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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “You dine in half an hour,” he dutifully corrected himself. “I will do so somewhat later.”

  “I do hope so,” she said, looking up from her open-weave canvas. “Is it three already?”

  “That it is,” he said, and came across the room to her, his dark eyes fixed on her bright-brown ones. “I see you’re making progress.”

  “I want to have these hangings done by the time the Zemmer castle is restored.” She frowned as she inspected one line of scarlet wool. “I hope I have enough of this to finish the pattern. I’ll never be able to find a match for it again. Red and green are never quite the same from batch to batch, no matter what the dyers say.”

  “You could always lighten or darken the pattern as it moves up the hanging,” suggested Ragoczy. “Go from intense tones to lighter ones, or from these bright colors to more muted ones.”

  She considered this, then smiled. “A very good notion. I think it would make for fine results.”

  “Any work you undertake will have fine results,” he said. “I am deeply appreciative of your present—six point-edge silk cravats. I thank you.”

  “You mustn’t do that anymore,” she said quickly. “You have done so already. And if you thank me again, then I must thank you for the tourmaline-and-diamond ring you presented to me as a Christmas gift, and the diamond-drop earrings.” She secured her needle in the canvas and waved away his protestations.

  “They suit you,” he said. “I hope you will wear them when we travel to Scharffensee.”

  “I will, of course.”

  “And your other jewelry, as well,” Ragoczy went on. “The pieces your mother left you, in particular. Your Baroque pearls are especially fine.”

  “So that my father-in-law will see I am not entirely without means?” She smiled sadly. “They would be likely to confirm his opinion that I am wholly dependent upon you.”

  “He would be mistaken,” said Ragoczy.

  “Would he? You house and keep me. That makes me …” She waggled her needle to finish her thought.

  “It makes you what any other widow in your position would be, in the world as it is. If that displeases your father-in-law, he may arrange to house and keep you appropriately himself, for the sake of your children and to honor your husband’s memory.” He said it lightly enough but there was a spark in his enigmatic gaze that surprised her, and rather than pursue this fruitless discussion, she shifted the subject.

  “He believes that should be my father’s concern, or my sons’, if they were old enough and in possession of their inheritance,” she said, her mouth turning down.

  “If your father’s manner of living appealed to you, I might agree, but you already know what it is to venture about the world investigating ruins. If you wanted such a life—”

  “As Madame de Montalia does,” she interjected.

  “Yes; as Madelaine does,” he agreed smoothly, “that would be another thing. But you wish to live quietly with your family, and your father is in no position to provide that.”

  “Going to distant ruins is better than eating roots and moss, as so many did here, two winters ago. I wonder if Graf von Scharffensee thinks of that ever.” She found herself troubled that such ruminations should intrude on what was supposed to be a quiet, cheerful day.

  “It may be why he determined to have his grandchildren with him: he might assume he is better prepared to protect them from hardship.” Ragoczy looked past her into the pale afternoon. “He lost his son, and he may fear he will lose his grandchildren, too.”

  “So you have suggested before,” she snapped. “And he has lost my daughter for his pains.” She put her hand to her eyes. “Oh, dear. I was hoping not to succumb to Christmas melancholy.”

  Ragoczy came closer, stopping next to her and touching her shoulder with gentle hands. “Your father-in-law cannot share his grief with you, and that is his misfortune; he has more to contend with than Christmas melancholy. Denied grief is a ravening wolf, one that devours all other emotions. You and he could provide much comfort to each other, if he would permit it.”

  “Are you preparing me for my journey?” She lifted her head sharply. “Do you think he will decide to welcome me because my daughter is dead? that he will let me mourn Annamaria and Fridhold with him?” Their conversation was becoming too perturbing; she again changed its direction. “I could not help but wonder: have you ever resented your birthday, being so near Christmas?”

  His gentle laughter was filled with the full weight of his memories. “You forget that Christmas is a recent festival for me. No, I do not resent it; why should I? The Winter Solstice marked me as a pledge to our gods as tradition has marked the dark of the year for Jesus.”

  “Tradition?” She looked up at him.

  “It was almost four centuries after Jesus died that his followers settled on the dark of the year for his birth—most heros from such parts of the world as he came from are traditionally born then. I have the advantage that it is truly my time of birth. My gods would not have accepted me to become one of them if that were not the case.” He could see that Hero had gone waxen.

  “Why would such an important thing be … be altered?” She prepared to rise. “Isn’t it better to keep the time accurate?”

  “No, not when his birth becomes a metaphor.” He could read confusion in her expression. “And because the legend is important to those who are Christians, his early followers wanted to believe Jesus was as much or more of a hero than any predecessor, such as Mithras, who was also born of a pure mother at the Winter Solstice, according to legend. They made them both heros by their time of birth—the promise of light returning to the world.” He held out his hand to her and gathered her into his arms. “Do not fret, dear Hero. When I consider such things, I prefer to think of my birth as being part of Saturnalia, not Christmas, in any case. But I keep the Solstice festival of the people and the times of those around me.”

  Hero shook her head. “My father told me all about Saturnalia. I don’t think anyone should aspire to such excesses.”

  He pulled on one curl of bright-brown hair from under the prim lace of her widow’s cap. “Festivities change, over time,” he pointed out. “When I was still breathing, I marked these days by giving gifts to those who had served me well, not receiving gifts from them. In my heart I still hold that custom. Gifts presented to me were offered at Mid-Summer, when my father made a progress through his lands, and I went with him, at least until our enemies penetrated our mountains. We were given swords and jewels and food and wine at first, and then men to fight the men from Anatolia. I think I must have been seventeen the last time we made such a progress. It was a long time ago.” It had been almost four thousand years since he had made that journey.

  “It is difficult to imagine you seventeen,” Hero said. “Do you ever long for those days? The happy ones, not the battles.”

  “Not for many centuries,” he said.

  Again she read something in his look that disquieted her, so she asked, “Have you ever been to Palmyra?”

  “Yes; the pearl of the Syrian desert. Your father will find a challenge there.” He kissed her forehead. “It was a very important city, a long time ago. It was large and prosperous, with thick walls and handsome markets, particularly their camel-market and horse-market. For many decades they had a guild for guides, and a guild for fountain-makers. There were even gardens with rare plants and tame deer. The travelers’ inns were rarely empty for many decades.” The Year of Yellow Snow had taken a toll on Palmyra, as it had on so much of the world, and the rising conflicts among the Persians and Syrians had turned its trading fortunes to ashes. “Most of the city is empty and in ruins, and has been for a long time. But there are some small villages near it. Your father will be able to live in a house, not a tent.”

  “Madame de Montalia told me that you had been over almost all the world, and that you knew more than anyone—” She broke off and went on in another voice. “Well, I suppose you would, wouldn’t you?” />
  “My nature does not incline me to be a hermit in a cave,” he said, releasing her and taking a step back.

  She caught his hand to keep him near her. “I’m sorry. That was badly said. I didn’t mean anything like that.”

  “I did not suppose you did,” said Ragoczy, interlacing his fingers with hers. “This is proving to be a difficult day for you—more than yesterday.”

  “It’s just that … Christmas, you know. Now that the day itself is past, the melancholy is … hard to ignore. It is a reminder of … I’ve been thinking of my family, and I cannot help but feel very alone.” She cleared her throat, lowering her eyes in order not to meet his steady gaze. “Oh, not because of you. You have made the holiday as lovely as … I didn’t want to burden you with all this.”

  “I am not burdened,” he assured her. “It is small wonder that you should feel as you do.”

  She lifted her head. “Don’t think that I am not obliged to you for doing so much to make the holiday … Last year, things were still too hard for much of a celebration, so this year, the change is more apparent.”

  “I need no explanation,” said Ragoczy. “I have no requirements of you but that you do those things that please you.”

  “You will please me later, after dinner.” She smiled suddenly, her eyes shining, determined to salvage the celebratory spirit of the day.

  “That will be my pleasure,” he promised her, offering her the crook of his arm. “It is nearly time for your meal.”

  “Rogier will not join me?” she asked.

  “He has had his duck already,” said Ragoczy, and did not mention that the duck had been raw when Rogier had eaten it.

  “And I don’t suppose that a servant would eat with me in any case,” she added, a little disappointed.

  “Rogier is not always such a stickler: he and I have shared meals in many places over the years,” said Ragoczy, recalling the fowl and small animals he had hunted and taken blood from before turning the carcasses over to Rogier for the meat. “But here, he likes to preserve the niceties.”

  She slipped her hand into the bend of his elbow. “Then I will dine in a solitary state. So be it.”

  He led her toward the door, bowed her through it, and accompanied her to the dining room, where beneath a fully lit crystal-and-brass candelabra, Rogier had laid out a handsome place-setting of silver and porcelain on brass chargers, with linen napery and crystal glasses. “If you would?” He indicated the high-backed chair at the head of the table. “I am told you will begin with a new bread, hunter’s soup, and a Bordeaux. Rogier has opened the wine and decanted it, and there is a white to follow.” He indicated the crystal decanter on the side-board.

  “You do not drink it, nor does he, and I cannot consume more than four glasses through the meal, or perhaps I should say, it wouldn’t be wise for me to do so. Are you sure you want to open more than one bottle? What will you do with what’s left over?” On impulse she removed her widow’s cap and set it on the stool near her chair, revealing the neat, braided coronet of braids on the crown of her head.

  “Add it to the soup for the staff tomorrow, as we usually do with open wine; there is a white to come, and then the Bordeaux again; that is the best I can offer just now,” said Ragoczy easily. “We will do the same with the Champagne that Rogier has put on the kitchen porch to cool.”

  “Bordeaux, a white, and Champagne,” Hero marveled. “They must have been laid down at least ten years ago.”

  “At least,” Ragoczy agreed as he held the chair for her.

  “How very elegant,” she said, surveying the silver and linen arrayed on either side of the charger. She was about to speak again when there was a rap on the door connecting to the kitchen and an instant later Rogier came in bearing a platter with the first course set out upon it.

  “I hope you will find this to your satisfaction, Madame,” said Rogier as he placed the tureen in front of her, removing the arched lid with a flourish; he reached for her soup-plate and ladled in a generous amount; steam redolent of venison, boar, and mushrooms twined into the air.

  “Thank you, Rogier; I am sure I will,” said Hero, accepting the basket of bread still warm and fragrant from the oven.

  “The next course will be ready in ten to fifteen minutes,” Rogier informed her. “Not that I want to rush you.”

  “It hardly seems fair that I should be so lavishly served and you are left to tend the kitchen by yourself,” she said as he started for the door.

  Rogier paused in the doorway. “I enjoy cooking; it is something I do not often have to do, but I like to keep up my skills. This is a welcome opportunity for me.” With that, he was gone.

  “Your Bordeaux,” said Ragoczy as he brought the decanter to the table and poured out a third of a glass into a pear-shaped crystal glass.

  “The color is fine,” said Hero, as much because it was expected of her as it was a sign of her expertise.

  “So I understand,” said Ragoczy and pulled up a chair to her right, turned its back to the table and straddled it.

  She took the small loaf of bread and broke it in half, as good manners required, then pulled off a smaller section and dipped it into the soup for a moment. “The aroma is heavenly,” she said before taking a bite of the bread.

  “The soup is a bit more substantial than is usual for an opening course, and may be a bit overwhelming for the next course,” said Ragoczy, “but it is readily prepared and will keep for three days.”

  “A hearty soup in winter is most welcome. This is excellent.” She broke off more bread and again dipped it in the soup.

  “I am told that Rogier cooks very well, but you may wish to tell him yourself,” said Ragoczy, and watched her eat. When Rogier brought the trout with butter and hazelnuts, he opened a bottle of Lacryma Christi, pouring out the wine into a tulip-shaped, tallstemmed glass.

  “Thank you for this superb dinner. And for this delightful wine.” Hero tasted it and drank it more quickly than she had intended, feeling the magic of the wine percolate through her veins. “I haven’t had any of this in years. It was Fridhold’s favorite.”

  Ragoczy started to add some more to her glass. “Then remember him with it.”

  She put her hand over the top of the glass, indicating she had had sufficient. “I don’t want to overindulge. I would be ashamed of myself for doing so. On such a night as this, it would be an easy thing to cushion my sadness with wine.”

  “Then set the glass aside for now, and drink more when you like,” said Ragoczy.

  “I would, but I don’t want to waste anything so valuable as these bottles must be,” she said, confusion coming over her in a rush even as the tantalizing tastes and textures of the meal continued to work on her.

  “I took all the wines for this evening from my cellar, so there is no reason to worry about the price—it was paid well before Waterloo. Well before Marengo, in the case of the Bordeaux.”

  “Still,” she said, a bit vaguely.

  “As you wish,” he said, rising and placing the white wine bottle on the side-board. “If you change your mind …”

  “I doubt I will.”

  He bowed to her and returned to his seat, and spent the next two hours waiting on her in a remarkably casual yet elegant way as the night gathered in around them and the fire crackled. Finally, when Rogier had brought the Champagne, he selected a tall, narrow glass for the sparkling wine and said, “There is brandied cream in pastry, if you would like it?”

  She thought about her answer, then said, “Perhaps a little. I know it will not keep, and you cannot put it into tomorrow’s soup.”

  “Your point is taken,” said Ragoczy, and went to tug the bell-pull to summon Rogier. “A small serving, then.”

  “Yes, a small serving would be very welcome.” After all the wonderful food she had been provided, she felt wondrously replete, sleek with pleasure, and content. She looked at the single charger remaining in front of her, and the two small spoons left; all the other silverw
are had been removed through the five courses of the dinner. Both her wineglasses remained, the red with a little of the Bordeaux staining the bottom of the bowl, the white empty; both bottles of wine stood on the side-board, the red more than half-full, the white slightly less than half-full. “I can’t remember dining this well since Fridhold died. Nor having such wines, or three kinds of bread.”

  “Think of it as a thanksgiving for better harvests and the end of famine,” said Ragoczy, bringing her glass of Champagne to her.

  “Like the baskets of food you sent home with your servants?” she inquired as Rogier came into the dining room.

  “Something similar, yes,” said Ragoczy, and added to Rogier, “A small serving of the brandied cream, if you would.”

  “Of course,” said Rogier. “With vanilla sauce?”

  Hero smiled. “Yes, please, if you would.” She took the Champagne and lifted the glass in a toast. “Thank you for all you have done for me through the year, and through the hard winters past.” The day before there had been roast boar and hot spiced wine offered to those neighbors who came to the château. At the time Hero had thought that was a lavish gesture, but her meal this evening surpassed what she had had on Christmas in excellence and variety. Every part of her body was filled with satisfaction; a delicious lassitude was creeping over her, softening her demeanor.

  Rogier’s ascetic smile was as genuine as it was rare. “It is a pleasure, Madame von Scharffensee, to be able to serve you.” He gave a crisp little bow, then turned and left the room.

  “I can never thank you enough, Comte,” she said as soon as they were alone. She was trying to think of an appropriate compliment when he cut into her cogitation.

  “Then please do not make the attempt—I am not interested in gratitude,” he said, his mellifluous voice as kindly and warm as the heat from the hearth.

  She took a drink of the Champagne, aware that the wine—as well as the luxurious evening—was starting to go to her head; she put the glass down and said, “I will wait for the brandied cream.”

  Ragoczy held out his hand to her as he once again resumed his place on her right. “Do not fret, Hero.”