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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I’m not fretting …” She shook her head. “But I was about to: you’re right on that account.”

  He lifted her hand and kissed it. “You need not fear that you must pay for every joy with greater pain,” he said.

  “I … try not to think …” She hastily had another sip of Champagne. “I don’t know what I should say.”

  A knock on the kitchen door announced the arrival of the brandied cream with a small pitcher of vanilla sauce.

  By the time Hero had finished her dessert, she was all but purring; the meal had been superb, much better than what she had had the year before, when food was still in terribly short supply; to have more than enough to eat, and of exceptional quality, was a true delight. She rose from her place and watched as Ragoczy expertly removed a puddle of wax from beneath the candlestick on the sideboard. “Is it time to retire?”

  “I thought you might like to bathe with me first,” he said calmly. “I’ve ordered the bath-house heated; there are robes for us both; that is, if you care to join me.”

  She was mildly surprised. “Bathe? With you?—tonight?”

  “Why not?” he asked. “Only Rogier will know, and he will not gossip.”

  “I …” she said, and then reconsidered. “Why not? I think it would be a fitting end to this evening,” she said, and in a surge of boldness she could only attribute to the wine, held out her hand to him and lead the way toward the side-entrance that faced the bath-house.

  As they reached the side-door, Ragoczy took two old-fashioned winter cloaks down from pegs and offered one to her as he donned the other. “It is cold out, and snow is coming.”

  Hero pulled on the cloak and reached for the door-latch. “Rogier will let us back in, won’t he?”

  “I believe so,” said Ragoczy, sounding amused.

  “Then avanti,” she declared, flinging the door open and stepping out into the night; a thin, cold wind sliced at them as they made their way across the side courtyard toward the looming bulk of the bath-house that was marked by a faint halo of steam. She moved carefully along the icy path, not wanting to fall; holding his hand steadied her as her kid-shoes slithered on the slick paving stones.

  “I’ll open the door for you,” Ragoczy offered. “It is fairly heavy.”

  She laughed and let him move ahead of her, relinquishing his hand. Stopping still, she noticed the glow in the high windows of the bath-house. “There are lanterns lit. You planned this from the start.”

  “Of course,” he said, pulling the door open and holding it against the insinuations of the wind. “You know where the dressing room is.”

  “On the right,” she said as the door closed behind her. The vestibule was smaller than she thought it had been in the past, and that surprised her.

  “You may undress in private, or you may allow me to assist you,” he said as he removed her cloak and whisked it onto a coat-tree near the door.

  She hesitated, not wanting to be too daring on Christmas. “I would like that,” she said hesitantly.

  “Very good.” He removed his own cloak and drew her toward him, taking the time to kiss her thoroughly, to allow the kiss to develop all its complexity before moving back far enough for her to slip by him into one of the two dressing rooms.

  “How warm it is,” she said as she swung the shawl off her shoulders and folded it twice before setting it on the top of the small chest-of-drawers.

  “There are towels in the bottom drawer,” Ragoczy told her as he reached to unfasten the first of the seventeen buttons down the back of her dress.

  “I’ll remember,” she said, standing still so that he could undo the buttons.

  He kissed the nape of her neck as he finished his task. “I’ll help you out of it.”

  This time her hesitation was even more brief. “It’s best if I bend over and you pull it straight off from the shoulders,” she said. “I’ll get the buttons at my wrists.” She set herself to do it.

  “When you’re ready,” he said.

  She shook her hands. “Step back and let me bend over,” she said, keeping her back straight as she swung down from her hips.

  “You are ready?”

  “Go ahead,” she said, and straightened her arms to make removal easier. She felt a gentle tug, and then she was standing in her underclothes, a sprink of gooseflesh rising on her arms and shoulders.

  He hung her dress on a peg and said, as he kissed her exposed shoulder, “If you turn around, I will attend to your corset.”

  Stifling a giggle, she did as he asked, all the while reveling in the delightful insouciance of the night so far, and the promise of greater transports to come. As the laces down her back were loosened, it felt as if the whole of her melancholy had been whisked away. “You will be bathing with me?”

  “As soon as I undress,” he said as he slipped the corset over her head, leaving her wearing only silk stockings, shoes, and underdrawers.

  “Well, hurry. I am getting chilly.” She laughed, to show this was nothing more than a slight distraction.

  He removed his swallow-tail coat, and then his black-embroidered deep-red waistcoat. “I should warn you that I have scars.”

  “Who does not?” she asked, hugging herself as she sat down to remove her shoes and stockings.

  He was unbuttoning his shirt and loosening his sunburst cravat. “Mine are … somewhat severe.” He had taken care not to let her see him in full light, but now he could not avoid revealing his extensive abdominal scars.

  “So you’ve said,” she reminded him as she put her rolled stockings in her shoes and tucked them under the bench. “I’ve been in field hospitals. I’ve seen some terrible wounds.” Admitting this made her a bit queasy, which she attributed to the rich food and wine.

  He took off his shirt, hung it up, and unfastened his unmentionables, stepping out of them as he dropped them to his ankles, where they puddled around his thick-soled black boots. Then he opened the chest-of-drawers and pulled out two large Turkish towels and handed one to her. “Wrap this around you; you will be warmer.” He managed to keep his back to her.

  She took it and swung it over her shoulders. “It is very nice,” she said; the smell of damp fir was everywhere, and she sneezed once, as quietly as possible.

  “Why not go on into the bath?” he suggested, holding the inner door open for her. “You know the way and the lanterns are burning.”

  “Will you join me?”

  “In a moment,” he said, and took her in his arms for another complex kiss, one that evoked longing and need in her.

  “Do not be long,” she said a little breathlessly as she broke away from him. “I find I am growing hungry for other nourishment.” She touched his broad, deep chest before pulling the inner door open.

  Left alone, he removed his boots and stockings, then wrapped his towel around his waist, securing it with an expert tuck. Satisfied that the room was secure, he followed her into the bath itself, and found her standing in the large tub up to her hips in hot water, her towel spread on the broad lip of the bath. He came up to the three steps leading down into the tub, and dropped his towel, noticing that she looked away from him as she caught sight of the swath of scar that ran from the base of his ribs to his pubis. Dismissing his failed hopes, he stepped down into the water beside Hero.

  She wrapped her arms around him, letting the water buoy her up. “And to think I was near despairing,” she whispered before pressing her mouth to his. “You banish despair.”

  His hands slid up her back and down her flanks, slowly, persuasively, suiting his touch to her response, growing more passionate as she felt desire coalesce within her, turning sensuality to something more intensely physical, a convergence of sensations that shook her; she had never before felt such extraordinary pleasure, or to have it triggered in so many ways. From the curve of her neck to the muscles of her calves, her body tingled, adding new arousal as Ragoczy continued to draw out her fervor. Dizzy with far more than wine, and exultant with the delirious fre
edom her body was approaching, she lay back against the lip of the bath and opened all her flesh to him. Gradually he sought out the core of her excitation, penetrating her with knowing fingers until she sighed and murmured, “Not yet.”

  “As you wish,” he said, and slowed his ministrations so that she could relish every nuance of tantalization that would bring her to ecstasy.

  “I want to feel all you can do,” she said softly. “I want to find how much you can inspire in me.” She lifted one leg and wrapped it around his thigh, then she steadied herself and leaned back so that he could caress her breasts. “This is …” She could not think of a word that would describe the ardor, the sensitivity, the stimulation that permeated her body and soul. “Everything.” With that, she pulled him down into the water, so only their heads were above the surface; the warm water enveloped her, augmenting his embrace, and she succumbed to the culmination that had been building deep in her body; in a quiet part of her exultant mind, she was relieved that his scars had not blighted her fulfillment.

  Text of an invitation from Wallache Gerhard Winifrith Sieffert von Ravensberg at Ravensberg in Austria, to Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus at Château Ragoczy near Lake Geneva, Yvoire, Switzerland; carried by hired messenger and delivered twenty-three days after it was written.

  On this, the 29thof December, 1817, Wallache Gerhard Winifrith Sieffert, Graf von Ravensberg requests the honor of the company of Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus, on the 29thof March, 1818, and five days thereafter, at Ravensberg, to celebrate the betrothal of his ward and niece Hyacinthie Theresa Katerina Sieffert to Constanz Charles Medoc, scholar of Trier.

  The Graf extends the hospitality of Ravensberg to the Comte and his guest, two body servants, and two coachman for the length of his stay. Line stalls for up to ten horses is available for your use. The Graf requests the courtesy of a response.

  9

  Augustus Kleinerhoff looked truly abashed. He stood in the entry-hall of Château Ragoczy, his heavy cloak flung open, his thick boots shedding ice shards on the carpet, his face so hang-dog that his greeting was more ominous than mannerly. “God grant I see you well; the brewer’s son has a fever, and we fear it may be typhus: there was so much of it about a year-and-a-half ago, we cannot but worry for him. I am here to speak with the Comte,” he said to Balduin.

  “Would you like him to treat the boy?” Balduin asked.

  “No. At least not now. Perhaps, if he does not improve—” He spoke a little louder. “An escort from Yvoire will be joining me shortly, with an order from the Magistrate, and the Magistrate himself.” He coughed, showing equal amounts of embarrassment and officiousness.

  Balduin considered his response, affecting a lack of apprehension. “The Comte is busy at present. If I may ask you to wait in the reception room, I will send a footman up to inform him you are here.”

  “Tell him it’s urgent,” Kleinerhoff insisted as he shed his cloak and handed it to Balduin. “I have been sent ahead to inform him of a summons from the Magistrate of Yvoire. He is taking advantage of the good weather to begin his inquiries into the robbers who have caused so much trouble in the region, and he has decided to begin here, where it is believed the criminals have protection from—that is yet to be determined.” He cleared his throat. “There have been rumors that he says he could not ignore, for the events of the last year would seem to link the robbers to some form of help in this region.” He could not conceal his pride at this honor of announcing the arrival of the Magistrate even as he felt ashamed to do anything against Ragoczy’s excellent reputation; this would be likely to compromise the Comte’s good opinion no matter what the results.

  “The good weather should last another day or two,” said Balduin, shutting out the brilliant January sunshine as he shut the door.

  “Yes. This winter has been much kinder than the previous two, at least so far.” This attempt at banter failed. “The road is fairly passable just now.”

  “I see,” said Balduin, indicating the way to the reception room. “I’ll have some hot spiced wine brought to you, and a bite to eat, as well.”

  Kleinerhoff was more confused by this kind offer, but he strove to maintain a proper demeanor. “Danke. Ja, danke. It is most kind of you.” He swung around toward the corridor, nervousness making him clumsy; he nearly knocked over a cloak-tree, which he snagged and steadied. “Magistrate Lindenblatt will be here within the hour. You must have preparations to make.”

  “Very good. I will have the Comte so informed,” said Balduin, watching while Kleinerhoff let himself into the reception room; satisfied that Sacre-Sang’s head-man was properly bestowed, he went off to the kitchen, where he found Rogier with Uchtred, making the last efforts to quarter a lamb. He hung the cloak on a drying rod near the open hearth, and said, “Kleinerhoff is here. He needs to see the Count.”

  Uchtred paused in his cutting free the shanks. “Does he intend to stay to eat?” then added to the young man building up the fire beneath the spit, “Soak this in red wine.”

  “No, but he should be given hot wine and something—bread and cheese, or sausage. He has come from Yvoire and he must be cold and tired.” Balduin paused thoughtfully. “The Magistrate from Yvoire is apparently going to be arriving within the hour. If you could prepare a collation for him and his guard? I’d guess there will be four or five of them in all. I’ll build up the fire in the parlor. Where are the footmen?”

  Rogier set aside his knife and rinsed his hands, wiping them dry on a length of soft cotton. “One isn’t needed: I’ll go tell the Comte of all this. Do you know what his purpose is for coming?”

  “He’s making an inquiry about the robbers, starting with this household,” said Balduin. “According to Kleinerhoff.”

  Rogier took this in with no visible signs of dismay. “Just so. I’ll attend to the Comte at once.”

  “Very good,” said Balduin. “By the way, where are the others?”

  Uchtred glanced about nervously. “I sent them out to gather eggs and mushrooms, and to bring in a couple of rabbits from the hutch in the barn. Everyone wanted a chance to go outside; we’ve all been cooped up for well over a week, and this is the first decent day since the sky cleared. Steffel is cleaning out the ashes in the bake-house oven. Hochvall is supervising the farrier in the stable and organizing a mucking and rebedding for the stalls; Clement has put the grooms to cleaning harness and tack. Fraulein Wendela and Frau Anezka are in the side-yard, airing the blankets. Peder is repairing the leak in the stable’s cistern. The weather won’t hold, and I thought—along with the rest of the staff—that we should make the most of it.”

  Balduin, who had been preparing the annual household inventory, said, “It is wise to make the most of these opportunities—they are so few.”

  “No doubt,” said Rogier as he took off the butcher’s apron he was wearing and reached for his coat. “If you will take refreshments to Herr Kleinerhoff?”

  “I will,” said Balduin, and went to take down a silver tray, and a smaller painted ironstone one. “The silver for Magistrate Lindenblatt. I’ll set with porcelain and silver for him, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Uchtred, and began to put the sectioned lamb into a large metal container. “I will attend to this directly. I have brandied fruit that I can serve with honey-rolls, along with monk’s-head cheese; I’ll serve that to the head-man as well, with pickled onions. I’ll work out a center-dish for the Magistrate shortly.” This last was more thinking aloud than announced purpose.

  Rogier went up the backstairs and hastened to Ragoczy’s laboratory. He stopped outside the main door to the laboratory and waited to compose himself, then he knocked. “My master?”

  “Come in, Rogier,” said Ragoczy, pulling himself away from the mounted magnifying glass and the notes he was making in the opened journal beside it.

  “Kleinerhoff has come. It seems that you are to expect a visit from Magistrate Lindenblatt.”

  “Magistrate Lindenblatt? Why shou
ld the Magistrate of Yvoire be coming here?” Ragoczy held up his hand. “I know what it must be; someone has accused me of supporting the robber-bands in the mountains around Sacre-Sang.”

  “Are you certain?” Rogier asked.

  “At this time of year, what else could it be? There have been hints and speculation about the robbers’ connection to me for months. My taxes are current, my land is maintained, and my staff has been paid, so there can be no complaint on those accounts. Therefore I assume he is beginning an inquiry with a foreigner of position so that other landholders will assist him more readily.”

  “Kleinerhoff said it is an inquiry about the robbers, according to Balduin. There are no particulars that I am aware of.”

  “Just the rumors that have filled the region, and the disinclination of officials to impose upon one of their own.” Ragoczy shook his head. “How petulant that sounds. I apologize, old friend.”

  “You have good reason to be wary of officials, although Magistrate Lindenblatt isn’t Telemachus Batsho.”

  “All forgotten gods be thanked,” said Ragoczy. “Nor is he Filipo Quandt.”

  “Who was Swiss, like the Magistrate: more to thank your forgotten gods for.” Rogier paused.

  “We must hope that Lindenblatt is not of Quandt’s inclinations,” said Ragoczy. “It would be very useful to have Gutesohnes return before the next storm. He will be needed shortly. As capable as Rand may learn to be, he is not ready to carry messages any distance, especially not in storms.” The fifteen-year-old had been hired the previous November to carry messages to Yvoire and to posting inns less than half a day’s ride from Sacre-Sang.

  “Truly; he is too young, as well.” Rogier agreed, then asked, “Speaking of those absent, Madame von Scharffensee is—?”

  “Out,” said Ragoczy. “She’s gone to the horse-pasture to sketch. She said she would be back by four.”

  “When the light fades,” said Rogier. “Is anyone with her?”