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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “How long will it take to reach the château?” she asked, her parasol open and her face in its shadow.

  “Just over two hours, I should think,” said Ragoczy.

  “Two hours,” she repeated. “The horses are not too tired in this heat? They would not be worn down?”

  “Not too exhausted, no. And they have been watered and walked while we saw the coach.” He could feel the pair pull on their bits as he kept them to a strict walk along the cobbled streets; they were ready to return home.

  “I think I would prefer to go back to the château, then,” she said after a brief silence. “I wouldn’t like to be on the road in the late afternoon. They say that robbers are attacking travelers, and there are more abroad after sundown.”

  Ragoczy, who carried a primed pistol in the deep pocket of his four-caped driving-coat, said only, “Robbers can rob at any time of the day or night.”

  “But they more often prowl at night,” said Hero, frowning a little. “Darkness aids them, light works against them.”

  “Probably so,” said Ragoczy, expertly threading his pair through the confusion of wagons, carriages, carts, buggies, traps, and coaches that filled the streets of Yvoire. At the market-square where potters displayed their wares, Ragoczy pulled his horses in to a slow walk, saying to Hero, “These wares are fragile. I would not like to damage any in a rush to leave the town.”

  “No doubt the potters know what they can afford to lose,” said Hero, then sat up, chagrined by what she realized sounded like callousness. “I didn’t mean that, not entirely. I meant that they know not to put their most valuable work where it could be broken.”

  “I should hope so,” he said, and edged the calash past a large wagon laden with haunches of smoked meat.

  As they went along the edge of the market where fruits and flowers were sold, Hero said, “It looks as if there will be more fruit this year again.”

  “Wise housewives will still make preserves and comfits, and put up berries in brandy, in case the cold returns,” said Ragoczy.

  “Or there is another war,” added Hero as she heard a distant roll of thunder from the clouds piled up against the mountains. “We will be late for dinner, won’t we?” Without waiting for an answer, she settled back, and said nothing more until the town was behind them and the horses were moving at a steady trot down the dusty road. As they passed over a narrow stone bridge, she said, “There seems so much to do before we depart. Do you truly plan that we should leave for Amsterdam at the end of this week? That is only three more days.”

  “Yes. I can see no reason for more delay, and after the first full day of travel, we will be glad to have a day to rest.” He noticed movement at the side of the road and saw a fox sitting in the bushes, calmly unimpressed by the calash.

  “There is so much to do.” She stretched out one hand as if to try to gather in everything that had to be dealt with.

  “Inform Rogier of your needs, and he will make sure the maids have all your things ready. Take what you would like—the coach can carry a fair amount of luggage.” He checked the grays as they came to the turn-off for the château. “This won’t be like following your father into the desert, or preparing for an expedition to distant ruins, you know. Amsterdam is a proper city, and you need not fret—anything that you may wish to replace, you will be able to find without trouble.”

  She laughed. “I know that. The habits of my youth stay with me; I never travel but I believe I must take provisions of all sorts for a year, and everything that I might need in any circumstances, no matter how unlikely.” She leaned back on the squabs once more, then asked, “Do any habits of your youth linger, after so long?”

  “Other than my nature?” he inquired. “There may be a few, faint echoes. I always remember that I was born at the dark of the year, during the five days of the Solstice. It was the time of my birth that selected me to join the priests of my people, and to be one with them upon my death.”

  “The Solstice is a single day,” she said, a bit startled that he should make such an error.

  “In these enlightened times, yes, but I was born almost four thousand years ago; the priests who protected my people had to measure the long nights by the burning of measured amounts of oil; this could not be precise to the exact day, but it could show the five days that were dark the longest.” His dark eyes were distant. “For some reason, I cannot, even now, fail to count the years.”

  “Does that sadden you?” she could not keep from asking.

  “Occasionally. There was a time—many centuries ago—when such reckoning only served to bring me pain, for it reminded me of what I had lost, and I could not yet comprehend how much I had gained. I had only loathing and dread around me, and no means of learning, since I knew only a few words of the languages of my various captors. I found a barbaric justification in my ferocity then. That was before I understood that the blood is touching, and that touching nourishes more than this un-dead body, which is beyond nourishment of that kind: intimacy restored my humanity and brought me to value all life for its uniqueness and its brevity. If you decide to rise at your death, you will learn these things for yourself. Unless you plan to die the True Death at the end of this life, you will have my life, and will have to learn what I have learned. You needn’t decide now, but before you die, you will need to choose what you will do.” In the silence that followed this warning, he reached the gate to his château, reined in the pair, set the brake, and jumped down from the driving-box to unlatch the gate and swing it open. He secured the gate, returned to the calash, drove through the gate, halted the horses, got down to close the gate, then climbed back onto the box and drove the last tenth part of a league to the stable. “Clement!”

  The head groom was already emerging from the stable, half-running toward Ragoczy’s carriage, two other grooms following in his wake. “Comte,” he said, not quite bowing as he came to a halt.

  “The wheeler has a loose on-side front shoe. Other than that, they’ll need to be walked for a quarter hour, then brushed. Have Joachim tend to the shoe after they’re fed, and he has had his supper.”

  “He’s in the smithy. I’ll tell him,” said Clement.

  “And do you know if Gutesohnes is in his quarters?”

  “He is tooling the spider around the orchard, working in the young English bay,” said Clement. “He said he was getting ready for the journey to Amsterdam, loosening up his arms.”

  “Will you tell him I would like to see him in my study when he returns?” Ragoczy asked.

  “Of course, Comte,” said Clement.

  “Thank you.” He got down from the box, assisted Hero out of the carriage, and watched while Clement attached a lead-rope to the chin-strap of the lead gray’s bridle. “There may be a thunderstorm this afternoon, so keep this pair in the exercise arena in the stable; turn out any horse who gets restless into the arena with them until the storm passes. I do not want them to kick their stalls to flinders.”

  “We’ll attend to it.” Clement, who was half-a-head taller than Ragoczy, deferred to him automatically, whistling to the grays as he led them away, the calash rattling along the flag-stones that marked the front of the château.

  “What shall we do now?” Hero asked, putting her hand through the crook of his arm.

  “You will want to compile your list for Rogier; I will make sure the household prepares for our absence. Decide whether Wendela or Serilde will accompany you, and have her choose a portmanteau for her clothes. I will join you after you have supper, and we can spend a private evening in the bath, if you like.”

  Her smile broadened. “That would please me very much, especially the bath,” she said, as she furled her parasol and allowed him to open the door and usher her into the château. “I will attend to the lists and other matters of travel before supper, do not fear. And while I dine, I will decide which of my maids will accompany me. I will look for you in the antechamber of the bath after sundown.” She leaned over to kiss his cheek. “And
I promise I will think about what you said just now.”

  “I will be at your service, after sundown,” he promised her, and went off to his study, where he received Otto Gutesohnes some ninety minutes later, just as the sky began to darken and the clouds took on a lurid, bruised light.

  Gutesohnes was covered in dust and his brow shone with grimy sweat, but he was smiling as he accepted Ragoczy’s offer to sit down. “That English bay works well between the shafts. I wouldn’t have thought he’d do well as a single horse, but I’ve changed my mind. Keep him for the lighter carriages and the lanes, and he’ll give real satisfaction.”

  “Very good to know,” said Ragoczy. “I had hoped he might prove good for solo harness.”

  “He should. It would be wise to have a horse for these hilly roads; you can’t take the calash everywhere.” He clapped his hands and a small cloud of dust erupted from his gloves. “I wanted to thank you for those hearty Spanish horses you provided me on my last ride to Praha. I was doubtful about them at first, but after my third remount, I realized I would save a day on each side of the journey. They’re strengthy and they’ve got excellent wind, and light mouths, all of them.”

  “Very good. I will continue my orders for the Andalusians for my courier. You will find them at posting inns from Calais to Roma, and from Praha to Barcelona, all in my name,” said Ragoczy, reflecting that ten years ago most of his courier’s horses had been confiscated by Napoleon’s armies for his cavalry and aides-decamp; Ragoczy continued in the same tone, as if the loss meant little to him. “Tomorrow I am sending you riding postilion into Yvoire with the liver sorrels to fetch the new traveling coach. We will leave at first light on Saturday morning, and at the end of the day, we will find an inn where we can spend Sunday as well, so the horses will be fresh on Monday. I want to use them all the way to Amsterdam if it is possible.”

  Gutesohnes considered this. “I imagine I can keep up a good pace without exhausting them. Where the roads are flat and in good repair, we will go at a trot, and otherwise at a walk. That should keep from wearing them out.” He grinned suddenly. “After this journey, I should know the way to Amsterdam in my sleep.”

  “So long as you are awake when you drive,” said Ragoczy. “We will break the journey at Zemmer, to inspect the work being done on my holdings there, and we will have a full day in Liège so I may consult with my trading company there. I will stay in Amsterdam for about ten days. I will give you four days’ liberty while there, and I will provide you spending money, so that you may make the most of the liberty. I depend upon you to be sure the horses are properly cared for during our stay. I have decided that Osbert Nadel will drive the servant’s carriage, and that they will have the four Nonius geldings in harness. They should be able to keep up with us without trouble.”

  “From the horses, no, but Nadel is lazy,” Gutesohnes warned.

  “He will not learn to be less so unless he is given work more demanding than driving the hay-wagon and the buggy. He must begin to expand his knowledge or he will stay on this mountain for all of his life, which he claims not to want to do.” Ragoczy folded his arms and said, “Give him a trial, if you like: have him ride postilion with you tomorrow when you go to get the coach.”

  “If you think it best,” said Gutesohnes in a tone that barely escaped insolence.

  Ragoczy ignored his manner. “You will have the opportunity to correct his faults while you are with him. Try not to demoralize him completely. He is only seventeen, and a youngest son.”

  “Seventeen is old enough to have some purpose in life,” said Gutesohnes. “But I will do as you instruct, Comte.”

  “I thank you for that,” said Ragoczy, just a tinge of sardonic humor in his dark eyes. “I will expect you to tell me how the coach handles when you return tomorrow, and to make note of any problems you may have with it so they may be addressed before we are on the road. It is easier to fix an anticipated problem than a realized one.” He considered for a few seconds, then added, “I think it best if the servants travel in the Bohemia; it may not be completely fashionable, but it is sturdy and it can carry a heavy load without being much slowed by the weight. Also, it drives well.” He had driven it before on two occasions, and both times the Bohemia had performed better than he had hoped.

  “Does Nadel know which coach he is to drive?” asked Gutesohnes.

  “No; I will inform him before supper,” said Ragoczy, giving Gutesohnes another long, measuring stare. After a minute or so, he asked, “Would you like to return to coaching, or do you want to remain my courier when this journey is over? Have you a preference? You may be candid in your answer.”

  “I do like driving a coach now and then—especially well-made vehicles with fine teams—but I much prefer being a courier. The work is more varied, fewer things can go wrong, and I have a greater aptitude for it.” He pulled off his gloves. “I must go wash. I’ll be cased in dried mud if I don’t.”

  ‘The bath-house has been heated, if you want to use it,” said Ragoczy.

  “On such a warm day? No, I’ll wash down behind the stable with the others. When it turns cold again, I’d welcome the bath-house. For now, the washrack will do as well for me as it does for the horses. Two buckets of cool water and a good scrub with a brush and I’ll be fit for company.” He rose from his chair and nodded to Ragoczy. “About tomorrow: I’ll be off to Yvoire shortly after dawn, and should be back in time for dinner.”

  “Very good. I will look for you then.” As he spoke, a flick of brightness came and went. “The storm is gathering. You’d best hurry if you want to get washed before the”—he stopped as thunder trundled overhead—“storm begins.”

  Gutesohnes touched his forehead and left the study, whistling as he went as if defying the elements to overwhelm him.

  It was another hour before the rain began, accompanied by dramatic crashes of thunder and sudden eruptions of lightning, often so close together that they seemed to be in the same instant. The windows of the château rattled, the heavens let down their bounty in profusion, and half the household kept to their quarters, waiting for the tempest to pass; Ragoczy sat in his study, unperturbed by the display the storm provided, although the abundance of running water made him a bit uncomfortable. As the light dimmed, he did not bother to light the lamps but continued to make entries in his notebook, his dark-seeing eyes unhampered by the fading day. After a while the aroma of roasting boar filled the château, and while the sunset began to delineate the break-up of the clouds, the household of Château Ragoczy gathered in the servants’ dining room for their supper, and Hero ate in solitary state in the smaller withdrawing room above-stairs.

  As night came on Ragoczy left his study and went out to the bath-house; the air was clear, the ground was wet, and the sky was luminous with the last vibrant glow of sunset. He stood at the bath-house door for a minute or so, taking in the end of the day, then he stepped into the vestibule and began to remove his clothes, hanging them on pegs before retrieving a large, square Turkish towel, which he wrapped around himself before he stepped into the steamy room where the three large, water-filled wooden tubs waited. The room smelled of damp and witch hazel, and was lit by six lanterns set in glass-fronted wall-niches. Ragoczy went to the bench at the foot of the largest tub, dropped his towel, and went to climb up the steps and into the oblong tub. Quite warm water rose to the middle of his chest, made pleasant by his native earth under the tub, and the advantage of advancing night. He lay back, letting the water support him while he waited for Hero to arrive.

  It was twenty minutes later that she came into the room, her towel in one hand, her dressing-gown wrapped around her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t get away until just now.”

  “No matter. The holocaust keeps the water warm.” He held out his hand to her. “Come in.”

  She folded her towel and took off her dressing-gown; she laid this on top of the towel, then removed her slippers before climbing into the tub to join him. “I wish I knew how you
managed to keep hot water flowing through these tubs—probably another Roman technique,” she said, adding, “but don’t explain it to me now. Tell me later.” She slid into his arms and his embrace with ease, delighting in their kiss. “I have been waiting for this all evening.”

  “How kind you are to my vanity,” he said lightly, his hands trailing over her with the movement of the water.

  Her laughter was low and delicious. “You have less vanity than any man I have ever known. All your centuries of life have burned it out of you, I think.” She pressed up against him and with one hand loosened the knot of her hair, so that it cascaded around her shoulders and fanned out around her in the water. As she tossed the two ivory pins out of the tub, she murmured, “Such locks will then/Ensnare the hearts of men.”

  “Petrarch was right,” Ragoczy whispered as he stroked her hair, following down the wonderful curves of her flesh beyond it.

  She kissed him again, taking his hand and moving it to her breast. “Start here, if you would.”

  He cradled her breast in his palm. “And go where?”

  She let his arm hold her up as she stretched out in the water. “I leave that up to you,” she said, and gave herself over to the passion he ignited in her, and the gentle embrace of the water.

  Text of a letter from Wallache Gerhard Winifrith Seifert von Ravensberg at Munchen, Bavaria, to his banking factor, Herr Luitpold Oskar Sporn, in Salzburg, Austria, carried by private courier and delivered three days after dispatching.

  To Herr Luitpold O. Sporn, the greetings of Graf von Ravensberg on this, the 10thday of August, 1817, from the city Munchen,