, and decided to try that very thing on him tonight.

Wolf strode toward her, wondering what had prompted her to come to the print shop on her own. Especially with such an … expression … on her face. He noted out of his side vision his men were slowly stopping their work, right down to the ten-year-old apprentice, each male fascinated by her blatantly sensual appraisal of Wolf.

A fierce possessiveness seized him. He wanted, irresponsibly, irrationally, to blindfold every one of them and take her right there on the floor, to brand her as his property. Now was not the time or the place for such primitive thoughts, however, and he ruthlessly brought his impulses under control.

He dropped his smile, allowing his intimidating gaze to swing around the room, in effect ordering the men to get back to business without saying a word. All eyes turned back to their tasks, though he thought he heard “lucky bastard” uttered beneath someone’s breath.

Lucky bastard, indeed.

“Sabina. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? You should have told me you wanted to come to the shop today. I would have escorted you myself,” he said pointedly as he led her up the main staircase to his office above the typesetting room. “It isn’t safe for you to be wandering about right now.”

There was no door on the office, and little more than stairs and space separated it from the workroom below, but it allowed him to toil separately from the men, when required, with a modicum of distraction and without prying eyes. As they reached the upper floor, hidden from view, he pulled her up against him and kissed her thoroughly. She went up on her toes, looping her arms around his neck and pressing against him with a sigh.

When will I ever get enough of her?

Never, he realized as he set her back on her heels.

“So?” he said, awaiting her response.

She smiled back at him, momentarily distracted. “Hmmm. What was the question again?”

He grinned. He liked the way she had of totally immersing herself in his kisses. It was very … flattering.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” he repeated as he drew her arms from around his neck, holding her hands in his.

“Oh, yes,” she said, and her expression instantly grew serious. “I need your help, Wolf, to trap Baron von Ziegler in his own web of deceit.”

Concerned, Wolf motioned for her to sit. “Tell me what’s happened,” he said, for it was obvious something had.

Agitated, Sabina explained to him every thing Agnes had told her, including her fears about the deaths of her mother and the baron’s third wife. “I have suspected it for awhile, but to hear it confirmed … oh, Wolf, what should we do?”

A coldness settled over him in conflict with the choler in his heart.