“Let me. You shouldn’t lift,” he said.
“You shouldn’t have to do—” but he had already done it, heaving the snoring Fitzwilliam onto his bed and tossing the blanket over him, “—do everything.”
Grégoire closed the door, leaving them in the tiny wooden hallway in the darkest part of the night. “You shouldn’t take so much on yourself. You’re carrying enough—aren’t you?”
Elizabeth gave him a hard stare, but for once, he did not waver humbly or shyly. His expression was a rather compassionate version of being accusatory. “Did Mrs. Maddox say anything?”
“No, but few people can eat ciorba ruseasca with the bones still in it without a second glance.”
Her hand, of course, inadvertently fell over her stomach. “Please don’t say anything to Lord Matlock.”
“I am happy for you,” he said, “but I wish the circumstances were different.”
“I couldn’t stay behind,” she said. “I know I’m no use to this mission, but—I just couldn’t. He needs me. I know it. We know it.”
“I know,” Grégoire said. “Just be careful, please.”
“I will,” Elizabeth said, not sure if she could keep that promise, or if she hadn’t already broken it.
***
Miraculously, the snowfall that night was only a minor dusting, and they had skies clear enough to see the mountains beyond them. When they stopped to ask directions, they learned they were indeed the famous Carpathians, now almost entirely covered in snow.
“!”
It was fairly clear the man in the fur overcoat and the fur hat approaching them through the snow was local, not French. Grégoire came down from the wagon and approached him. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” (Do you speak German?)
The man was apparently less put-off by the sight of a monk. “Ja.” (Yes.)
“We would like to see Prince Olaf,” he said in German.
The guard, carrying both a gun and a ceremonial lance, looked cautiously at the odd wagon and its riders. Some questions followed, spoken too softly for them to hear, before they were ushered on.
“We’re to be received by the prince,” Grégoire said. “For good or ill, I know not.”
***
The castle was massive and foreign. It was not medieval, or how they pictured a medieval castle would be, but it was certainly filled with anciently dressed guards. Grégoire was reluctant to leave behind the reliquary, even though it was hidden in a larger container, but the guards reassured him many times, and Elizabeth finally pried him away from it (almost forcibly) because they needed his language skills.
The stone halls were not much warmer than outside, so they were not relieved of their coats, just the very outer layers, before being ushered into what appeared to be a small dining room. At the head of the table sat the only clean-shaven man they had seen in days, wearing the latest French fashions, with wide sideburns and a mustache. Only an insignia pin on his breast pocket and the fur around his neck noted any significance as he rose to greet them, speaking in plain French. “I am Count Olaf . I understand you requested an audience?”
They bowed and curtseyed. Fitzwilliam took the lead. “I am Lord Richard Matlock, and this is my cousin Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy, my other cousin Brother Grégoire Darcy, and a Mrs. Caroline Maddox.”
Count Olaf bade them to sit with a wave of his hand. “Now, I am going to guess that you are looking for the two Englishmen being held prisoner by Count Vladimir.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, quickly explaining who they were. None of them were interested in eating the food offered as much as they were getting information, but they took some odd drink to be polite. “Please, are they alive?”
“As far as I know, yes,” he said, to the audible relief of everyone present. “Though I have not been to his castle much lately. As you may have heard, he and I have somewhat of a—strained relationship.”
“We’ve heard something like that, yes,” Fitzwilliam said.
“Everyone has one to some extent or another—Vladimir has alienated all of the princes of Transylvania and Wallachia in some way or another over the years. But for me, it is personal. His wife was my sister. Their marriage was meant to be an alliance between our families.” Now it was his turn to look bothered, even sad. “She bore him only one child who lived past infancy, a girl named Nadezhda, before she died. He knows that if his daughter produces no heir, his lands will be mine when he dies, and as soon as my niece came of age, the midwife informed us she doubted Nadezhda would ever conceive. This was several years ago. No one was willing to offer up their son to be his daughter’s husband. He brought in many suitors from abroad, but as soon as they learned of the situation, they ran before the ceremony could be performed. He became so desperate; he turned to gambling and tricking the Englishman—Prince Brian—to marry Nadezhda. And then Prince Brian had the bad luck to fall in love with her, or so I am told.
“I met him once, during the ceremony of the opening of the hunt, one of the few that Vladimir attends. Prince Brian was married then, I think, one year, and he seemed like a reasonable man who was very happy despite his position. But after two years, Vladimir became again frustrated that his son-in-law was not producing an heir, but would find no fault with his own daughter. He conceived a plan to get rid of Brian and bring in a new suitor upon his death. Quite obviously, Brian discovered the plan and ran off. He might have been allowed to escape and be assumed dead but he took Nadezhda with him—and her dowry, which was half of the treasury. Both were blows Vladimir has not recovered from. He put a reward on Brian’s head that I have no idea of how he would actually pay. He sent spies to Berlin, Russia, and Istanbul. How he came upon your husband, Mrs. Maddox, I know not the particulars of.”
“He sent a letter,” Caroline said, “inviting my husband to visit his brother, and my husband had no reason to be suspicious. Mr. Darcy happened to be with him for unrelated reasons when he was arrested—or so we think.”
Count Olaf nodded. “I cannot tell you if Prince Brian is alive or dead, or if my niece is with him. There are rumors that he was seen in St. Petersburg two years ago, but they may be false. Vladimir has put out notices that he is holding Brian’s brother hostage and he must return; the man has either chosen to ignore them, realized that they would just all be killed if he returned, or is somewhere beyond communication. But for the moment, that is neither here nor there. There is the matter of Dr. Maddox and—I am sorry, his name—?”
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said, strangling the pronunciation through the French and his own thick local accent.
Fitzwilliam was quick to ask, “Can they be ransomed?”
“Not if Vladimir thinks they are still useful—which, if they are still being kept alive, is true. He will do anything to have his daughter back and Brian’s head on a spike. No, it will not simply be a matter of money.” He stroked his chin. “Tell me—do any of you have any experience in acting?”
“Acting?” Caroline responded.
“Yes,” Olaf said. “You see, Vladimir is a terribly traditional and superstitious man, and I can foresee how this would work to our advantage. Yes, it is coming to me now.” He frowned. “There is one other concern,” Olaf said. “Mr. Trommler.”
“Mr. Trommler?” Elizabeth said first. The name was not familiar.
“A Prussian. Count Vladimir’s closest advisor and greatest spy. He speaks a dozen languages, has traveled the world, is a master of deceit, and is very well paid by the count. He is also a master of interrogation, or so I have heard. Has quite a reputation.” At their ashen faces, he changed course. “The point is he must be bribed. He is an intelligent man and will see through any ruse, but he has no real loyalty to the count. And he will be expensive.”
“And why would we not assume he will take the money and then go right to the count anyway?” Caroline asked.
Count Olaf shrugged. “We do not. But it is a risk we will have to take.” He continued, “Trommler sits in a certain tavern very close to here in town every Tuesday night. He has a long dinner, but his real purpose is to overhear gossip. He is in disguise while he does so as Theodor Sturdza. Unfortunately I cannot go with you, or it will be obvious, and he will be very annoyed by my intrusion. But we need him—and you must get him, by any means necessary.”
***
There was no reason to wait. Olaf generously gave them clothing to make them appear slightly less conspicuous than they already were, and had someone show them the way, promising to guard their things while they went. The reason behind his generosity was obvious—he wanted to hurt Vladimir, and he was willing to use them to do it.
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Fitzwilliam repeated softly as they entered the bar, and Grégoire inquired after a Theodor Sturdza. They were pointed to a private room, knocked, and someone from inside told them to enter.
Theodor Sturdza—or Mr. Trommler, whoever he was—was sitting at a lone table picking at his teeth in front of his empty plate. Like Count Olaf, he was fashionably dressed, if in German fashions, and with some allowances for extra cold weather. Shaven, neat, and clean—it was obvious he was a foreigner. He took only the briefest of looks at them before speaking.
“We can skip the formalities,” Trommler said in plain, if accented, English. “Four thousand pounds. Notes only. No checks.”
They sat there in stunned silence as he put his feet up, looking annoyingly relaxed. “Four thousand pounds?”
“Two for each. And the price is not negotiable,” he said. “I am assuming you want both.”
“How do you even know—?”
“Because, Mrs. Maddox, I am not a particularly stupid person, and having two Englishmen locked away in Vladimir’s castle, I would be foolish not to take notice of any Englishmen attempting to quietly enter the country.” He pointed casually, “And the monkish brother—your brother was looking for you. Odd how both he and you ended up here.”
“It seems you are a very intuitive man,” Caroline said, her tone not at all complimentary, even though it was true.
He shrugged. “Information is my business.”
Caroline barely managed to maintain her composure as she said, “Tell me he’s alive.”
“I’ll tell you whatever you like,” said Trommler. “But he is alive. So we shall come to the point. I don’t particularly know or care how you go about it, but I will need four thousand pounds worth of some kind of currency tomorrow, at this time, if I am to go along with whatever silly plan you have cooked up to save your husbands. Unless you have any further questions, I must be off.” No one interrupted him as he rose, bowed very politely, and left, closing the door behind him.
“Where are we going to get four thousand pounds in one day?” she said after they left the tavern. “In Transylvania?”
They had assumed they would have to ransom their husbands, but it was too dangerous to travel with so much cash. Between them and Lord Matlock, they only had a little over two thousand.
“I don’t have it,” Grégoire said, “but I know someone who might.”
They both turned and said in unison, “Who?”
“The saint.”
***
Back at the castle, Grégoire removed the cover over the reliquary to reveal a box with heavy gold plates plastered to it. “There’s more,” he said, and pulled loose a small drawer hidden in the wooden base revealing a ton of foreign coinage. He crossed himself. “Holy Sebald, please forgive us for our use of the pilgrims’ heavenly offerings, but I assure you, it is done only for the highest ends.”
“I shall never have cause to insult the worship of saints ever again,” Elizabeth said. “May we really have this? St. Sebald will be paid back upon our return to England.”
“I cannot imagine how one who walked the path of God would not understand the meaning of charity,” he said. “So I imagine St. Sebald will be most understanding.”
The next day, four thousand pounds worth of local bank notes were left in an envelope at the bar—at which point Trommler almost magically reappeared. “So tell me this plan you are supposed to have. Or must I invent it for you?”
***
Dr. Maddox was roused from sleep by the unfamiliar sound. Normally his food tray was slid through a slot in the bars, but this time the cell door was opened with a creak loud enough that he heard Darcy, who had not spoken in several days, start moving around next to him. He opened his eyes to more light than he was used to, and sat up, holding up his arm to protect himself. The arm was quickly grabbed as orders were given in Romanian. He was held up in a sitting position as the man in front of him came close enough to be clearly visible.
“So you are still alive,” Trommler said. No matter how ill or insane he got, Dr. Maddox knew he would never forget that voice. “If you want to stay that way, then I suggest you cooperate and not say a word if you’re conscious enough to do so—no matter what you hear. Now, drink up.”
The noxious concoction, clearly poisonous or medicinal in some fashion, was poured down his throat, and he had to force himself to swallow before he choked. Trommler left, his gray coat disappearing around the corner into Darcy’s cell as the guards unlocked his leg shackle and tied his arms behind his back. Trommler had returned, and he hadn’t noticed it because his eyes could barely focus at all as the man held one eye open with one hand and held the lantern up with another. Everything was hazy, and he seriously hoped there wouldn’t be any questions, because all he wanted to do at that moment was sleep.
“Remember what I said.” Trommler’s voice was distorted. “Keep your mouth shut, and the two of you may just make it out this night alive.”
Chapter 18
Muma
Herr Trommler had one additional demand: that they, in the process of their theatrics, help him discredit two would-be mystics who had Count Vladimir utterly under their spell and were becoming increasingly influential in his household. As he insisted it would only help the situation, they agreed.
The scariest part was how excited Count Olaf was about this. He hired a costume designer and brought him express from the city. “Does everyone know their parts? And remember to hiss and back away when he produces the cross.”
“My face itches,” Grégoire said, scratching at the fake fur pasted on his face. “And my head.”
“I’m sorry, Brother, but pricolici simply do not have tonsures,” Olaf said. “Try not to accidentally take it off. The glue isn’t very strong.”
“And if you have to scratch, try doing it with your foot,” Elizabeth said. Despite the utter seriousness of rescuing their husbands, there was no use in resisting the temptation to admit the hilarity that was Grégoire dressed up as a hairy wolf man.
“If he manages to pull that off, I want to see it,” Fitzwilliam says. “Why do I have to sit outside in the wagon?”
“Because your French accent is atrocious,” Caroline said, announcing her entrance into the room. Beside the hairy Grégoire and the wart-covered Elizabeth in rags, Mrs. Maddox was stunning in her black gown and corset. Her red hair was uncovered and tied up with matching ribbons in a sort of beehive. With fake jewelry around her neck, she fit the picture of… whatever she was supposed to fit. “How do I look, and why are we doing this again?”
“Because Vladimir is a superstitious fool,” Olaf said. “And you look marvelous. Anyway, I’m a civilized man, not a bloodthirsty barbarian. Leaving him in his misery will have to be enough. Oh, and inheriting his estate when he dies.”
“And I’m a what again?” Elizabeth said, still staring at Caroline in wonder. The woman could truly pull off the distinguished look—no matter how desperate the situation.
“A strigoi—sort of a vampire witch sort of thing,” Olaf said. “You don’t speak French well,
so just hiss a lot. You’re there for atmosphere.”
They went over the plan again, and as they turned to leave, the count said more seriously, “Remember—if he does bring the two of them forward, they may not be in the best of condition. It is important that you don’t react. None of your characters speak English, so you won’t have to talk to either of them. Whatever you’re feeling,” he said, looking carefully at Caroline and Elizabeth, “hold it in. We just need to get them out.”
They both nodded, having a feeling that would be harder than it seemed.
***
Count Olaf had no trouble gaining admittance to the grounds of Count Vladimir after a very tense carriage ride in the evening cold, followed by Fitzwilliam’s wagon. In the carriage, Caroline donned the black veil that obscured most of her face but not her hair, lifting the veil only to peek out the window at the castle they were approaching.
This is where Darcy is, Elizabeth thought next to her, and without thinking, gave Caroline an instinctive squeeze on the gloved wrist. We’re coming.
The castle was indeed very foreboding. Caroline wrapped the shawl around her more tightly as Elizabeth and Grégoire followed behind her, a little better covered but not by much. They all came in behind Count Olaf, who spoke only a moment with the guards in Romanian before they allowed him admittance. He seemed to know his way about the place, and the guards with their lances and halberds nodded to him suspiciously, especially with the party following him. Olaf showed no fear or trepidation as he entered what was the dining hall.
At the head of the long table was a fat, bearded man digging into his dinner of some kind of roast. “Ce se intampla?” (What is this?)
“Excuse me, Brother,” Count Olaf said, pulling up an empty chair not far from him and speaking in French. “You know I would not intrude on your hospitality without a very good reason, but mine is very grave. I am sure you will understand.”
Mr. Darcy's Great Escape Page 18