Awaiting the Moon (14 page)

“Let’s walk,” Elizabeth said, starting off and not waiting to see if Charlotte would follow.
Let
her follow or not
.

The path led around the castle toward the back, between the castle wall and a lane. Along the stone walls of the older part of the castle, Elizabeth noticed a couple of wooden doors at the base. “What do those lead to?” she asked, looking back at her pupil, who trailed a few feet behind her.

Charlotte merely shrugged.

“Does that mean you do not know, or you won’t tell me?”

“Perhaps neither,” Charlotte said as she trudged past Elizabeth; she led the way toward the back.

“All right,” Elizabeth muttered, following. “Young Miss Taciturn. We shall see what we can do to break down some of those walls you have built around you.”

They followed the timbered wall to the back stable yard, an area that bustled with life, as did the farmyard beyond where the dairy house was, and the pigs and chickens that supplied the castle with food were kept. In the large yard, strewn with straw to soak up the mud, stable boys groomed two huge horses while more patiently waited their turn, standing tethered to a rail outside of the cavernous timbered stable. The guttural shouts of men inside the stable told her more work was going on within, and the
clink-clink
of a smith’s hammer echoed in a shed that slanted off to one side of the main building. In the center of the cobbled yard just beyond the stable, ringed by a low wall, was the blasted trunk of an ancient tree.

“What is this?” Elizabeth asked, approaching it. She pulled off her glove and touched the trunk, wondering why such a withered example of former arboreal glory had been allowed to remain.

“It is the family tree.”

Elizabeth glanced at Charlotte’s face to see if she was making a joke, but she likely didn’t know the humor of her remark in English. “What do you mean?”

“Ask Uta. She will tell you the story.”

“Oh. All right.”

From the gaping maw of the stable came a dark horse, ridden by the count. The wolf dogs followed him. He waved as he rode past, on his way to the village, presumably, to speak to the injured girl.

“Is your uncle… does he always concern himself with the village goings-on?”

“It is his responsibility,” Charlotte said. “He is their… how do you say it?” She frowned, and then her face smoothed. “Ah, yes, he is their liege; to them he owes protection, to him they owe allegiance.”

“That is an enormous responsibility. But did not that kind of thing die out many years ago?”

Charlotte shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. I don’t know.”

She had lost interest and wandered now around the back of the timbered wing, sloshing through snow that melted on the cobbled surface.

Elizabeth followed. There was a wide courtyard in the center, sheltered by the newer wings of the castle, and it appeared that in summer there was a fountain and a garden. Everything was overlaid with a thick blanket of sparkling white, though, and shapes that could have been benches or shrubs or walls appeared in a vague random pattern that would not reveal its underlying objects until spring had melted the snow.

“Are these gardens?”

“Yes.”

“And do you garden?”

“No.”

“Oh. Do gardeners only do so, then?”

Charlotte sighed impatiently. “No. Meli gardens; she knows all about herbs and likes to prepare her potions and ointments. If you so much as cough she will try to doctor you. My Aunt Adele, Uncle Bartol… even Uncle Max. They are all mad for gardening in summer. I do not understand it.”

“I look forward to seeing this in spring,” Elizabeth said, glancing around and up to the high windows overlooking the garden. It was unfortunate that her own room did not overlook the garden; instead it had a forbidding view of the dark forest, the edge of it like a black slash in the snowy landscape. But then, the windows overlooking the garden were only corridor windows. She shivered and gazed up; the sky, once brilliant with sunlight, had darkened somewhat. Clouds were gathering above the hill, and her fingers were beginning to numb and her toes were already so cold she couldn’t feel them in her boots.

“Shall we go back in?” she asked her pupil. “I think that is enough walking for one morning.

With our brains refreshed, we shall begin to speak of what we wish to do for the next few months.”

Charlotte was silent.

“And perhaps,” Elizabeth continued, “you could help me to learn a little German. I found it very difficult to communicate with the footman, and I don’t like to put people out to translate for me continually.”

Again Charlotte shrugged and they turned to head back to the front door of the castle.

MEN had been sent out first thing in the morning to pack down the snow with sledges, and so as Nikolas rode he found only a few spots where he foundered. Karolus, his mount, was as steady a horse as could be bought or taught, his breeding from an ancient line of battle horses used to bearing much weight and soldiering through awful conditions.

With so far to go in the snow, he had time to think.

Would he, given his current knowledge of Miss Elizabeth Stanwycke’s attributes, her great beauty, and probing intelligence, hire her again if he had the opportunity?

No. From the first night, finding her in his library, he had been aware that he was in a most dangerous position. He was drawn to the woman, and not just for her beauty but for some indefinable quality of deep calm, something he was missing, he supposed. All of men and women’s pairings were a coupling of natural desire and a need to fill a void, to find what was missing from one’s own heart and soul and fill it with another’s. If she felt it, too, though, she was concealing it well. He thought he saw it flash in her eyes once or twice, and he felt it in her trembling when he was close, but she never by gesture or word gave him the slightest hint.

But it was early. She had only been there a few days. Time would tell.

Not that he could afford to take advantage of any attraction she felt for him. Already he had been faced with the consequences of her curiosity and intelligence. It was vital she not find anything amiss; once they were past the next night he would be safe for a while and could plan.

The dogs had been following him, but as he reached the end of his property they stopped and sat, watching, as he trotted down the sloping road into the nearby village. Wilhelm Brandt’s house was a three-story home close to the heart of town. As with many of the other buildings, the first story was a store; one had to climb the stairs to find the Brandt’s living quarters. He was the burgermeister, or village mayor, by Nikolas’s own command, but the man’s tenure had not been without trouble. Brandt had an eye for opportunity and was not averse to taking advantage of his position. He had perhaps a too loyal following among the town’s men.

An old fellow hurried as quickly as he could from the small stable behind the house and took the reins, gazing fearfully up at Karolus, who was seventeen hands and powerfully built.

“Do not concern yourself, for he will behave.” He said a few words to Karolus in Latin and tugged at the reins, and the horse went obediently with the fellow, who trudged behind toward the stable.

Nikolas took the steps two at a time up to the Brandts’ door, knocked, and entered, as was his right. Ducking his head to avoid the low lintel, he stepped inside. The interior was tiny and smoky, with little light from the two windows overlooking the street. As his eyes became accustomed to the dimness he could see that Wilhelm’s tiny wife was there, bowing her head before him.

“Good morning, Frau Brandt. Where is your husband?”

“Count von Wolfram, welcome to my humble home. I expect Wilhelm in one moment.”

“How is your daughter?”

“Better, sir.”

“I would like to see her.”

He could see the hesitation in the woman’s wrinkled face and he wondered if her husband had told her to admit no one to his daughter’s bedside, but she dared not contradict the lord from whom her husband had obtained his post. She ducked her head and motioned behind a curtain that sectioned off a portion of the main room of the home.

He pushed aside the curtain to find Magda Brandt sitting on a pallet, her face pale, her expression nervous. He didn’t approach closer, merely asking, in as gentle a tone as he could manage, “How are you, Magda?”

“Better, sir.”

“Where is the injury?”

“On my arm.” She held it out, but all she could show him was a dirty cloth wrapped around the wound.

He sighed. “Frau Brandt,” he called.

When the girl’s mother came in he gave her a severe look. “Madam, this girl’s bandage is filthy. If I am to believe her arm truly on the way to healing, I will see her come out to the light and there you will boil a cloth, cool it, and after you wash the wound wrap it in the boiled cloth.”

She gazed at him in incomprehension but scuttled to do as he commanded when he repeated his demand in a steely tone. Magda Brandt slipped past him into the great room and sat down by the open hearth, huddled miserably in her neat but worn dress. She was a pretty girl who would one day be as peaked and wizened as her mother. But this moment she was round and plump, pink and pretty. Even her humble mode of dress did little to conceal her loveliness and the tempting roundness of her figure under the bodice.

She kept her eyes averted as Nikolas examined her. When Frau Brandt did not appear to be boiling any cloth, he repeated his command more slowly. She nodded but did not move to obey.

“Now!” he roared, and both she and her daughter jumped. With difficulty, he restrained his temper, condescending to explain more fully why he wanted them to do what he said. He explained about infection and the necessity of keeping the wound clean.

While he spoke, he hurried the mother along, even though he sensed that far from not understanding, she did know what he wanted but was loath to obey. Finally, he squatted by the girl on the tidy hearth and unwrapped the filthy bandage himself, though she trembled at his touch. He did not want her to be afraid of him, but he supposed it was the natural consequence of their separate stations in life. She knew he could command anything of her family or of her and she would be compelled to obey.

When he undid the dirty cloth, what was beneath was a revelation. “This is no wolf bite,” he growled.

He looked up into the girl’s eyes and saw terror. When he glanced at the mother he saw terror mixed with evasion.

“But, Count, please, yes… yes, it is a wolf bite.” That was the mother, wringing her wrinkled hands together.

He examined the wound more closely. There was considerable bruising, but it was red and maroon with a dark center, like her arm had been twisted. He touched it, and she flinched.

There was, in addition, some scratching and an abrasion that bled freely, but if the wound had been received in a struggle with a wolf, there would have been some tearing of the flesh. He had expected to see much worse.

Wilhelm Brandt at that moment stormed into the room. With a mixture of bluster and cringing, he demanded to know why the count was unwrapping his precious child’s bandage.

Nikolas stood, towering over the mayor. “I want to know why you are passing off this mere scratch as a wolf attack?”

“I? Passing it off? My daughter was attacked on your property, Count… or next to your property.” The distinction was important; no one from the village had permission to be on his property after sundown.

“This is not a wolf bite. I would say this wound had more to do with some human agent than any animal.”

“Then perhaps it was both,” Brandt said slyly, his round face twisted in an expression of contemplation.

“What are you talking about?”

“It has been said that wolves are gathering on your property, Count, but perhaps…”

Nikolas stared at the man and waited, but when no more was forthcoming, he said, “You have something in mind; out with it, man. Say what you will.” If his tone was menacing, he did not care enough to temper it with any softness.

“Perhaps,” the man said, looking to the right and to the left, “it is werewolves.”

Fury welled within Nikolas, and he tamped down an external expression of it with some difficulty. “I thought you all were past such supernatural nonsense as this! Who has been spouting such absurdity?”

“No one, lord,” Brandt said, with a deep bow. “No one-but you; for it was you who said this bite had a human source, and yet it was a wolf who attacked my poor Magda. So there is only one solution—werewolf.”

Nikolas, conquering his fury with great effort, strode to the man, who cowered before him. “If I ever hear that you are spreading such pernicious lies, such absolute rubbish, and terrifying the good people of Wolfbeck, I will wring your neck with my bare hands.”

“Then, lord,” Brandt said, his voice quavering, and his gaze sliding away to the hearth and to his wife, “let us put men on your property to guard. I have ten men ready who will patrol and make sure no wolves—nor even werewolves—are gathering.”

“No!” Nikolas thundered. He turned to the women, tried to gentle his tone, and said, “Frau Brandt, wrap your daughter’s arm in the clean warm rag that you have boiled. Do so again tomorrow, and the next day. My housekeeper will send down to you what you need to look after Magda.” He strode to the door but turned before exiting.

“Brandt, hear me good,” he said, pointing a finger at the mayor. “If even one armed man steps foot on my property at night, I will kill him, flay him, and nail his hide to the church door. It is on your conscience if it comes to that.”

ELIZABETH AND Charlotte ate lunch together, during which Elizabeth tried to begin the process of instilling appropriate manners in the girl. It wasn’t that Charlotte was rude at the table, nor was she slovenly in her dress or personal habits, but there was that in her mode of sitting and speaking that indicated she would stand out unhappily among proper society. She slouched, her stare was often vacant, and she was not careful in her eating habits. She could not—or would not— school her facial expressions and often looked either bored or unhappy.