Chapter 6
Digging Up Yorick
Back on the barrens, Hans prepared for his own night of horror. It was the new moon, the time that Knobbe had decreed he must rob his first grave.
Three days earlier, Hans had woken to the sight of the royal carriage galloping up Castle Hill. He’d snuck home to the cave, racked with guilt. It’s a terrible thing to steal from the dead, he’d thought, but how can I abandon Papa? He saved my life. When Hans had begged forgiveness, the grave robber’d grunted, “If it’s forgiveness you want, do my feet. They’ve swelled up fierce.” Hans had rubbed the bloated pads and Knobbe had welcomed him home.
Now Hans wondered if maybe he should’ve stayed away after all. Within the hour he’d be stripping a corpse of its rings and boots, its glasses and teeth. He’d be touching decayed flesh; feeling the damp where the rot oozed.
He swallowed hard and watched as Knobbe tossed on the old monk’s robe he’d stolen from an abbey. The robe had a large hood that covered his head and hid the rat scar on his cheek. Knobbe considered it a perfect disguise. Hans wasn’t so sure. He figured anyone would be curious to see a monk with a shovel standing over a corpse in an open grave.
Knobbe glanced over. “What are you staring at, lazybones?”
“Nothing.” Hans looped a rope around his shoulder and picked up his wooden shovel. His hands sweat so much it nearly slid from his grip.
“What’s wrong with you?” Knobbe demanded. “You’re about to strip your very first coffin. Show some enthusiasm.”
Hans closed his eyes and tried to imagine birdsongs. “I’m ready.”
“Then we’re off.” Knobbe raised a lantern and guided them into the dark. “Your task tonight is a good deed for a widow in need,” he said as they crossed the barrens. “You remember Yorick Grimwort, the scoundrel who gambled his fortune and left his poor wife to pay his debts?”
Hans nodded glumly.
“Well, the widow Grimwort was no fool,” Knobbe confided. “Before the bailiffs could claim her valuables, she sewed them in his stomach. He was buried full of coins and cutlery. Now the widow’s begged a favor: that I might fetch them back in exchange for some of the pretties. Returning the poor woman’s treasures is the least the good Lord would have us do.”
Yorick Grimwort was planted with the damned in the unholy ground of Potter’s Field, a vast boneyard that stretched beyond the iron gates of the village church. It was an awful, lonely place. Aside from a whistle of wind, the only sounds were the whispers of villagers seeking the Necromancer for a spell and the scurry of his Weevil gang lurking in the tall grass.
Hans and Knobbe gingerly made their way across the pitted terrain of brambles, weed, and rock. Every so often they passed a grave marked by a brick. Most often, though, the only marker was a hollow in the ground where the coffin below had collapsed. How awful to be alone and forgotten, Hans thought.
They arrived at Yorick’s resting place. Hans’ cheeks went pale as the moon. He began to dig, his insides churning with every shovel of earth. At last he reached the coffin. He closed his eyes and pictured himself as a bird flying high and free in the fresh air. Then he took a deep breath and pried open the lid.
In life, Yorick Grimwort had smelled of old fish guts. Death hadn’t improved matters. Hans wriggled a rag from his pocket and pressed it over his nose. He opened his eyes. At that very moment, a beetle crawled out of Yorick’s left nostril and waved its antennae. Hans promptly heaved.
“In the name of the Great Himself!” Knobbe exclaimed. “There’s no need to make the job disgusting. Where’s your respect for the dead?”
“I’m sorry,” Hans said as he scrambled out of the grave.
Knobbe cursed, eased down into the hole, and straddled the corpse. He lifted Yorick’s tunic and tugged at the cord the widow Grimwort had sewn across her husband’s belly. The stitch fell away. Knobbe pulled out coins and cutlery like stuffing from a turkey. But when he hauled the loot up from the hole, a spasm seared his lower back.
“Aaa!” He lurched his head toward Hans. “Useless wretch. You’re the cause of my pain. Rob a grave by month’s end, or I’ll cast you out. Now go!”
Hans ran from Potter’s Field, the words burning in his ears. He’d never be able to steal from the dead. So how could he gain his father’s love?
Once more, he ended up at the stand of bulrushes at the foot of Castle Hill. Lanterns lit the gates above. Torches glowed from the halls beyond the windows. Lamplight twinkled like stars from the upper parapets. The castle appeared to be resting, peaceful and happy, awaiting the return of its noble family.
Hans remembered his glimpse of the royal coach. How wonderful it must have been for the Little Countess to ride to the palace in that magnificent carriage. How exciting to be the guests of the archduke himself. What a thrill to have all those soldiers at their command.
Hans wished he could be so lucky.
Chapter 7
The Midnight Visitor
Angela shivered under her duvet. It was barely two minutes since the housekeeper had locked her in the pitch-black cell, and already she was petrified.
She told herself it was because tonight was her first night away from home and that the sounds on the other side of the bed curtains didn’t exist: such as the sound of things wriggling across the floor, and scratching against the woodwork, and scuttling up and down inside the walls.
It’s only mice, she thought, and instantly pictured the rodents climbing up the bed legs, and crawling under the duvet. She imagined that every tickle and itch was whiskers and every draft the fluttering of bats in the canopy over her head.
Finally exhaustion overcame her and she fell asleep. At least she hoped she fell asleep, because what happened next was too terrifying to be true.
In her nightmare, Angela roused to hear something peculiar happening at the painting of The Devil Greets the Maiden. Someone or something was stepping down from the canvas onto the floor. The boards creaked. Footsteps crept toward her bed. The brass rings on the curtain rod rattled gently. The drapery parted.
Angela felt a weight on the edge of the mattress. She froze as the creature slid onto the bed. It wormed its way beside her. Its hand brushed against her cheek and stroked her forehead. Its fingers were cold and clammy.
“Angela Gabriela von Schwanenberg,” it said in the voice of a young woman.
“Who are you?” Angela quivered. “What are you?”
“I am the archduchess.”
Angela’s nurse had warned her that the devil takes many forms. To come as an archduchess was surely clever. “How do you know my name?”
“You are the one that he sent for. You are my death.”
Angela shivered. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve come to warn you. He will wait till your thirteenth birthday, as he waited for mine. But once he has your dowry, he will seek another and you will be done for.”
“Who’ll have my dowry?” Angela asked. “Who’ll seek another?”
“My husband. Archduke Arnulf. The one who seeks my death even as we speak.”
“I don’t believe you,” Angela shuddered. “You’re the fiend come to haunt my dreams!”
“Does this feel like a dream?”
“No, but the worst nightmares always seem real. I’m going to wake myself up, and when I do, you’ll disappear.”
The devil laughed the laugh of a madwoman. “I didn’t trust the last archduchess when she came to me either. Georgina. They say she fell asleep in a bath of milk. It’s a lie. My husband drowned her.”
There were shouts from the corridor.
“Farewell,” her visitor said. “Pray I survive the night.”
Angela heard a fumbling with the bolt. The door to the room was thrown open. The housekeeper stormed in, followed by two soldiers. “Where is she?” she thundered.
“Who?”
“You know perfectly well.”
“I don’t,” Angela gasped, heart pounding. “I’m alone. I had a nig
htmare. The devil told me my friend, Georgina, was murdered.”
The housekeeper gave her a hard look and checked under the bed. “Nothing,” she growled to the guards. “The rest of the night, I watch from the rocker!”
Angela fell back on her pillow. She glanced at the painting on the wall. The devil looked down at her. He seemed to be smiling.
Chapter 8
A Deadly Proposal
Angela was awake the rest of the night. Had the visitation been a dream? Was it a trick of the devil? Or had the archduchess really come to her, perhaps by means of some secret passageway behind the painting? Angela prayed it was a dream or the devil. If it were the archduchess, she’d be too scared to ever sleep again.
At dawn, maidservants brought her new clothes: a pale yellow frock adorned with a rich brocade about the bodice, a matching bonnet, white silk stockings and undergarments, an ivory fan, and satin shoes with silver buckles. Angela dressed quickly and soon was reunited with her parents. They were likewise in fresh attire, with elaborate new wigs. Her father’s had three large rolls above each ear; her mother’s was in the shape of a ship. It was as if they’d been costumed for a fancy dress ball.
What cruel sport is this? Angela wondered.
Her mother held her. “Thank heaven you’re safe.”
Her father kissed her forehead. “We were alarmed by all the shouting.”
“Much ado about nothing,” Angela smiled. Her playacting calmed them.
A bell tinkled. The Spoon appeared. “His Royal Highness Archduke Arnulf is ready to see you.” He escorted Angela and her parents to the throne room, a hall so vast and dark that its vaulted ceiling and rear alcoves seemed to disappear into night.
Angela shrank. All around, the mounted heads of stags, bears, and wolves stared down at her. Ahead, she could dimly see an oak table covered in parchments with archducal seals, a globe, and the throne itself, an ebony marvel alive with carved dragons. Beside the throne was a matching stool with a red satin cushion; at its center was a small gold statue on a chain, depicting a pair of hands clasped in prayer.
“Friends,” said Archduke Arnulf, emerging from the shadows in a military breastplate and armored hands, arms, and legs.
Angela and her parents fell to the floor.
“Rise,” he commanded. “How good to see my loyal subjects, the Count and Countess von Schwanenberg.” He turned to Angela. “And you must be the Little Countess, Angela Gabriela.”
Angela curtsied twice. “Your Highness.”
She couldn’t help noticing that the archduke looked nothing like his official portrait, which hung in the dining hall of every noble family in the archduchy. The portrait featured a dashing young man, lean of body, ruddy of cheek, but Arnulf in the flesh was another creation. His frame was as stout as a wine barrel, his hair as long and murky as a basket of river snakes, and his face as pale as dawn, with thin blue lips and a rim of red under the eyes. A large, purple vein pulsed at his left temple.
“I trust you had a good sleep?” the archduke inquired.
Her parents looked down. “Yes, Your Highness.”
He turned to Angela. “And you?”
“I slept soundly, Your Highness.”
Arnulf chuckled. “You’re an excellent actress, Little Countess, much better than your parents. But I’m told you had a fearsome dream.” He cupped her chin in an armored paw. “Don’t try to fool me. I have eyes everywhere.” Angela tried to look away; Arnulf held her fast. “Once more—and this time the truth—tell me about your night.”
“If you must know, it was horrible,” Angela blurted. “What do you expect? For three days, your soldiers kept my parents and me locked up in a carriage like criminals. Then we were held in pitch-black cells under guard.”
The archduke laughed. “A saucy tongue. I like that.” He eyed her closely. “Show me your gums.” He inspected her teeth as if she were a horse. “A full set. Good,” he said. “You’ll do well at the palace.”
“Your Highness?” the count and countess asked in confusion.
“I’m in need of a new archduchess,” Arnulf said. “I seem to have found her.”
“But Your Highness already has an archduchess,” her father said hoarsely.
“Alas, no more,” Archduke Arnulf sighed. “Last night, the poor thing tripped and caught her braids on a doorknob. She strangled on her ribbons.”
Angela’s head swam. There could be no more pretending. Her visit with the archduchess was real. Her life was in danger.
Her parents sensed danger, too. Spots of crimson flushed her mother’s cheeks. Her father’s fingers twitched.
“It is a heavy loss, Your Highness,” her mother said in her courtliest manner. “Yet, while we are honored by your proposal, surely it is unwise to pick a bride when lost in grief.”
The archduke shrugged. “I am in constant grief. My wives are no sooner wed than dead. They fall off parapets, tumble down staircases, and go to sleep in their baths. It’s why I invited you here while the last clumsy creature was alive. I felt the need to plan ahead.” He whispered in Angela’s ear: “Promise me you’re not clumsy.”
Angela shook her head in terror.
Her father cleared his throat. “With great respect, our Angela is but a child.”
“Not so,” the archduke corrected. “In a month, she’ll be thirteen. A common enough age to wed.”
“Quite,” her mother nodded in panic. “Yet in truth,” she lied, “our Angela has been promised to the Convent of the Holy Sisters of Schwanenberg. She’s to take her vows next Sunday.”
Angela gulped. Becoming a nun wasn’t the future she’d pictured for herself, but it was certainly better than marriage to a murderous madman.
“The archduchy has more than enough holy sisters,” Arnulf yawned. “I’ll make a donation to the mother superior. Your daughter will be released from her pledge.”
“Thank you,” Angela said, surprised by the sound of her own voice. “Even so, I’m afraid I have other dreams than to be an archduchess.”
Arnulf raised an eyebrow.
Angela swallowed hard. “I have a puppet theater where I produce plays. It’s my fondest wish to perform in the great courts of Europe. So you see, I won’t have time for marriage.”
“Oh, but you will. You shall entertain my court each night,” Arnulf gurgled. “I love puppets. In fact, I have one of my own. A special marionette.” The vein at his temple started to throb. He pressed it gently, then went to the stool with the gold statue of the praying hands. He raised the statue by the chain that ran through its middle fingertips. “A simple puppet on a string. See how I make it frolic.” He jerked the chain and the golden hands hopped about.
Angela clapped politely. “What do the hands represent?”
Arnulf winked. “It’s not what they represent—it’s what they hold. Come see.” He held the statue in front of Angela’s nose. There was a little crystal window above the cupped thumbs. Through it, Angela saw that the statue held two sets of hand bones.
“They’re mine,” Arnulf confided.
Angela trembled. “What happened?”
“I had them removed,” Arnulf said airily. He hung the chain around his neck. The bones in the reliquary rattled.
“Then what’s under your armor?” Angela asked, pointing at his sheathed mitts.
“This is no armor,” Arnulf said, his voice as thick as gravy. “These are my new hands. My iron hands. Observe the movable fingers and joints.” He wiggled a wave. “With these I can pen letters. Or attend to more pressing matters.” He strode to a marble bust beside the middle window. “Behold the head of my brother, the late Archduke Fredrick.” He placed his iron hands on either side of the bust and squeezed. The marble turned to dust.
Jaws dropped.
“I asked the former bishop of the Cathedral of Saint Simeon to bless these hands,” the archduke said mildly. “He refused. His body lies with his fellow martyrs in the catacombs. His head, however, sits by my bedside in a reliquary
of its own.” He paused. “The present bishop respects my wishes. I trust you will too.”
Angela’s father gathered his courage. “No, Your Highness! You cannot have my daughter!”
Archduke Arnulf grabbed him by the throat. “Yes, Count, I can.” He lifted Angela’s father off the floor. “Give me your blessing.”
“Never,” the count choked. His legs flailed the air. He clutched the iron fist.
Angela threw herself at the archduke’s feet. “Stop! Spare my father and I’ll marry you!”
“Willingly?” Arnulf asked. “An unhappy bride would ruin the celebration.”
“I’ll be the happiest, willingest bride in all of Christendom!”
Arnulf released his grip. The count fell to the floor. Arnulf rolled him over with a toe. “As for the dowry, Count, you have a fine stable. I shall take it, as well as a gift of ten gold ducats from each of your citizens.”
“Ten gold ducats!” the countess exclaimed. “The people can’t afford it!”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” the archduke observed, “and I most certainly have the will.” He clapped his hands. There was a dreadful echoey clang. “Begone. In one month, I shall meet you at Castle Schwanenberg to take my dowry. Then I shall escort your Angela to the cathedral for her marriage.”
Chapter 9
A Glimmer of Hope
It was a somber ride home from the palace. Angela tried not to stare at her parents, but it was impossible. Her mother trembled like a sparrow in winter, while bruises dark as a string of plums ringed her father’s neck.
Suddenly, her father’s eyes popped open. Putting his hand to his throat, he whispered into her mother’s ear. She brightened instantly.
“Angela,” she said. “Do you remember the story of your christening?”
Angela nodded. “You didn’t know what to name me, even as we came to the priest. But there was a wise fool in the churchyard, newly arrived in the village.”
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