Borne in Blood (9 page)
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Guardian and Ward, #Vampires, #Nobility, #blood, #Paramours, #Switzerland
“If that is what the Comte wants,” said Uchtred.
“It is what will suit Hochvall best,” said Rogier.
“As you say,” Uchtred conceded, and basted the plump fowl with butter mixed with lemon-rind and minced scallions; he watched the stones sizzle as the run-off splashed. “An hour and I’ll summon the household.”
Rogier nodded. “You are an ornament to your profession, Uchtred.” With that compliment, he left the kitchen and sought out Ragoczy, who was in his study, poring over a number of letters that had been delivered from Yvoire that morning. “Dinner will be ready in an hour, Uchtred says.” He spoke in the Latin of the first century, in the dialect of Roman merchants.
“The household will be pleased,” said Ragoczy in the same tongue, breaking the seal on a letter from Rome, which he scanned quickly, reporting as he read. “I fear the villa needs a new roof,” he said. “The vinyards are flourishing, and the fields are much recovered from the winters. Lambing has gone well, and calving. Piero is certain that a good harvest this year and the next and all should be satisfactory again.”
“Piero is always careful,” said Rogier, his tone showing his approval more than his demeanor. “Is the news as good from Lago Como?”
“I have not yet heard from Stanislao.” He put the letter down. “I’ll send Piero authorization for the roof as soon as possible.”
“By Gutesohnes?” Rogier suggested, anticipating the answer.
“I fear I have need of him in his capacity of coachman, so I must engage another courier. With Hochvall unavailable until autumn, I must either hire a coachman, or ask Otto Gutesohnes to do this for me.” He shrugged. “If he refuses, then I will have to seek out another coachman for the summer.”
“Gutesohnes is a sensible man; he will be willing to drive your coaches for you,” said Rogier. “How badly is Hochvall hurt?”
“Two breaks in the leg, one in the femur, one in the fibulae. The second was trickier to set but the more apt to heal cleanly now that the alignment is made. It is difficult to feel the bone under the calf-muscles, but—”
“—you have some experience in these matters,” said Rogier with an expression that bordered on a smile.
“Precisely,” said Ragoczy.
Rogier took the letters Ragoczy had set aside and began to separate them in anticipation of filing them later. “There is news from Persia?”
“Yes.” Ragoczy frowned. “I will need to make up my mind what to do about my holdings there, and sooner rather than later.”
“Will you need a second courier for that?” Rogier inquired.
“Very likely. Perhaps that Greek messenger, the one who has carried letters from Turkey. He has been reliable and quick, and Kypris vouches for him. No doubt more couriers will be needed in a year or so, as science increases our desire for rapid information.” He thought for more than a minute, then said with a touch of amusement, “In many ways it was easier, three centuries ago. Messages moved slowly, and not always reliably, but it was understood that such things took time, and nothing could be done to hurry a fast horse, especially in bad weather. Now, with ships plying the oceans and more roads than ever the Romans made, speed has become a factor no one can ignore. Decisions must be made in days, not months, and information must travel as swiftly as time and tide will allow.”
“For a thousand years, you lamented how slow such communications had become once Rome no longer controlled Europe and the roads were neglected,” said Rogier with a trace of dry humor.
“So I did, and now I have my comeuppance.” He studied the next letter. “I think it would be prudent to open offices for Eclipse Shipping in Baltimore as well as New York. From what Mannerling says, there is less graft in Baltimore, and industry is expanding there. It is not so closed as Boston, according to Mannerling.”
“Graft is everywhere,” said Rogier, preparing to leave the study. “You cannot hope to escape it.”
“Certainly that is so; but some cases are less egregious than others, which is what I would prefer to find,” said Ragoczy, opening another sealed envelope. “Ah. This is about the damage to my country estate in Poland. It appears that the main house is a ruin, and only one barn is sound enough for reconstruction. All the rest will have to be built afresh.” He tapped the letter against his palm. “This will take some negotiating to keep it from becoming a debacle.”
“Anything from Kreuzbach about the castle above Zemmer? You are planning to visit it on your way to Amsterdam, are you not?”
“Just the report of ten days ago,” said Ragoczy. “And, no, I will not be deterred from pursuing the restoration of my Polish estate. Too much of the region was damaged, and too many farmers and craftsmen are in need of work and protection. Rebuilding the estate will provide wages and shelter, and that is—” He set the letter down. “I believe Hero has returned.”
“It does sound that way,” said Rogier.
There was a wry lift to Ragoczy’s fine brows as he met Rogier’s steady gaze. “No, she is not the companion of my heart that Madelaine is, but she is a woman of integrity and passion, which suits me very well. And I do not intrude on the enshrined memory of her husband, which suits her.”
“I said nothing,” Rogier reminded him.
“But you are worried that I have withheld some portion of intimacy from Hero—which I have. Just as she has kept a part of herself inviolate.” He went and opened the door. “I am satisfied, and so is she.”
“Perhaps too satisfied?” Rogier suggested. “You long for Madelaine.”
“Yes, but it is an impossible yearning, since neither of us has life to give the other.” He continued on in slightly old-fashioned French. “I do not think you have any reason to be concerned, old friend.”
“If you tell me so, what can I be but satisfied?” said Rogier, and pulled the door closed behind them.
Hero stood in the corridor, two envelopes clasped in her hands. “My father-in-law has written again,” she said. She had removed her bonnet and her lace gloves; her face was slightly flushed from the heat of the day.
“So I see,” Ragoczy said as he came up to her. “Whoelse has written to you? You have two letters.”
“My oldest son. Siegfried. He’s eleven, and will soon go to school—in the autumn.” She looked over the ends of the envelopes to Ragoczy. “Comte, I am afraid to open them.”
“Small wonder,” said Ragoczy, “given how strictly the Graf has controlled your communication with your children.”
“He is careful with them, and knows his responsibilities,” said Hero automatically.
“And uses them as a Hussar uses a saber,” said Ragoczy, his voice light and cutting at once.
“You make him seem a monster.” She took the letter from the Graf and broke its seal.
“Because I think he is. It is not his intention—most monsters have no notion of their enormities—but it is a great unkindness to you and your children. Done for the best of worst of reasons, his actions cause you pain.” His dark eyes looked steadily into hers. “You go in fear of him because you do not wish to lose all contact with your sons and daughter. For a family to be sundered as yours has been is cruelty.”
“No, Comte. Don’t say that.” She spread the letter within and scanned it quickly. “He is encouraging Siegfried to tell me himself of the school he will attend.”
“The same one his father attended?” Ragoczy guessed. “Your husband?”
“Yes,” said Hero. “How did you know?”
“It seems the sort of thing your father-in-law would do,” said Ragoczy.
Hero read the rest of the Graf’s letter. “The twins are well, and Annamaria has recovered from the putrid sore throat she had in April.” She smiled a bit too brightly, refolded the letter, and opened the one from Siegfried. “Oh! His grandfather has chosen a horse for him to take with him to school.”
“A considerable gift for such a young child,” said Ragoczy.
“That it is, and Siegfried is most grateful to his grandfather,” said Hero. “I could never have provided so well for him.” The sadness in her voice ended on a quiver; she pressed her lips together and hoped her eyes would not fill with tears. “He says it is seven years old, trained for hunting, and that his summer is being devoted to improving his riding skills so that he may ride to school with his tutor in the autumn.”
“He will be the envy of his classmates, no doubt.” Ragoczy saw Rogier motion to him from the end of the corridor. “Yes?”
“Dinner will be served in half an hour,” Rogier announced. “I am putting Ulisse to watch over Hochvall.”
“Hochvall?” Hero asked, startled. “What is the matter with Hochvall?’
“He had an accident earlier today and broke his leg,” said Ragoczy. “He is recovering from having it set.”
“An accident?” She paled. “How serious an accident?”
“A portion of the road gave way, or so I have been told, and the coach fell sideways into the ditch,” he said calmly. “Three of the horses fared well enough, but one has been injured, and I will have to attend to him this afternoon. Hochvall had the worst of it: he was thrown from the box. He sustained a lump on his head, a broken right leg, and a bruised shoulder.”
“And the coach? Is it badly damaged?’ She stared at him as if trying to read his expression.
“It is best left for firewood,” said Ragoczy, and held up his small hand to stop her volley of questions. “I know little more than what I have told you, and will not know more until I have seen what is left of the coach.”
“But if it is so … so damaged, we cannot travel in it, can we?” Hero stared at him, trying to read what was in his mind.
“Not in the old one, no: I will order a new one in a day or two, once I know what our traveling needs will be, and once I have determined whether or not Gutesohnes will drive for me until Hochvall recovers.”
She blinked. “You appear to have considered the whole; there is nothing I can do now, is there?” she said, adding playfully, “I suppose it is too much to hope you might dine with me?”
His smile lasted a little longer this time. “Later,” he promised her as he offered his arm to her and started toward the dining room.
Text of a letter from Madelaine de Montalia in Varna on the Black Sea, to Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus at Château Ragoczy near Lake Geneva, Yvoire, Switzerland; carried by academic courier and delivered two months after it was written., while Ragoczy was returning from Amsterdam.
To my most dear Saint-Germain, the greetings of your Madelaine de Montalia, just as present—the 4
th
of August—in Varna
th
of August—in Varna
As you can see, I have not yet reached Egypt, but I am determined to do so, and as soon as possible. In the meantime I am occupying myself with various ancient buildings and ruins about this port, some of which are most fascinating. I do not yet know how much longer I will stay here before returning to Constantinople, or as the Turks pronounce it, Istanbul. I was kept dancing at the doors of various officials for almost nine months before I set out to find places of interest while I struggle to get from this place to the Nile. I begin to think I will have to purchase my way into an authorized expedition or languish here for a decade.
You have said that the horses in this part of the world are superb, and I am sure you’re right, although they look a little small to me. If I were more amused with riding, I might spend a week or two investigating the regional breeds. But I am not as fond of high-couraged mounts as the Ottomans are, and I am not tempted to careen across hard-baked ground or dry riverbeds to see how willing the horse is to submit to my will, although I long for a good gallop, now and again. I did have a fine afternoon on a large ass, one that rarely moved above a trot and preferred a steady pace to anything more dramatic. He carried me from a ruined monastery on a hill behind the harbor to the old Greek ruins near to what the local people call the Spring of the Virgins. I have yet to find out much about these Virgins, although I have asked. The Orthodox priests who will deign to talk to me—a Catholic
and
an unmarried woman!—tell me it was once the site of the manifestation of the Virgin Mary, but the fallen pillars are very old and Greek, so I suspect there is another, much older, source of the legend. The guide who accompanied me on this excursion is a fellow called Eteocles Hadad, and a fascinating rogue he is, more full of tales than the local story-teller, and curious as a hungry cat. He speaks a smattering of Arabic, Albanian, Russian, Hungarian, Greek, Slovak, Croatian, Albanian, Italian, French, and who-knows-how-many other odd dialects from off the ships that call here.
and
an unmarried woman!—tell me it was once the site of the manifestation of the Virgin Mary, but the fallen pillars are very old and Greek, so I suspect there is another, much older, source of the legend. The guide who accompanied me on this excursion is a fellow called Eteocles Hadad, and a fascinating rogue he is, more full of tales than the local story-teller, and curious as a hungry cat. He speaks a smattering of Arabic, Albanian, Russian, Hungarian, Greek, Slovak, Croatian, Albanian, Italian, French, and who-knows-how-many other odd dialects from off the ships that call here.
How I have wandered through that last paragraph! It is as peripatetic as I have been, and as disoriented, in every sense. I will blame it on the heat, which is thick in the air and sodden as an old sail. Even I am affected by it, and not simply because of the sunlight. I have spent the last four nights sitting out on the inner balcony of this hostelry so that I can take in enough of the little breeze and the night to help me make it through the day. I have enough of my native earth to last for another six months, but I am beginning to think that I should send for it now, in case this heat should continue. I will ask your shipping office in Athens to get Montalia earth for me, if you are willing to permit me to do this. Your suggestion that I purchase more holdings in Europe is probably a good one, and I intend to act upon your recommendation as soon as I return. Since I am as yet unsure when that will be, I cannot select a time by which this will be accomplished, yet be sure it will not be more than a decade. To think I will be a century old in another seven years! I am astonished to add up the decades, but there they are. You were right when you warned me that it is difficult to see your contemporaries fall away until only you remain, and that it is distressing to realize that all of youth is gone, no matter what appearance may remain. I am more ancient than any woman I have met save one—a nun who was ninety-six—but she was as wrinkled as a raisin and as bent as a willow. Yet we were almost the same age, although I still seem to be no more than nineteen or twenty. It is a luxury to know time as an ally, not an opponent, but time also creates a gulf no one but those of your blood, or of your restoration, like Roger, can cross.
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