by Alma Boykin
Rachel perked up, eye bright, listening intently. Adele pulled mending out of her basket and started sewing a patch onto a small pair of trousers. “What did happen, my lord General?” Rachel asked.
Joschka leaned back in the ornately carved chair, pipe in one hand, the other resting on the talons carved into the dark wood of the arm. “The story as it was told to me …
Schloss Stein perched on the end of a dark spur of rock, high above the valley of the Drau River. The building came by its name honestly, made of cold, creamy grey stone quarried from the other side of the mountain, as well as from bits of older fortifications and even of a Roman temple. A narrow, raised causeway led from the mountain to the gate of the castle, the only entrance or exit. The lords of Schloss Stein controlled the traffic along the Drau, charging a toll from the farmers, pilgrims, merchants, and others using the river to go to the local market, or to Pisa, Venice, Nuremberg, Vienna, Rome, or even Jerusalem. From their perch two hundred meters above the Drau, nothing escaped their watch. After 1680 the castle passed into the Orsini-Rosenberg family, and House Rozemberk, but it is the long, dark years before that spawned so many tales and whispers.
You see, something about the castle invited cruelty, or tales of it. Perhaps it was the isolation, away from the eyes of bishop or archduke, those who might have checked the nature of the Steinmetz clan. Perhaps the repeated invasions and assaults, first by the Huns, then the Avars, then Magyars, and Turks, and occasionally Italian and Slav adventurers, hardened the hearts of the lords of Schloss Stein. Another tale holds that the House that became Steinmetz had been driven from softer climes because of their cruelty and mad streak. They also clung to the old, pagan ways long after the other lords and their people turned to the True Faith, or so a few stories aver. For whatever reason, the farmers and travelers passing under the castle’s shadow paid their tolls and hurried on, hoping not to catch the eyes of the Lords of Stein.
The most famous story centers on a lord and his daughter. Let us call them Graf Johan von und zu Stein, and Richilda. Graf Johan guarded his daughter very closely, not allowing her to go anywhere alone, but always with her ladies, ladies he hand-picked to answer only to him. Richilda was beautiful, with long, golden hair and soft blue eyes, eyes the color of the sky in spring when all the world is waking from winter. She had a melodious voice, like birdsong or the murmur of the Drau in summer, and was graceful of figure. Graf Johan gave her everything she might possibly want, but kept her confined to the burgfried, the heart of Schloss Stein, unless he traveled with her. You see, he had plans for his daughter.
No ordinary knight or merchant would do for Richilda. No, Graf Johan dreamed of greater things than simply ruling the lands of his ancestors. He could not rise to the Archduke of Carinthia and Styria, for that position came from the hand of the Emperor himself, but marrying his daughter to a duke, or even Archduke or prince would serve as well. She would command a fine bride price, and Graf Johan had a list of potential sons-in-law long before Richilda reached the age to marry.
Now, do not mistake greed for barbarity. Graf Johan, like his ancestors, was not uncultured. He welcomed traveling scholars, musicians of high skill, and writers and poets. He fed them well, gave them gifts and free passage, and in return they presented him with poems of praise, dedicated works to his name, and painted images that brought grace and beauty to Schloss Stein. His guests also knew the risk if they offended him, and chose their words with due care for their lives. Graf Johan’s agents bought books and works of art as well, nothing that could compete with the Imperial collections, or those of the great lords of Florence and Padua, but Schloss Stein’s master could certainly equal the other counts of southern Austria.
One of the authors caught Richilda’s fancy, or rather his books did, at least at first. Paul, a young man from the town of Greifenburg, wrote tales of great loves and mighty battles, as well as more dispassionate accounts of the year’s events for various merchant houses and minor nobles who did not have clerks and scribes at hand the way the monasteries did. It would not be incorrect to say that Paul’s works were best sellers, at least among those with money for secular books. Paul made a comfortable living from his pen, neither overly rich but not starving in a garret as later poets seem to have aspired to do. He became known as “the Writer from Greifenburg,” perhaps a nod to the great minnesinger known only as The Man from Kürnburg. Graf Johan von und zu Stein read the tales, as did Richilda.
It came to pass that the Writer of Greifenburg chanced to pass Schloss Stein one spring day, on his way to join the pilgrims traveling to Rome. When Graf Johan learned just who his guards had stopped to collect toll from, well, nothing could be done but for the young man to stop and stay in Schloss Stein as a guest of the count. Alas, it would have been better had Graf Johan sent the young man on his way, or had Paul chosen a different route. Because that night, during the feast in the visitor’s honor, Richilda offered the Writer von Greifenburg the wine cup. Their eyes met over the top of the rim of the glass, and love burst into flame. But the young pair hid their feelings, at least while under the gaze of Graf Johan and his attentive matrons and men. Paul had not survived writing for prickly nobility without gaining a certain measure of caution and tact, as well as cleverness. As for Richilda, she possessed every bit of her House’s traditional determination and intelligence. And she had read enough of the tales and sagas to know better than to attract her father’s attention with a display of unseemly interest in their guest.
Richilda also knew every passage, corridor, and shadow in the burgfried. That night, after the candles burned low and her guardians had fallen asleep, she slipped out of her chamber, making her way through the darkness to the guest chamber where her father housed honored but not noble visitors. What transpired the tales do not say, although one may suppose much, including warm words and whispered promises and plans.
The next morning the Writer of Greifenburg thanked his host for the count’s most generous and noble hospitality, and promised to inform his lordship as soon as the next works might be available, including several as gifts in recognition of the count’s taste and wisdom. Richilda remained in her chambers, as was proper. The young man departed, riding out on his sturdy gelding, bound for Rome. Graf Johan returned to his business and there the tale should have ended, save for the workings of the heart. For the next morning Lady Richilda’s maids made a horrible discovery: their charge had disappeared. They searched for some time before daring to approach Graf Johan with the dreadful news.
By then the lovers had escaped, riding hard through dark and dawn. Perhaps their meeting came as the will of God, for they found a large traveling party and continued south, into Italy, where they married. Only in late summer did the count’s knights and agents find the couple, safely living behind Trentino’s walls. When the news reached Graf Johan von und zu Stein, the men and women of the Schloss trembled with fear for what he might do or say. But the legends claim that he listened to the news, calm and quiet, considered the matter for several days, and then issued commands, never raising his voice, never giving any sign of anger. One suspects this terrified the people of the burgfried even more than his usual rage did, but the tales are silent. Nor do they reveal what became of Richilda’s maids, although other older accounts describe a tower on the edge of the rocky spur into which those farmers unable to pay their taxes were thrown, never to be seen again.
According to the tale, Graf Johan sent a message, along with a party of knights and soldiers, to Trentino. All would be forgiven. He would not fight what the church had blessed. Instead, he desired the couple to return for a proper bridal feast before taking up life in Greifenburg. And so the couple returned, likely with some trepidation, to Schloss Stein.
They rode into the courtyard of the burgfried to find a grand feast waiting. Musicians tuned their instruments, tables groaned under the weight of food, and Graf Johan offered Paul von Greifenburg a fat purse of coins, the equivalent of Richilda’s dowry. After confirm
ing that, indeed, the couple were married and all was in order, the count ordered the feast to begin. He himself poured the wedding cup, offering it first to Richilda, the daughter of his heart, the treasure of his family. She drank, staggered, dropping the cup before sinking to the floor. Her husband rushed to her side, feeling for a pulse, but the death-dew had already gathered on her fair brow. The young man rose to his feet, although what he intended no one ever knew, for he collapsed, red blood staining his shirt and jacket, blood as red as the poisoned wine. Graf Johan cleaned his knife on the young man’s sleeve and ordered servants to remove the bodies so the feast could continue. No one dared do otherwise.
A few years later, Graf Johan himself took that dark road from which no one returns. His eldest son and others watched as servants loaded the ornate casket into the funeral carriage for the journey to the cemetery. But when the driver shut the door to the carriage, a sound like fighting, muffled cries of terror, and thumps came from the inside. The count’s son shouldered the driver aside and threw open the door to behold—nothing. He ordered the servants to remove the casket, which they did with far less effort than when they carried Graf Johan into the carriage. Two knights broke the lead seal on the coffin and prized open the lid. They found a few crumbs of brimstone but nothing else: no grave cloth, no body, no trace of the count.
The new lord of Schloss Stein ordered the witnesses to silence, and so ended the matter. But rumor spread as rumors do, hinting that the devil himself had been waiting for Graf Stein and had snatched him body and soul, dragging him into the Pit.
“And that is the tale as it was told to me,” Joschka concluded, taking a long pull on his favorite bad habit, then blowing a few smoke rings after savoring the smoke’s flavor. Adele crossed herself. Rachel considered the story but kept her peace, for the moment.
“Now, as to what really happened.” Joschka pointed at the top row of books on the far set of bookshelves with the stem of the pipe. “The Writer of Greifenburg belonged to a minor House through adoption. He had informed his godfather of the escape and marriage, and of his pending return to Greifenburg. When the young man and his bride failed to return, his godfather made inquiries.
“House Greipen did not belong to the first ranks of Houses, but it was not because of the Head’s lack of cleverness or tenacity. No, Lord Greipen planned well, and quietly and indirectly obtained tacit permission from House Habsburg to deal with the injustice. The House members supported Lord Greipen, as did others with claims against Graf Johan von und zu Stein, and Lord Greipen arranged for a few House members to infiltrate Schloss Stein and the Steinmetz clan. Then he waited.
“When Graf Johan fell ill, House Greipen acted. The physician, bribed by the House, drugged the count so that he appeared dead. Greipen servants prepared the body so that no one would notice any possible signs of life. The death carriage, too, held a secret within its ornate sides. The Head of House Greipen waited inside, under a false floor. The casket had a sliding panel in the bottom, and you can imagine what happened, since the drug began to wear off as the servants loaded the body into the carriage.” Joschka smiled, baring his fangs.
Rachel flashed hers in turn, and flexed her claws. “Indeed, my lord General. Do the House histories provide any further detail?” The gleam in her eye warned Joschka what sort of detail she hoped to hear.
“No. But,” he cautioned before she could complain, “remember that House Greipen was not the only House or family to which Graf Johan owed debts, and the chronicles only stated that ‘vielen Schulden bezahlt waren,’ many debts were paid. Whether that means the others had agreed to let the count’s death answer for all, or something else …” Joschka shrugged a little, and smiled a little. He had his own suspicions; Schulden meant sin as well as debt.
“You are not telling that story to the children, Rachel,” Adele said. “Not until they are older at the very least.”
Rachel blinked, confusion obvious. “Why not, my lady? Evil lost, someone reset the balance of justice, and it is a warning about pride and greed. And stupidity, but that’s a very minor point indeed.”
“My lady, would you care for a drink?” Joschka asked, forestalling an argument. He gave Rachel a stern look and pointed to the liquor cabinet. “One of the fruit beers, please.”
Rachel got up and fetched the desired item, along with an opener. Joschka never allowed anyone to open a drink out of his sight, as she well knew. They’d witnessed one of their comrades learn that lesson the hard way. <
He opened the bottle and returned it and the opener to her. She poured it into a glass and returned with the drink as Adele said, “Yes. The cherry water if there is any left.” Rachel fetched that as well, and Joschka sent, <
Rachel bowed a little in acquiescence, at least for the moment.
On the Edge
“Es ist erlaubt.”
Archduke Rudolph Tomas Martin Habsburg wondered if any three words had ever brought such a sense of relief. “It is permitted.” His great uncle, Emperor Franz Josef, had granted permission. Rudolph allowed himself a moment of relaxation and gratitude and let his shoulders droop. Then he sat straight once more, made a note for his butler and valet to inform the rest of the staff of his departure, drafted a letter to the abbot informing him of Rudolph’s pending visit, and returned to his work. Would life be easier if he had a telephone installed? Probably not, and he doubted that his father or the Emperor would approve of the work necessary to run the wires. It’s 1910 and we’re still living in 1880. At least I’m allowed to have automobiles!
That evening Rudolph looked at his face in the mirror as he dressed for dinner. His slit-pupiled eyes, the color of dried blood, marked him as a HalfDragon, one of two in his generation. Light brown hair—trimmed short—a fair to tan complexion, and high cheekbones showed his descent from the Tirolian-Styrian side of the House. The man looking back could have been twenty or fifty, although at that moment Rudolph felt closer to a hundred or so. Martino coughed from behind him and Rudolph turned to see what his valet wanted. Martino held up the swallowtail evening coat, an unsubtle hint that his Grace needed to get moving or he would be late. Rudolph gathered himself, masking his eyes to a more human light brown. No point in scaring the staff at his aunt’s residence.
A week later he stepped out of his black touring car at the end of a road in the Wienerwald. A long winding trail led up the slope beside the road, culminating in Our Lady of the Hills Benedictine monastery. Heinrich got out as well, removed his employer’s bags from the vehicle’s luggage area and stood waiting. “No, I go alone from here. Fetch me in five days, here, at ten o’clock in the morning.” Rudolph took the bags from his surprised driver’s hands.
“Your Grace? Five days?” He made a belated attempt to hold onto the bags and failed.
“Five days, Heinrich. You may have the next two days free, once you return the car and see to it.” Rudolph turned on his heel and began walking up the path, ignoring the splutters and noises of dismay from behind him. Heinrich was new, and would learn.
Rudolph turned his attention to the day. The August sun poured down on his head and shoulders, un-weakened by cloud or leaf. No wind moved in the valley or up the hillside yet, although it would, come afternoon. A bird called as it darted past, appropriate, since he neared the first trail-side shrine, this one to St. Francis. The small wood and glass devotional site stood a meter off the trail. Rudolph stopped, set his bags in the dusty grass, genuflected, and prayed for peace and patience with all people of every rank and station. He contemplated the saint’s smiling, gentle face and open hands and wondered if he would ever know peace again. Well, the Lord called different people to different duties, he reminded himself. Rudolph crossed himself, bowed again, picked up his bags and returned to the path.
The noon bell had rung in the valley below the monastery before Rudolph reached the gates. What was it like to live only within the walls, untroubled by the cares and f
uries of the world outside? The view shifted as he watched; the smooth, yellow-painted plaster surface before him faded from view and he caught a glimpse of trouble in Bohemia, something natural but still dangerous. Even here? he pleaded silently. He sensed the Power considering his thought. It withdrew a little space. Thank you.
Rudolph banged the knocker on the weathered wooden door. The metal felt smooth and warm under his fingers, as if it remembered the heat of its creation. The thought sent his mind north, to Bohemia and Silesia. He caught himself, returning to here and now before the porter opened the door. He didn’t need to terrify the man. No, I do that just by breathing. Being his great uncle and cousin’s buffer left marks that nothing could mask.
The door opened on well-oiled, silent hinges. “Who comes to this house?”
“Rudolph, a child of God, seeks lodging and guidance.” Did he really? A sixth voice in his head telling him what to do might well drive him mad.
“Be welcome in Jesus’ name, Rudolph, child of God.”
The door opened wider and Rudolph walked in, remembering to step over the raised doorsill at the last moment. Although, landing face first in the courtyard dirt couldn’t hurt worse than— Again he caught the thought and redirected it. The black clad porter led him to another monk, a new one judging by his nervous manner. Perhaps he’d never met an archduke before. “Pax tecum” the brother said, not quite squeaking.
“Et Dominus tecum.”
After the usual formalities and instructions, Brother Andre led Rudolph down plain, white plastered and wooden paneled hallways past offices and the abbot’s guest reception room, around a corner, and into the area with the guest rooms. They appeared empty, something that pleased Rudolph greatly. Brother Andre cleared his throat. “The next bell is tirce. The evening meal for guests is at six, before vespers. Do, do you require anything?”