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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Jiac Relout nodded to his companion. “I suppose we can do this.” He looked up at the sky. “No rain coming yet.”

  “Certainly not for a day or two,” said Ragoczy, indicating the way to the kitchen door into the château. “You should have him within doors before then. I will have bread and drink of your choice ordered for you in thanks for your service.” He was already moving toward the door, compelling them to come after him.

  “Food and drink. Why not?” said Loys Begen, shrugging before he picked up his end of the cot.

  “Careful,” warned Relout. “We don’t want him to fall.”

  “No,” said Hochvall, his voice suddenly loud and panicky.

  Ragoczy paused near the garden-gate. “Yes. You have no need to hurry. Think of how his injuries would feel on you and be gentle with him.”

  Relout ducked his head and signaled Begen to lift his end of the cot and move on.

  It took almost ten minutes to get the cot into the château and to set it down in the antechamber to the pantry. The two field-hands were panting with exertion when they were done, and Begen looked down at Hochvall. “If you must be moved again, someone in the household will have to do it.”

  “C’est vrai,” said Hochvall with emotion; his face was pale and sheened with sweat, and his skin was clammy to the touch, as Ragoczy discovered when he took the coachman’s hand.

  “Fetch a blanket,” he said to the two field-hands. “One of the household staff will find one for you.”

  “It is a warm day, Comte,” said Begen.

  “It may be, but this man is cold, and in his condition, such cold is dangerous.” He turned as he heard a discreet knock on the door. “Who is it?”

  “Rogier,” said his manservant from the hallway.

  “Ah. Very good,” said Ragoczy. “Will you bring me a blanket—one of the light-weight woollen ones, if you would?”

  “Of course,” said Rogier.

  “There. Now you need not be put to the trouble of doing it,” said Ragoczy to Relout and Begen. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out two gold coins. “For your trouble. They are English guineas. Any reputable bank will honor them.”

  The field-hands, who had never set foot in any bank, took the money and ducked their heads; they would keep their treasure in their hidden strong-boxes. “Many thanks, Comte,” they said almost in unison.

  “And mine to you,” said Ragoczy. “Now, let me tend to Hochvall before his condition grows worse.”

  “What about the coach?” Relout asked.

  “I suppose it should be levered out of the ditch, at the very least,” said Ragoczy, “and the road shored up so that it will not happen again. The three sound horses should be stabled and groomed, then turned out in the paddock until sundown, and observed for signs of tie-ups or bruises. I will examine the fourth animal in an hour or two, and dress his cuts. If you and four men will tend to the horses and the road after you have had your refreshments, I will pay for your efforts.” He was bending over Hochvall, his manner slightly preoccupied as he took stock of the coachman’s worsening condition. “Post a lad on either side of the damage to warn others of the danger. I will pay for their service, as well.”

  “Yes, Comte,” said Relout.

  Rogier came into the room without knocking. “I have the blanket you asked for, my master, one of good size,” he said in the Venetian dialect, and handed over a large, dense, satin-edged blanket of Ankara goats-wool. “This should keep him warm without being heavy.”

  “An excellent choice, old friend,” said Ragoczy, taking the blanket and spreading it carefully over Hochvall. “Next a tisane, a soothing one, and the vial of syrup of poppies. He should sleep through a cavalry assault then. And if you will show these two good men to the kitchen for their bread and drink. When they are finished, please accompany them to the site of the wreck.”

  “Certainly. This way,” said Rogier to Begen and Relout; the two men were glad to leave the room, and made for the kitchen with alacrity. Rogier led them to the workers’ room and summoned Uchtred. “These men have borne Hochvall home, and they deserve something more than a glass of beer and a slice of bread.”

  “Hochvall is hurt?” Uchtred asked, his large eyes seeming to grow even larger.

  “There was an accident. A portion of the road gave way and the coach was damaged. One of the horses was cut up; Hochvall was thrown off the driving-box into the ditch. He was injured; how badly I do not yet know. The Comte is attending to him now.” He motioned to Begen and Relout to sit at the long plank table. “Is there a sausage and pickles you might be willing to spare?”

  “And cheese,” said Uchtred. “Poor Hochvall.” He paused for a moment, then said, “I have beer. Jervois will bring these things to you.”

  The field-hands exchanged uneasy glances. “We can get food for ourselves,” said Relout.

  “The Comte prefers that his guests be served, as a sign of respect,” said Uchtred.

  Once more Begen and Relout faltered, unused to such courtesy from a man of the Comte’s position. Finally Relout took a seat and reached for a trencher. “If it pleases the Comte, we are his to command.”

  Rogier excused himself, promising to return shortly.

  Uchtred smiled as he left the two alone for a short while, returning with a pitcher of beer and two tankards. As he poured for the men, he said, “You may want coffee, in addition to the beer.”

  “The day is too warm for coffee,” said Relout, taking the brimming tankard in hand and lifting it to his lips. “This is most welcome.”

  Begen said nothing, but drank deeply before setting down his tankard and nodding his approval.

  “Then I’ll go prepare your tray. It will not take me long, so you needn’t fret,” said Uchtred, and left the men alone. In the kitchen, he summoned Jervois. “Bring the cheese—the pale round, if you will, a board and a knife to slice it. There are two working-men to feed.”

  Jervois, who was fifteen and in his second year of service, gave a small, disapproving shake of his head even as he obeyed. “Why so much courtesy? These men are laborers, already paid for their services. Field-hands should be happy to be useful to the Comte; they should not take advantage of his liberality.”

  “Would you say that if you were a field-hand? They have done work beyond their hiring, and that deserves distinction, or so the Comte says. It is his way, and so we must honor it.” He went into the pantry to choose a sausage, and emerged with a long, dense tube of spiced boar and venison cured with pepper, coriander, and smoke. Using a heavy kitchen knife, he cut a good portion of the sausage and sliced the portion onto a wooden trencher. “Butter, too, Jervois.”

  The youngster nodded after a minute hesitation. “I will,” he said, and made his way out of the château, returning from the creamery with a tub of butter. “Yesterday’s. Enough for dinner and those men. Today’s isn’t done yet. Therese said she won’t get to it until after dinner. The day is too hot for the butter to catch, so she is cooling the milk in the creamery.”

  “Yesterday’s should be sweet still, even in this weather. No doubt the men will be satisfied with it,” said Uchtred, pulling a lipped platter toward him, setting a jar of mustard sauce in the middle of it, and beginning to select pickles to array around it. When he had achieved a presentation that satisfied him, he stood back. “There.” His expression changed, darkening with his recollections. “You may not remember how many times we were raided for food during the wars; you were still a child, not aware of how things went on around you. War meant more than guns; it meant raids and confiscation. After the wars came hard winters. If the Comte were not a man of foresight, we could not maintain the expectations of guests in the château as we are doing. There is still food in the larder, enough to see us beyond the harvest. To have this bounty to give to working-men is an achievement. It has been some time since we could offer proper hospitality to those who came here, and many still cannot. Let us not lose track of our duty.”

  “Napo
leon was greedy,” declared Jervois, repeating his parents’ complaints. “My two brothers followed him, and died for it.”

  “Many men followed him and died for it,” said Uchtred preparing to take the food in to the two field-hands. “Don’t linger with them—they’ll assume we don’t trust them,” he warned. “It is unseemly to distrust guests.”

  “But we don’t, do we,” said Jervois. “Field-hands have taken as much as soldiers. And abandoned as many children.”

  “The same reason for all—they were hungry,” said Uchtred. “The merchants had raised their prices and turned away apprentices.”

  “All the more cause to be careful of these men,” said Jervois as if he were decades older and experienced in the ways of the commercial world. “Better to be circumspect now than to be sorry later.”

  “You will not hover over them, nor will you spy upon them. The Comte has invited them to his table. They have the right to our reservation of judgment. See you treat them well.” He motioned Jervois away and resumed his preparation of the mid-day meal for the household. At least, he thought, they were not going to have to eat rabbit. He had cooked nothing but rabbits and scrawny birds for three full years during the height of Napoleon’s belligerence, and had sworn never to do so again: it was lamb and pork and venison, fish, and occasionally veal from now on, with fresh eggs and butter, and new, wheaten bread. He looked around the kitchen in satisfaction, and smiled as he considered all the provisions in the smokehouse and storerooms in the cellars of the château. He was turning two fat game-birds on a spit in the main kitchen hearth for the widow’s dinner when he heard someone come into the kitchen behind him.

  “The Comte has set Hochvall’s leg and given him a sleeping draught; he should not wake until tomorrow; sleep will ease him through his first hard hours of recovery,” Rogier told the chef, thinking back to the many times that Ragoczy had taken charge of the care of injured men in the past. “The Comte knows what will be best for Hochvall: he will remain in the pantry antechamber for tonight. Tomorrow he will be moved to his own quarters. I will have one of the household servants watch him for tonight and tomorrow, and longer if it seems a good precaution, to be sure no greater ills develop.”

  “No doubt that will please Hochvall,” said Uchtred. “Which servant are you going to appoint to watch him?”

  “Either Hildebrand or Ulisse. Neither should impinge upon you very directly.”

  “Footmen,” said Uchtred in a tone of unconcern. “Ulisse is accompanying the widow on her daily walk, but Hildebrand is in the side-garden, airing out the withdrawing-room cushions. Dietbold is cleaning the silver in the Grand Hall.” He felt smug that he—the chef—should have such information to offer; he hoped he was showing himself to be the equal of Balduin. He often took advantage of the steward’s absence to demonstrate his comprehensive grasp of the household.

  “I will inform Hildebrand of his new work at once; I may assign Dietbold to sit with Hochvall tonight; it will be Dietbold or Silvain, depending upon which of them is better-rested,” said Rogier. “I suppose Balduin is still in the village?”

  “So I assume; he has not returned to the château, in any case. I have held dinner back an hour so he could plan to eat with the rest of us, as is fitting for one in his position. It is observations like this that keep the household functioning properly.” Uchtred managed a superior smile. “The widow should be back from her walk shortly. I will order the dining room readied for the meal.”

  “And we are still expecting Otto Gutesohnes tomorrow or the next day?” Rogier asked, although he knew the answer.

  “That is my understanding,” said Uchtred primly. “You have had no news to the contrary, have you?”

  “No, nor have you,” said Rogier.

  “Then he should be here. He has been reliable on his first errand—why not on his second?”

  “I will be relieved to see him, and so will the Comte,” said Rogier, going to the cauldron hanging over the hearth and preparing to take a measure of soup from it. “In case Hochvall wants something to eat. He will do better with soup than with bread. Be certain it is hot.”

  “If that is what the Comte wants,” said Uchtred.

  “It is what will suit Hochvall best,” said Rogier.

  “As you say,” Uchtred conceded, and basted the plump fowl with butter mixed with lemon-rind and minced scallions; he watched the stones sizzle as the run-off splashed. “An hour and I’ll summon the household.”

  Rogier nodded. “You are an ornament to your profession, Uchtred.” With that compliment, he left the kitchen and sought out Ragoczy, who was in his study, poring over a number of letters that had been delivered from Yvoire that morning. “Dinner will be ready in an hour, Uchtred says.” He spoke in the Latin of the first century, in the dialect of Roman merchants.

  “The household will be pleased,” said Ragoczy in the same tongue, breaking the seal on a letter from Rome, which he scanned quickly, reporting as he read. “I fear the villa needs a new roof,” he said. “The vinyards are flourishing, and the fields are much recovered from the winters. Lambing has gone well, and calving. Piero is certain that a good harvest this year and the next and all should be satisfactory again.”

  “Piero is always careful,” said Rogier, his tone showing his approval more than his demeanor. “Is the news as good from Lago Como?”

  “I have not yet heard from Stanislao.” He put the letter down. “I’ll send Piero authorization for the roof as soon as possible.”

  “By Gutesohnes?” Rogier suggested, anticipating the answer.

  “I fear I have need of him in his capacity of coachman, so I must engage another courier. With Hochvall unavailable until autumn, I must either hire a coachman, or ask Otto Gutesohnes to do this for me.” He shrugged. “If he refuses, then I will have to seek out another coachman for the summer.”

  “Gutesohnes is a sensible man; he will be willing to drive your coaches for you,” said Rogier. “How badly is Hochvall hurt?”

  “Two breaks in the leg, one in the femur, one in the fibulae. The second was trickier to set but the more apt to heal cleanly now that the alignment is made. It is difficult to feel the bone under the calf-muscles, but—”

  “—you have some experience in these matters,” said Rogier with an expression that bordered on a smile.

  “Precisely,” said Ragoczy.

  Rogier took the letters Ragoczy had set aside and began to separate them in anticipation of filing them later. “There is news from Persia?”

  “Yes.” Ragoczy frowned. “I will need to make up my mind what to do about my holdings there, and sooner rather than later.”

  “Will you need a second courier for that?” Rogier inquired.

  “Very likely. Perhaps that Greek messenger, the one who has carried letters from Turkey. He has been reliable and quick, and Kypris vouches for him. No doubt more couriers will be needed in a year or so, as science increases our desire for rapid information.” He thought for more than a minute, then said with a touch of amusement, “In many ways it was easier, three centuries ago. Messages moved slowly, and not always reliably, but it was understood that such things took time, and nothing could be done to hurry a fast horse, especially in bad weather. Now, with ships plying the oceans and more roads than ever the Romans made, speed has become a factor no one can ignore. Decisions must be made in days, not months, and information must travel as swiftly as time and tide will allow.”

  “For a thousand years, you lamented how slow such communications had become once Rome no longer controlled Europe and the roads were neglected,” said Rogier with a trace of dry humor.

  “So I did, and now I have my comeuppance.” He studied the next letter. “I think it would be prudent to open offices for Eclipse Shipping in Baltimore as well as New York. From what Mannerling says, there is less graft in Baltimore, and industry is expanding there. It is not so closed as Boston, according to Mannerling.”

  “Graft is everywhere,” said Rogier, prep
aring to leave the study. “You cannot hope to escape it.”

  “Certainly that is so; but some cases are less egregious than others, which is what I would prefer to find,” said Ragoczy, opening another sealed envelope. “Ah. This is about the damage to my country estate in Poland. It appears that the main house is a ruin, and only one barn is sound enough for reconstruction. All the rest will have to be built afresh.” He tapped the letter against his palm. “This will take some negotiating to keep it from becoming a debacle.”

  “Anything from Kreuzbach about the castle above Zemmer? You are planning to visit it on your way to Amsterdam, are you not?”

  “Just the report of ten days ago,” said Ragoczy. “And, no, I will not be deterred from pursuing the restoration of my Polish estate. Too much of the region was damaged, and too many farmers and craftsmen are in need of work and protection. Rebuilding the estate will provide wages and shelter, and that is—” He set the letter down. “I believe Hero has returned.”

  “It does sound that way,” said Rogier.

  There was a wry lift to Ragoczy’s fine brows as he met Rogier’s steady gaze. “No, she is not the companion of my heart that Madelaine is, but she is a woman of integrity and passion, which suits me very well. And I do not intrude on the enshrined memory of her husband, which suits her.”

  “I said nothing,” Rogier reminded him.

  “But you are worried that I have withheld some portion of intimacy from Hero—which I have. Just as she has kept a part of herself inviolate.” He went and opened the door. “I am satisfied, and so is she.”

  “Perhaps too satisfied?” Rogier suggested. “You long for Madelaine.”

  “Yes, but it is an impossible yearning, since neither of us has life to give the other.” He continued on in slightly old-fashioned French. “I do not think you have any reason to be concerned, old friend.”

  “If you tell me so, what can I be but satisfied?” said Rogier, and pulled the door closed behind them.

  Hero stood in the corridor, two envelopes clasped in her hands. “My father-in-law has written again,” she said. She had removed her bonnet and her lace gloves; her face was slightly flushed from the heat of the day.