Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Guardian and Ward, #Vampires, #Nobility, #blood, #Paramours, #Switzerland
Borne in Blood (33 page)
Let me urge you again to consider employment at a well-reputed girls’ school. There is no disgrace in earning a living from teaching, and you cannot expect your Comte to support you forever. Distressing as it may be, you must admit that your current arrangement cannot continue indefinitely, and it is appropriate for me to remind you of this as I bid you farewell for a considerable time. Teaching is an honorable profession for a woman, and one at which you should excel. If your father-in-law dislikes such a solution to your present awkward situation, then let him remedy it in the name of his dead son, or resign himself to the necessity you having to earn a living. I apologize for putting this so bluntly, but you are a well-educated woman, and your knowledge can be as marketable an asset as a pretty face and pleasing manner.
I must hand this to the courier in ten minutes, so I will close with every assurance of my paternal love, and my request that you pray for this expedition, for our safety and our discoveries.
With my affectionate devotion,
Your Father, Attilio Corvosaggio
presently departing from Antioch
“But what am I to tell Magistrate Lindenblatt? He thought you were taking your guards with you,” Balduin protested as he watched Ragoczy load the last of his cases onto his older traveling coach, stowing them on the shelf behind his seat and buckle them in place.
“Given the events of the other night, the guards are needed here, as the Magistrate and I have agreed. He has known of my engagement, and he has agreed that it is satisfactory that I go, so long as I employ his coachman. Because of what Relout has told them, there is good reason now to suppose that the robbers are getting no help from me, or anyone here, and that allows Lindenblatt a degree of tolerance in my regard, no matter what the rumors say.”
“But without a guard, some in the region will say you are fleeing,” Balduin said with unaccustomed fervor.
Ragoczy came out of the coach. “The Magistrate knows better. He expects us back in five weeks, weather permitting. If we are gone more than six weeks, we will have to send a message of explanation, if it is not on account of weather. He will know about bad weather.” He gestured to Guion Charget, the Magistrate’s coachman, who was checking the harness on the four red-roan Ardennais cold-bloods. “Hochvall is in no condition to take this journey, and so the arrangement is suitable; I would have to hire a coachman if the Magistrate had not provided his.” He got out of the coach and began to walk around it, making sure it was ready to leave; the dim, early morning light and a little fog rising a hands-breadth above the slush made the coach look as if it were floating in the air.
“And you’re taking just the one coach?” Balduin frowned, searching for factors that might require a delayed departure. “Didn’t Herr Einlass inform you that he had another coach available?”
“He did, but I have already got two coaches on the road with Hero, which means three of them will return, and a dozen horses. I have only one more coach and one more four-horse team in the stable, and I would not like to have to risk all my coach-horses for travel with winter still upon us. You may have some need of a coach during our absence. This way you will have a vehicle and a team to pull it.” Ragoczy had donned a black-wool great-coat cut in the Hungarian fashion, its broad collar concealing the stiffness in his shoulder; his clothes beneath were also Hungarian in style. “You have my instructions, authorizations, and my proposed route of travel. Rogier and I, Hildebrand, and Herr Charget should be sufficient to make this journey.”
“Dietbold could also be spared. With you away, it isn’t always easy to keep the footmen occupied.”
“Hildebrand will be sufficient,” said Ragoczy, checking the straps on the boot of the coach. “If Dietbold becomes bored, he can always be put to polishing furniture.”
Balduin sighed, his breath fogging before his face. “If only I could convince you that there are good reasons to remain here another week at least.”
“There may be excellent reasons, but the invitation is specific, and we are expected at Ravensberg by the twenty-ninth of March, and that gives us just fourteen days to get there,” said Ragoczy. “You will discover I have addressed most of your concerns in my instructions: very little is different than when we went to Amsterdam last summer.”
“But the roads were open in summer,” Balduin protested. “The days were longer.”
“And we were set upon by highwaymen,” Ragoczy added helpfully.
Balduin glanced up at the pale clouds smeared across the sky. “There could be snow again tonight.”
“But probably not until tomorrow or the next day,” said Ragoczy, “and with luck, we should be at least fifteen leagues along the road.”
“A pity you don’t know Charget better,” said Balduin, making a last effort.
“Yes,” agreed Ragoczy. “But the Magistrate vouches for him: who am I to question his judgment.” He continued around to the side of the coach and opened the door. “Two fur rugs, a basket of brandy and cheese.” These would be for Charget and Hildebrand, but there was no reason Balduin should know that. “A box of books. Trunks in the boot, and the presents for our host and for his niece, as a betrothal gift. We are expected at the Old Wagon in Saint-Gingolph tonight, and so we must leave shortly. It is nine leagues to Saint-Gingolph and not all the road is completely cleared of snow.”
As if to add urgency to Ragoczy’s remarks, Rogier, dressed for their journey, came out of the side-door, bearing a leather-bound chest in his arms. “Your medicaments,” he explained as he prepared to climb into the coach with it.
“Very good,” said Ragoczy, opening the door and letting down the steps. “We should be back in five weeks to accommodate Lindenblatt. If there is a delay, word will be sent. Do not fret, Balduin. The time will pass more quickly if you do not fret.”
Rogier took his place on the seat facing backward. “Hildebrand is finishing his cream-roll; he will be out within five minutes.”
“Is his traveling-case stowed?” Ragoczy asked.
“It is,” said Rogier, sketching a salute toward Balduin as Ragoczy climbed in beside him, flipped up the steps and shut the door.
“I shall make written records for every day you are gone, a full record of everything. You and the Magistrate may examine it upon your return.” Balduin regarded the coach balefully.
“I thank you for that, and I wish you a pleasant end of winter. Let us hope the last of the snow falls in March, not April, or May.” Ragoczy gave a slight inclination of his head.
Balduin returned the nod more deeply, conceding defeat. “May you travel swiftly and safely to your destination, and return without incident.” He stepped back and watched as Charget, wrapped in his coachman’s cloak and swathed to the eyes in mufflers, his broadbrimmed fur-lined hat crammed down on his head, came to the side of the coach and climbed up to the box at the very moment Hildebrand burst out of the château, tugging on his hat as he ran for the footman’s perch at the back of the coach; he hauled himself up as Charget whistled to the team, starting them toward the gate.
The Ardennais carriage-horses were fresh and they moved out at a jog-trot, making their way down the drive steadily, their harness jingling in the crisp morning air, the sound of their hooves on the frozen road steady and firm. As they approached the gate, Jervois, who had run down from the château, hurried to open it, waving his excitement as the horses slowed for him. The gates swung back and the coach went on through, the wheels leaving deep grooves in the thin mantle of snow; Jervois stood in the opening, waving until the bend in the road carried the coach out of sight and along the road to Yvoire.
“In the summer, we could take the short-cut through Sorbeny to Montriond.”
Rogier looked out the window of the coach at the high peaks. “But now they are all filled up with snow, and perilous. It would take days to get there, if we could manage it at all. The horses would be worn out, and the coach would probably need new wheels.” He threw one of the fur rugs over his lap and knees, holding one out to Ragoczy, which he declined with a single gesture. “Do you think, when the Allies withdraw from France, that they will return this region to the French, or do you think the Swiss will keep it?”
“That will depend on how the withdrawal goes,” Ragoczy said, taking note of the places the road needed repair. “If there is no hostility, then I assume that in time the French will want to reclaim a good portion of it.”
“That may be why so many German-Swiss have been encouraged to move into this region,” said Rogier.
“It may,” said Ragoczy.
Rogier accepted this as an invitation to silence; he slipped his arm through the strap hanging from the ceiling and prepared to nap as the coach howled along to Yvoire, stopping only briefly at the Town Hall to hand over a bond to Magistrate Lindenblatt’s secretary against Ragoczy’s return from Austria, assurance of the Comte’s swift return. A receipt was prepared and notarized, and then the coach was on its way again, going east along the shore of Lake Geneva toward the village of Saint-Gingolph.
The next day brought them to Riddes a little after dark; it took determined persuasion accompanied by a gold coin to arrange matters with the hotelier: despite their late arrival Ragoczy and his servants were allowed to stop for the night at the Stag and Ram, the most luxurious of the three posting inns in the town.
“We will need to go a shorter distance tomorrow,” said Rogier as he took care of Ragoczy’s personal cases. “In this weather, the towns will close their gates at sunset.”
“Yes; they will,” said Ragoczy. “And the horses are getting tired.”
“Then a day of rest here might be good for all of us. Charget and Hildebrand are showing signs of inner chill,” Rogier observed.
“The weather is changing, and not for the better,” Ragoczy said. “By tomorrow there will be snow again.”
Rogier unrolled a thin mattress atop the hostelry’s bed; it was filled with a thin layer of Ragoczy’s native earth. “Do you think it will last long?”
“The storm? a day; perhaps two,” said Ragoczy. “I think we had better plan to remain here tomorrow if it’s snowing. I have no wish to be caught on the road in a snowfall. This is not a good stretch of road on which to be stranded: there are too many avalanches.”
“No, not a good place,” said Rogier. “They would not find us until May.”
Ragoczy reached for the small portfolio that held his maps. “We will need to determine which of the passes are open and then decide which road is best.”
Rogier saw that Ragoczy held his right arm close to his body, favoring it. “How is your shoulder?”
“A little sore,” Ragoczy admitted. “If only vampires healed as quickly as the living.”
“But you don’t,” said Rogier in a blend of sympathy and exasperation.
“Nor do ghouls,” said Ragoczy with a faint smile.
“I’m not the one who had a knife in my shoulder,” said Rogier directly. “You do not often reveal when you hurt, so it would seem you are most uncomfortable.”
“It is the long hours sitting still,” Ragoczy said.
“So a day of light activity is welcome,” Rogier suggested.
“For all of us. The horses could use a thorough grooming—I will attend to that tomorrow. We must also purchase more food for the coach so that Charget and Hildebrand will have something to eat on the road.”
They discussed various exigencies of travel for more than an hour, then Ragoczy retired for the night. In the morning he waited until his coachman and footman had breakfasted, then descended to the main floor of the inn. After paying for their second night and the meals they would need, Ragoczy went off to the stable to take care of the Ardennais team, brushing the mud from the long, black feathering around their hooves and retying the neat, braided knots in their black manes. The whole task took over two hours, and by the time Ragoczy went back to his room, Rogier had returned from shopping with sausages, beer, cheese, and a crock of preserved quinces.
“I’ll arrange for fresh bread in the morning, and a pippin of butter,” Rogier announced as he stowed the comestibles in the hamper.
“The horses will be ready for the next leg of the journey. Their shoes are holding, their legs are in good shape. Their travel-coats are clean, their harness is cleaned and oiled. I’ve paid for extra grain for them tonight.” Ragoczy swung his arm to exercise his shoulder. “It will be another month at least before I have my strength back.”
“And six months before it stops hurting,” said Rogier wisely.
“Very likely,” said Ragoczy.
The next morning they left Riddes at the back end of a storm that was now raging eastward. The road was three inches deep in snow—not so deep that the old berms on either side of it were lost in drifts, but sufficient to make for slow-going. By nightfall they had covered under eight leagues, arriving at Unterleuk as the two church-bells of the town tolled the Angelus. The next day they covered nine leagues, and the day after, ten. News of an avalanche held them at Chur for a day while Ragoczy and Charget decided which road to take into Austria, and as soon as word was brought that the avalanche had been cleared enough for traffic to move past it, they resumed their travels, arriving at Ravensberg thirteen days after they left Château Ragoczy. The sun was producing a watery shine through a film of clouds and the wind had died down, promising better weather ahead.
“Very good time, considering all the factors; we have a day to spare,” said Ragoczy as he climbed out of the coach in the Ravensberg courtyard shortly before three in the afternoon; he handed two gold coins to Charget and one to Hildebrand, saying to the young footman, “Come to my room later and I will give you an ointment for the chapping on your face. It will stop the peeling.”
“Danke, Comte,” said Hildebrand through stiff lips.
Charget unwound his heaviest muffler and doffed his hat, watching as the grooms hurried out from the stable. “Be sure you check the on-side wheeler. His hock is a little stiff, I fear.”
“I have a poultice for that,” Ragoczy told his borrowed coachman.
“A good thing,” said Charget. “He’ll need it.”
“That’s Grenadier,” said Hildebrand. “His harness-partner is Hussar.”
Other books
Clementine Rose and the Birthday Emergency by Jacqueline Harvey
Tommy Nightmare (Jenny Pox #2) by JL Bryan
Bluestocking Bride by Elizabeth Thornton
BLAZE by Jessica Coulter Smith
Alien Sex 102 by Allie Ritch
La conjura de los necios by John Kennedy Toole
Medicine Men by Alice Adams
Strange Magic by Gord Rollo
Diamond Dust by Anita Desai
Getting Rough by Parker, C.L.