Free Sweet Poison by David Roberts Page B

like weeds in an uncared-for garden – they may not in themselves be evil, they may even bring benefits: jobs, food, a steady income and with these, self-respect, but we must recognize that they are imposed by force and rest on a basis of cruelty and fear.’
    The Bishop had spoken with so much feeling there was a moment of embarrassment when he ceased speaking. Everyone tried to avoid the German’s eye though longing to see how he took the attack. Craig looked at the Duke with burning eyes, a small smile curling the edge of his lips, but he said nothing.
    Von Friedberg looked round the table at a ring of troubled faces and realized he had gone too far in his triumphalism. ‘Do not worry, my friends,’ he said jovially, actually putting a hand on the shoulder of the General, who was sitting next to him. He puffed at his cigar, sending a plume of smoke over his neighbour who coughed and waved his hand in front of his face. The Duke was anxious lest Friedberg would think the General was being rude, but fortunately he was too absorbed in what he wanted to say to notice the waving hand. ‘We Germans have no quarrel with the English. We admire your Empire. We admire you . . .’ he added mischievously. ‘We are all Aryans and should unite against the lesser races,’ and he waved his finger at Weaver, perhaps in imitation of his leader.
    Weaver grunted but said nothing, for which the Duke was grateful.
    ‘There is room for two empires in the world, surely,’ said Larmore nervously.
    ‘Ah, Mr Larmore, you are right.’ Friedberg grinned wolfishly. ‘Let me repeat, we Aryans must – how do you say it – “stick together”? Communism is the great enemy and our enemies may overwhelm us unless we have our hand on the sword of justice.’
    Friedberg smiled, obviously pleased by his grandiloquence and confident that what he had said would reassure his listeners. But the Bishop for one was uneasy.
    ‘I always shiver when I hear anyone talk about swords of justice. If indeed yours is a sword of justice, Baron, I urge you not to draw it from your scabbard.’
    ‘From my scabbard? What is scabbard?’ said Friedberg, momentarily puzzled.
    ‘ Die Degenscheide . . . ?’ suggested the Duke, tentatively.
    ‘ Ja! die Degenscheide – danke , mein Herzog . I did not know you spoke German.’
    ‘Only a little,’ said the Duke modestly. It was at this point that the conversation turned to what made a good army, and the General and Friedberg unexpectedly found common ground in disparaging Americans. Weaver was just about to put in a mild defence of North American soldiery when they all heard a loud knocking at the door. The Bishop found himself thinking of that ridiculous moment in Macbeth when the knocking at the gate disturbs the sleeping castle and the audience want to giggle because they know there will soon be so much blood. Then there was the rattle of bolts, the sound of Bates opening up, followed by the clear, confident cries of the English nobleman returning home.
    Ah!’ exclaimed the Duke with irritation. ‘That must be my brother. Please forgive me if I leave you for a moment to find out what has happened to make him so late. Sit and enjoy your wine, please, I won’t be long.’
    For whatever reason, the Duke’s guests felt unable to stay put and rose with their host to stroll after him to the door in the dining-room which opened into the hall. Even Friedberg seemed anxious not to be left behind, either alone or with the Bishop, who was rather drunk and feeling melancholy at the bellicosity displayed by the German and by General Craig. The Bishop stumbled to his feet and followed Friedberg, finding himself beside General Craig. ‘You were very silent when Friedberg was telling us his vision of a resurrected Germany,’ he murmured.
    ‘What is there to say?’ said the General shortly. ‘It confirms what I already knew – that we will be at war with Germany within ten years. Or rather you will be. I shall be