The Pierced Heart: A Novel (3 page)

And empty air is all the rest of the hall contains, at least at this moment. There is no sign of servants, and certainly no sign of the master of the house. The day outside is bright with sun and loud with a western wind, but inside the castle is both dimmed and silent—a curious muffled silence which seems to suck even the echo from the stone. Charles hesitates a moment, wondering whether to go down, when he hears a door open farther along the gallery—a small low door which must be directly below the tower and dome above. The Baron emerges from it, then carefully locks it behind him with a large iron key, before proceeding slowly and thoughtfully towards where Charles is standing. So thoughtful is he, in fact, that Charles almost has to step into his path to attract his attention.

“Ah!” says the Baron, starting back. He is wearing, Charles notices, exactly the same clothes as he wore the night before.

“I apologise, Freiherr—I did not intend to alarm you.”

“No, no,” says the Baron, composing his features quickly. “You have merely anticipated me. I was about to send a servant to enquire whether you would care to begin the business of your sojourn at Castle Reisenberg.”

He starts to walk on, gesturing Charles to accompany him, and Charles sees him glance back towards the locked door, and finger the key he has placed in the pocket of his long dark coat.

“I infer,” the Baron continues, his voice still low and slightly rasping, “that the Curators of Sir Thomas Bodley’s Library require two quite distinct categories of reassurance from your visit here?”

Charles averts his eyes. “I am not sure I understand your meaning.”

“My dear young man—if I may presume to call you so—if I were a functionary entrusted with a role such as theirs, presented with an offer such as the one I have made, there would be two matters I should
wish to ascertain. Firstly, that the benefactor in question was indeed the man he claimed to be; and secondly, that there would be no danger, now or at any future time, of any—”

He pauses a moment, clearly searching for the apposite word.

“—
embarrassment
, shall we say, arising in consequence of accepting such a gift.”

Charles reddens, despite himself, and he hears the Baron laugh softly. “There is no need for embarrassment on
your
part, Mr Maddox. You are merely carrying out the task you have been assigned, and the Curators, in their turn, merely fulfilling the duty they owe. I take no offence; indeed as I have already stated, I should undertake exactly the same enquiries, were I in their place.”

“I confess I have wondered,” begins Charles, as they descend the stairs, “why you chose the Ashmole Bequest as the recipient of your generosity. I was lucky enough to be allowed to view it when I met the Curators in Oxford, and while the illuminated Bestiary is unquestionably charming and no doubt priceless, some of the other items—”

The Baron smiles at Charles, revealing, for the first time, a line of sharp discoloured teeth and pale receding gums. “You are referring, I deduce, to the astrological and alchemical treatises that make up a great part of the collection?”

“Those of Simon Forman in particular. I read only a few pages, but the man was quite obviously a charlatan—all that nonsense about conjuring astral powers and summoning spirits. And claiming he could treat illness by casting horoscopes and letting blood according to the phases of the moon? It’s ludicrous, not to mention fraudulent. Small wonder they threw him in gaol.”

“And yet he saw more than a thousand patients a year,” says the Baron softly.

Charles lets out a snort of derision. “If some of them were healed, it had nothing whatsoever to do with wearing Forman’s amulets or reciting his so-called magical incantations. He cured by coincidence, or—at best—
placebo
.”

He stops, aware—and amazed—that his companion does not seem to be agreeing with him. “You do not concur?”

The Baron raises an eyebrow. “I would observe merely that such learning was not condemned as preposterous at the time. I am sure I do not need to remind you that Sir Isaac Newton conducted alchemical experiments of his own. Or that Sir Elias Ashmole was himself an alchemist, as well as a founder of your Royal Society.”

“But that was nearly two hundred years ago! There have been so many advancements in scientific knowledge since then—there is no excuse for such absurd superstition—”

“Advancements there have indeed been,” interrupts the Baron. “And yet we are no nearer finding the answers to which the alchemists aspired than Ashmole or Forman were, for all the efforts of the scientific establishment. Alchemy, Mr Maddox, was concerned not merely with the transmutation of base metals, but the transfiguration of the human soul, that it might commune with that secret energy which both illuminates and animates the
kosmos
. The energy of the ancients which is now lost to our sceptical, matter-of-fact nineteenth century, the energy that lights the
aurora borealis
, and throbs in the deep places of the earth, and which our forefathers marked with sacred sites of standing stones.”

Charles stares at him, open-mouthed, before remembering his manners and his mission here, and inclining his head. “I bow to your far greater knowledge, Freiherr.”

By the time they come to a halt before a large wooden door, Charles has already revised all the many unsettling impressions of the last twenty-four hours and come to the conclusion that all can be explained by his host’s increasingly obvious eccentricity. The Baron is evidently one of those idle aristocrats whose wealth allows the indulgence of even the most outlandish of whims. But if some of that wealth can go towards preserving the Ashmole Bequest, then it is not—clearly—for Charles to stand in the way.

So there is a rather superior smile on his lips as the Baron opens the door and gestures him to enter—a smile that slips slowly from his face as he takes two, then three steps forward, and stands gazing about him. It is the most beautiful library Charles has ever seen. A wood-and-gilded coffered ceiling, shelves that reach from frieze to floor, and all along the wall before him a line of tall windows shielded by heavy muslin drapes, giving over the river rampart onto the water below. And at the far left, a man with a thick dark beard and deferential dress is laying papers carefully onto a desk.

“In anticipation of your requirements,” says the Baron, “I have taken the liberty of requesting the custodian of my own—very much more modest—collection to furnish you with certain documents that may be of assistance in your task.”

The two of them proceed at a stately pace past book-stands bearing volumes held open by velvet ribbons, armillary globes mounted on circular frames, and glass cases containing what look to Charles to be original mediaeval manuscripts.

“This is astonishing, sir,” he says, as overwhelmed as a child let loose in a toy-shop. “I congratulate you.”

The Baron inclines his head. “A library such as this is not the work of one man, or even of one generation. Some of the books you see here have been in the possession of my family for more than five hundred years. Many others have been acquired more recently, either by my father, or by myself. My father spent his life as Court Librarian in the service of the King of Wurttemberg. I still recall being permitted, for the first time, to enter the royal apartments and view my father at work—cataloguing, classifying, restoring. I had a natural curiosity, as a child, and my father took care to nurture it, and to instil at the same time a proper regard for correctness of method, and orderliness of thought. His own passion—as the books you see about you amply attest—was for history, and for literature. He was an avid collector of such works, and endeavoured to imbue my young mind with something of his own enthusiasm. I fear I was a sad disappointment
to him, however, for my own interests inclined quite another way.”

Charles smiles. “I fear that I, too, disappointed my father by failing to follow in the course he preferred for me.”

“Indeed?” says the Baron, stopping and looking Charles full in the face for the first time. “And what would he have chosen?”

“Medicine,” replies Charles, flushing a little, though whether at the memory of that disastrous experiment, or at the opinions he was just asserting, it would be hard to say. “My father is—was—a distinguished physician, and at his insistence I, too, followed a medical training for some months. But I had no aptitude for the work, and an insufficient empathy—or so I was told—for the sufferings of my fellow men. The surgeon who supervised my studies observed once that I approached illness as if it were an intellectual puzzle—fascinated by determining the nature and cause of the complaint, yet all but indifferent to the consequent task of effecting a useful cure.”

He stops, the smile dying on his lips, and fearing he has said too much, for there is an odd expression, now, in his host’s eyes.

“Did he, indeed,” says the Baron eventually. “I see. We must talk of this again. But I am afraid I have to leave you, for the moment, to the care of the excellent Herr Bremmer, as I have business of my own to attend to. When you have seen all you require, he will escort you to the dining parlour, where you will find luncheon awaiting you. Good morning, Mr Maddox.”

And with that he is gone.

Charles turns to the librarian, who bows low, then leads Charles towards a baize table, where he has unrolled a large scroll and secured it carefully with small leaden weights. He is wearing white cotton gloves, and asks, in perfect English, that Herr Maddox please refrain from touching the parchment. It is, he explains, a representation of the Baron’s family tree, originally crafted more than a century before, and added to, with great care, with each succeeding heir and alliance. And it is indeed a beautiful thing—the paper thick and finely textured, the
calligraphy exquisite, and the finely detailed coats of arms as bright as they must have been the day they were first inked. Herr Bremmer is now looking at Charles expectantly, and he realises suddenly that he is being shown this item not as an artefact, but as evidence. He takes his notebook quickly from his pocket and asks his companion if he can assist him in deciphering the German inscriptions. Half an hour later he has six pages of notes covering every conceivable aspect of the Baron’s antecedence, as well as the extent of his estates, the history of his
schloss
, and the identity of his successor, should the present Baron Von Reisenberg die—as seems likely—without a son of his own.

As a vetting, it is surely as positive as the Bodleian Curators could possibly expect, and by the end of it Charles is beginning to wonder how he is to fill his time for the rest of his allotted stay. When a silence descends, Charles ventures a half-idle question as to the nature of the “business” that has called the Baron away, but Herr Bremmer affects not to understand him, his eyes fixed on the task of re-rolling the scroll. Charles watches him, aware of a first flicker of premonition—a detective instinct that tells him all may not be what it seems. It’s possible—he acknowledges at once—that the man is nothing more than uncomfortable with the prospect of discussing his employer’s affairs with a stranger, but the slight flush on his thin cheeks argues for something else, something more. In the meantime Herr Bremmer has placed the scroll carefully in a long paper tube and gone to ring the bell, and by the time the servant appears he is smiling and bowing and putting himself at Charles’s disposal if he should require more assistance. It is as if the question had never been asked.

There is a contrariness in Charles—a reluctance to accept no for an answer—that has stood him in good stead in his chosen profession almost as often as it has landed him in trouble, so it will not surprise you to hear that he is now making a mental note to enquire about the
Baron’s business when he sees his host at luncheon. But when the servant opens the door to the vast blood-red dining-room Charles sees at once that a table that could easily seat two dozen is set now only for one. Candles are lit, even though it is scarcely past noon, and the heavy brocade curtains are drawn. The servant has already closed the door behind him, and of other servers there is no sign, so Charles helps himself from the rather ostentatious silver-gilt tureen, and then eats in a combination of silence and frustration. When he finally pushes the plate away and gets up, he realises the Baron is standing silently in the doorway behind him. How long he has been there, Charles has no idea.

“You have already eaten, Freiherr Von Reisenberg?” asks Charles, somewhat wrong-footed.

The Baron shakes his head. “I rarely dine during the day, Mr Maddox, and confine my diet always to a strict vegetable regimen.”

Which might explain, thinks Charles, both the pallor of his skin and that slight tremor he notices now in the Baron’s hands.

“It occurred to me,” continues Von Reisenberg, “from your remarks earlier this morning, that you might be interested to visit my collection.”

“I thought I had already done so—”

The Baron is already waving his hand. “I do not speak of the library—it is a bauble, an affectation—”

Charles raises his eyebrows—to judge only of the few treasures he glimpsed that morning, the Von Reisenberg archive is worth a King’s ransom, and a scholar’s rapture.

“Do not mistake me,” continues the Baron. “I have a just appreciation of the value of the volumes I am fortunate enough to possess, but that value—to me—is largely
sentimental
. I believe that is your English phrase?”

Charles nods. “Sentimental value, yes, that is the phrase. Because they belonged to your father.”

“Quite so. Whereas my own collection is of quite another order, and quite another value. I rarely invite visitors to see it, and never on the
strength of so slight an acquaintanceship, but it seems to me that you are of a cast of mind—and an intelligence—as might appreciate its worth.”

Charles is well aware that he is being flattered, and part of his mind notes how very skilfully the Baron has both gauged and engaged him. But there is another part of his mind that wonders what exactly this curious man might be hoarding in this extraordinary and seemingly half-empty house, and whether it might have some bearing on the task he has been sent here to achieve.