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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Kleinerhoff gave a dejected nod. “Just so.”

  Ragoczy settled back more contentedly, doing his best to help Kleinerhoff to stop fretting. “First, why do you suppose the robbers chose that time to make their raid—if it was a raid, and not a mutual plundering.”

  “I have been pondering that myself,” said Kleinerhoff. “I have no answer.”

  “No doubt your questions increase, and will continue to do so until the problem is resolved,” said Ragoczy, to encourage him to expound. “That is always a good beginning. When you have no questions, no answers are possible.”

  “I have many more now than I did three hours ago, and none of them provide me any comfort,” he admitted, and was about to go on when there was a knock at the door, and Rogier entered bearing a tray with a large tankard filled with hot buttered rum; with it stood a selection of pastries stuffed with whipped cream, brandied custard, and ground nuts, and a wedge of sweet cheese. He set this down on the occasional table near Kleinerhoff, his manner abstinent but cordial.

  “Thank you,” Ragoczy said to Rogier. “Precisely the sort of array I had in mind.”

  “Will you want some of the pastries, Comte?” Kleinerhoff asked nervously. “Or the cheese?”

  “No, thank you. I am going to dine later this evening. Do not let my reticence for indulgence interfere with your delectation: I hope you will enjoy what is offered.” Ragoczy nodded to Rogier, who left them alone. “You are chilled, Herr Kleinerhoff, and who would wonder at it?”

  “The rain has become heavy. At least there is no wind,” said Kleinerhoff. “I hadn’t expected it so early in October. It is only the second week, and it is damp as November.” He picked up the tankard and lifted it ironically. “Another early winter.”

  “Not as cold as the last two,” Ragoczy observed.

  “No, not yet,” Kleinerhoff said, and drank. As he lowered the tankard, he smiled for the first time. “Wonderful. Wonderful.”

  “I shall tell my cook that you approve,” said Ragoczy politely. “Have a pastry and then let us discuss the robbery.”

  Obediently, Kleinerhoff took one of the little puffy cakes in his fingers, bent over the tray, and bit in. A powdering of sugar clung to his mustache as he chewed. When he was done he wiped his fingers on the kerchief he pulled from his pocket. “Superb. How pleasant for you to have such an accomplished cook.”

  “It is pleasant,” said Ragoczy and offered no other comment.

  Kleinerhoff had another drink of rum and leaned back in his chair. “The robbery. I have tried to consider every aspect of the crime, and I am still uncertain about it.”

  “In what way?” Ragoczy asked, knowing that now Kleinerhoff’s tongue would be loosened.

  “I have thought that perhaps Quelle and Staub made arrangements with the thieves, and they will profit from the crime by receiving a share of the plunder, a share they can use or sell, whichever suits their advantage. Or the thieves may be planning to sell all their loot and provide Quelle and Staub a share of their gain. But neither man is so poor that his suffering is not the same as everyone else’s, and Emil Staub is my woman’s cousin.” He looked out the window again. “I have considered the very poorest farmers in the area, but none of them have the kind of equipment that these robbers had—”

  “Were said to have had,” Ragoczy corrected gently.

  “Well, yes. None of them have wagons and only two have horses—draft ponies, actually, and everyone recognizes them.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I have other doubts about them. They could have provided information to such armed men as Quelle and Staub said took the sacks, perhaps in return for a share so that they could have more bountiful crops at the end of summer.”

  “That is a possibility,” said Ragoczy, “but you do not seem to have convinced yourself.”

  “No; no, I haven’t,” Kleinerhoff said, and had another generous drink of the hot-buttered rum in an attempt to gather up his courage. “Herr Mouler, who has charge of the morning watch, suggested that you might have arranged the theft.”

  Ragoczy sat very still. “Did Herr Mouler say why he thought that?”

  “He said you were the only man living near Sacre-Sang who had money enough to hire a company of armed men. He said that you had given the grain and seed as a means of achieving goodwill, and you had the sacks stolen so that you would not have to lose so much of your own stores.” He drank again. “I am sorry, Comte. I told him he was wrong, but there are bound to be some in the village who will believe him because you are a foreigner.”

  “And an exile,” said Ragoczy. “That is also generally known.”

  “It makes little difference to most of them: Napoleon left his share of exiles as his legacy, along with widows and orphans.” Kleinerhoff drank again, and this time his smile was easier than before. “That makes little difference to the farmers here—you are a stranger, and they will always hold you in suspicion.”

  “Does that include you, Herr Kleinerhoff?’ Ragoczy asked.

  “I?” He laughed immoderately. “No. Of course not. Not now.”

  “So you did at one time—have doubts about me.” Ragoczy saw Kleinerhoff nod unhappily. “You would have been remiss in your responsibilities had you been too quick to accept me: that would smack of influence and subornation.”

  “It is just the way of the Swiss,” said Kleinerhoff apologetically.

  “I can understand how some might be suspicious of me.” He had almost forty centuries of such suspicions behind him. “I come from far-away, and although I am a man of means, I do not have a position in this country beyond the courtesy my title commands.”

  “You have conducted yourself very well, Comte,” said Kleinerhoff. “You have concerned yourself with the welfare of the region, and you have been generous with those of us whose crops failed.” He stopped to burp, then went on, “Not many know how much they owe to you—”

  “And would not welcome the dreadful burden of gratitude,” said Ragoczy, cutting off his encomia. “So it is just as well that they know no more than they do.” He rose and went to tug the bell-rope. “A fire would be welcome, would it not.”

  Kleinerhoff nodded several times. “It is quite chilly in here.”

  “Then that must be amended,” said Ragoczy, and when Balduin came to the door, asked for a fire to be lit and, in a much lower voice, requested a second tankard of hot-buttered rum for his guest.

  “Shortly,” said Balduin. “We are finishing up the preparations for Herr Kreuzbach’s stay.”

  “Very good,” Ragoczy approved, and gave his attention to Kleinerhoff once again.

  “What do you want me to tell them, then?” Kleinerhoff asked.

  “Nothing. You will not change their reservations, and if you are perceived to be protecting me you could endanger your own position.” Ragoczy returned to his chair, but did not sit; instead he rested his arm on the mantle, one leg crossed over the other, the model of a modern gentleman.

  Kleinerhoff blinked as he mulled this over. “I don’t see why that would happen. I’ve been head-man for seventeen years: no one has ever questioned my judgment.”

  “How fortunate for you; I would not want to blot so sterling a record.” He called “Come” as a knock on the door was heard in the room.

  Steffel, the second footman, entered the room carrying a large basket filled with wood and kindling. “If I may, Comte?”

  Ragoczy stepped away from the fireplace, saying, “By all means.” He strolled over toward the window, stopping beside the maple bookcase.

  “If you insist I remain silent, I will, but I think it would be better if more of the farmers in this region knew how much you have done for them.” Kleinerhoff was becoming refractory as the strong drink continued to work on him.

  “When the hard years have passed, perhaps,” said Ragoczy as much to calm him as to concede anything.

  “If some of the folk hereabouts are aiding bandits, knowing who their true benefactor is might persuade them not to
aid outlaws,” Kleinerhoff persisted.

  “That would assume all farmers seek to have exactly the same thing, which I reckon is not the case.” He put his hands together. “Whomelse do you consider likely to be involved?”

  “Herr Feige has a son who may be with the robbers,” said Kleinerhoff, looking embarrassed at such a revelation. “He fought in Poland and in Spain. They say he was wounded, and joined with other discharged soldiers to be outlaws, or so Herr Feige says. I haven’t seen the lad since he was young.” He yawned deeply. “I know that Heinrich Feige would do almost anything to aid and assist his boy.”

  “Is this common knowledge?” Ragoczy asked while Steffel laid the fire, taking care to place the kindling for best draw on the thick, short-cut branches.

  “Most of Sacre-Sang knows it,” said Kleinerhoff. “Sometimes we joke about it. Herr Dickicht has offered to pay Herr Feige in order to keep his lambs safe when driving them to market. No one takes him seriously. It is understood that the father is not in regular contact with his son.”

  “Are you sure of that?” Ragoczy asked.

  “Naturally,” said Kleinerhoff. “There have been officers of the justice courts looking for him for the last few years. Had they found anything of significance, I would be informed.”

  “Very well,” said Ragoczy. “Is there anyone else you might entertain as a person of interest, as the English say?”

  “Possibly Brigitte,” said Kleinerhoff after brief reflection. “She knows more than almost anyone in Sacre-Sang does.”

  Although he had never met her, Ragoczy knew Brigitte by reputation: she was the town whore, and it was said that all gossip passed through her bed daily. “Do you think she might assist robbers?”

  “Who knows what a loose woman will do?” Kleinerhoff turned his head sharply as Steffel struck a spark and blew on it to get the fire going. “Don’t you repeat anything of what you hear, boy: you understand me?”

  “Yes, Herr Kleinerhoff,” said Steffel between gentle breaths on the spreading bit of fire.

  “Be careful of servants,” Kleinerhoff recommended as he slewed back to look at Ragoczy. “They know too much, all of them.”

  “In most households they certainly do,” said Ragoczy.

  The first little flames broke out in the kindling; Steffel stood up and ducked his head to Ragoczy. “I am finished, Comte.”

  “Thank you, Steffel. You may go.” Ragoczy watched the young man leave the parlor; he regarded Kleinerhoff for a short while. “What are you planning to do to recover the grain and seed?”

  “What can I do? We have no justice court here, and no magistrates’ riders to hunt the robbers down. I had thought we might send observers to other markets, to see if any of the grain or seed is being sold there. But I fear that the robbers will not be foolish enough to keep the sacks you provided with the eclipse upon them. So I must assume such an effort would be futile.”

  “All these things are probably true,” said Ragoczy, and was about to propose another approach when a knock at the door alerted him to the arrival of the second tankard of hot-buttered rum; eager to keep Kleinerhoff talking, Ragoczy went to admit Rogier so that he could resume his inquiry.

  Text of a letter from Wallache Gerhard Winifrith Sieffert, Graf von Ravensberg at Ravensberg, near Salzburg, Austria, to Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus at Château Ragoczy, near Lake Geneva, Yvoire, Switzerland, carried by private messenger and delivered ten days after dispatch.

  To the most excellent Comte Franciscus, the greetings and regrets of WGW Sieffert, Graf von Ravensberg at Ravensberg on this, the 19thday of October, 1817,

  My dear Comte,

  I am most loathe to rescind my invitation to your proposed visit, but a tragedy has struck my household, and it has made receiving visitors not only malapropos, but potentially abashing to you should events take an even more drastic turn: one of my wards is missing. Rosalie, a charming child of six, as winsome and engaging as any child could wish to be, has vanished, and we all can do nothing but fear the worst. She is a beautiful child, trusting and vital, one who inspires affection in everyone. I have sponsored searchers to look for her, but they have found nothing although they have searched everywhere for her. Should any new information be provided as to her whereabouts it will be incumbent upon me to act quickly to return the child to her home here, and to lavish all attention upon her to make up for whatever ordeal she may have endured. Under such circumstances, I cannot engage to be entertaining guests, no matter how distinguished they may be. I trust you will understand my reluctance and will ascribe it to motives of concern for the child as well as the wish to receive you as a guest of your position and rank ought to be received. Postponement can ensure that will be the case, and for that reason, I urge you to accept this alternate arrangement.

  Let me suggest that the spring may be a more satisfactory time for all concerned. The weather will be much better and the roads will be far more passable than they will be from now to April. I will then be announcing the engagement of my ward Hyacinthie, whom you met in Amsterdam, to Constanz Medoc of Trier, and between that and the publication of my book, we should have a most delightful time. Hyacinthie will also be more festive in her mood: just now she is filled with sorrow and has often declared it is her fault that Rosalie is missing, for she had taken the child on a walk and, because of a fall, was unable to accompany Rosalie back to this Schloss. Once she accepts that she may have been irresponsible in not insisting that the girl accompany her, but that the fate of Rosalie is in the hands of her abductors, she may begin to mend her heart. You will have a far better stay then than you will now, or for many weeks to come. The last thing I would wish for you—or for Hyacinthie—would be a visit marked by gloom and more disappointments. Come in the spring, I urge you, and be certain of a warm welcome.

  I hope when I see you, the search for Rosalie will have a joyous outcome, but I will not permit myself to hope too much, lest all be dashed by the discovery that she has died. I refuse to consider that possibility, but it intrudes, no matter what I do to put it far from my thoughts, and Rosalie’s older sister, Hedda, has been beside herself with grief, not allowing me to comfor t her in the night when she cries piteously for her missing younger sister. It distresses me to be helpless to ameliorate her deep and all-consuming sorrow. You cannot imagine how it troubles me to be unable to offer the child the solace she so desperately needs, when, as her guardian, it is part of my duty to soothe all her misery away. I long to embrace her so that she and I may share the burden of Rosalie’s loss, but Hedda is not yet willing to admit me into her confidences. Once she relents and allows me to provide sympathy combined with the care she requires, I have hope of her improvement. I speak of these things so that you will know my decision to change the time of our meeting is not the result of caprice, but rather my own deep regard for these girls as well as for you, yourself.

  I will look forward to receiving your messenger again when winter is over, and in the meantime,

  I am

  Most sincerely,

  Wallache Gerhard Winifrith Sieffert

  Graf von Ravensberg

  6

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Hero turned her tearful face toward Ragoczy. “Comte, I am so, so sorry.” She clutched her pillow and held it close to her, the bedclothes in disruption around him. “I want to. Really … I wish I could … I shouldn’t … I never intended …” The light from the lamp made wavering shadows on her face as if taking the chill from the room into its heart, muffling its illusion of warmth in flickering shadows.

  He laid his finger lightly against her lips. “No, Hero, it is I who should apologize to you. It is too soon still.”

  “It isn’t,” she said, shaking her head in self-condemnation. “Or it shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t make you … You have been reasonable and patient and understanding. I couldn’t ask for more kindness, not from anyone. I don’t know why I should be this way, and to you, of all men.” Had Fridhold lived, she would not hav
e expected such sympathy from him as Ragoczy had given her. She touched his hand tentatively, then released it, as if even so little connection as this was unbearable.

  “I am sorry that you have had to suffer your loss with so much worry.” He thought of Ignatia, of Demetrice, of Acana Tupac, of Xenya, each with her own unquenchable grief, and he did his best to convey his concern. “You are trying to hold your sorrow at a distance while you wait to see your sons.”

  “I should be with them, no matter what my father-in-law permits; he could hardly turn me away if I should travel to Scharffensee. I should have insisted as soon as we returned from Amsterdam that we go there, but I didn’t know the rains would come early, or—” A steely determination straightened her back and interrupted her weeping. “In the spring, I will not be put off: he will receive me whether he will or no. I will see my sons. It is my duty, and my right to be with my children.” Then without warning a new bout of weeping came over her; she pummeled her fists into her pillow as if she wanted to strike her own body. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “You are in mourning,” said Ragoczy, making no effort to stop her.

  “I should mourn. My daughter is dead,” she exclaimed as she threw the pillow across the room. “She died without me to care for her.”

  “She did, and that is lamentable, but you could not have known she would die.”

  “Fridhold’s father waited so long to tell me—too long. That is how the Graf has been since Fridhold died. He didn’t want me to know about Annamaria. He doesn’t want to tell me about any of them.” She bit her lower lip.

  “He is inclined to forget that you are part of your children’s lives,” said Ragoczy, striving to keep his remarks as neutral as possible, so that Hero would not feel she had to defend von Scharffensee for the sake of her children and her dead husband.

  “Their lives and Annamaria’s death,” Hero interjected.