Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Guardian and Ward, #Vampires, #Nobility, #blood, #Paramours, #Switzerland
Borne in Blood (29 page)
She wrapped her arms around him, letting the water buoy her up. “And to think I was near despairing,” she whispered before pressing her mouth to his. “You banish despair.”
His hands slid up her back and down her flanks, slowly, persuasively, suiting his touch to her response, growing more passionate as she felt desire coalesce within her, turning sensuality to something more intensely physical, a convergence of sensations that shook her; she had never before felt such extraordinary pleasure, or to have it triggered in so many ways. From the curve of her neck to the muscles of her calves, her body tingled, adding new arousal as Ragoczy continued to draw out her fervor. Dizzy with far more than wine, and exultant with the delirious freedom her body was approaching, she lay back against the lip of the bath and opened all her flesh to him. Gradually he sought out the core of her excitation, penetrating her with knowing fingers until she sighed and murmured, “Not yet.”
“As you wish,” he said, and slowed his ministrations so that she could relish every nuance of tantalization that would bring her to ecstasy.
“I want to feel all you can do,” she said softly. “I want to find how much you can inspire in me.” She lifted one leg and wrapped it around his thigh, then she steadied herself and leaned back so that he could caress her breasts. “This is …” She could not think of a word that would describe the ardor, the sensitivity, the stimulation that permeated her body and soul. “Everything.” With that, she pulled him down into the water, so only their heads were above the surface; the warm water enveloped her, augmenting his embrace, and she succumbed to the culmination that had been building deep in her body; in a quiet part of her exultant mind, she was relieved that his scars had not blighted her fulfillment.
Text of an invitation from Wallache Gerhard Winifrith Sieffert von Ravensberg at Ravensberg in Austria, to Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus at Château Ragoczy near Lake Geneva, Yvoire, Switzerland; carried by hired messenger and delivered twenty-three days after it was written.
On this, the 29
th
of December, 1817, Wallache Gerhard Winifrith Sieffert, Graf von Ravensberg requests the honor of the company of Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus, on the 29
th
of March, 1818, and five days thereafter, at Ravensberg, to celebrate the betrothal of his ward and niece Hyacinthie Theresa Katerina Sieffert to Constanz Charles Medoc, scholar of Trier.
th
of December, 1817, Wallache Gerhard Winifrith Sieffert, Graf von Ravensberg requests the honor of the company of Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus, on the 29
th
of March, 1818, and five days thereafter, at Ravensberg, to celebrate the betrothal of his ward and niece Hyacinthie Theresa Katerina Sieffert to Constanz Charles Medoc, scholar of Trier.
The Graf extends the hospitality of Ravensberg to the Comte and his guest, two body servants, and two coachman for the length of his stay. Line stalls for up to ten horses is available for your use. The Graf requests the courtesy of a response.
Augustus Kleinerhoff looked truly abashed. He stood in the entry-hall of Château Ragoczy, his heavy cloak flung open, his thick boots shedding ice shards on the carpet, his face so hang-dog that his greeting was more ominous than mannerly. “God grant I see you well; the brewer’s son has a fever, and we fear it may be typhus: there was so much of it about a year-and-a-half ago, we cannot but worry for him. I am here to speak with the Comte,” he said to Balduin.
“Would you like him to treat the boy?” Balduin asked.
“No. At least not now. Perhaps, if he does not improve—” He spoke a little louder. “An escort from Yvoire will be joining me shortly, with an order from the Magistrate, and the Magistrate himself.” He coughed, showing equal amounts of embarrassment and officiousness.
Balduin considered his response, affecting a lack of apprehension. “The Comte is busy at present. If I may ask you to wait in the reception room, I will send a footman up to inform him you are here.”
“Tell him it’s urgent,” Kleinerhoff insisted as he shed his cloak and handed it to Balduin. “I have been sent ahead to inform him of a summons from the Magistrate of Yvoire. He is taking advantage of the good weather to begin his inquiries into the robbers who have caused so much trouble in the region, and he has decided to begin here, where it is believed the criminals have protection from—that is yet to be determined.” He cleared his throat. “There have been rumors that he says he could not ignore, for the events of the last year would seem to link the robbers to some form of help in this region.” He could not conceal his pride at this honor of announcing the arrival of the Magistrate even as he felt ashamed to do anything against Ragoczy’s excellent reputation; this would be likely to compromise the Comte’s good opinion no matter what the results.
“The good weather should last another day or two,” said Balduin, shutting out the brilliant January sunshine as he shut the door.
“Yes. This winter has been much kinder than the previous two, at least so far.” This attempt at banter failed. “The road is fairly passable just now.”
“I see,” said Balduin, indicating the way to the reception room. “I’ll have some hot spiced wine brought to you, and a bite to eat, as well.”
Kleinerhoff was more confused by this kind offer, but he strove to maintain a proper demeanor. “Danke. Ja, danke. It is most kind of you.” He swung around toward the corridor, nervousness making him clumsy; he nearly knocked over a cloak-tree, which he snagged and steadied. “Magistrate Lindenblatt will be here within the hour. You must have preparations to make.”
“Very good. I will have the Comte so informed,” said Balduin, watching while Kleinerhoff let himself into the reception room; satisfied that Sacre-Sang’s head-man was properly bestowed, he went off to the kitchen, where he found Rogier with Uchtred, making the last efforts to quarter a lamb. He hung the cloak on a drying rod near the open hearth, and said, “Kleinerhoff is here. He needs to see the Count.”
Uchtred paused in his cutting free the shanks. “Does he intend to stay to eat?” then added to the young man building up the fire beneath the spit, “Soak this in red wine.”
“No, but he should be given hot wine and something—bread and cheese, or sausage. He has come from Yvoire and he must be cold and tired.” Balduin paused thoughtfully. “The Magistrate from Yvoire is apparently going to be arriving within the hour. If you could prepare a collation for him and his guard? I’d guess there will be four or five of them in all. I’ll build up the fire in the parlor. Where are the footmen?”
Rogier set aside his knife and rinsed his hands, wiping them dry on a length of soft cotton. “One isn’t needed: I’ll go tell the Comte of all this. Do you know what his purpose is for coming?”
“He’s making an inquiry about the robbers, starting with this household,” said Balduin. “According to Kleinerhoff.”
Rogier took this in with no visible signs of dismay. “Just so. I’ll attend to the Comte at once.”
“Very good,” said Balduin. “By the way, where are the others?”
Uchtred glanced about nervously. “I sent them out to gather eggs and mushrooms, and to bring in a couple of rabbits from the hutch in the barn. Everyone wanted a chance to go outside; we’ve all been cooped up for well over a week, and this is the first decent day since the sky cleared. Steffel is cleaning out the ashes in the bake-house oven. Hochvall is supervising the farrier in the stable and organizing a mucking and rebedding for the stalls; Clement has put the grooms to cleaning harness and tack. Fraulein Wendela and Frau Anezka are in the side-yard, airing the blankets. Peder is repairing the leak in the stable’s cistern. The weather won’t hold, and I thought—along with the rest of the staff—that we should make the most of it.”
Balduin, who had been preparing the annual household inventory, said, “It is wise to make the most of these opportunities—they are so few.”
“No doubt,” said Rogier as he took off the butcher’s apron he was wearing and reached for his coat. “If you will take refreshments to Herr Kleinerhoff?”
“I will,” said Balduin, and went to take down a silver tray, and a smaller painted ironstone one. “The silver for Magistrate Lindenblatt. I’ll set with porcelain and silver for him, of course.”
“Of course,” said Uchtred, and began to put the sectioned lamb into a large metal container. “I will attend to this directly. I have brandied fruit that I can serve with honey-rolls, along with monk’s-head cheese; I’ll serve that to the head-man as well, with pickled onions. I’ll work out a center-dish for the Magistrate shortly.” This last was more thinking aloud than announced purpose.
Rogier went up the backstairs and hastened to Ragoczy’s laboratory. He stopped outside the main door to the laboratory and waited to compose himself, then he knocked. “My master?”
“Come in, Rogier,” said Ragoczy, pulling himself away from the mounted magnifying glass and the notes he was making in the opened journal beside it.
“Kleinerhoff has come. It seems that you are to expect a visit from Magistrate Lindenblatt.”
“Magistrate Lindenblatt? Why should the Magistrate of Yvoire be coming here?” Ragoczy held up his hand. “I know what it must be; someone has accused me of supporting the robber-bands in the mountains around Sacre-Sang.”
“Are you certain?” Rogier asked.
“At this time of year, what else could it be? There have been hints and speculation about the robbers’ connection to me for months. My taxes are current, my land is maintained, and my staff has been paid, so there can be no complaint on those accounts. Therefore I assume he is beginning an inquiry with a foreigner of position so that other landholders will assist him more readily.”
“Kleinerhoff said it is an inquiry about the robbers, according to Balduin. There are no particulars that I am aware of.”
“Just the rumors that have filled the region, and the disinclination of officials to impose upon one of their own.” Ragoczy shook his head. “How petulant that sounds. I apologize, old friend.”
“You have good reason to be wary of officials, although Magistrate Lindenblatt isn’t Telemachus Batsho.”
“All forgotten gods be thanked,” said Ragoczy. “Nor is he Filipo Quandt.”
“Who was Swiss, like the Magistrate: more to thank your forgotten gods for.” Rogier paused.
“We must hope that Lindenblatt is not of Quandt’s inclinations,” said Ragoczy. “It would be very useful to have Gutesohnes return before the next storm. He will be needed shortly. As capable as Rand may learn to be, he is not ready to carry messages any distance, especially not in storms.” The fifteen-year-old had been hired the previous November to carry messages to Yvoire and to posting inns less than half a day’s ride from Sacre-Sang.
“Truly; he is too young, as well.” Rogier agreed, then asked, “Speaking of those absent, Madame von Scharffensee is—?”
“Out,” said Ragoczy. “She’s gone to the horse-pasture to sketch. She said she would be back by four.”
“When the light fades,” said Rogier. “Is anyone with her?”
“Fraulein Serilde is with her. They will not dawdle once the sun sinks below the peaks, and with the wind increasing.” Ragoczy glanced toward the shining windows. “I should change my coat since the Magistrate is coming. He will expect suitable regard for his presence.” He thought for several silent seconds, “And I should probably write a note to Kreuzbach; I may need an advocate before this is over.”
“Will you want to dispatch a messenger to him?” Rogier asked.
“Not just yet, and not with the weather about to change.” He indicated the shining sky outside his unshuttered windows. “You can see how it is moving those thin ribbons of clouds.”
“You’re certain of that?” Rogier asked, squinting at the windows and the vista beyond. “Thin clouds are common enough in winter.”
“As much as I am of anything so ephemeral as weather. The wind has shifted to the north-east and the ice on the pond is thicker. This sunshine is just an intermission between storms.” Ragoczy reached over and closed his journal. “I will change, see Kleinerhoff, and then go on to my study. You will find a note to Kreuzbach in my secretary-desk; if you decide to send it—”
Rogier nodded. “If you need his advice, I will find someone to carry it to Speicher, someone reputable.”
“I need not have asked, old friend.” He stopped at the door and rocked back on his heel. “We would do well to go carefully. Tell the staff to be helpful to the Magistrate, and to take care to answer any questions he may put to them.”
“If that is what you want,” said Rogier.
“It is what is needed,” said Ragoczy as he opened the door. “I heard wolves last night.”
“As bad as last year?” Rogier asked.
“No, nor as bad as the year before. But they are proof that spring is still some weeks away. All the livestock must be in folds and pens tonight.” He rubbed his chin. “The shave is still good enough. I have another four or five days left before the next one.”
“That’s so,” said Rogier.
“I take it you have ordered refreshments?”
“And left Uchtred attending to their preparation.”
“Thank you, old friend. I will be in my study in twenty minutes or so.” He went out the door and started down the hall toward the stairs, pausing only when he heard a door on the floor below being quietly closed; it sounded as if it might be the library or the music room. Who, he asked himself, was still in the house and might be on this floor? And what would anyone be doing in the library or the music room? Almost at once he chided himself for being too ready to see enemies in the woodwork: this was not China or Peru or Delhi or Russia, and although he was a foreigner, he was not without position in the region. He continued down to his private apartments and let himself in to his outer chamber where his elegant armoire stood along with three commodore chests and a handsome marquetry chiffonier. Lacking a reflection, he paid no attention to the fine pier mirror of Venetian glass that stood next to the closet; pulling off his coat, he left it over the largest chest and went to the armoire to select one of more formal cut: he settled on a new, double-breasted claw-tail coat of black Florentine wool, the revers finished in black-silk twill. This he pulled on and began to check the folds of his silken cravat; nothing felt obviously awry, so he buttoned his coat, tugged at the hem of his waistcoat, and left the room to go down to discover what Herr Kleinerhoff had to tell him, taking the servants’ stairs so that he could see what the state of preparation was in the kitchen before seeking out his visitor.
Rogier was back in the kitchen when Ragoczy walked into it; he perused Ragoczy’s change of clothing and very nearly smiled. “The Magistrate will be impressed. Just elegant enough to remind him you are of higher degree than he.”
“So long as he is willing to listen to me, then all should be well,” said Ragoczy. “Uchtred is—”
“In the creamery. The butter should be churned by now, and he is also getting cream to whip.”
“The Magistrate should enjoy that,” said Ragoczy. “And where is Herr Kleinerhoff?”
“In the reception room. I have just taken a tray to him.”
“Excellent,” said Ragoczy, then added, “Perhaps it might be prudent to warn the household of our impending visit? They might be alarmed if they stumble upon the Magistrate and his escort unprepared.”
“I’ll attend to it,” said Rogier, nodding to Uchtred as he came back into the kitchen with two large wooden containers in his hands. “He is going to make an omelette for the Magistrate, and offer the brandied fruit with this morning’s bread. Brandy and wine, of course.”
Uchtred set down the cream and new butter. “I should be ready to crack the eggs in half an hour.”
“That should suffice, but delay your omelette until the Magistrate is safely through the door,” said Ragoczy, and continued on through the kitchen toward the front of the château. He tapped once on the reception room door and stepped inside to find Herr Kleinerhoff biting into a curl of monk’s-head cheese. “How good to see you again, head-man. I understand you come with tidings.”
“Comte,” Kleinerhoff sputtered as he struggled to get his mouth around the frill of cheese, his eyes boggling. Belatedly he shoved himself to his feet. “I … Comte, I … you must excuse—” Tall and bulky as he was, his size made little impression on Ragoczy.
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