Saint-Germain 21: Borne in Blood: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Her family did not think so,” he said with a wry smile.

  “Then her family should—”

  “It is their decision and we do well to honor it,” he said. “And it is not as if you haven’t managed without a maid before. I know your father did not provide you one when you went with him to Anatolia.”

  “No, but there was Madama Chiaro, and we traded maid duties with one another.” She chuckled. “It meant more than tying laces—it meant looking for scorpions in our shoes and cases, and trying to keep the sand from ruining our clothes. I must have destroyed four muslin dresses before I learned how to care for them properly. You know Anatolia. You know what it’s like. And you know Egypt.”

  He had a short, sharp recollection of his long centuries at the Temple of Imhotep; he said, “Not from the point of view of modern women’s clothing.”

  “You must tell me about it, one day,” she said, carefully putting hooks through eyes in the front of her jacket. “I hate to think what would have become of me if Madame de Montalia had not sent her recommendation to you.”

  “And entrusted her manuscript to you for delivery,” added Ragoczy. “I, too, am thankful to her.”

  “Sometimes I fear I have done her an ill turn.”

  “You have not,” he said.

  “I hope that’s so,” she said, then made a final adjustment to her collar. “There. I believe I am ready.”

  “And so, I presume, is your dinner,” he said, offering her his arm.

  “Before Uchtred becomes annoyed, permit me to take you down to the smaller dining room.”

  “And wish me bon appetite?” she ventured with a lift of her brows.

  He opened the bedroom door and bowed her out. “Of course, dear lady: bon appetite.”

  Text of a letter from Klasse van der Boom in Amsterdam, to Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus at Château Ragoczy near Lake Geneva, Yvoire, Switzerland; delivery delayed five weeks on account of severe weather.

  To the most Excellent Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus, the greeting of Klasse van der Boom, printer and publisher, Eclipse Press, in Amsterdam, on this, the eleventh day of March, 1817.

  My dear Comte,

  As you no doubt realize, I am sending you copies of our latest editions, as per the terms of our agreement of nine years ago.

  I think you will find that the diCaponieve has the best illustrations, and may prove the most rewarding of the six books in this package. Certainly for those traveling through the Alps, diCaponieve’s guide to roads, villages and towns, monasteries, inns, spas, hotels, and hostelries should prove invaluable. I have taken the step of ordering two thousand copies in Italian for the initial printing, and an additional eight hundred in French—an unusually high number, I realize, but one I believe will prove to be well-founded. I have approached many hoteliers along the routes diCaponieve describes, in the hope that the work will find readers with an immediate need of it.

  Kreutzerlinder’s book on the history of the Crusades through the exploration of ruins in the Ottoman Empire may not find as wide an audience, but anticipating an interest from universities, I have ordered twelve hundred copies of it. The illustrations in the volume are not as well-done as those in diCaponieve’s book, lacking in the fine detail and artistic presentation of the guide-book. But the text is informative and presented with concision, and will doubtless provoke lively discussion, given Kreutzerlinder’s theories on the role of the Byzantines in the conflict. I will be certain to approach German booksellers, to take advantage of the language in which it is written.

  Juencleu’s book on the French in Canada is not likely to find as broad a readership as either the Kreutzerlinder or the diCaponieve, and so I have ordered nine hundred copies of it, and will send letters to booksellers in Montreal in the hope that they will want to supply the work of one of their own to their clientele. I must confess I still have doubts about it, but I will, of course, abide by your instructions regarding its publication. It may be as you say, that the New World may eventually become as important as the Old.

  Donsky’s book on game- and song-birds of Russia is handsome, but I agree it is not a subject of avid interest here in western Europe. Fortunately there are many illustrations and all but two turned out well, a feature that could interest more readers than the topic can be expected to attract. At least it is in French and not Russian, for which I am grateful.

  The deMontalia text on Rhodes and Cyprus will also have a first edition of twelve hundred copies, with nine pages of illustrations to increase its attractions. I have come to think that you are correct in your assumption that because of Napoleon’s expedition to Egypt almost twenty years ago, many in Europe have become fascinated with antiquities, and works of this kind may find a continuing intellectual appetite for such works, especially as it is in French and should enjoy a vogue in Paris.

  I trust I will not offend you when I say that I have only ordered one thousand copies of your Legends and Folk-Tales from the Carpathians. I have put the name of G. Tsarogy on it, as you have stipulated. I will see that it is offered in Vienna as well as Paris and Rome, for all it is in French; the Austrians have good reason to familiarize themselves with the traditions in the Carpathians. This should complement the book by G. Tsarogy on the Byzantine Empire that sold so many copies in the last three years; at least that is the way in which I will present it to booksellers.

  Now as to those solicitations for publication that you may wish to consider as part of the program for next year: Captain Rupert Burchell of the Royal Navy has submitted a work on improved navigational devices; his style is pedantic but his concepts are intriguing; he writes in English. Ermingard Frement of Trier has sent a guide to the Roman ruins in that city; her work is in French. Casimir Skolodi offered a manuscript in Polish on farming techniques to reduce crop losses due to harsh weather; I have translated a sizable portion of the work into German and asked my Friesian cousin to evaluate what Skolodi recommends and will relay his evaluation to you. Wallache Sieffert, Graf von Ravensberg, an Austrian, has submitted a work in German on the properties of the blood based on his experiments; it is a thorough work, with a great deal of information. Morgan Belclair has submitted a long manuscript in English on weather variations in western Europe and England for the past century; it is more informative than the Skolodi book, but less practical in its application. Professore Bonaldo Certi has submitted a work in Italian on the trade-routes of the Romans and the role they played in establishing ports still actively trading; I have shown this to Jules Forcier for his analysis, which is included in this parcel. I should mention that submissions are up by twenty percent over last year, and we are having to reject six for every one we actually consider.

  I remined you we have five books already scheduled for next year and to include more than one or two of these would require an expansion of the program. I am more than willing to undertake a more comprehensive program, providing certain adjustments are made in the actual press and bindery here in Amsterdam. Such improvements would increase our production, but would require a further investment in equipment and materiel, which figures I include for your consideration. If you decide on expansion, I will need to employ another pressman and at least two more typesetters; the sooner I have your determination, the sooner I can begin our work.

  With my assurances of my continued dedication to our shared endeavors

  I remain

  Yours to command,

  Klasse van der Boom

  printer and publisher

  Eclipse Press

  Amsterdam

  3

  Otto Gutesohnes was muddy to his knees and his face was ruddy from the effort of his ride, and although he was only twenty-three, his long, cold journey had left his bones aching like an old man’s; he stood on the top step at the door of Château Ragoczy clutching a dispatch-case while he waited for his knock to be answered. Around him the late-arriving spring showed boughs wreathed in the shining snow of apple-blossoms in the shatte
ry brightness of noon, but he was too tired to pay any attention to this extravagant display.

  The door was opened by Balduin, the steward, who took one look at the state of Gutesohnes’ clothing and indicated the path around to the rear of the château. He spoke in the German-tinged French of the region. “Please use the rear door, and remove your boots before you enter. While you make your way there, I’ll fetch Comte Franciscus.” He nodded toward the stable. “I trust your horse is in the grooms’ hands?”

  “My mule, actually; yes. They manage the mud better than horses,” said Gutesohnes, his French heavily accented with his native German. He backed down the steps and did as the steward had bade him, calling out as he went, “Otto Gutesohnes of Waldenstadt Messenger Service, with a delivery for Comte Franciscus. I am supposed to hand him the item in person.” He cleared his throat. “You’re over a league back from the lake, and the directions I was given were very poor, or I should have arrived an hour ago.”

  “No matter; you are here now.” Closing the door, Balduin went along the corridor to the study, and knocked on the door. “There is a messenger here for the Comte; an Otto Gutesohnes. He has brought something in a case for personal delivery. He didn’t say what it is.”

  “Merci. The Comte is in his laboratory,” answered Rogier from within; he came to the door and opened it, addressing Balduin directly. “I will inform the Comte of this arrival at once. See the messenger is fed and given an opportunity to rest. He must have had a hard ride coming here, with the roads so wet. Tell him the Comte will join him in about twenty minutes.”

  “Very good,” said Balduin, and continued on to the rear door immediately next to the pantry when he called out, “Uchtred, a messenger has arrived.”

  “I heard,” said the chef, coming into the kitchen corridor. “There is a fire in the rear parlor. Let him rest there. I’ll put together a small meal for him, and give him something hot to drink. The Comte will not object.”

  “I will attend to it,” said Balduin, opening the outer door and waiting for Gutesohnes to appear. He noticed the midden was already steaming, an excellent sign in this laggardly April, and May less than a week off.

  Gutesohnes appeared, breathing a little hard, his dispatch-case held tightly to his chest. “If you’ll hold this for me”—he proffered the case—“I’ll take off my boots. And my coat.”

  “Very good,” said Balduin automatically, accepting the dispatch-case.

  “I’ve come from Zurich,” Gutesohnes said as he steadied himself against the door frame with one hand and worked his boot off his foot with the other. “Shall I leave these outside?”

  “For the moment; I’ll have the under-footman clean them.” Balduin’s mouth pursed with distaste at the thought of the chore.

  “Danke,” said Gutesohnes as he set down one boot and went to work on the other.

  “How long ago did you leave Zurich?” Balduin asked, truly curious. “The weather has not been good.”

  “I left eleven days ago; between the mud and that last snowstorm, I was fortunate it didn’t take longer to get here. This is my third stop along Lake Geneva.” He put his second boot down, peeled off his coat, and stepped into the small entry-way. “Where shall I hang this?”

  Balduin indicated pegs on the wall, then swung the door closed. “The sun is warm, but the shadows are still cold.”

  “That they are,” said Gutesohnes with feeling. “And this house must hold the damp.”

  “So if you will follow me?” Balduin said, handing the dispatch-case back to Gutesohnes; he led the way to the rear parlor, opening the door to the cozy chamber for the messenger. “If you will sit, refreshments will be brought to you directly. Do not hesitate to ask for more if you are hungry. The Comte will join you shortly.” He was about to close the door when Gutesohnes stopped him.

  “May I have a basin of warm water to wash my hands?”

  “Certainly,” said Balduin, a bit nonplussed. “At once. Dietbold will bring it.”

  “Thank you,” said Gutesohnes said as he pulled off his heavy gloves and set them on the table in front of the fireplace. “My hands feel like marble, and they smell of wet mule and old leather.”

  “Dietbold will bring you the basin.” On that assurance, he withdrew from the room and sought out Dietbold, who was busy in the main dining room, applying beeswax to the table. He passed along his orders before returning to the kitchen to assist with preparing a tray for the messenger.

  A few minutes later Dietbold appeared carrying a good-sized metal basin; he went to the cauldron in front of the massive castiron stove where water was kept hot, ladling out a generous amount. “Shall I take a towel from the linen chest?”

  “One of the older ones,” Balduin recommended. “The man is very muddy, and there’s no reason to ruin a good towel on his account.”

  “Of course,” said Dietbold, and made his way to the linen chest in the supply room between the pantry and the laundry. He selected a towel with worn spots and a few minor stains, then went to the back parlor. He knocked and entered the room, remarking as he did, “I trust you are getting warm.”

  Gutesohnes half-rose. “I am. Danke.”

  “I’ll take the basin and towel when you are finished with them,” said Dietbold, handing them over to Gutesohnes, who had seated himself on the broad, upholstered bench behind the low table in front of the fireplace. “Your knuckles are chapped; they must be sore.”

  “They’re more stiff than sore.” Gutesohnes set the basin on the table and sank his hands in the warm water. “Much better,” he said as he rubbed them together vigorously.

  “Do you require anything more?’ Dietbold asked.

  “Not for the moment,” said Gutesohnes, drying his hands.

  “Then I will leave you. The Comte will be down directly.” He inclined his head, picked up the basin and towel, and left the room.

  Rogier encountered him in the corridor. “How is he?”

  “The messenger? Well enough.” He was about to continue on when Rogier stopped him.

  “What has he said?”

  “About what he carries? Nothing.” Dietbold prepared to depart.

  “All right,” Rogier said, moving aside. He stood still as Dietbold went to the side-door and tossed out the water in the basin, then continued on to the kitchen. When he was sure he was unobserved, he let himself into the parlor. “Good day to you.”

  “Comte?” Gutesohnes stood up.

  “No; his manservant. He asks you to take your ease for a little while longer.”

  “Manservant.” He studied Rogier. “Treats you well, does he?”

  “I have served him many years,” Rogier answered, deliberately oblique.

  “Then he must be a good master, or a rich one.”

  Ignoring that remark Rogier took in the man’s general appearance, and said, “Carrying messages: is it easier than driving a coach?”

  Gutesohnes blinked in surprise—how had this man discerned his former occupation?—but responded readily enough: “Most of the time it is. I was worn to the bone driving coaches. But in hard weather it is more dangerous to be a messenger; you must set out long before coaches are expected to.” He saw Rogier gesture to him, and sat down again.

  “Do you often come to Geneva?”

  “Three times a year, on our current rounds; we serve over fifty subscribers,” said Gutesohnes. “It may be four times this year, with the demand for our service increasing.” When Rogier said nothing more, he went on. “I wanted the Italian routes—milder weather, better hostels, wonderful food, and only two circuits a year—but I was assigned to the Geneva, Bern, Basel, Zurich, Bern again.”

  “Has that been so disagreeable?” Rogier asked.

  “Given the weather, it hasn’t been easy, but still better than driving a coach.” He studied Rogier. “Why do you ask?”

  “My master is considering employing his own courier, a private one, not a service. He has tasked me to find suitable candidates for the job.” He sa
id it calmly enough so as not to create expectations in the young man.

  “And you think he might consider employing me?” Gutesohnes brightened at the notion. “Why should he make such an offer to me? Or do you make this offer to every messenger who calls here, in the hope one will suit the requirements?”

  “I think it will depend on what the Comte decides, but it is not impossible, if such a position interests you.” Rogier was calm, his polite manner unfazed by Gutesohnes’ effrontery.

  “Of course,” said Gutesohnes. “I do understand.”

  Anything more they might have said was lost in the gentle knock on the door, and Dietbold’s return with a tray of broiled eel in herb sauce, fresh bread and butter, a selection of pickles, and a large cup filled with hot cognac with a thick float of cream. He put the tray on the table, nodded, and left.

  “I’ll leave you to your repast,” said Rogier, letting himself out of the parlor; he was thinking over what Gutesohnes had said when he saw Ragoczy coming toward him. “My master.”

  Ragoczy paused to adjust his black-silk waistcoat and the black super-fine claw-tail coat over it. “Have I got it right?”

  “Yes,” said Rogier, adding with a suggestion of amusement, “You couldn’t have done better with a reflection to guide you.” He adjusted the silver watch-chain so that it lay more discreetly across his waistcoat, and then nodded his satisfaction. “There. That should do the trick.”

  “Always the final detail,” Ragoczy approved.

  “If Hero were here, she would attend to such matters,” said Rogier. “She has a better eye than mine for the current vagaries of fashion: fobs and seals and watch-chains!”

  “Yes: she knows the fashion of the present day,” Ragoczy said. “Well, she should return in two weeks if the weather holds.”

  “And her uncle’s widow is no worse, and the road from Vevey is open to travel; that late storm last week surely delayed her journey,” Rogier said, and tweaked the elaborate silken bow of Ragoczy’s neck-cloth. “There. What do the English call it—a rose of good taste?”