The Lord John Series 4-Book Bundle

by Diana Gabaldon

  Grey stood, conscious all at once of tiredness and hunger, and of the rain pattering on his back.

  “Wrap him in a canvas; bring him …” Where? The dead man must be returned to his own regiment, but not tonight. “Bring him to the Schloss. Tom? Show them the way; ask the gardener to find you a suitable shed.”

  “Yes, me lord.” Tom Byrd was nearly as pale as the dead man, and covered with mud, but once more in control of himself. “Will I take the horse, me lord? Or will you ride him?”

  Grey had forgotten entirely about Karolus, and looked blankly about. Where had he gone?

  One of the diggers had evidently caught the word “horse,” and understood it, for a murmur of “Das Pferd” rippled through the group, and the men began to look round, lifting the torches high and craning their necks.

  One man gave an excited shout, pointing into the dark. A large white blur stood a little distance away.

  “He’s on a grave! He’s standing still! He’s found it!”

  This caused a stir of sudden excitement; everyone pressed forward together, and Grey feared lest the horse should take alarm and run again.

  No such danger; Karolus was absorbed in nibbling at the soggy remnants of several wreaths, piled at the foot of an imposing tombstone. This stood guard over a small group of family graves—one very recent, as the wreaths and raw earth showed. As the torchlight fell upon the scene, Grey could easily read the name chiseled black into the stone.

  BLOMBERG, it read.

  Chapter 2

  But What, Exactly, Does a Succubus Do?

  They found Schloss Lowenstein alight with candles and welcoming fires, despite the late hour of their return. They were far past the time for dinner, but there was food in abundance on the sideboard, and Grey and von Namtzen refreshed themselves thoroughly, interrupting their impromptu feast periodically to give particulars of the evening’s adventures to the house’s other inhabitants, who were agog with curiosity.

  “No! Herr Blomberg’s mother?” The Princess von Lowen stein pressed fingers to her mouth, eyes wide in delighted shock. “Old Agathe? I don’t believe it!”

  “Nor does Herr Blomberg,” von Namtzen assured her, reaching for a leg of roast pheasant. “He was most … vehement?” He turned toward Grey, eyebrows raised, then turned back to the princess, nodding with assurance. “Vehement.”

  He had been. Grey would have chosen “apoplectic” as the better description, but was reasonably sure that none of the Germans present would know the term and had no idea how to translate it. They were all speaking English, as a courtesy to the British officers present, who included a captain of horse named Billman, Colonel Sir Peter Hicks, and a Lieutenant Dundas, a young Scottish officer in charge of an ordnance survey party.

  “The old woman was a saint, absolutely a saint!” protested the Dowager Princess von Lowenstein, crossing herself piously. “I do not believe it, I cannot!”

  The younger princess cast a brief glance at her mother-in-law, then away—meeting Grey’s eyes. The princess had bright blue eyes, all the brighter for candlelight, brandy—and mischief.

  The princess was a widow of a year’s standing. Grey judged from the large portrait over the mantelpiece in the drawing room that the late prince had been roughly thirty years older than his wife; she bore her loss bravely.

  “Dear me,” she said, contriving to look winsome, despite her anxiety. “As if the French were not enough! Now we are to be threatened with nightmare demons?”

  “Oh, you will be quite safe, madam, I assure you,” Sir Peter assured her. “What-what? With so many gallant gentlemen in the house?”

  The ancient dowager glanced at Grey, and said something about gentlemen in highly accented German that Grey didn’t quite catch, but the princess flushed like a peony in bloom, and von Namtzen, within earshot, choked on a swallow of wine.

  Captain Billman smote the Hanoverian helpfully on the back.

  “Is there news of the French?” Grey asked, thinking that perhaps the conversation should be guided back to more earthly concerns before the party retired to bed.

  “Look to be a few of the bastards milling round,” Billman said casually, cutting his eyes at the women in a manner suggesting that the word “few” was a highly discreet euphemism. “Expect they’ll be moving on, heading for the west within a day or so.”

  Or heading for Strausberg, to join with the French regiment reported there, Grey thought. He returned Billman’s meaningful look. Gundwitz lay in the bottom of a river valley—directly between the French position and Strausberg.

  “So,” Billman said, changing the subject with a heavy jocularity, “your succubus got away, did she?”

  Von Namtzen cleared his throat.

  “I would not say that, particularly,” he said. “Herr Blomberg refused to allow the men to disturb the grave, of course, but I have men ordered to guard it.”

  “That’ll be popular duty, I shouldn’t think,” said Sir Peter, with a glance at a nearby window, where even multiple thicknesses of woolen draperies and heavy shutters failed to muffle the thrum of rain and occasional distant boom of thunder.

  “A good idea,” one of the German officers said, in heavily accented but very correct English. “We do not wish to have rumors fly about, that there is a succubus behaving badly in the vicinity of the soldiers.”

  “But what, exactly, does a succubus do?” the Princess inquired, looking expectantly from face to face.

  There was a sudden massive clearing of throats and gulping of wine, as all the men present tried to avoid her eye. An explosive snort from the dowager indicated what she thought of this cowardly behavior.

  “A succubus is a she-demon,” the old lady said, precisely. “It comes to men in dreams, and has congress with them, in order to extract from them their seed.”

  The princess’s eyes went perfectly round. She hadn’t known, Grey observed.

  “Why?” she asked. “What does she do with it? Demons do not give birth, do they?”

  Grey felt a laugh trying to force its way up under his breastbone, and hastily took another drink.

  “Well, no,” said Stephan von Namtzen, somewhat flushed, but still self-possessed. “Not exactly. The succubus procures the … er … essence,” he gave a slight bow of apology to the dowager at this, “and then will mate with an incubus—this being a male demon, you see?”

  The old lady looked grim, and placed a hand upon the religious medal she wore pinned to her gown.

  Von Namtzen took a deep breath, seeing that everyone was hanging upon his words, and fixed his gaze upon the portrait of the late prince.

  “The incubus then will seek out a human woman by night, couple with her, and impregnate her with the stolen seed—thus producing demon-spawn.”

  Lieutenant Dundas, who was very young and likely a Presbyterian, looked as though he were being strangled by his stock. The other men, all rather red in the face, attempted to look as though they were entirely familiar with the phenomenon under discussion and thought little of it. The dowager looked thoughtfully at her daughter-in-law, then upward at the picture of her deceased son, eyebrows raised as though in silent conversation.

  “Ooh!” Despite the late hour and the informality of the gathering, the princess had a fan, which she spread now before her face in shock, big blue eyes wide above it. These eyes swung toward Grey, and blinked in pretty supplication.

  “And do you really think, Lord John, that there is such a creature”—she shuddered, with an alluring quiver of the bosom—“prowling near?”

  Neither eyes nor bosom swayed him, and it was clear to him that the princess found considerably more excitement than fear in the notion, but he smiled reassuringly, an Englishman secure in his rationality.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

  As though in instant contradiction of this stout opinion, a blast of wind struck the Schloss, carrying with it a burst of hail that rattled off the shutters and fell hissing down the chimney. The thunder of the hail
storm upon roof and walls and outbuildings was so great that for a moment it drowned all possibility of conversation.

  The party stood as though paralyzed, listening to the roar of the elements. Grey’s eyes met Stephan’s; the Hanoverian lifted his chin a little in defiance of the storm, and gave him a small, private smile. Grey smiled back, then glanced away—just in time to see a dark shape fall from the chimney and plunge into the flames with a piercing shriek.

  The shriek was echoed at once by the women—and possibly by Lieutenant Dundas, though Grey could not quite swear to it.

  Something was struggling in the fire, flapping and writhing, and the stink of scorched skin came sharp and acrid in the nose. Acting by sheer instinct, Grey seized a poker and swept the thing out of the fire and onto the hearth, where it skittered crazily, emitting sounds that pierced his eardrums.

  Stephan lunged forward and stamped on the thing, putting an end to the unnerving display.

  “A bat,” he said calmly, removing his boot. “Take it away.”

  The footman to whom he addressed this command came hastily, and flinging a napkin over the blackened corpse, scooped it up and carried it out on a tray—this ceremonial disposal giving Grey a highly inappropriate vision of the bat making a second appearance at breakfast, roasted and garnished with stewed prunes.

  A sudden silence had fallen upon the party. This was broken by the sudden chiming of the clock, which made everyone jump, then laugh nervously.

  The party broke up, the men standing politely as the women withdrew, then pausing for a few moments’ conversation as they finished their wine and brandy. With no particular sense of surprise, Grey found Sir Peter at his elbow.

  “A word with you, Major?” Sir Peter said quietly.

  “Of course, sir.”

  The group had fragmented into twos and threes; it was not difficult to draw aside a little, under the pretext of examining a small, exquisite statue of Eros that stood on one of the tables.

  “You’ll be taking the body back to the Fifty-second in the morning, I expect?” The English officers had all had a look at Private Bodger, declaring that he was none of theirs; by elimination, he must belong to Colonel Ruysdale’s 52nd Foot, presently encamped on the other side of Gundwitz.

  Without waiting for Grey’s nod, Sir Peter went on, touching the statue abstractedly.

  “The French are up to something; had a scout’s report this afternoon, great deal of movement among the troops. They’re preparing to move, but we don’t yet know where or when. I should feel happier if a few more of Ruysdale’s troops were to move to defend the bridge at Aschenwald, just in case.”

  “I see,” Grey said cautiously. “And you wish me to carry a message to that effect to Colonel Ruysdale.”

  Sir Peter made a slight grimace.

  “I’ve sent one. I think it might be helpful, though, if you were to suggest that von Namtzen wished it, as well.”

  Grey made a noncommittal noise. It was common knowledge that Sir Peter and Ruysdale were not on good terms. The colonel might well be more inclined to oblige a German ally.

  “I will mention it to Captain von Namtzen,” he said, “though I expect he will be agreeable.” He would have taken his leave then, but Sir Peter hesitated, indicating that there was something further.

  “Sir?” Grey said.

  “I think,” Sir Peter said, glancing round and lowering his voice still further, “that perhaps the princess should be advised—cautiously; no need to give alarm—that there is some slight possibility … if the French were in fact to cross the valley …” He rested a hand thoughtfully upon the head of Eros, and glanced at the other furnishings of the room, which included a number of rare and costly items. “She might wish to withdraw her family to a place of safety. Not amiss to suggest a few things be put safely away in the meantime. Shouldn’t like to see a thing like that decorating a French general’s desk, eh?”

  “That” was the skull of an enormous bear—an ancient cave bear, the princess had informed the party earlier—that stood by itself upon a small, draped table. The skull was covered with gold, hammered flat and etched in primitive designs, with a row of semiprecious stones running up the length of the snout, then diverging to encircle the empty eye sockets. It was a striking object.

  “Yes,” Grey said, “I quite—Oh. You wish me to speak with the princess?”

  Sir Peter relaxed a little, having accomplished his goal.

  “She seems quite taken by you, Grey,” he said, his original joviality returning. “Advice might be better received from you, eh? Besides, you’re a liaison, aren’t you?”

  “To be sure,” Grey said, less than pleased, but aware that he had received a direct order. “I shall attend to it as soon as I may, sir.” He took leave of the others remaining in the drawing room, and made his way to the staircase that led to the upper floors.

  The Princess von Lowenstein did seem most taken with him; he wasn’t surprised that Sir Peter had noticed her smiles and languishings. Fortunately, she seemed equally taken with Stephan von Namtzen, going so far as to have Hanoverian delicacies served regularly at dinner in his honor.

  At the top of the stair, he hesitated. There were three corridors opening off the landing, and it always took a moment to be sure which of the stone-floored halls led to his own chamber. A flicker of movement to the left attracted his eye, and he turned that way, to see someone dodge out of sight behind a tall armoire that stood against the wall.

  “Wo ist das?” he asked sharply, and got a stifled gasp in reply.

  Moving cautiously, he went and peered round the edge of the armoire, to find a small, dark-haired boy pressed against the wall, both hands clasped over his mouth and eyes round as saucers. The boy wore a nightshirt and cap, and had plainly escaped from his nursery. He recognized the child, though he had seen him only once or twice before; it was the princess’s young son—what was the boy’s name? Heinrich? Reinhardt?

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said gently to the boy, in his slow, careful German. “I am your mother’s friend. Where is your room?”

  The boy didn’t reply, but his eyes flicked down the hallway and back. Grey saw no open doors, but held out a hand to the boy.

  “It is very late,” he said. “Shall we find your bed?”

  The boy shook his head so hard that the tassel of his nightcap slapped against the wall.

  “I don’t want to go to bed. There is a bad woman there. Ein Hexe.”

  “A witch?” Grey repeated, and felt an odd frisson run down his back, as though someone had touched his nape with a cold finger. “What did this witch look like?”

  The child stared back at him, uncomprehending.

  “Like a witch,” he said.

  “Oh,” said Grey, momentarily stymied. He rallied, though, and beckoned, curling his fingers at the boy. “Come, then; show me. I am a soldier, I am not afraid of a witch.”

  “You will kill her and cut out her heart and fry it over the fire?” the boy asked eagerly, peeling himself off the wall. He reached out to touch the hilt of Grey’s dagger, still on his belt.

  “Well, perhaps,” Grey temporized. “Let us go find her first.” He grasped the boy under the arms and swung him up; the child came willingly enough, curling his legs around Grey’s waist and cuddling close to him for warmth.

  The hallway was dark; only a rushlight sputtered in a sconce near the farther end, and the stones emanated a chill that made the child’s own warmth more than welcome. Rain was still coming down hard; a small dribble of moisture had seeped in through the shutters at the end of the hall, and the flickering light shone on the puddle.

  Thunder boomed in the distance, and the child threw his arms around Grey’s neck with a gasp.

  “It is all right.” Grey patted the small back soothingly, though his own heart had leapt convulsively at the sound. No doubt the sound of the storm had wakened the boy.

  “Where is your chamber?”

  “Upstairs.” The boy pointed vaguely to
ward the far end of the hallway; presumably there was a back stair somewhere near. The Schloss was immense and sprawling; Grey had learned no more of its geography than what was necessary to reach his own quarters. He hoped that the boy knew the place better, so they were not obliged to wander the chilly hallways all night.

  As he approached the end of the hall, the lightning flashed again, a vivid line of white that outlined the window—and showed him clearly that the shutters were unfastened. With the boom of thunder came a gust of wind, and one loose shutter flung back suddenly, admitting a freezing gust of rain.

  “Oooh!” The boy clutched him tightly round the neck, nearly choking him.

  “It is all right,” he said again, as calmly as possible, shifting his burden in order to free one hand.

  He leaned out to seize the shutter, trying at the same time to shelter the boy with his body. A soundless flash lit up the world in a burst of black and white, and he blinked, dazzled, a pinwheel of stark images whirling at the back of his eyes. Thunder rolled past, with a sound so like an oxcart full of stones that he glanced up involuntarily, half-expecting to see one of the old German gods go past, driving gleefully through the clouds.

  The image he saw was not of the storm-tossed sky, though, but of something seen when the lightning flashed. He blinked hard, clearing his sight, and then looked down. It was there. A ladder, leaning against the wall of the house. Well, then. Perhaps the child had seen someone strange in his room.

  “Here,” he said to the boy, turning to set him down. “Stay out of the rain while I fasten the shutter.”

  He turned back, and leaning out into the storm, pushed the ladder off, so that it fell away into the dark. Then he closed and fastened the shutters, and picked up the shivering boy again. The wind had blown out the rushlight, and he was obliged to feel his way into the turning of the hall.

  “It’s very dark,” said the boy, with a tremor in his voice.