The Lord John Series 4-Book Bundle

by Diana Gabaldon

  “Soldiers are not afraid of the dark,” he reassured the child, thinking of the graveyard.

  “I’m not afraid!” The little boy’s cheek was pressed against his neck.

  “Of course you are not. How are you called, young sir?” he asked, in hopes of distracting the boy.

  “Siggy.”

  “Siggy,” he repeated, feeling his way along the wall with one hand. “I am John. Johannes, in your tongue.”

  “I know,” said the boy, surprising him. “The servant girls think you are good-looking. Not so big as Landgrave Stephan, but prettier. Are you rich? The Landgrave is very rich.”

  “I won’t starve,” Grey said, wondering how long the blasted hallway was, and whether he might discover the staircase by falling down it in the dark.

  At least the boy seemed to have lost some of his fear; he cuddled close, rubbing his head under Grey’s chin. There was a distinct smell about him; nothing unpleasant—rather like the smell of a month-old litter of puppies, Grey thought, warmly animal.

  Something occurred to him then, something he should have thought to ask at once.

  “Where is your nurse?” A boy of this age would surely not sleep alone.

  “I don’t know. Maybe the witch ate her.”

  This cheering suggestion coincided with a welcome flicker of light in the distance, and the sound of voices. Hastening toward these, Grey at last found the nursery stair, just as a wild-eyed woman in nightgown, cap, and shawl popped out, holding a pottery candlestick.

  “Siegfried!” she cried. “Master Siggy, where have you been? What has—Oh!” At this point, she realized that Grey was there, and reared back as though struck forcibly in the chest.

  “Guten Abend, Madam,” he said, politely. “Is this your nurse, Siggy?”

  “No,” said Siggy, scornful of such ignorance. “That’s just Hetty. Mama’s maid.”

  “Siggy? Siegfried, is it you? Oh, my boy, my boy!” The light from above dimmed as a fluttering body hurtled down the stair, and the Princess von Lowenstein seized the boy from his arms, hugging her son and kissing him so passionately that his nightcap fell off.

  More servants were coming downstairs, less precipitously. Two footmen and a woman who might be a parlor maid, all in varying degrees of undress, but equipped with candles or rushlights. Evidently, Grey had had the good fortune to encounter a search party.

  There was a good deal of confused conversation, as Grey’s attempt at explanation was interrupted by Siggy’s own rather disjointed account of his adventures, punctuated by exclamations of horror and surprise from the princess and Hetty.

  “Witch?” the princess was saying, looking down at her son in alarm. “You saw a witch? Did you have an evil dream, child?”

  “No. I just woke up and there was a witch in my room. Can I have some marzipan?”

  “Perhaps it would be a good idea to search the house,” Grey managed to get in. “It is possible that the … witch … is still inside.”

  The princess had very fine, pale skin, radiant in the candlelight, but at this, it went a sickly color, like toadstools. Grey glanced meaningfully at Siggy, and the princess at once gave the child to Hetty, telling the maid to take him to his nursery.

  “Tell me what is happening,” she said, gripping Grey’s arm, and he did, finishing the account with a question of his own.

  “The child’s nurse? Where is she?”

  “We don’t know. I went to the nursery to look at Siegfried before retiring—” The princess’s hand fluttered to her bosom, as she became aware that she was wearing a rather unbecoming woolen nightgown and cap, with a heavy shawl and thick, fuzzy stockings. “He wasn’t there; neither was the nurse. Jakob, Thomas—” She turned to the footmen, suddenly taking charge. “Search! The house first, then the grounds.”

  A distant rumbling of thunder reminded everyone that it was still pouring with rain outside, but the footmen vanished with speed.

  The sudden silence left in the wake of their departure gave Grey a slightly eerie feeling, as though the thick stone walls had moved subtly closer. A solitary candle burned, left behind on the stairs.

  “Who would do this?” said the princess, her voice suddenly small and frightened. “Did they mean to take Siegfried? Why?”

  It looked very much to Grey as though kidnapping had been the plan; no other possibility had entered his mind, until the princess seized him by the arm again.

  “Do you think—do you think it was … her?” she whispered, eyes dilated to pools of horror. “The succubus?”

  “I think not,” Grey said, taking hold of her hands for reassurance. They were cold as ice—hardly surprising, in view of the temperature inside the Schloss. He smiled at her, squeezing her fingers gently. “A succubus would not require a ladder, surely?” He forbore to add that a boy of Siggy’s age was unlikely to have much that a succubus would want, if he had correctly understood the nature of such a creature.

  A little color came back into the princess’s face, as she saw the logic in this.

  “No, that’s true.” The edge of her mouth twitched in an attempt at a smile, though her eyes were still fearful.

  “It might be advisable to set a guard near your son’s room,” Grey suggested. “Though I expect the … person … has been frightened off by now.”

  She shuddered, whether from cold or at the thought of roving intruders, he couldn’t tell. Still, she was clearly steadier at the thought of action, and that being so, he rather reluctantly took the opportunity to share with her Sir Peter Hicks’s cautions, feeling that perhaps a solid enemy such as the French would be preferable to phantasms and shadowy threats.

  “Ha, those frog-eaters,” she said, proving his supposition by drawing herself up with a touch of scorn in her voice. “They have tried before, the Schloss to take. They have never done it; they will not do it now.” She gestured briefly at the stone walls surrounding them, by way of justification in this opinion. “My husband’s great-great-great-grandfather built the Schloss; we have a well inside the house, a stable, food stores. This place was built to withstand siege.”

  “I am sure you are right,” Grey said, smiling. “But you will perhaps take some care?” He let go her hands, willing her to draw the interview to a close. Excitement over, he was very much aware that it had been a long day, and that he was freezing.

  “I will,” she promised him. She hesitated a moment, not quite sure how to take her leave gracefully, then stepped forward, rose onto her toes, and with her hands on his shoulders, kissed him on the mouth.

  “Good night, Lord John,” she said softly, in English. “Danke.” She turned and hurried up the stairs, picking up her skirts as she went.

  Grey stood for a startled moment looking after her, the disconcerting feel of her uncorseted breasts still imprinted on his chest. Then shook his head and went to pick up the candlestick she had left on the stair for him.

  Straightening up, he was overtaken by a massive yawn, the fatigues of the day coming down upon him like a thousandweight of grapeshot. He only hoped he could find his own chamber again, in this ancient labyrinth. Perhaps he should have asked the princess for direction.

  He made his way back down the hallway, his candle flame seeming puny and insignificant in the oppressive darkness cast by the great stone blocks of Schloss Lowenstein. It was only when the light gleamed on the puddle on the floor that the thought suddenly occurred to him: Someone had to have opened the shutters—from the inside.

  Grey made his way back as far as the head of the main stair, only to find Stephan von Namtzen coming up it. The Hanoverian was a little flushed with brandy, but still clearheaded, and listened to Grey’s account of events with consternation.

  “Dreckskerle!” he said, and spat on the floor to emphasize his opinion of kidnappers. “The servants are searching, you say—but you think they will find nothing?”

  “Perhaps they will find the nurse,” Grey said. “But if the kidnapper has an ally inside the house—and he must �
�� or she, I suppose,” he added. “The boy did say he saw a witch.”

  “Ja, I see.” Von Namtzen looked grim. One big hand fisted at his side, but then relaxed. “I will perhaps go and speak to the princess. My men, I will have them come to guard the house. If there is a criminal within, he will not get out.”

  “I’m sure the princess will be grateful.” Grey felt all at once terribly tired. “I must take Bodger—the body—back to his regiment in the morning. Oh—in that regard …” He explained Sir Peter’s wishes, to which von Namtzen agreed with a flip of the hand.

  “Have you any messages for me to carry, to the troops at the bridge?” Grey asked. “Since I will be going in that direction, anyway.” One English regiment lay to the south of the town, the other—Bodger’s—to the north, between the town and the river. A small group of the Prussian artillery under Stephan’s command was stationed a few miles beyond, guarding the bridge at Aschenwald.

  Von Namtzen frowned, thinking, then nodded.

  “Ja, you are right. It is best they hear officially of the—” He looked suddenly uneasy, and Grey was slightly amused to see that Stephan did not want to speak the word “succubus.”

  “Yes, better to avoid rumors,” he agreed, saving Stephan’s awkwardness. “Speaking of that—do you suppose Herr Blomberg will let the villagers exhume his mother?”

  Stephan’s broad-boned face broke into a smile at that.

  “No,” he said. “I think he would make them drive an iron rod through his own heart first. Better, though,” he added, the humor fading from his face, “if someone finds who plays these tricks, and a stop to it makes. Quickly.”

  Stephan was tired, too, Grey saw; his English grammar was slipping. They stood together for a moment, silent, listening to the distant hammer of the rain, both feeling still the chill touch of the graveyard in their bones.

  Von Namtzen turned to him suddenly, and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing.

  “You will take care, John,” he said, and before Grey could speak or move, Stephan pulled him close and kissed his mouth. Then he smiled, squeezed Grey’s shoulder once more, and with a quiet “Gute Nacht,” went up the stairs toward his own room.

  Grey shut the door of his chamber behind him and leaned against it, in the manner of a man pursued. Tom Byrd, curled up asleep on the hearth rug, sat up and blinked at him.

  “Me lord?”

  “Who else?” Grey asked, made jocular from the fatigues and excitements of the evening. “Did you expect a visit from the succubus?”

  Tom’s face lost all its sleepiness at that, and he glanced uneasily at the window, closed and tightly shuttered against the dangers of the night.

  “You oughtn’t jest that way, me lord,” he said reproachfully. “It’s an Englishman what’s dead now.”

  “You are right, Tom; I beg pardon of Private Bodger.” Grey found some justice in the rebuke, but was too much overtaken by events to be stung by it. “Still, we do not know the cause of his death. Surely there is no proof as yet that it was occasioned by any sort of supernatural interference. Have you eaten?”

  “Yes, me lord. Cook had gone to bed, but she got up and fetched us out some bread and dripping, and some ale. Wanting to know all about what I found in the churchyard,” he added practically.

  Grey smiled to himself, the faint emphasis on “I” in this statement indicating to him that Tom’s protests on behalf of the late Private Bodger sprang as much from a sense of proprietariness as from a sense of propriety.

  Grey sat down, to let Tom pull off his boots and still-damp stockings. The room he had been given was small, but warm and bright, the shadows from a well-tended fire flickering over striped damask wallpaper. After the wet cold of the churchyard and the bleak chill of the Schloss’s stone corridors, the heat upon his skin was a grateful feeling—much enhanced by the discovery of a pitcher of hot water for washing.

  “Shall I come with you, me lord? In the morning, I mean.” Tom undid the binding of Grey’s hair and began to comb it, dipping the comb occasionally in a cologne of bay leaves and hyssop, meant to discourage lice.

  “No, I think not. I shall ride over and speak to Colonel Ruysdale first; one of the servants can follow me with the body.” Grey closed his eyes, beginning to feel drowsy, though small jolts of excitement still pulsed through his thighs and abdomen. “If you would, Tom, I should like you to talk with the servants; find out what they are saying about things.” God knew, they would have plenty to talk about.

  Clean, brushed, warmed, and cozily ensconced in nightshirt, cap, and banyan, Grey dismissed Tom, the valet’s arms piled high with filthy uniform bits.

  He shut the door behind the boy, and hesitated, staring into the polished surface of the wood as though to look through it and see who might be standing on the other side. Only the blur of his own face met his gaze, though, and only the creak of Tom’s footsteps were audible, receding down the corridor.

  Thoughtfully, he touched his lips with a finger. Then he sighed, and bolted the door.

  Stephan had kissed him before—kissed innumerable people, for that matter; the man was an inveterate embrasseur. But surely this had been somewhat more than the fraternal embrace of a fellow soldier. He could still feel the grip of Stephan’s hand curled around his leg. Or was he deluded by fatigue and distraction, imagining more to it than there was?

  And if he were right?

  He shook his head, took the warming pan from his sheets, and crawled between them, reflecting that, of all the men in Gundwitz that night, he at least was safe from the attentions of any roving succubi.

  Chapter 3

  A Remedy for Sleeplessness

  Regimental headquarters for the 52nd was in Bonz, a small hamlet that stood some ten miles from Gundwitz. Grey found Colonel Ruysdale in the central room of the largest inn, in urgent conference with several other officers, and indisposed to take time to deal with an enlisted body.

  “Grey? Oh, yes, know your brother. You found what? Where? Yes, all right. See … um … Sergeant-Major Sapp. Yes, that’s it. Sapp will know who …” The colonel waved a vague hand, indicating that Grey would doubtless find whatever assistance he required elsewhere.

  “Yes, sir,” Grey said, settling his bootheels into the sawdust. “I shall do so directly. Am I to understand, though, that there are developments of which our allies should be informed?”

  Ruysdale stared at him, eyes cold and upper lip foremost.

  “Who told you that, sir?”

  As though he needed telling. Troops were being mustered outside the village, drummers beating the call to arms and corporals shouting through the streets, men pouring out from their quarters like an anthill stirred with a stick.

  “I am a liaison officer, sir, seconded to Captain von Namtzen’s Hanoverian Foot,” Grey replied, evading the question. “They are at present quartered in Gundwitz; will you require their support?”

  Ruysdale looked grossly offended at the notion, but a captain wearing an artillery cockade coughed tactfully.

  “Colonel, shall I give Major Grey such particulars of the situation as may seem useful? You have important matters to deal with …” He nodded round at the assembled officers, who seemed attentive, but hardly on the brink of action.

  The colonel snorted briefly and made a gesture somewhere between gracious dismissal and the waving-away of some noxious insect, and Grey bowed, murmuring, “Your servant, sir.”

  Outside, the clouds of last night’s storm were making a hasty exodus, scudding away on a fresh, cold wind. The artillery captain clapped a hand to his hat, and jerked his head toward a pothouse down the street.

  “A bit of warmth, Major?”

  Gathering that the village was in no danger of imminent invasion, Grey nodded, and accompanied his new companion into a dark, smoky womb smelling of pigs’ feet and fermented cabbage.

  “Benjamin Hiltern,” the captain said, putting back his cloak and holding up two fingers to the barman. “You’ll take a drink, Major?”
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  “John Grey. I thank you. I collect we shall have time to drink it, before we are quite overrun?”

  Hiltern laughed, and sat down across from Grey, rubbing a knuckle under a cold-reddened nose.

  “We should have time for our gracious host”—he nodded at the wizened creature fumbling with a jug—“to hunt a boar, roast it, and serve it up with an apple in its mouth, if you should be so inclined.”

  “I am obliged, Captain,” Grey said, with a glance at the barman, who upon closer inspection appeared to have only one leg, the other being supported by a stout peg of battered aspect. “Alas, I have breakfasted but recently.”

  “Too bad. I haven’t. Bratkartoffeln mit Ruhrei,” Hiltern said to the barman, who nodded and disappeared into some still-more-squalid den to the rear of the house. “Potatoes, fried with eggs and ham,” he explained, taking out a kerchief and tucking it into the neck of his shirt. “Delicious.”

  “Quite,” Grey said politely. “One would hope that your troops are fed as well, after the effort I saw being expended.”

  “Oh, that.” Hiltern’s cherubic countenance lost a little of its cheerfulness, but not much. “Poor sods. At least it’s stopped raining.”

  In answer to Grey’s raised brows, he explained.

  “Punishment. There was a game of bowls yesterday, between a party of men from Colonel Bampton-Howard’s lot and our lads—local form of skittles. Ruysdale had a heavy wager on with Bampton-Howard, see?”

  “And your lot lost. Yes, I see. So your lads are—”

  “Ten mile run to the river and back, in full kit. Keep them fit and out of trouble, at least,” Hiltern said, half-closing his eyes and lifting his nose at the scent of frying potatoes that had begun to waft through the air.

  “I see. One assumes that the French have moved, then? Our last intelligence reported them as being a few miles north of the river.”

  “Yes, gave us a bit of excitement for a day or two; thought they might come this way. They seem to have sheered off, though—gone round to the west.”