A Sharpness on the Neck d-9

by Fred Saberhagen

  Radcliffe was also carrying a letter sent to America by the revolutionary firebrand Tom Paine, inviting Philip to call on Paine if he should come to Paris. Paine was an old acquaintance, if not exactly a friend, of the young man's father—in fact Benjamin Franklin had once been widely credited with the authorship of Paine's famous political pamphlet, Common Sense. Phil also had in his pocket another letter that he hesitated to show Melanie; his elders in Philadelphia had impressed on him that the message he was carrying to Paine was something of a diplomatic secret.

  Nor did Phil want to raise Melanie's hopes regarding her father only to see them dashed again. But he seriously thought that he, armed with the letters of introduction he was carrying, might well be able to exert sufficient influence upon the revolutionary authorities in Paris to be of some use to her father.

  According to the young woman's description of the course of local events over the last year, typical of the turmoil which had swept through most of the country, some kind of rural mob had gone through a show of seizing this estate, in the name of the People. Melanie of course had not been on the grounds at the time, or even in the village. The intrusion had taken place months ago. The mob had made a drunken, abortive effort to burn the place down. But the house was constructed mostly of stone, and a timely rainstorm had put out the fire, so only minor damage had resulted.

  Actually the chief culprit in the matter of damage, as far as Radcliffe could see, was only neglect, which over the last several years had somewhat ravaged the house. Still the structure was basically intact. It seemed very doubtful, though, that anyone in his mother's family would ever have a claim on the place in the future.

  That was too bad, in a way. Philip would have enjoyed a leisurely return, in some peaceful future, to the house and lands that held so many happy memories. On the other hand he was perfectly ready to admit that the local peasants, whose blood and sweat and lives for countless generations had been invested in this soil, had a far better claim on the place than did he or any of his family.

  * * *

  The two young people remarked to each other on how swiftly the night had passed while they had done no more than talk and sip a little wine.

  Several times during the course of their nightlong conversation, Radcliffe had asked Melanie what she had been doing all the time he had been gone. He had yet to receive anything like a full or detailed reply.

  Melanie continued to be vague in her answers whenever the conversation touched on her personal life. When pressed, she said she had been away to school, but seemed reluctant to provide any details.

  "So," said Philip, drawing a deep breath and ready to try again. "Now you've heard all about me. I do believe I've told, my entire life story several times over in the course of the night. And I've learned from you all about the state of things in France—and about what's happened to your father. But it would please me to hear of happier days—how you spent your time before the great upheaval. How long did we decide it must be since we last saw each other—? Yes, eighteen years. I'm twenty-five now, and you're—twenty-four? Of course. So we must have been about seven and six when we last played together."

  "Yes, 1776—that was a big year for revolutions," Melanie commented, smiling. Her companion could not help noticing that she had once more evaded the question.

  When he continued watching her in silence, she added: "My life would make a dull story, I'm afraid—until the Revolution started. Since then all lives in France have been exciting." She mentioned that she had spent some time working with her father, the physician. "Until he was arrested."

  "I am really so sorry, Mellie." The old childhood nickname had come back effortlessly. "I remember the good doctor well. At least I think I do."

  Again she sipped her wine. She had consumed several glasses over the course of a whole night, and so had he, though not enough to have had any noticeable effect on either party.

  Melanie, while visiting in the village yesterday, and at her wits' end as to where to turn next, had heard that someone was occupying the house again. One reason for her visit had been to warn whomever had come here against the local republicans, or Jacobins, who committed desultory acts of terror.

  From the moment she had heard of the reported stranger, she said now, she had wondered whether he might possibly be her old playmate.

  She had driven out from town in her father's light carriage. Greeting her at the door, Radcliffe had at first not recognized her—nor she him.

  "Yes, Mademoiselle, how may I be of service?"

  "To begin with, it will be safer for you to call me citoyenne—but stay, M'sieu, have we perhaps met before?"

  The couple had spent the night in each other's company, under conditions of deepening intimacy, though as yet there had been only casual physical contact between them after a kiss of greeting at the moment of recognition. They were beginning to fall for each other in a serious way. They had, as it turned out, a very great deal to talk about.

  "And what do they say that you must do, this local Commune, or Committee—or whatever is the latest name they give themselves?"

  "They call themselves the Committee of Public Safety, having adopted the same title as the men in Paris who last year proclaimed themselves our new masters. You will be wise to treat these local people with politeness when you meet them, but here they have nothing like the power of Robespierre and his gang in the city."

  She was looking out the window again. "It appears that we are going to have a visitor."

  Vlad Dracula, dragging himself along, struggling to stay on his feet—more than once slipping to his knees and fighting his way erect again—had almost reached the house. This would have been the moment for dogs to rush out barking, but it seemed there were no dogs. If they had come, he was ready, thinking he still had the power to quiet them.

  The harried fugitive, staggering with fatigue and loss of blood, had fallen from sheer weakness several times during the last half hour. He knew that he would not survive the first minute of full sunlight under these conditions, not even the slanting, early morning rays; such shelter as he might find under a tree or in a hedgerow was not going to be enough in his condition.

  Seen at close range, the building's dilapidation was all the more apparent. Obviously the house had been neglected over a period of years, but it had not deteriorated to such a degree that a man could expect to find a hole large enough to climb through. As far as the visitor could see from where he tottered, doors and window shutters remained intact.

  When he saw a trace of smoke rising from the chimney, he knew that some chance existed that he might be invited in.

  It was not in his nature to give up. He approached and knocked on the door.

  Inside the house, Radcliffe had earlier seen to it that his primitive firearms and other weapons were loaded, and was keeping them within reach. His armament included two pistols which Old Jules had kept hidden away, so they had not yet been confiscated by any Citizens' Committee of Public Safety.

  Philip now checked the pistols' flints and made sure the weapons were loaded and primed. The couple looked at each other, and exchanged whispers. This could very likely be the rural sans-culottes.

  Holding a loaded pistol in each hand, Radcliffe called out: "Who's there?"

  Old Jules had awakened and was standing beside the door, watching Radcliffe for instructions while gripping an ancient sword.

  Melanie on hearing a knock at the door had calmly hefted one of the big meat knives racked in the old stone kitchen.

  The male voice from outside sounded weak but clear. "Only a hunter. I am lost, and seeking shelter."

  In the east, to which I had my back, I could now sense the sky-glare brightening relentlessly, belaboring my senses with its urgent warning. Behind that silent augury there burned the unshielded furnace-fury of the Sun, relentlessly advancing just beneath the shoulder of the slow-spinning Earth, ready to sear and blast my life away.

  Radcliffe put down one pistol to open a small
judas hole in the door. "Who's there?" he called out once more, sharply.

  The man outside called out again in a ragged voice. From what Radcliffe could hear, he was claiming to be a lost hunter.

  Peering out suspiciously, Radcliffe could see the self-proclaimed hunter, a lone, emaciated figure swaying on its feet, supporting itself with one hand against the wall. As far as Philip could tell, the man was unarmed, and for a moment the American thought that he was drunk. The morning sky now shed enough light to make it plain that all was certainly not well with him. He was wearing a hunter's garments, but they were torn, stained with blood and earth. Considering also his pale, almost skeletal, face, he looked more like the quarry than the hunter, in fact like a man who had been buried alive, and Radcliffe muttered as much in English under his breath.

  He glanced at Melanie, who at the moment looked surprisingly like a sheltered young woman who might consider fainting. Taking her turn at the peephole, she started to say something, then was silent. Firmly she nodded. The doctor's daughter had not lost her instinct to show mercy, to help the underdog.

  Moving back a step, Radcliffe picked up a pistol from the table and checked the priming and the flint. Then, holding the weapon ready, he gestured for Old Jules to unbar the door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When the heavy wooden door swung open, Melanie got her first close look at the man leaning against the wall just outside. She drew a breath and started to speak, but the words were never uttered. Under the stranger's gashed forehead, his dark, tormented eyes briefly met hers, before both people looked away.

  "Are you alone?" Radcliffe asked.

  The pale-skinned, almost skull-faced figure drew a soft breath. "Very much so." His French was precise, but Radcliffe, who had absorbed the language at his mother's knee, could hear traces of some foreign accent, one that he could not identify.

  "I see you have had an accident," said Philip.

  "One might call it that."

  "Well, come in, man, don't just stand there—but stay, do you need help walking?"

  "I think not." And even as he spoke, the stranger displayed a surprising burst of strength, lurching forward as if his life depended on the advance, and he dared not risk delay. This effort carried him for two or three short steps, just enough to bring him through the door, where he halted, leaning against the wall again, as if in the last stages of exhaustion. He had the used-up look of a man who had just run a long distance. There was one notable anomaly: He did not appear to be gasping.

  And only now, when he moved forward, was the extent of his wounds, and their number, obvious to the onlookers. A drop of fresh blood fell to the floor.

  "Let us help you, sir!" Radcliffe cried.

  A brief nod in reply.

  Radcliffe pulled one of the stranger's thin arms over his own shoulder and put his own much better-nourished arm around the other's waist. Meanwhile, Melanie had come up behind Radcliffe and was staring past him toward the visitor. The young woman did not speak, but slowly lowered the weapon she was holding.

  Once more the stranger's gaze rested on Melanie, and now for a slightly longer time; but his eyes were almost vacant, and there was in them no sign of recognition.

  The old servant Jules, watching, almost unconsciously made the sign of the cross. A moment later his granddaughter Marguerite imitated his action.

  The very first direct rays of the morning sun came grazing through distant treetops to strike first upon the whitewashed outdoor wall, and then the very lintel of the door.

  The visitor, momentarily left standing alone just inside the entry, had managed to get his body entirely in shadow, but still he winced and seemed to shrink within himself. Behind him Radcliffe was pushing the door closed, blocking out the direct sun. Old Jules, at a nod from his master, secured the portal with a bar.

  Oblivious to most of this, the supposed hunter was trying to gather what strength he had remaining. He took off his hat and said, in a low rasping voice: "You had better bar the door behind me. Admit no one."

  "We have already done so. Are you pursued, then?"

  "Not to my knowledge. But it is only fair to warn you that I may be."

  Philip and Melanie exchanged a glance. Each would have described the man before them as certainly aristocratic.

  Radcliffe growled: "Damned Jacobins. Republicans, they call themselves. Bandits, I call them—are they close on your trail?"

  "I think not," the victim repeated patiently. "But it is possible."

  "And by what name shall I call you, sir?"

  "My name is Legrand." A year ago the name Corday, that of Marat's assassin, had acquired attention-grabbing connotations.

  Philip muttered hasty introductions, then, assuming his uninvited guest to be a persecuted aristocrat, impulsively swore that he would never give the man up to his enemies.

  He was not really sure what was available in the way of beds and couches in the house; Radcliffe had not yet had a chance to try any of them for himself. But Vlad, once the freedom of the house was granted him, ignored any suggestions along that line. Instead, he groped his way, weakly but unerringly, as if the location of his goal were somehow clear to him, back through the house to the kitchen, then past the kitchen into a kind of ancient storeroom, to the spot where his cache of native earth had been buried so long ago. He could feel its presence beneath him. His undead bones perceived a certain radiation, like that of fire-warmed stone on a frozen night. With a groan he lay down there, right on the stone floor, directly over this hidden source of joy.

  Even on the brightest summer days the light back here would always be dim, with the room's one small window on the north side and covered by a heavy wooden shutter.

  Blessed relief flowed through all his ancient vampire bones, coursing in what remained of his blood.

  Lying for the moment with his eyes closed, oblivious to the curious stares of those who had befriended him, he thought: Let me lie here all day unmolested, shielded from the blasting sun, and at least I will not die before nightfall. He would remain too weak, though, to do much more than survive. Unless he could find nourishment.

  Dracula's host, a long way from perceiving the fugitive's peculiarities, offered his strange guest first bedding, and then food—though of course it never occurred to him to offer sustenance of the only kind that would have been of real benefit.

  "Again I must ask you—would you not prefer a bed?"

  "I tell you no." The voice, though somewhat stronger, was still no more than an agonized whisper. "If you would truly help me, let me be as I am."

  "Very well. At least you had better let me see to your wounds." And the American wondered if his guest might be delirious.

  But his next speech sounded entirely rational. "If you wish." Pause. "I thank you for your help. There is no doubt that you have saved my life."

  The servant who had been sent for water and bandages now returned, and Melanie, the physician's daughter, with Radcliffe's somewhat awkward assistance, undertook the job of binding up the patient's wounds.

  Weak as their bearer was, these had started to mend already, so to the uninitiated they appeared to have been made several days ago—but they were not as far restored as they would have been had not the spearpoints that made them been poisoned.

  She muttered, uncomprehendingly: "This looks as if you had been—gored, by some horned animal. Or stabbed with a sharp stick."

  The victim had nothing to say about that. There were other spots where his pale skin looked bruised and swollen, as if he had been beaten with some blunt object.

  Melanie, who had been her father's frequent assistant in medical emergencies, firmly and naturally took full charge of the job of washing and bandaging, in which she had both skill and experience.

  Radcliffe watched her working on the gash in the visitor's right side. "Ugly gash," she muttered. "I would think it needed stitches, and the one in your forehead too, but already they seem halfway healed. How did you get them? It must have been day
s ago."

  "Would you believe I suffered a hunting accident?"

  The American shook his head. "Not without a considerable effort. Were you hunting with spears and swords? And you said that you might be pursued."

  In reply the victim only grinned, stretching the taut skin of his face, making it even more skull-like.

  They offered him various items from their modest supply of food and drink—Old Jules's granddaughter had made delicious soup—but the patient firmly declined. Even in his condition, he could be very firm. When pressed, he rinsed out his mouth with a mixture of wine and water, then spat out the red stuff violently.

  After sunset came, the main event of the evening, as far as the weakened, hunted vampire was concerned, was the return of the doctor's daughter. Melanie was accompanied by the servant girl, who was carrying a lantern, a jug of water, and some soup. Even at midday the room remained very dim.

  The servant girl paused in the doorway, while Melanie, advancing across the room, knelt down on the stone floor and murmured softly: "Is there anything I can do for you, Citizen Legrand?"

  "You and your husband have done very much already. You have saved my life." The victim's voice was stronger than his deathly appearance suggested.

  For some reason Melanie thought it necessary to make the situation clear. "He is not my husband."

  The visitor only looked at her, and again she felt it incumbent upon her to explain.

  She sat back on her heels. "Philip and I are friends. We knew each other as children. Philip is an American now, but he was born here on this estate. The land is—was—in his mother's family. Before she took him to America, he and I often played together in this house, on these grounds… that was almost twenty years ago… so we are old friends." Pause. "That is all."

  "Ah." And something in her listener's eyes seemed to alter. "I think that 'Radcliffe' is not a French name."

  "Philip was telling me about that last night. His mother married an American called Radcliffe years ago, and her young child took that man's name."