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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “No!” She looked around wildly. “Go away! All of you!”

  Gutesohnes spoke for all of them. “I can’t do that, Hyacinthie. I have to carry Herr Medoc back to the Schloss.”

  She screamed and kicked at Medoc’s corpse, then made her way up the stairs again, only to find Ragoczy, his clothes marred by moss and splinters, in the act of freeing Hero from the gear-housing. “You!” She hesitated, baffled by his presence: none of this was what she had planned. “How did you get here?”

  “I climbed the outside of the mill,” he said calmly as he continued to work on Hero’s bonds. It had been a hard climb and his shoulder was sore from the effort.

  “How could you? It’s steep.” Hyacinthie regarded him suspiciously.

  “It was not an easy task,” he said, and bent to free her ankles, saying to Hero, “Do not try to stand. I’ll hold you.”

  “You won’t,” said Hyacinthie, her fury returning. “You can’t.”

  “But I can,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “If I do not help her, and soon, she will die from her wounds.”

  “Yes! She will!” Hyacinthie said with renewed purpose. “She should die.” She ran at Ragoczy, knocking him away from Hero and stabbed his arm near his half-healed wound. He gasped and she was on him, gouging at his face. “You can die with her!”

  Ragoczy fought off the cold ache that was spreading through his arm and shoulder; he seized her wrist in a powerful grip, then pushed her off him and wrapped his arms around her, confining her in an unbreakable grasp. “Gutesohnes!” he shouted. “Come up! Now! Bring the rope.” Blood from her face and clothes added to the ruin of his shirt and coat.

  Hyacinthie struggled and twisted in Ragoczy’s effective restraint. She kicked and poked at his leg with her knife, cursing him comprehensively in terms that would have astonished her uncle to hear.

  “I will not let go, no matter what you call me or where you cut me,” he said levelly. “You have done damage enough, Fraulein: you will do no more.”

  “Goat-fucking scum,” she yowled, trying again to break his hold, to no avail. “I wounded you, you toad-turd!”

  “Yes. You did wound me,” he said with almost no emotion; she continued to squirm, and he said, “You will not get away, you know.”

  Gutesohnes swore as he did his best not to step on Medoc’s body. “There’s a lot of blood,” he warned as he emerged in the upper room; he was pale and distressed by what he saw. “Mein Gott,” he exclaimed as he caught sight of Ragoczy and Hyacinthie, and Hero, sagging against the gear-housing.

  “Fraulein Hyacinthie needs to be subdued before—”

  “You shall not touch me, you son of a syphilitic Turk,” she spat at Gutesohnes.

  “—we can carry her back to the Schloss.” He increased the tightness of his clench as she poked her knife into his hip.

  “Don’t! Do not! DO NOT!” She flung her head back and wailed in fury.

  “I am afraid I must, Fraulein,” said Gutesohnes, appalled.

  “I will kill you!” Hyacinthie crowed.

  “You had best get the knife from her,” Ragoczy recommended. “She will use it if she can.”

  As if to prove this, Hyacinthie thrust her knife into his thigh. “Bleed! Why don’t you bleed?”

  Gutesohnes approached hesitantly; he did not know how to confine Hyacinthie without offending her sensibilities, and although he knew it was a foolish reluctance, he found it difficult to overcome a life-time of habit. In the hope of calming her, he spoke to her as he would a startled horse, on one note, unhurrriedly. “I am going to take your knife, Fraulein Hyacinthie. Don’t do anything reckless, will you.”

  For an answer she screamed and tried to lunge at him; Ragoczy held her fast.

  “Comte, I don’t know what—”

  “Start with the knife, and then get your rope around her feet and work your way up,” Ragoczy said.

  “All right,” Gutesohnes said in a tone that was far from convinced this would work. He took a step closer and saw the knife-blade flicker as she tried to keep him at bay.

  “Carefully,” Ragoczy warned him. “She will not hesitate to hurt you.”

  Hyacinthie growled something nasty and stabbed Ragoczy again.

  Hero, who had been observing all this as if from a distance, now gathered up as much determination as she could, and in spite of the muzziness obscuring her thoughts, she fell forward, grabbing for the knife. She felt a cut open in the web between her thumb and finger, but she held on grimly and finally jerked the knife out of Hyacinthie’s hand before crumpling onto the floor.

  Gutesohnes moved in quickly and worked rapidly to tie Hyacinthie securely, in spite of her taunts and spitting. Panting with his last effort, he regarded her, aghast. “What has happened to her?”

  Ragoczy shook his head. “I do not know. But whatever it is, it is deep and long-coming.” He thought back to others he had known whose sudden lapses into madness had terrified and bewildered all who saw them.

  “Can anything be done?” Gutesohnes asked while Ragoczy knelt beside Hero. “For Fraulein Hyacinthie?”

  “For now, we can return her to the Schloss.” He touched Hero’s neck gently, reassuring himself that her pulse still beat there. “Will you bring up the sack of medicaments from below? I must clean and bind these wounds before I can move Madame.” He did not add that her blood loss had already put her in danger.

  “What of Fraulein Hyacinthie?” Gutesohnes asked, eyeing her wrestling with her bonds.

  “I rely upon you and Wegbruden to carry her. I doubt she will walk on her own accord.” Ragoczy motioned to Gutesohnes to move quickly.

  Hyacinthie yelled obscenities.

  “I’ll be back in a minute or two. Then we’ll get Medoc off the—” With that, he picked his way down the stairs, again taking care not to touch the body, and to step around the treads made sick and sticky with blood.

  “Vile! You’re all vile!” Hyacinthie’s wriggling over-balanced her and she fell to the floor, cursing more emphatically. “You have shit in your veins, or you would bleed,” she said, glaring at Ragoczy. “You are unnatural.”

  “Some would say so.” Ragoczy glanced toward her to be sure her bonds were firm, then spoke to Hero. “As soon as Gutesohnes returns, I am going to bandage your arm and your face. We must staunch your bleeding first, so I’ll put rolled lint to help stopper the wound, and I’ll give you some of the sovereign remedy I have so that you will not have to endure the fever of infection for very long. I’ll use a salve to treat your wounds, one that will lessen the hurt and encourage proper healing.”

  Hyacinthie laughed furiously. “He’ll do all that for you, and more, but you will still be scarred.” Her laughter rose, then stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

  Hero opened her eye and focused on his face. “Will I?” she asked. “Be scarred?”

  Much as he wanted to tell her something else, Ragoczy could not lie, although he softened the blow as much as he could. “Very likely.”

  “Oh.” It was the answer she dreaded, and she turned her face aside so she would not have to endure the compassion she saw in his unwavering gaze.

  Text of a letter from Oskar Cavelle of Halle, to the Egmond Talbot Lindenblatt, Magistrate, Yvoire, Swiss France; carried by private messenger on foot and delivered two days after it was written.

  The greetings of Oskar Cavelle of Halle to the Magistrate Lindenblatt of Yvoire, on this, the 6thday of April, 1818.

  On my oath and as God may see the truth of what I say, pledged before the priest of Saint-Piere-le-Moine, who is also serving as scribe, that these are the things I have witnessed:

  Eight days since I ventured up to the shepherds’ station above Boege, in order to prepare and stock it for the summer when the shepherds remain out with their flocks; as the head of the wool-workers in Halle, it is my duty to attend to the shepherds’ stations throughout our area, and to resupply these stations as such is required. The station of which I speak now is among the largest
of the five we have: there is a spring there, so water is plentiful, and the shepherds’ station has been maintained there for many, many generations. When I reached the station, I saw at once that it had been occupied most of the winter. There were no foodstuffs left in the station-hut, the pens had horse-dung in them, and the bedding had been removed from the sleeping-racks inside the station-hut. I also discovered a leather bag of gun-powder, which I am sending with this account to make my account more credible.

  In examining the rest of the shepherds’ station, I came upon parings from horses’ hooves in the largest pen. I would have thought the wolves would have eaten them all, as they do, but there were some that were untouched, and three horse-shoe nails as well. There were signs of horses’ chewing on the wooden fence enclosing the pen. There was also a small amount of rotted hay in the manger that clearly had not been there all winter. These various factors have led me to believe that there were outlaws in the station through part of the winter, which worries me, for they may return here again, this time not only to take supplies, but to steal sheep, or to hold the shepherds for ransom. It also means that they are likely still in the area and may be planning to strike out at our farmholds and markets as the summer comes on. That is the most disturbing possibility of all, for then everyone in the region will suffer, not just the shepherds and those of us who work with wool.

  Among the items I have found around the shepherds’ station, and they were few, was a beer-stein bearing the mark of the tavern in Sacre-Sang, which I am convinced indicates that these men are likely the men who stole from their stores. It may be coincidence, or it may have been left there by one of the shepherds, not the outlaws, but it could be a significant discovery, and so I bring it to your attention.

  Perhaps if the Magistrates’ Guards could be sent to scour the high valleys the criminals might be discovered and detained before they can work any more mischief, or perhaps the men of the region may be granted the right to detain any suspicious men to bring to the attention of the Magistrates’ Court. Whatever you decide, I am prepared to do my part in bringing an end to the robbers’ reign of lawlessness.

  If you wish to learn more from me, send me word and allow me four days to reach Yvoire; I cannot leave my work without arranging for someone to serve in my place while I am gone. With that single reservation, I am

  Yours to command

  Oskar Cavelle

  (his mark)

  woolworker of Halle

  Swiss France

  6

  “I hope,” said Ragoczy, doing his best to present an unperturbed demeanor, “that Madame von Scharffensee will be well enough to travel in two or three days; her fever is much diminished and her appetite is returning. If she continues to improve, we will be gone shortly. I regret, Graf, that we have had to trespass on your hospitality in this way.” He spoke with sincerity; he did not like being at Ravensberg and wanted to be gone from the Schloss at the first opportunity: he knew Hero shared his aversion to the place.

  “You have reason to want to be gone,” said von Ravensberg in punctiliously.

  “As you must want us gone.” Ragoczy had been busy in the library for most of the morning, and was a bit surprised to see von Ravensberg here. It was four days since the confrontation in the old mill and only the second time Ragoczy had encountered von Ravensberg since Medoc’s funeral, two days before. During those intervening days, the Schloss had been filled with a growing tension that was made more oppressive by the occasional screams issuing from the room to which Hyacinthie had been confined; they echoed eerily through the Schloss as if she were already a ghost haunting it.

  “I realize it is a great inconvenience for us both, for you to be kept here while your companion recovers from her wounds, at least to the point that her healing begins and it is safe for her to travel.” He coughed once and fingered the revers of his Turkish dressing-gown. “You must feel it keenly, for there is certain to be pressing business awaiting your return to Yvoire.”

  “You must feel this keenly, as well, and will be glad to have us gone. Your prospects for coming months cannot be happy ones for you,” said Ragoczy, puzzled by von Ravensberg’s behavior; with the hurried departure of all the guests but Ragoczy and Hero, the Graf had cut himself off from most of the household, emerging from his laboratory for meals and little else; his appearance in the library was unanticipated, leaving Ragoczy to wonder what von Ravensberg hoped to accomplish.

  Outside the window a light morning shower was giving way to gloriously blue skies and a day as clean-swept as the floor of the Great Hall. Snow remained on the high slopes, but the freshets and streams were active and full, evidence that most of it would be gone in a month. The scent of cherry and apple blossoms filled the air, carried through the open windows on a flirting breeze.

  “What cannot be changed must be endured,” said von Ravensberg. “Things have been thrust upon me that I must—” He stopped. “Not that I would wish you to leave while your companion is making her first recovery from—but your presence creates an awkwardness.” His tone implied that he wanted to be rid of that awkwardness.

  “I apologize for any discommodation our presence may cause you; I wish we were able to leave at once: believe this. Nothing would be more welcome to me than to relieve you of some of the burdens we have inadvertently imposed. In a day or two we will at least remove to Ravenstein, to the posting inn. Of course I will provide the wages for your staff whose service you have lost in our maintenance, and money for the hay and oats my horses consume,” Ragoczy said, putting the book he had been reading aside.

  Von Ravensberg’s face was expressionless. “All things considered, giving you the shelter of my roof is the least I could do, being that my niece is the cause for your remaining at Ravensberg. No recompense is necessary. It would be crass of me to accept your generosity.” He went to an easy chair near the fireplace, stood beside it but did not sit down. “I wanted to inform you that I have received notification that the Magistrate will be here this afternoon, with his clerk, to make an official determination in regard to how Constanz Medoc died. Before any judgment can be rendered, the Magistrate will decide if there can or should be a trial. I wonder if you would like to address him directly, given the severity of the attack you sustained? Or would you prefer to say nothing about it, for Madame von Scharffensee’s sake.”

  Ragoczy did not answer at once, and when he did, it was with conviction. “I think it may be prudent to give my report. The event was a confusing one; Magistrate Schmidt will have many accounts to compare. The more information he has, the more apt he is to arrive at the truth.”

  “Certainly; if that is what you want,” said von Ravensberg as if this were a final disgrace; he refused to look at Ragoczy. “You are completely within your rights to do so, and any embarrassment you sustain is not likely to follow you as far as Swiss France. The Magistrate will be grateful for your testimony.” He sighed, still unwilling to look directly at Ragoczy. “An exile, like yourself, does not have to uphold the same decorum that those of us established in a place have to preserve.”

  Ragoczy did not respond to von Ravensberg’s deprecation. “You have much to stomach at present.” He regarded the Graf in studious sympathy. “Your patience is wearing thin: hardly surprising, with so much unresolved.”

  “I have my burdens; you have yours. I am cognizant of your scruples, and I can hardly blame you for—You endured much at my … niece’s hands, you and Madame von Scharffensee. I cannot tell you how chagrined I am by how she has behaved.” He waved one hand in dismissal. “Enough of this most calamitous reflection. What’s done cannot be undone. I will do as much as I can to guard our name; I gave Medoc a fine burial, so we cannot be said to have slighted him, and I have arranged to pay my ward’s dowry to Medoc’s brother, as a tribute to his memory.” He assumed an unctuous air, and went on as if this were the sole purpose of their conversation. “You may like to come to my laboratory; I am subjecting the latest sample of blood I have to an electr
ical current. Surely this must interest you.”

  “Ordinarily it probably would, but just now, I think not,” said Ragoczy, more for good manners than genuine emotion.

  “As you wish. If you change your mind, I will be pleased to demonstrate my process to you. I am sure you will find it fascinating.” He inclined his head and turned to leave the room.

  Ragoczy’s question stopped him. “Have you thought of what will become of her? Of Fraulein Hyacinthie?”

  Von Ravensberg shot an infuriated glance at him, but gave no other outward sign of displeasure. “I assume they’ll execute her. The privilege of my rank does not extend to her, and she must answer for her deeds without me to shield her. The law cannot be seen to condone murder. She has killed her fiancé and attempted to kill Madame von Scharffensee and you.”

  “She is not sane,” said Ragoczy in the manner of someone commenting on the weather. “The court will make allowances for that.”

  “Why should the court do so?” Von Ravensberg was on guard now, for all that he tried to seem confident.

  “If not her state of mind, her age should have some effect on the degree of responsibility she is assigned.” He thought back to Rome, where sentences were often reduced for those under the age of twenty-one. “There is legal precedence for such judgment.”

  “The mercy of a quick death and then a memory soon forgotten would be the most she should hope for, not a lingering hell in an asylum, or a life of confinement in a prison, the object of the most vile attention and humiliation.” Von Ravensberg came a few steps back into the room. “You have no wish to see her free, do you?”

  “No, but I doubt her death will negate her deeds,” Ragoczy said.

  “It will answer Medoc’s family,” said von Ravensberg, “and help to restore the honor of this House.”

  A distant shriek shuddered through the marble halls of the Schloss.

  “Do you think so.” Ragoczy said, making no mention of the cry they had both heard and wondering if von Ravensberg would mention it. “Why is that?”