Borne in Blood (8 page)

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Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Guardian and Ward, #Vampires, #Nobility, #blood, #Paramours, #Switzerland

BOOK: Borne in Blood
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“The soup seems especially good today,” von Ravensberg announced as he reached for the handsome Baroque ladle. “Let me have your bowl, Hyacinthie.”
Obediently she handed it to him, and watched as he all but filled it with the soup. “There. Hold it carefully; it’s hot.” He had issued the same warning every day for the last eleven years, but she nodded as if she had heard it for the first time; he continued as he always had: “Mind you have bread with it. The strength is in the bread with the meat, not the meat alone.”
“Yes, Uncle Wallache,” she said, and dutifully took a slice of bread from the basket at arm’s-length down the table. She knew it would taste of straw as she spread a little fresh-churned butter on it.
“These two girls—they’re going to need a lot of attention from you. They have lost much. You know what it’s like, becoming an orphan suddenly.” He smacked his lips as he poured out soup for himself. “I depend upon you. Yes, I depend upon you, to shepherd them through their first months here. Let them benefit from your experience, if you will.”
“I suppose I can,” she said, imagining her uncle in the girls’ beds already.
“Calm their little fears, keep them from … from making fools of themselves. They may be disconcerted for a time, and you may spare them difficulties.” He took the largest slice of bread and slathered it well. “You know how it is.”
“Yes,” she said tonelessly; when she had told the minister’s wife what her uncle did to her at night, when she was nine, the minister had beaten her for lying and ingratitude. Perhaps she could spare the girls that humiliation. Much as she did not want them here, she did not want them exposed to such degradation even more.
“Good; good.” He consumed a good portion of soup, finally saying, “This journey to Amsterdam—you will need a few new gowns for it. I will arrange for you to visit Frau Amergau for a fitting some day next week, so she will have them ready in time for your travels. You’ll want a walking-dress, a morning-dress, a calling-dress, and something for fancy occasions. I can’t have my ward presenting a shabby appearance, not if I intend to marry her well. I might even provide for a dancing-master, so you may participate in the balls in Trier and Amsterdam.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” she said, despising herself for feeling grateful to him.
“Accept Constanz Medoc and I will consider it money well-spent.” He drank more wine, apparently unaware of her widen eyes.
“Constanz Medoc?” she burst out, her eyes filling with tears. “The one who came here two years ago?” She didn’t add
the old man,
for he was more than forty.
“Yes; yes.” Von Ravensberg nodded. “A very good man, my girl.”
“But he’s
bald!
” Hyacinthie sobbed, trying to express her repugnance without exposing herself to her uncle’s disdain. “And he smells of snuff.”
“He’s bald because he thinks so much. He is a most upstanding man, with an excellent reputation, one he has worked hard to establish and maintain. He is a very well-respected scholar, one whose work is known throughout Europe. He has been searching for a wife, a woman to ornament his life and tend to his pleasure. He is of an age when he wants children to carry on his name. His expectations are reasonable; the wildness of his youth is gone.” He stopped, staring at her. “But you seem distressed.”
“Because
I am!
’ She pushed back from the table and lurched to her feet. “I don’t like him, Uncle Wallache.”
“You don’t know him, my child. No doubt you have dreamed of a handsome young man who will carry you away to the city. Cities are dangerous places, and handsome young men have poor judgment in such matters. You are trying to suit your dreams to your life, and that is most unwise.” He patted the table next to her place. “Sit down; sit down. You’re overwrought. I oughtn’t to have told you all this so suddenly.” He waited while she complied. “You won’t have to marry him if you truly dislike him. But you will have to marry someone, and you may decide, after you have a look at the world, that there are many worse men than Herr Medoc, for all his father was a Frenchman. I am in no position to keep you around here forever, and I will not have my niece working as a governess or a tutor. You know how that would reflect upon me, to have you earn your living. That would abash the family. So. A year from now at most, if you have not made another choice, I will accept Herr Medoc’s very gracious offer for your hand.”
“But how can I find anyone else?” she wailed. “Ravensberg is
leagues
away from
anything
!”
“Perhaps in Amsterdam, or in one of the cities during our travels, you will find a man who suits you, and who is willing to marry you; I will do my utmost to see you have the opportunities you seek,” he said without any suggestion of confidence.
She tried to stop the tears from falling, and very nearly succeeded. “Thank you, Uncle Wallache,” she told him demurely.
“You must be realistic, my girl,” he said sympathetically.
“I have no fortune and you are my only real connection,” she recited, repeating the phrase he had told her regularly since she was seven.
“That’s right.” He glowered at her as he spooned up the soup, then broke off sections of bread and began to sop up the broth. “You don’t want to end up on the shelf. I have nothing to leave you, and I cannot continue to support you—”
“Not with Rosalie and Hedda coming,” she interjected.
“Exactly.” He popped a bit of soaked bread into this mouth.
“You mustn’t think that I mean you any harm, of course,” he went on as he chewed. “But there are limits. Perhaps, if my work is well-received, I will be able to provide a stipend for the youngsters, but I doubt I can afford to do it for you.”
“I see,” she said, very coolly now that she had mastered her outrage.
He nodded to her. “You sit down and finish your dinner. You don’t have to decide everything right now.”
“Not with the girls coming,” she said, too brightly.
“Yes. I have set two of the maids to preparing rooms for them, down the hall from mine.” He dropped his spoon into the small puddle of soup at the bottom of his bowl. “I’m going to have to assign one of the maids to them permanently, so you will have to share Idune with them.”
“As you wish.” She moved her soup-bowl aside, its contents largely untouched.
Von Ravensberg persevered. “I know you’ll be courteous with them. These accommodations need not be an occasion for distress.”
“Certainly not,” she said, planning to discover how to reclaim her one privilege—her maid—from the cousins.
He reached for the bell, ringing it emphatically. “They say they have trout today for our fish, with potatoes in a Dutch sauce.” He studied her for several seconds, as if truly seeing her for the first time. “Your appetite is lacking, my girl. You should eat something more than those nibbles you’ve had.”
She blinked. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I’ll have a good portion of fish,” she assured him, wishing she could vanish from the room.
Werther appeared in the door. “Are you ready for the fish?” he asked. “It is ready to be served.”
“That and another glass of wine,” said von Ravensberg. “And bring a small glass for my niece. It
is
her Natal Day, and she is now a woman. She should have wine when I do. But no beer. Gentlewomen should not drink beer.”
“Nein, von Ravensberg,” said Werther.
He smiled his approval. “Is it truly trout we’re having?”
“So I am told. With potatoes, bacon, and Dutch sauce.” He picked up the platter of turnips-and-cabbage. “You’ll want more bread, too, I see.”
“Soon, lad, soon.”
“Yes, Graf—” He stopped himself. “Von Ravensberg,” he corrected himself.
“Exactly,” said von Ravensberg as the under-chef let himself out of the smaller dining room.
“Thank you for ordering wine for me, Uncle Wallache,” Hyacinthie said, suspicious of his sudden magnanimity.
“It is time you learned how to behave as a woman. A sensible man expects to have a sensible wife.” Von Ravensberg coughed once. “You must not cause disgrace to me and our family by your conduct, which means you must establish how much wine you may safely drink.”
“Oh,” she said, lethargy coming over her again like a pall.
“You owe me that much, my girl—not to bring a poor opinion upon me through your carelessness. I have housed and clothed and fed you since you were seven when no other relative would do so.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “You don’t realize how the world is. Every aspect of your behavior reflects upon me as your guardian. Never forget that.”
“I won’t,” she promised, and looked toward the door where Werther was returning with a basket of bread, a bottle of pale-yellow wine, and a tulip-shaped glass along with a large covered platter of what smelled like fish. “I will never forget you, Uncle Wallache,” she vowed.
Text of a letter from Klasse van der Boom, printer and publisher, Eclipse Press, in Amsterdam, to Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus at Château Ragoczy near Lake Geneva, Yvoire, Switzerland; carried by private messenger.
To the most excellent Comte Franciscus, the greetings of Klasse van der Boom in Amsterdam on this, the 21
st
day of July, 1817:
My very dear Comte,
Herewith find my account of sales from January to the end of June. As you can see, sales are up and averaging eight percent per title, which is a most encouraging sign. I am hoping you will agree to another expansion of our publication list, and a larger initial printrun for the three titles I have indicated have enjoyed the greatest sales of the last year, for I believe we may rely upon those titles to continue to sell and to attract more readers to these books. I have broken down the reported sales by month, as much as that can be determined, and by country, so that you may better appreciate where the interests of our readers lie.
I must also inform you that the new presses of your own design will be delivered next month, and I remind you that you have expressed the desire to be here to supervise their installation. This would please me not only for the opportunity it will provide for us to speak again, but to make certain that the presses are working to your specifications and satisfaction.
The summer has been fairly cool thus far, and I would think you need not worry that you will encounter oppressive heat in your travels, but I urge you to discuss with your coachman the requirements you may have for travel in a day. This may be summer, and the days may be long, but it is also the time when footpads and highwaymen are most active. Be sure you do not find yourself on the road at sundown, or be prepared to fight all manner of thieves for your possessions. Since Napoleon is no longer a menace, many of his men, left portionless in the world, have taken to outlawry as a means of preserving body and soul. This, above the usual criminals who prey on travelers. I would not like to see your profits lost to paying your ransom.
As soon as the time of your arrival is generally known, I will bespeak rooms for you at whichever hotel suits your purposes most completely. Your courier will also be received with hospitality, and I will take it upon myself to ensure his entertainment. You have only to inform me what concerts and balls you would like to attend and I will see you have the proper invitations. If there is any event you would like to sponsor, I will be honored to put it in motion, if you will let me know what you seek.
Let me address one other point to you: Graf von Ravensberg has declared he will come to Amsterdam to review the pages of his book prior to publication, as he has been afforded the opportunity to do. If you have any desire to meet him, I will find out what his plans are in this regard, and make arrangements for such an engagement. If you would rather not meet this man, then tell me, and I will see that no such encounter occurs.
Believe me to be ever at your service,
Klasse van der Boom
printer and publisher
Eclipse Press
Amsterdam
 
enclosures: accounts as described above
 
Ragoczy studied his coachman’s twisted leg in silence, not looking at the man’s contorted face as he inspected the damage done to his body; the heavy dust smirching his black swallow-tail coat and his superfine black unmentionables did not bother him, nor did the smear of blood on his discreetly ruffled white-silk shirt-cuff. Finally he rose from beside the cot on which Ulf Hochvall had been laid; the coachman was dazed by pain but he did his utmost to concentrate on what Ragoczy told him. “I will set the leg, of course,” he said. “It should heal straight if no further damage is done, and he stays off it while the bone mends.”
“The coach … will need repair,” Hochvall confessed.
“It will need replacement,” said Ragoczy, unperturbed. “Your repair is more important. I will see you have it, and the time you will need to recuperate. You need not fear that I will not employ you because of this, but I will need to find an alternate for you through the rest of the summer.” He wiped his hands and glanced at his two field-hands. “If you will add to your kindness and bear Hochvall into the château, I would be most appreciative.”
Jiac Relout nodded to his companion. “I suppose we can do this.” He looked up at the sky. “No rain coming yet.”
“Certainly not for a day or two,” said Ragoczy, indicating the way to the kitchen door into the château. “You should have him within doors before then. I will have bread and drink of your choice ordered for you in thanks for your service.” He was already moving toward the door, compelling them to come after him.
“Food and drink. Why not?” said Loys Begen, shrugging before he picked up his end of the cot.
“Careful,” warned Relout. “We don’t want him to fall.”
“No,” said Hochvall, his voice suddenly loud and panicky.
Ragoczy paused near the garden-gate. “Yes. You have no need to hurry. Think of how his injuries would feel on you and be gentle with him.”
Relout ducked his head and signaled Begen to lift his end of the cot and move on.
It took almost ten minutes to get the cot into the château and to set it down in the antechamber to the pantry. The two field-hands were panting with exertion when they were done, and Begen looked down at Hochvall. “If you must be moved again, someone in the household will have to do it.”
“C’est vrai,” said Hochvall with emotion; his face was pale and sheened with sweat, and his skin was clammy to the touch, as Ragoczy discovered when he took the coachman’s hand.
“Fetch a blanket,” he said to the two field-hands. “One of the household staff will find one for you.”
“It is a warm day, Comte,” said Begen.
“It may be, but this man is cold, and in his condition, such cold is dangerous.” He turned as he heard a discreet knock on the door. “Who is it?”
“Rogier,” said his manservant from the hallway.
“Ah. Very good,” said Ragoczy. “Will you bring me a blanket—one of the light-weight woollen ones, if you would?”
“Of course,” said Rogier.
“There. Now you need not be put to the trouble of doing it,” said Ragoczy to Relout and Begen. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out two gold coins. “For your trouble. They are English guineas. Any reputable bank will honor them.”
The field-hands, who had never set foot in any bank, took the money and ducked their heads; they would keep their treasure in their hidden strong-boxes. “Many thanks, Comte,” they said almost in unison.
“And mine to you,” said Ragoczy. “Now, let me tend to Hochvall before his condition grows worse.”
“What about the coach?” Relout asked.
“I suppose it should be levered out of the ditch, at the very least,” said Ragoczy, “and the road shored up so that it will not happen again. The three sound horses should be stabled and groomed, then turned out in the paddock until sundown, and observed for signs of tie-ups or bruises. I will examine the fourth animal in an hour or two, and dress his cuts. If you and four men will tend to the horses and the road after you have had your refreshments, I will pay for your efforts.” He was bending over Hochvall, his manner slightly preoccupied as he took stock of the coachman’s worsening condition. “Post a lad on either side of the damage to warn others of the danger. I will pay for their service, as well.”
“Yes, Comte,” said Relout.
Rogier came into the room without knocking. “I have the blanket you asked for, my master, one of good size,” he said in the Venetian dialect, and handed over a large, dense, satin-edged blanket of Ankara goats-wool. “This should keep him warm without being heavy.”
“An excellent choice, old friend,” said Ragoczy, taking the blanket and spreading it carefully over Hochvall. “Next a tisane, a soothing one, and the vial of syrup of poppies. He should sleep through a cavalry assault then. And if you will show these two good men to the kitchen for their bread and drink. When they are finished, please accompany them to the site of the wreck.”
“Certainly. This way,” said Rogier to Begen and Relout; the two men were glad to leave the room, and made for the kitchen with alacrity. Rogier led them to the workers’ room and summoned Uchtred. “These men have borne Hochvall home, and they deserve something more than a glass of beer and a slice of bread.”
“Hochvall is hurt?” Uchtred asked, his large eyes seeming to grow even larger.
“There was an accident. A portion of the road gave way and the coach was damaged. One of the horses was cut up; Hochvall was thrown off the driving-box into the ditch. He was injured; how badly I do not yet know. The Comte is attending to him now.” He motioned to Begen and Relout to sit at the long plank table. “Is there a sausage and pickles you might be willing to spare?”
“And cheese,” said Uchtred. “Poor Hochvall.” He paused for a moment, then said, “I have beer. Jervois will bring these things to you.”
The field-hands exchanged uneasy glances. “We can get food for ourselves,” said Relout.
“The Comte prefers that his guests be served, as a sign of respect,” said Uchtred.
Once more Begen and Relout faltered, unused to such courtesy from a man of the Comte’s position. Finally Relout took a seat and reached for a trencher. “If it pleases the Comte, we are his to command.”
Rogier excused himself, promising to return shortly.
Uchtred smiled as he left the two alone for a short while, returning with a pitcher of beer and two tankards. As he poured for the men, he said, “You may want coffee, in addition to the beer.”
“The day is too warm for coffee,” said Relout, taking the brimming tankard in hand and lifting it to his lips. “This is most welcome.”
Begen said nothing, but drank deeply before setting down his tankard and nodding his approval.
“Then I’ll go prepare your tray. It will not take me long, so you needn’t fret,” said Uchtred, and left the men alone. In the kitchen, he summoned Jervois. “Bring the cheese—the pale round, if you will, a board and a knife to slice it. There are two working-men to feed.”
Jervois, who was fifteen and in his second year of service, gave a small, disapproving shake of his head even as he obeyed. “Why so much courtesy? These men are laborers, already paid for their services. Field-hands should be happy to be useful to the Comte; they should not take advantage of his liberality.”
“Would you say that if you were a field-hand? They have done work beyond their hiring, and that deserves distinction, or so the Comte says. It is his way, and so we must honor it.” He went into the pantry to choose a sausage, and emerged with a long, dense tube of spiced boar and venison cured with pepper, coriander, and smoke. Using a heavy kitchen knife, he cut a good portion of the sausage and sliced the portion onto a wooden trencher. “Butter, too, Jervois.”
The youngster nodded after a minute hesitation. “I will,” he said, and made his way out of the château, returning from the creamery with a tub of butter. “Yesterday’s. Enough for dinner and those men. Today’s isn’t done yet. Therese said she won’t get to it until after dinner. The day is too hot for the butter to catch, so she is cooling the milk in the creamery.”
“Yesterday’s should be sweet still, even in this weather. No doubt the men will be satisfied with it,” said Uchtred, pulling a lipped platter toward him, setting a jar of mustard sauce in the middle of it, and beginning to select pickles to array around it. When he had achieved a presentation that satisfied him, he stood back. “There.” His expression changed, darkening with his recollections. “You may not remember how many times we were raided for food during the wars; you were still a child, not aware of how things went on around you. War meant more than guns; it meant raids and confiscation. After the wars came hard winters. If the Comte were not a man of foresight, we could not maintain the expectations of guests in the château as we are doing. There is still food in the larder, enough to see us beyond the harvest. To have this bounty to give to working-men is an achievement. It has been some time since we could offer proper hospitality to those who came here, and many still cannot. Let us not lose track of our duty.”
“Napoleon was greedy,” declared Jervois, repeating his parents’ complaints. “My two brothers followed him, and died for it.”
“Many men followed him and died for it,” said Uchtred preparing to take the food in to the two field-hands. “Don’t linger with them—they’ll assume we don’t trust them,” he warned. “It is unseemly to distrust guests.”
“But we
don’t,
do we,” said Jervois. “Field-hands have taken as much as soldiers. And abandoned as many children.”
“The same reason for all—they were hungry,” said Uchtred. “The merchants had raised their prices and turned away apprentices.”
“All the more cause to be careful of these men,” said Jervois as if he were decades older and experienced in the ways of the commercial world. “Better to be circumspect now than to be sorry later.”
“You will not hover over them, nor will you spy upon them. The Comte has invited them to his table. They have the right to our reservation of judgment. See you treat them well.” He motioned Jervois away and resumed his preparation of the mid-day meal for the household. At least, he thought, they were not going to have to eat rabbit. He had cooked nothing but rabbits and scrawny birds for three full years during the height of Napoleon’s belligerence, and had sworn never to do so again: it was lamb and pork and venison, fish, and occasionally veal from now on, with fresh eggs and butter, and new, wheaten bread. He looked around the kitchen in satisfaction, and smiled as he considered all the provisions in the smokehouse and storerooms in the cellars of the château. He was turning two fat game-birds on a spit in the main kitchen hearth for the widow’s dinner when he heard someone come into the kitchen behind him.
“The Comte has set Hochvall’s leg and given him a sleeping draught; he should not wake until tomorrow; sleep will ease him through his first hard hours of recovery,” Rogier told the chef, thinking back to the many times that Ragoczy had taken charge of the care of injured men in the past. “The Comte knows what will be best for Hochvall: he will remain in the pantry antechamber for tonight. Tomorrow he will be moved to his own quarters. I will have one of the household servants watch him for tonight and tomorrow, and longer if it seems a good precaution, to be sure no greater ills develop.”
“No doubt that will please Hochvall,” said Uchtred. “Which servant are you going to appoint to watch him?”
“Either Hildebrand or Ulisse. Neither should impinge upon you very directly.”
“Footmen,” said Uchtred in a tone of unconcern. “Ulisse is accompanying the widow on her daily walk, but Hildebrand is in the side-garden, airing out the withdrawing-room cushions. Dietbold is cleaning the silver in the Grand Hall.” He felt smug that he—the chef—should have such information to offer; he hoped he was showing himself to be the equal of Balduin. He often took advantage of the steward’s absence to demonstrate his comprehensive grasp of the household.
“I will inform Hildebrand of his new work at once; I may assign Dietbold to sit with Hochvall tonight; it will be Dietbold or Silvain, depending upon which of them is better-rested,” said Rogier. “I suppose Balduin is still in the village?”
“So I assume; he has not returned to the château, in any case. I have held dinner back an hour so he could plan to eat with the rest of us, as is fitting for one in his position. It is observations like this that keep the household functioning properly.” Uchtred managed a superior smile. “The widow should be back from her walk shortly. I will order the dining room readied for the meal.”
“And we are still expecting Otto Gutesohnes tomorrow or the next day?” Rogier asked, although he knew the answer.
“That is my understanding,” said Uchtred primly. “You have had no news to the contrary, have you?”
“No, nor have you,” said Rogier.
“Then he should be here. He has been reliable on his first errand—why not on his second?”
“I will be relieved to see him, and so will the Comte,” said Rogier, going to the cauldron hanging over the hearth and preparing to take a measure of soup from it. “In case Hochvall wants something to eat. He will do better with soup than with bread. Be certain it is hot.”

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