Borrower of the Night: The First Vicky Bliss Mystery by Elizabeth Peters

I pictured our shrine I pictured it as he had done it at Creglingen, only in the round instead of in relief. The design was simple and forceful—the Virgin, seated, with two of the kings kneeling before her and the third standing at her right. Of course I knew the Drachenstein shrine wouldn’t be quite the same, but the subject was only open to a few variations. Since the old chronicle mentioned angels, I gave my visionary shrine a few of Riemenschneider’s typical winged beauties—not chubby dimpled babies, but grave ageless creatures with flowing hair and robes fluttering in the splendor of flight.
    The three jewels were a ruby, an emerald, and an enormous baroque pearl.
    Tony had looked this up too, but he professed to be more intrigued by the people who had been involved with the shrine back in 1525. (Women are always moved by crass materialistic things such as jewels; men concern themselves with the higher things of life.)
    “You had better get the characters straight in your mind,” Tony said smugly. “There were three of them. The count, Burckhardt, was a typical knight—and I’m not thinking, like, Sir Galahad. I assume you had the simple wit to write the author of The Peasants’ Revolt , and ask if there were any other letters from Burckhardt? Oh. You did.
    “Burckhardt was a rat. A bloodthirsty, illiterate lout. His repulsive personality is even more apparent in the unpublished letters. I guess that’s why they weren’t published; they tell more about Burckhardt than about the war. He was obstinate, unimaginative, arrogant—”
    “My goodness,” I said mildly. “You really are down on the lad.”
    “Lad, my eye.”
    “He couldn’t have been very old. What was the average life span—about forty? As you say, he was fairly typical. Why the prejudice?”
    “Not all of them were hairy Neanderthals. Take Götz von Berlichingen; he supported the peasants.”
    “Under protest, according to Götz. I don’t think he’s a good example of a parfit gentle knight. He was a menace on the highways, a robber, looter—”
    “At least he had courage. After his hand was shot off, he acquired an iron prosthesis and went on robbing.”
    “I stayed at his place once.”
    “Whose place?”
    “Götz’s,” I said, spitting a little on the sibilants. “Schloss Hornburg, on the Neckar. It’s a hotel now. They have his iron hand.”
    “I wish you would stop changing the subject,” Tony said unfairly.
    “You were the one who brought up Götz.”
    “And stop calling him Götz, as if he were the boy next door…. To return to Burckhardt—he was only heroic when he was up against a bunch of serfs armed with sticks. And did you notice the hypochondria? All those complaints about his bowels!”
    “Maybe he had a nervous stomach.”
    I could have said something really cutting. Tony’s prejudice against the valiant knight suggested a transferal of resentment against men of action in general—not mentioning any names. But I didn’t even hint at such a possibility. I didn’t like Burckhardt either.
    “He had one good point,” Tony said grudgingly. “He loved his wife. That comes out, even through the stiff formal phrasing. I couldn’t find much information on her. All I know is that her name was Konstanze and she was beautiful.”
    I started. I shouldn’t have been surprised. The dates on the portrait in my room would have told me that the woman portrayed had been the lady of our count. But it was—uncomfortable, somehow.
    Tony gave me a curious look, but asked no questions. He went on,
    “The third character was named Nicolas Duvenvoorde. He was the count’s steward, majordomo, or whatever you want to call it. He was Flemish, by his name, and a trusted, efficient servant, to judge by the references to him. Now one of the unpublished letters, if you remember, says the count has sent ‘it’ to Rothenburg in the care of this steward and an armed escort of five men. The countryside was in disorder; bands