Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Guardian and Ward, #Vampires, #Nobility, #blood, #Paramours, #Switzerland
Borne in Blood (2 page)
“No, Fraulein. Not yet.” He stretched out, as if he might accidentally brush the skirt of her morning-dress.
“I will see why he has delayed,” she offered. “You will want to be warm.”
“Your company warms me very well,” said Haller boldly.
“You will be better for food and drink,” she said, and turned away to leave the room.
Haller sighed loudly, and leaned nearer to the fire.
On her way to the kitchen, Hyacinthie came upon Herr Arndt Lowengard, her uncle’s man-of-business, just emerging from the estate office. She offered him a pert good morning and a quick bob of a curtsy, then continued on, certain he was watching her as she went, for all men watched her. In the outer kitchen she found the under-cook, Werther, busy preparing trays for the guests of the house; he blushed as Hyacinthie came up to him. “The messenger still doesn’t have any food,” she said.
“I know.”
“And Herr Thorbern is in the morning room. My uncle has finished with him, so he is hungry and thirsty.” She leaned across the wide cutting-table, and twirling one pale tendril around her finger said, “Can I help with anything?”
“No, Fraulein. I am almost done.” He stared down intently at the sausage he was slicing. “I have beer and warm brandy for them both.”
“I’ll put them on the tray, shall I,” she suggested.
“It isn’t fitting,” said Werther, feeling dreadfully inadequate; he was so flustered he almost nicked his thumb with the heavy carving-knife.
Hyacinthie tittered. “You must be more careful, Werther.” She stopped playing with her hair and leaned toward Werther again. “But you better hurry, or my uncle will be angry.”
“Of course, Fraulein. And I’ll be quicker,” he added with the temerity of desperation, “if I may attend to it on my own.”
“If you like,” Hyacinthie said, a dangerous gleam in her eyes as she flounced to the door. “I won’t di
sturb
you any longer.” It took her a few seconds to compose herself; when she was certain she had steadied her temper, she sauntered down the hall, her pace steady, her expression benign; she had managed to discomfit Werther, which she had intended to do, and her satisfaction increased. She knew what it was that men wanted. Her uncle had taught her all about it when she was seven, coming to her bedroom at night to show her how much he cared for her; he had been utterly entranced by her until she turned fourteen: in the last three years he had all but ignored her. Had she not seen the look in other men’s eyes she would have despaired. As it was, she knew how to find solace in the attention of those who desired her. With this reflection to guide her, she returned to Herr Haller, assuming a demureness that she suspected would intrigue him.
sturb
you any longer.” It took her a few seconds to compose herself; when she was certain she had steadied her temper, she sauntered down the hall, her pace steady, her expression benign; she had managed to discomfit Werther, which she had intended to do, and her satisfaction increased. She knew what it was that men wanted. Her uncle had taught her all about it when she was seven, coming to her bedroom at night to show her how much he cared for her; he had been utterly entranced by her until she turned fourteen: in the last three years he had all but ignored her. Had she not seen the look in other men’s eyes she would have despaired. As it was, she knew how to find solace in the attention of those who desired her. With this reflection to guide her, she returned to Herr Haller, assuming a demureness that she suspected would intrigue him.
The messenger was still on the divan facing the fire, his big body almost dwarfing the furniture. He swung around to look at her. “No refreshments?”
“They are coming directly; things are a bit slow in the kitchen,” she said, making her way slowly over the fine Belgian carpet toward the crocodile-footed chair near the window; it was colder there than near the fire, but the light was particularly flattering, falling on her with the clear luminosity of a northern winter. “The cook is busy with baking, I think, and the under-cook doesn’t work with dispatch yet. He’ll have a tray ready shortly. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Well, I don’t mind, to tell the truth. This room is very pleasant and warm. I’m in no hurry to be out in that cold, not with the wind picking up. You should see the drifts—and they’ll only get deeper. I’ll be lucky to make Bludenz tonight.”
“Is that where you are bound?” she asked.
“Eventually I will reach Zurich, and will carry private messages back to Salzburg. That’s my region: Zurich to Salzburg.”
“It must be very arduous,” she said, licking her lip delicately.
What a minx she is! he thought, but said, “Not so bad as you might think. I used to be a military courier—rode dispatches starting at Austerlitz my first time out. That was a baptism, I can tell you.”
“Were you in danger?” She sounded a bit breathless to encourage him.
“We were all in danger.” He made a shrug of dismissal. “After that—”
“Were you injured?”
“Nothing to speak of. A ball through the outside of my thigh.” He chuckled now, but at the time he had gasped and wept with the pain of it. “Not the kind of things for a well-bred young lady like yourself to be bothered with.” He fell silent, uncertain how to proceed.
“The winter is very hard,” she said wistfully.
“It was worse last year. Not that winter’s over.” He grinned at her, sure of himself once more. “A man likes to be all warm and cozy when there is so much snow.”
“So does your horse, no doubt,” she said with an exaggerated air of innocence.
“He’s a Holsteiner. He can take the cold. I put a sheepskin wrap on him, and he can get through a blizzard, if he has something worth reaching.” His boasting was more for effect than to convey any facts, an obvious ploy to encourage her coquetry; his gaze lingered on the rise of her bosom, although he knew if he were caught by the Graf in such a flagrant intrusion, he would be thrown out of the house with a blow to his shoulder for his outrageous behavior.
“A warm stall, perhaps?” She moved a little so that the clear winter sun could make a halo of her dark-blond hair.
“And a good brushing down,” Haller said, with unvarnished sexual implication; he was rarely so blatant with the women of the posting-inns he frequented—to be so forward with the niece of a man like Graf von Ravensberg was nearly as seductively gratifying as the girl herself. He was about to say something more when a discreet scratch at the door stopped him.
With a petulant little sigh, Hyacinthie called out, “Come in, Werther.”
The door opened and the young under-cook came in, his face rigidly expressionless, a tray with a stein, a cup, a plate of sliced sausage, a basket of bread, and a small tub of butter carried before him like a horizontal shield. “Sorry for the delay, Herr Haller.”
“No harm done,” said Haller, sitting up properly and pulling the end-table around to the side of the divan. “This is as good a place as any.”
Werther blinked as he set down the tray; he did his best not to look at Hyacinthie. “Will you require anything more, Herr Haller?”
“Not at the moment,” said Haller, preparing to eat. “I’m hungry. This will do me very well.”
“Then I will leave you to your repast,” said Werther, who ducked his head and all but bolted from the room.
Amused and annoyed at once, Hyacinthie moved her chair a little closer to the divan, smiling as she did. “The sausage has venison in it, as well as pork.”
“Fine,” said Haller, smearing butter on a thick slice of bread. “If you’ll excuse me, Fraulein?”
She glared at him, then rose and left the room, her eyes shining with anger. How dare he dismiss her! Her cheeks flamed as she hastened toward the morning room. Herr Thorbern would provide more sport, or he would answer for it! She had almost reached the door when Herr Lowengard appeared as if from out of the wood paneling, saying in his quiet, self-deprecatory way, “Frau Schale is looking for you, Fraulein.” He nodded his head. “She is in the—”
“—schoolroom, no doubt,” snapped Hyacinthie, her chin jutting out. The last thing she wanted just now was to do lessons—any lessons—with her impossible tutor. Her mouth turned into a thin, hard line.
“Your uncle wouldn’t approve of your tardiness,” said Herr Lowengard, and turned into the narrow stairway leading to the second floor.
Hyancinthie bit back a loud retort and did her best to bring her temper under control. She counted each step as she went to the kitchen, saying to Werther, “I will be in the schoolroom. Please send up some hot wine.” It was galling to have to admit that she was still a student, but so her uncle insisted; Hyacinthie would rather have spent the year in the city, acquiring beaux. “Frau Schale will probably want some, too.” Her expression dared him to say anything beyond acquiescence.
“I will. And perhaps a morning pastry?”
“That would be welcome,” said Hyacinthie, swallowing hard, trying not to give way to the outburst that welled within her. She waited the better part of a minute to compose herself before she left the kitchen and made her way to the schoolroom on the second floor, directly over the morning-room, where she much preferred to be; for the next two hours, she translated
The Corsair
into German and ten pages of Fichte’s
Grundlage der gesammten Wissenschaftslehre
into French, all the while longing for the opportunity to be revenged on her uncle for this latest humiliation. How dare he ignore me, she repeated silently as she attended to her schoolwork.
How dare he.
The Corsair
into German and ten pages of Fichte’s
Grundlage der gesammten Wissenschaftslehre
into French, all the while longing for the opportunity to be revenged on her uncle for this latest humiliation. How dare he ignore me, she repeated silently as she attended to her schoolwork.
How dare he.
Text of a letter from Reinhart Olivier Kreuzbach, attorney at law and factor, at Speicher near the Kyll River, Rhenish Prussia, to Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus at Château Ragoczy near Lake Geneva, Yvoire, Switzerland; carried by private courier and delivered ten days after being dispatched.
To the Honorable Comte Franciscus, Saint-Germain Ragoczy, my sincerest greetings on this, the 4
th
day of February, 1817;
th
day of February, 1817;
My dear Comte,
I write to inform you that your castle above Zemmer has, as you feared, suffered damage thanks to all the years of fighting this region has sustained. It is not yet a ruin, but it is not truly habitable, except for rats and owls, and will not be until massive repairs are carried out. My information comes from Pasch Gruenerwald of Zemmer, who has visited the castle recently, and drafted an account of all he observed. I have consulted builders regarding the restoration of the castle, and when the winter is over, I will submit the reports they will provide. I have been told that it may be more prudent to tear down what remains and begin anew. If that is your decision, I will supervise the project, or I will, should you prefer, recommend someone to attend to that part of the enterprise. Whatever you choose to do, I am instructed to tell you that the building, as it stands now, cannot weather another hard winter without sustaining significant damage in addition to what has already occurred, and the longer repairs are delayed, the more catastrophic the damage becomes. If you wish to see the building made truly habitable, let me urge you to authorize the expenditure and the work at once.
I have already contracted for a timber-road to be installed once the snows have melted, and that will enable the wagons to climb the hill to the castle without being bogged in mud or risking broken axles. No matter what else is or is not done to the castle, such a road is a necessity, if only to remove the stones and the furnishings if you abandon the place in the end, and I will order the tree-cutting for the road to begin as soon as it is possible to do so. I have talked to three wood-cutters, and they are all certain they cannot begin until April, which would suggest that the earliest work could begin on the castle would be June. To have sufficient repairs completed in time for next winter, it may be necessary to pay for double work-crews, which can become very expensive. At least we will soon be part of the Zollverein, so the work will not have to be taxed beyond all reason, assuming that the plan is adopted throughout all German territory. Luxembourg may not support the act, but the Dutch will probably agree to the terms, as well. Until then, I will make every effort to secure as many of the items and services from our taxation region, to prevent any unnecessary additional costs.
I will conduct a full inspection once I can reach the castle without undue risks, and at that time, I will amend my report to something that is more truly comprehensive regarding the present state of the castle. I have no doubt you know for yourself how remote it is, though you have not visited for many years. I feel it my duty to tell you that I would not recommend selling the land at this time. Prices are low, and given the location and the condition of the castle, I believe you would not realize anything approaching its worth. In another two or three years the market should improve, and if the castle is in good condition, you could profit from it quite satisfactorily. If you can afford to restore it, then it might command a reasonable sum, but as it is, unless you must make such a sacrifice, I would be remiss in my duty if I did not inform you of the risks you would take if you decided to try to find a buyer at this time. Having said that, I will, naturally, carry out whatever instructions you give me to the full extent of my capabilities and the ethics of my profession.
Most truly at your service,
Reinhart Olivier Kreuzbach
Attorney-at-law and factor
Speicher, Rhenish Prussia
A howling storm had kept them inside for two days, hovering near fireplaces, reading by wavering candlelight. Just now they were in the smaller of the two withdrawing rooms—the one on the sheltered south side of the château—the draperies over the six tall windows drawn to keep in the warmth. Hero huddled in front of the hearth on a large ottoman, a wolf-skin rug wrapped around her; Ragoczy sat on a low stool at her feet, his black coachman’s cloak worn negligently over his shoulders, more as a concession to Hero than to keep out the chill, which hardly bothered him. There was a book in his hands, lit by the unsteady flames from a standing candelabra set behind his shoulder, and he turned the pages slowly, looking for another story to read. Although it was just past noon, the room was dark as twilight, with shadows clinging to the corners or the apartment augmenting the gloom.
“Do you really like ghost stories? or are you just indulging me?” Hero asked; she spoke in Italian, her pronunciation northern. Under the wolf-skin rug, she wore sensible clothes—a woollen round dress with a high waist and a swallowtail riding jacket; her hair was braided and done in a coronet, all covered in a small cap edged in black, an indication of her widowhood; her hair and eyes were the same sunny shade of brown. She was thirty-two, the only surviving child of the great antiquarian scholar, Attilio Corvosaggio, and at present, alone in the world but for Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus.
“I find them … intriguing,” said Ragoczy, his tone thoughtful. “And just at present, they are in vogue.”
“Yes, they are,” she agreed, shivering in spite of the heavy fur cocoon she had made for herself. She pulled the wolf-skin rug higher so that her face was framed in the silvery fur; shifting her place on the ottoman, she leaned onto her elbow, offering him a smile that was achingly sad. “Do you think it is because I still miss Fridhold? that I like ghost stories?” Her question was wistful.
“I think you will miss your husband all your life, no matter what you choose to read,” said Ragoczy gently. “I believe you still grieve for him.”
“But he has been dead nearly six years,” she protested. “Surely I should not mourn any longer. We were married not quite seven years.”
Ragoczy studied her for a long moment, then said, “You mourn as long as you mourn. There is no set time on it.”
“But it is a year of mourning, and then it is over,” said Hero. “I am well-beyond that time.”
“There is no blame,” said Ragoczy. “And if ghost stories ease your grief and give you solace, who am I to deny them to you?”
She motioned to the book he held. “What more would you like to read? Or would you prefer to stop for now?”
“There is a story here by Hoffmann. You like Hoffmann, do you not?” He knew the answer, but waited for her to decide.
“Yes,” she said. “But not the one about the Devil’s Elixir, if you please. You read that to me last week, and it’s too soon to hear it again.”
He rose and went to the small bookcase across from the hearth. “Would you like something entirely new? I have a book of Spanish tales, if you would enjoy them? They’re not quite like the ones we have been reading.” He had collected half of them himself, not quite a century ago. “The Catalonian stories are the most interesting of the lot, not the same flavor as most Spanish tales.”
“Are they in Spanish?” She stared into the fire, her expression astonishingly blank. “I don’t know Spanish.”
“I will translate them for you, if you like,” he offered, taking the book from the shelf. “As you have translated Turkish for me.” He spoke Turkish quite well, but found her skill engaging, and more in the modern style than the version he knew.
She said nothing for a short while; the ticking of the grandmother clock by the door to the parlor provided an orderly counterpoint to the snap and rush of the flames. “If you think I would like them, why not?”
He pulled the book from the shelf and began to thumb through the pages. “Here’s one:
How Pedro Defeated the Night-Hag.”
He had a brief, intense recollection of Csimenae and her vampire clan, and wondered if she still haunted the eastern peaks of the Pyrenees; he had lost all but the most fleeting sense of her since she had disavowed their Blood Bond over five hundred years ago.
How Pedro Defeated the Night-Hag.”
He had a brief, intense recollection of Csimenae and her vampire clan, and wondered if she still haunted the eastern peaks of the Pyrenees; he had lost all but the most fleeting sense of her since she had disavowed their Blood Bond over five hundred years ago.
“Try it,” said Hero, and leaned toward him as he returned to the stool and made himself comfortable. Before he began to read, she said, “Do you think the roads will be passable next week?”
“It depends on how long this storm lasts, and how much snow it drops. It is possible, but just now, not very promising.” He took her hand without pulling her arm from the protection of the wolf-skin rug. “You need not fret. There is food and firewood enough to last us three months, assuming a little hunting can be done between blizzards. Rogier often goes out for small game when the weather is clear, and Uchtred likes to fish.”
“It is venison today, isn’t it?”
“Yes; unless you would prefer something else,” he said, aware of her discontent. “Order what you like.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s nothing to do with food,” she said. “I haven’t had a letter from my father-in-law since the one in September, and I worry.”
He kissed her hand. “As soon as he can, Rogier will go into Geneva and get the post. No doubt you will have news waiting. You remember how long it took for his winter letter to reach you last year, when the weather was worse.” He prepared to open the book once more, when something struck him: “I will say this for the Graf, much as I deplore his keeping you away from your children, he writes to you every quarter.”
“It is very responsible of him. But I miss them. I haven’t seen them in four years.” She said this last quietly, as if expressing it more loudly would add to her loneliness. “Do you think they are much changed?”
“I think they are growing up, and that must change them,” said Ragoczy as kindly as he could. “But I suspect you would know them anywhere.”
“I hope so,” she said, touching his shoulder before pulling her hand back into the folds of the wolf-skin rug. “Go on. You’ve caught my interest, I confess it. How did Pedro defeat the Night-Hag?”
Ragoczy opened the book and commenced to read: the tale was a dark one, with the Night-Hag pursuing Pedro as he attempted to sleep; she sat on his chest, she rattled bones around his head, she summoned monsters to gibber and howl at him. He tried prayer, but his saints were indifferent to his plight. He summoned the priest, but the exorcism was ineffective. He tried sleeping by day and ploughing his fields by night, but the Night-Hag still bedeviled his attempts at rest. Finally, in desperation, he set fire to his cottage and nearly burned it to the ground, but the Night-Hag would not be routed. At his wits’ end, Pedro begged the local prostitute to help him, and she agreed—for a price—to join with him in doing battle with the Night-Hag. And what a battle it was! The prostitute mounted Pedro’s loins and leaned over his body so that the Night-Hag could find no purchase upon him, then Pedro and the prostitute bounced so heartily that the Night-Hag was dislodged from the bed, and when she keened, the prostitute shrieked more loudly. After a night of harrowing feats, the Night-Hag was beaten; she retreated and never tormented Pedro again. For the first time in months, Pedro slept soundly and awoke without dread. The prostitute continued to visit him, and to earn her pay, but never again would Pedro allow her to be on top of him, for he feared that would tempt the Night-Hag to another attack.
For a minute or so after Ragoczy finished the story, Hero said nothing. Then she gave a shaky laugh and said, “Not precisely a children’s story, is it?” Without waiting for him to respond, she went on, “Still, the Greek legends of long ago are as carnal as this one, and everyone believes they are improving myths.”
“It is a way to explain what is not understood,” said Ragoczy, and set the book aside.
“It is a strange thing to me, that so often folktale explanations are much worse than the actual reasons are.” She sighed. “What is it in us that longs so for large disasters instead of small accidents and happenstance?”
“Importance,” said Ragoczy. “Or so I have come to think—many men would prefer to be the object of malign destiny than one unfortunate enough to have ended up in harm’s way for no more reason than that of inauspicious coincidence. An angry god after you lends you importance that accidents do not.” He thought of the monks on Dhenoussa and the storm that brought him into their hands; his Egyptian steersman had believed that Poseidon had been the source of their ordeal, which was an act of vengeance for slighting his power, but Ragoczy had concluded at the time that contrary winds and high seas were the forces responsible.
She shook her head. “I can’t imagine that anyone would seek to magnify misfortune in such a way,” she said, then went on in a brisker tone, “No, I don’t mean that. I can understand, and I have seen it happen. But losses are hard enough to bear without burdening them with greater significance than they possess for themselves.”
He reached out and touched her cheek. “As you have cause enough to know.”
“I don’t intend to dwell on the past: it is fixed and cannot be changed.” She shook her head twice.
“You may change your understanding of the past,” he suggested gently.
“As you have done?” she suggested remotely. “But I haven’t your centuries to provide perspective.”
“Ah,” he said, a bit ruefully.
She contemplated the middle distance. “The fire in my room is still burning. We will be warm there.”
“Are you sure you want to retire so early in the day? It is barely one o’clock.” He glanced toward the clock. “Dinner will be ready in an hour. It would be unkind to Uchtred not to eat it while it is hot.”
“Surely we will be done in an hour? An hour?” she ventured, rising and moving her wolf-skin rug so it was around her shoulders more securely. “Not that I want to hurry you.”
“It is you who should not be hurried,” he reminded her.
“It is lovely of you to be so thoughtful,” she said, going toward the double doors that would give the nearest access to stairs. “For all you say you benefit from it.”
“I assure you that I do,” Ragoczy said, following her without haste yet with obvious pleasant anticipation.
“Think of how we might make the most out of the time we have together,” she encouraged him as she opened the door and beckoned him to follow her.
He closed the door and called out for Rogier. “We will be upstairs for an hour or so. If you will keep the fires lit in the private dining room and the withdrawing room, I would appreciate it.”
Rogier, who stood in the doorway leading back to the kitchen, said, “Very well, my master.”
“If you have any questions, perhaps they could wait for an hour or so?” Ragoczy suggested.
“An hour or so? Certainly. I doubt there is anything so pressing that it cannot wait until tomorrow, if necessary.”
“Very good,” said Ragoczy, and prepared to follow Hero up the curving stairs toward the narrow gallery above; at a signal from Rogier, he swung his cloak off his shoulders and handed it to his manservant as he began his ascent.
Hero took the corridor on the west side of the gallery, following it along to the large bedchamber at its end. Like the rest of the nineteen-room château, its draperies and curtains were drawn and the metal fire-screen protected the fine Turkish carpet from stray sparks. A single candle protected by a glass chimney stood on the bedside table, providing enough illumination to make the room into a grotto, full of promise and secrets. As she threw the wolf-skin rug onto the foot of the bed, Hero shivered, and swung around to face Ragoczy. “Tell me what you want.”
“I ought to ask that of you,” he said, as he went up to her and took her into his arms. “You should not be cold.” He glanced at the nearest window where the blizzard drummed icy fingers and whimpered.
“How could I be?” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Outside is cold. In here, there is heat.”
“Then we must make sure it stays that way.” He touched her hair, loosening the three long ivory pins that held the coronet in place; the single, thick plait swung down her back. Slowly he kissed her forehead and closed eyelids, then put his attention on her shoulders, caressing them through the fabric of her jacket and shirt before unfastening the first of the three military-style frogs that kept it closed. He put a dozen little kisses along her brow and cheek; all the while, he listened to her breathing, to the sound of her pulse, matching his pace to her arousal. He reached over and pulled back the goose-down comforter, revealing the pristine linen sheets. “Where is your robe?”
“Inside the door of my closet,” she whispered.
He gently assisted her to be seated on the bed, gave her a long, soft, searching kiss, then went to fetch her robe. “I would not wish you to be cold,” he said, as he brought the long, heavy, quilted-silk garment to her. “Let me help you with your jacket and your dress.” He unfastened the stud holding her jabot and set it aside.
She held out her arms to the sides, her palms turned up, her eyes slightly averted. “Thank you,” she said softly.
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