Legends II

by Robert Silverberg

  “You know about that bridge?”

  “No, is there something odd about it?”

  “Only a story.” Von Namtzen shrugged, with a tolerant scorn for the superstition of others. “They say that there is a guardian; a spirit of some kind that defends the bridge.”

  “Indeed,” Grey said, with an uneasy memory of the stories told by the gun-crew stationed near the bridge. Were any of them local men, he wondered, who would know the story?

  “Mein Gott,”Stephan said, shaking his massive head as though assailed by gnats. “These stories! How can sane men believe such things?”

  “I collect you do not mean that particular story?” Grey said. “The succubus, perhaps?”

  “Don’t speak to me of that thing,” von Namtzen said gloomily. “My men look like scarecrows and jump at a bird’s shadow. Every one of them is scared to lay his head upon a pillow, for fear that he will turn and look into the night-hag’s face.”

  “Your chaps aren’t the only ones.” Sir Peter had come to pour himself another drink. He lifted the glass and took a deep swallow, shuddering slightly. Billman, behind him, nodded in glum confirmation.

  “Bloody sleepwalkers, the lot.”

  “Ah,” said Grey thoughtfully. “If I might make a suggestion . . . not my own, you understand. A notion mentioned by Ruysdale’s surgeon . . .”

  He explained Mr. Keegan’s remedy, keeping his voice discreetly low. His listeners were less discreet in their response.

  “What, Ruysdale’s chaps are all boxing the Jesuit and begetting cockroaches?” Grey thought Sir Peter would expire from suffocated laughter. Just as well Lieutenant Dundas wasn’t present, he thought.

  “Perhaps not all of them,” he said. “Evidently enough, though, to be of concern. I take it you have not experienced a similar phenomenon among your troops . . . yet?”

  Billman caught the delicate pause and whooped loudly.

  “Boxing the Jesuit?” Stephan nudged Grey with an elbow, and raised thick blond brows in puzzlement. “Cockroaches? What does this mean, please?”

  “Ahhh . . .” Having no notion of the German equivalent of this expression, Grey resorted to a briefly graphic gesture with one hand, looking over his shoulder to be sure that none of the women was watching.

  “Oh!” Von Namtzen looked mildly startled, but then grinned widely. “I see, yes, very good!” He nudged Grey again, more familiarly, and dropped his voice a little. “Perhaps wise to take some such precaution personally, do you think?”

  The women and the German officers, heretofore intent on a card game, were looking toward the Englishmen in puzzlement. One man called a question to von Namtzen, and Grey was fortunately saved from reply.

  Something occurred to him, though, and he grasped von Namtzen by the arm, as the latter was about to go and join the others at a hand of bravo.

  “A moment, Stephan. I had meant to ask—that man of yours who died—Koenig? Did you see the body yourself?”

  Von Namtzen was still smiling, but at this, his expression grew more somber, and he shook his head.

  “No, I did not see him. They said, though, that his throat was most terribly torn—as though a wild animal had been at him. And yet he was not outside; he was found in his quarters.” He shook his head again, and left to join the card game.

  Grey finished his meal amid cordial conversation with Sir Peter and Billman, though keeping an inconspicuous eye upon the progress of the card game.

  Stephan was in dress uniform tonight. A smaller man would have been overwhelmed by it; German taste in military decoration was grossly excessive, to an English eye. With his big frame and leonine blond head though, the Landgrave von Erdberg was merely . . . eye catching.

  He appeared to have caught the eye not only of the Princess Louisa, but also of three young women, friends of the Princess. These surrounded him like a moony triplet, caught in his orbit. Now he reached into the breast of his coat and withdrew some small object, causing them to cluster around to look at it.

  Grey turned to answer some question of Billman’s, but then turned back, trying not to look too obviously.

  He had been trying to suppress the feeling Stephan roused in him, but in the end, such things were never controllable—they rose up. Sometimes like the bursting of a mortar shell, sometimes like the inexorable green spike of a crocus pushing through snow and ice—but they rose up.

  Was he in love with Stephan? There was no question of that. He liked and respected the Hanoverian, but there was no madness in it, no yearning. Did hewant Stephan? A soft warmth in his loins, as though his blood had begun somehow to simmer over a low flame, suggested that he did.

  The ancient bear’s skull still sat in its place of honor, below the old Prince’s portrait. He moved slowly to examine it, keeping half an eye on Stephan.

  “Surely you have not eaten enough, John!” A delicate hand on his elbow turned him, and he looked down into the Princess’s face, smiling up at him with pretty coquetry. “A strong man, out all day—let me call the servants to bring you something special.”

  “I assure you, Your Highness . . .” But she would have none of it, and, tapping him playfully with her fan, she scudded away like a gilded cloud, to have some special dessert prepared for him.

  Feeling obscurely like a fatted calf being readied for the slaughter, Grey sought refuge in male company, coming to rest beside von Namtzen, who was folding up whatever he had been showing to the women, who had all gone to peer over the card players’ shoulders and make bets.

  “What is that?” Grey asked, nodding at the object.

  “Oh—” Von Namtzen looked a little disconcerted at the question, but with only a moment’s hesitation, handed it to Grey. It was a small leather case, hinged, with a gold closure. “My children.”

  It was a miniature, done by an excellent hand. The heads of two children, close together, one boy, one girl, both blond. The boy, clearly a little older, was perhaps three or four.

  Grey felt momentarily as though he had received an actual blow to the pit of the stomach; his mouth opened, but he was incapable of speech. Or at least he thought he was. To his surprise, he heard his own voice, sounding calm, politely admiring.

  “They are very handsome indeed. I am sure they are a consolation to your wife, in your absence.”

  Von Namtzen grimaced slightly, and gave a brief shrug.

  “Their mother is dead. She died in childbirth when Elise was born.” A huge forefinger touched the tiny face, very gently. “My mother looks after them.”

  Grey made the proper sounds of condolence, but had ceased to hear himself, for the confusion of thought and speculation that filled his mind.

  So much so, in fact, that when the Princess’s special dessert—an enormous concoction of preserved raspberries, brandy, sponge cake, and cream—arrived, he ate it all, despite the fact that raspberries made him itch.

  He continued to think, long after the ladies had left. He joined the card game, bet extensively, and played wildly—winning, with Luck’s usual perversity, though he paid no attention to his cards.

  Had he been entirely wrong? It was possible. All of Stephan’s gestures toward him had been within the bounds of normalcy—and yet . . .

  And yet it was by no means unknown for men such as himself to marry and have children. Certainly men such as von Namtzen, with a title and estates to bequeath, would wish to have heirs. That thought steadied him, and though he scratched occasionally at chest or neck, he paid more attention to his game—and finally began to lose.

  The card game broke up an hour later. Grey loitered a bit, in the hopes that Stephan might seek him out, but the Hanoverian was detained in argument with Kaptain Steffens, and at last Grey went upstairs, still scratching.

  The halls were well lit tonight, and he found his own corridor without difficulty. He hoped Tom was still awake; perhaps the young valet could fetch him something for the itching. Some ointment, perhaps, or—he heard the rustle of fabric behind him, and turned to
find the Princess approaching him.

  She was once again in nightdress—but not the homely woolen garment she had worn the night before. This time, she wore a flowing thing of diaphanous lawn, which clung to her bosom and rather clearly revealed her nipples through the thin fabric. He thought she must be very cold, despite the lavishly embroidered robe thrown over the nightgown.

  She had no cap, and her hair had been brushed out, but not yet plaited for the night: it flowed becomingly in golden waves below her shoulders. Grey began to feel somewhat cold, too, in spite of the brandy.

  “My Lord,” she said. “John,” she added, and smiled. “I have something for you.” She was holding something in one hand, he saw; a small box of some sort.

  “Your Highness,” he said, repressing the urge to take a step backward. She was wearing a very strong scent, redolent of tuberoses—a scent he particularly disliked.

  “My name is Louisa,” she said, taking another step toward him. “Will you not call me by my name? Here, in private?”

  “Of course. If you wish it—Louisa.” Good God, what had brought this on? He had sufficient experience to see what she was about—he was a handsome man, of good family, and with money; it had happened often enough—but not with royalty, who tended to be accustomed to taking what they wanted.

  He took her outstretched hand, ostensibly for the purpose of kissing it; in reality, to keep her at a safe distance. What did she want? And why?

  “This is—to thank you,” she said as he raised his head from her beringed knuckles. She thrust the box into his other hand. “And to protect you.”

  “I assure you, madam, no thanks are necessary. I did nothing.” Christ, was that it? Did she think she must bed him, in token of thanks—or rather, had she convinced herself that she must, because she wanted to? She did want to; he could see her excitement, in the slightly widened blue eyes, the flushed cheeks, the rapid pulse in her throat. He squeezed her fingers gently and released them, then tried to hand back the box.

  “Really, madam—Louisa—I cannot accept this; surely it is a treasure of your family.” It certainly looked valuable; small as it was, it was remarkably heavy—made either of gilded lead or of solid gold—and sported a number of crudely cut cabochon stones, which he feared were precious.

  “Oh, it is,” she assured him. “It has been in my husband’s family for hundreds of years.”

  “Oh, well, then certainly—”

  “No, you must keep it,” she said vehemently. “It will protect you from the creature.”

  “Creature. You mean the—”

  “Der Nachtmahr,”she said, lowering her voice and looking involuntarily over one shoulder, as though fearing that some vile thing hovered in the air nearby.

  Nachtmahr.“Nightmare,” it meant. Despite himself, a brief shiver tightened Grey’s shoulders. The halls were better lighted, but still harbored drafts that made the candles flicker and the shadows flow like moving water down the walls.

  He glanced down at the box. There were letters etched into the lid, in Latin, but of so ancient a sort that it would take close examination to work out what they said.

  “It is a reliquary,” she said, moving closer, as though to point out the inscription. “Of Saint Orgevald.”

  “Ah? Er . . . yes. Most interesting.” He thought this mildly gruesome. Of all the objectionable Popish practices, this habit of chopping up saints and scattering their remnants to the far ends of the earth was possibly the most reprehensible. But why should the Princess have such an item? The von Lowensteins were Lutheran. Of course, itwas very old—no doubt she regarded it as no more than a family talisman.

  She was very close, her perfume cloying in his nostrils. How was he to get rid of the woman? The door to his room was only a foot or two away; he had a strong urge to open it, leap in, and slam it shut, but that wouldn’t do.

  “You will protect me, protect my son,” she murmured, looking trustfully up at him from beneath golden lashes. “So I will protect you, dear John.”

  She flung her arms about his neck, and once more glued her lips to his in a passionate kiss. Sheer courtesy required him to return the embrace, though his mind was racing, looking feverishly for some escape. Where the devil were the servants? Why did no one interrupt them?

  Then someone did interrupt them. There was a gruff cough near at hand, and Grey broke the embrace with relief—a short-lived emotion, as he looked up to discover the Landgrave von Erdberg standing a few feet away, glowering under heavy brows.

  “Your pardon, Your Highness,” Stephan said, in tones of ice. “I wished to speak to Major Grey; I did not know anyone was here.”

  The Princess was flushed, but quite collected. She smoothed her gown down across her body, drawing herself up in such a way that her fine bust was strongly emphasized.

  “Oh,” she said, very cool. “It’s you, Erdberg. Do not worry, I was just taking my leave of the Major. You may have him now.” A small, smug smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. Quite deliberately, she laid a hand along Grey’s heated cheek, and let her fingers trail along his skin as she turned away. Then she strolled—curse the woman, shestrolled away, switching the tail of her robe.

  There was a profound silence in the hallway.

  Grey broke it, finally.

  “You wished to speak with me, Captain?”

  Von Namtzen looked him over coldly, as though deciding whether to step on him.

  “No,” he said at last. “It will wait.” He turned on his heel and strode away, making a good deal more noise in his departure than had the Princess.

  Grey pressed a hand to his forehead, until he could trust his head not to explode, then shook it, and lunged for the door to his room before anything else should happen.

  Tom was sitting on a stool by the fire, mending a pair of breeches that had suffered injury to the seams while Grey was demonstrating saber lunges to one of the German officers. He looked up at once when Grey came in, but if he had heard any of the conversation in the hall, he made no reference to it.

  “What’s that, me lord?” he asked instead, seeing the box in Grey’s hand.

  “What? Oh, that.” Grey put it down, with a faint feeling of distaste. “A relic. Of Saint Orgevald, whoever he might be.”

  “Oh, I know him!”

  “You do?” Grey raised one brow.

  “Yes, me lord. There’s a little chapel to him, down the garden. Ilse—she’s one of the kitchen maids—was showing me. He’s right famous hereabouts.”

  “Indeed.” Grey began to undress, tossing his coat across the chair and starting on his waistcoat buttons. His fingers were impatient, slipping on the small buttons. “Famous for what?”

  “Stopping them killing the children. Will I help you, me lord?”

  “What?” Grey stopped, staring at the young valet, then shook his head and resumed twitching buttons. “No, continue. Killing what children?”

  Tom’s hair was standing up on end, as it tended to do whenever he was interested in a subject, owing to his habit of running one hand through it.

  “Well, d’ye see, me lord, it used to be the custom, when they’d build something important, they’d buy a child from the gypsies—or just take one, I s’pose—and wall it up in the foundation. ’Specially for a bridge. It keeps anybody wicked from crossing over, see?”

  Grey resumed his unbuttoning, more slowly. The hair prickled uneasily on his nape.

  “The child—the murdered child—would cry out, I suppose?”

  Tom looked surprised at his acumen.

  “Yes, me lord. However did you know that?”

  “Never mind. So Saint Orgevald put a stop to this practice, did he? Good for him.” He glanced, more kindly, at the small gold box. “There’s a chapel, you say—is it in use?”

  “No, me lord. It’s full of bits of stored rubbish. Or, rather—’tisn’t in use for what you might call devotions. Folk do go there.” The boy flushed a bit, and frowned intently at his work. Grey deduced that Ilse m
ight have shown him another use for a deserted chapel, but chose not to pursue the matter.

  “I see. Was Ilse able to tell you anything else of interest?”

  “Depends upon what you call ‘interesting,’ me lord.” Tom’s eyes were still fixed upon his needle, but Grey could tell from the way in which he caught his upper lip between his teeth that he was in possession of a juicy bit of information.

  “At this point, my chief interest is in my bed,” Grey said, finally extricating himself from the waistcoat, “but tell me anyway.”

  “Reckon you know the nursemaid’s still gone?”

  “I do.”

  “Did you know her name was Koenig, and that she was wife to the Hun soldier what the succubus got?”

  Grey had just about broken Tom of calling the Germans “Huns,” at least in their hearing, but chose to overlook this lapse.

  “I did not.” Grey unfastened his neckcloth, slowly. “Was this known to all the servants?” More importantly, did Stephan know?

  “Oh, yes, me lord.” Tom had laid down his needle, and now looked up, eager with his news. “See, the soldier, he used to do work here, at the Schloss.”

  “When? Was he a local man, then?” It was quite usual for soldiers to augment their pay by doing work for the local citizenry in their off hours, but Stephan’s men had beenin situ for less than a month. But if the nursery maid was the man’s wife—

  “Yes, me lord. Born here, the both of them. He joined the local regiment some years a-gone, and came here to work—”

  “What work did he do?” Grey asked, unsure whether this had any bearing on Koenig’s demise, but wanting a moment to encompass the information.

  “Builder,” Tom replied promptly. “Part of the upper floors got the wood-worm, and had to be replaced.”

  “Hmm. You seem remarkably well informed. Just how long did you spend in the chapel with young Ilse?”

  Tom gave him a look of limpid innocence, much more inculpatory than an open leer.

  “Me lord?”

  “Never mind. Go on. Was the man working here at the time he was killed?”