Borne in Blood (40 page)
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Guardian and Ward, #Vampires, #Nobility, #blood, #Paramours, #Switzerland
“I hope,” said Ragoczy, doing his best to present an unperturbed demeanor, “that Madame von Scharffensee will be well enough to travel in two or three days; her fever is much diminished and her appetite is returning. If she continues to improve, we will be gone shortly. I regret, Graf, that we have had to trespass on your hospitality in this way.” He spoke with sincerity; he did not like being at Ravensberg and wanted to be gone from the Schloss at the first opportunity: he knew Hero shared his aversion to the place.
“You have reason to want to be gone,” said von Ravensberg in punctiliously.
“As you must want us gone.” Ragoczy had been busy in the library for most of the morning, and was a bit surprised to see von Ravensberg here. It was four days since the confrontation in the old mill and only the second time Ragoczy had encountered von Ravensberg since Medoc’s funeral, two days before. During those intervening days, the Schloss had been filled with a growing tension that was made more oppressive by the occasional screams issuing from the room to which Hyacinthie had been confined; they echoed eerily through the Schloss as if she were already a ghost haunting it.
“I realize it is a great inconvenience for us both, for you to be kept here while your companion recovers from her wounds, at least to the point that her healing begins and it is safe for her to travel.” He coughed once and fingered the revers of his Turkish dressing-gown. “You must feel it keenly, for there is certain to be pressing business awaiting your return to Yvoire.”
“You must feel this keenly, as well, and will be glad to have us gone. Your prospects for coming months cannot be happy ones for you,” said Ragoczy, puzzled by von Ravensberg’s behavior; with the hurried departure of all the guests but Ragoczy and Hero, the Graf had cut himself off from most of the household, emerging from his laboratory for meals and little else; his appearance in the library was unanticipated, leaving Ragoczy to wonder what von Ravensberg hoped to accomplish.
Outside the window a light morning shower was giving way to gloriously blue skies and a day as clean-swept as the floor of the Great Hall. Snow remained on the high slopes, but the freshets and streams were active and full, evidence that most of it would be gone in a month. The scent of cherry and apple blossoms filled the air, carried through the open windows on a flirting breeze.
“What cannot be changed must be endured,” said von Ravensberg. “Things have been thrust upon me that I must—” He stopped. “Not that I would wish you to leave while your companion is making her first recovery from—but your presence creates an awkwardness.” His tone implied that he wanted to be rid of that awkwardness.
“I apologize for any discommodation our presence may cause you; I wish we were able to leave at once: believe this. Nothing would be more welcome to me than to relieve you of some of the burdens we have inadvertently imposed. In a day or two we will at least remove to Ravenstein, to the posting inn. Of course I will provide the wages for your staff whose service you have lost in our maintenance, and money for the hay and oats my horses consume,” Ragoczy said, putting the book he had been reading aside.
Von Ravensberg’s face was expressionless. “All things considered, giving you the shelter of my roof is the least I could do, being that my niece is the cause for your remaining at Ravensberg. No recompense is necessary. It would be crass of me to accept your generosity.” He went to an easy chair near the fireplace, stood beside it but did not sit down. “I wanted to inform you that I have received notification that the Magistrate will be here this afternoon, with his clerk, to make an official determination in regard to how Constanz Medoc died. Before any judgment can be rendered, the Magistrate will decide if there can or should be a trial. I wonder if you would like to address him directly, given the severity of the attack you sustained? Or would you prefer to say nothing about it, for Madame von Scharffensee’s sake.”
Ragoczy did not answer at once, and when he did, it was with conviction. “I think it may be prudent to give my report. The event was a confusing one; Magistrate Schmidt will have many accounts to compare. The more information he has, the more apt he is to arrive at the truth.”
“Certainly; if that is what you want,” said von Ravensberg as if this were a final disgrace; he refused to look at Ragoczy. “You are completely within your rights to do so, and any embarrassment you sustain is not likely to follow you as far as Swiss France. The Magistrate will be grateful for your testimony.” He sighed, still unwilling to look directly at Ragoczy. “An exile, like yourself, does not have to uphold the same decorum that those of us established in a place have to preserve.”
Ragoczy did not respond to von Ravensberg’s deprecation. “You have much to stomach at present.” He regarded the Graf in studious sympathy. “Your patience is wearing thin: hardly surprising, with so much unresolved.”
“I have my burdens; you have yours. I am cognizant of your scruples, and I can hardly blame you for—You endured much at my … niece’s hands, you and Madame von Scharffensee. I cannot tell you how chagrined I am by how she has behaved.” He waved one hand in dismissal. “Enough of this most calamitous reflection. What’s done cannot be undone. I will do as much as I can to guard our name; I gave Medoc a fine burial, so we cannot be said to have slighted him, and I have arranged to pay my ward’s dowry to Medoc’s brother, as a tribute to his memory.” He assumed an unctuous air, and went on as if this were the sole purpose of their conversation. “You may like to come to my laboratory; I am subjecting the latest sample of blood I have to an electrical current. Surely this must interest you.”
“Ordinarily it probably would, but just now, I think not,” said Ragoczy, more for good manners than genuine emotion.
“As you wish. If you change your mind, I will be pleased to demonstrate my process to you. I am sure you will find it fascinating.” He inclined his head and turned to leave the room.
Ragoczy’s question stopped him. “Have you thought of what will become of her? Of Fraulein Hyacinthie?”
Von Ravensberg shot an infuriated glance at him, but gave no other outward sign of displeasure. “I assume they’ll execute her. The privilege of my rank does not extend to her, and she must answer for her deeds without me to shield her. The law cannot be seen to condone murder. She has killed her fiancé and attempted to kill Madame von Scharffensee and you.”
“She is not sane,” said Ragoczy in the manner of someone commenting on the weather. “The court will make allowances for that.”
“Why should the court do so?” Von Ravensberg was on guard now, for all that he tried to seem confident.
“If not her state of mind, her age should have some effect on the degree of responsibility she is assigned.” He thought back to Rome, where sentences were often reduced for those under the age of twenty-one. “There is legal precedence for such judgment.”
“The mercy of a quick death and then a memory soon forgotten would be the most she should hope for, not a lingering hell in an asylum, or a life of confinement in a prison, the object of the most vile attention and humiliation.” Von Ravensberg came a few steps back into the room. “You have no wish to see her free, do you?”
“No, but I doubt her death will negate her deeds,” Ragoczy said.
“It will answer Medoc’s family,” said von Ravensberg, “and help to restore the honor of this House.”
A distant shriek shuddered through the marble halls of the Schloss.
“Do you think so.” Ragoczy said, making no mention of the cry they had both heard and wondering if von Ravensberg would mention it. “Why is that?”
Von Ravensberg did not say anything about the sound; he shook his head. “You cannot understand. It is not in your blood. You have no grasp of our nimiety in the eyes of the public—”
“I know that riches and possessions are often envied by those in less advantageous circumstances,” Ragoczy interjected.
“Then you know the resentment we suffer on that account. Despite your wealth, as an exile, you are unable to comprehend the manner in which we will have to ameliorate—”
“Because I do not see that making a sacrifice of an insane child will rehabilitate your family name? Given her history, no, Graf, I do not understand; I am baffled by your posture in regard to her,” Ragoczy kept his temper in check, asking in his most reasonable tone, “How can you be indifferent to her plight?”
“This from you? How many times did she stab you?” Von Ravensberg folded his arms. “I was told it was eleven times.”
The actual count was twenty-three times, and every wound she inflicted still ached. “Something along those lines,” he answered in as unflustered a voice as he could. “She was raving when she did it.”
“You find that an excuse?” von Ravensberg asked. “I would have thought you, of all people, would hold her accountable for her actions.”
“Because she stabbed me?” Ragoczy shook his head. “She is not the first who has, and she will not be the last.” Over the centuries he had received many dire wounds, but the only one that had left a mark on him was the scars that crossed his abdomen, tokens of the evisceration that had killed him almost four thousand years ago; since his death no injury, no matter how hideous, had left a lasting scar.
Von Ravensberg nodded twice. “That is what I meant. Her attack on you—a man of rank equal to mine—cannot be allowed to go unpunished. I am surprised that you are not demanding retribution more vehemently than I. She concealed her acts, which shows that they were purposeful, not impulsive, as true madness is known to be. That you had to seek her out and withstand her attempts on your life … And that is not all: she has maimed your companion. Madame von Scharffensee will walk with a limp and her face will never recover from the marks she made on it; you’ve said so yourself.”
“That is more difficult to pardon, but I doubt that Madame von Scharffensee will be restored because Hyacinthie is dead.”
“A philosophy of weakness and concession!” von Ravensberg declared. “You will not find such pap in the veins of Austrians.”
“I doubt you will find character in the blood at all,” said Ragoczy, his reserve becoming more marked.
“Blood is blood; it carries the national vigor, and the heritage of every man alive. Even you cannot deny that. One day I shall demonstrate it beyond cavil, no matter how little you may think it possible. What is borne in blood is the measure of the man,” von Ravensberg said.
“No, Graf: what is borne in blood is the incarnation of the soul,” Ragoczy responded quietly.
“Soul?” von Ravensberg scoffed. “You know very little about it: I have devoted my life to its study.”
“I know it is the sum total of the uniqueness of the person who possesses it. Nothing is more personal, more essential, to any living human.”
“That is what I seek to demonstrate: blood is our heritage, a thing to be measured and certain, not some foolish romantic notion of the supernatural,” von Ravensberg said emphatically. “Every nation has its character that is given at birth. Austrians and Germans are the descendants of the Franks. More than the French, we bear the heritage of Charlemagne.”
Ragoczy recalled the very tall, big-shouldered, strong-willed leader of the Franks from a thousand years before, and the men he gathered around him. “They were ambitious barbarians—as were almost all peoples in Europe then.”
“You tell me my niece is a barbarian because she is Austrian? Barbarian! Hardly. Not that any man of education would believe that of Charlemagne: he was the founder of our civilization, a great man of vision.” Von Ravensberg tapped his toe impatiently, his eyes snapping with annoyance.
Ragoczy refused to be distracted by von Ravensberg’s self-congratulatory claim. “I tell you that Hyacinthie is Hyacinthie and no one else; her blood is unique to her, far beyond being Austrian. Heritage she may have, as do all people, but she is inimitable, as is everyone else.” He paused, thinking that he would never want to taste her blood no matter how great his need, then continued, “Whatever inclined her to such fury did not come from her blood, it came from what life has imposed upon her.”
“That inclines you to defend my niece?” Von Ravensberg’s countenance was filled with incredulity.
“It is certainly part of it,” Ragoczy said.
“She has done so much to you,” von Ravensberg said in astonishment as he regarded Ragoczy with an expression that combined shame with contempt. “Yet you would not execute her.”
“And you would.” Ragoczy turned the full weight of his dark, enigmatic eyes on von Ravensberg.
The Graf did his best not to flinch. “I have been taught that if we, the leaders, abuse the law, bend it to our fancy and make it lax, we cannot be surprised when our lessers do the same. It for us to set the example, to endorse the actions of the courts, and to support the Magistrates in their duties. You bewilder me. Comte: you say you are of an ancient House, and yet you would spare her life.”
“Hyacinthie is mad. I cannot hold her responsible when she cannot be held capable of distinguishing the nature of her acts.”
“One of those humanists, are you? a follower of Rousseau and the rest of those foolish idealists? Do you glorify the common man and the state of nature?” von Ravensberg asked, as if finally satisfied to know what prompted Ragoczy’s stance. “A man of your rank should have more sense. Those so-called reformers are our enemies. You aid them, but they would destroy you.”
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