by Rhys Bowen
I suspected he was attempting humor but Lady Middlesex said coldly, “No animal of any kind.”
“Allow me to present myself,” the man said. “I am Count Dragomir, steward of this castle. I welcome you on behalf of Their Royal Highnesses. I hope you will have a pleasant stay here.” He clicked his heels and gave a curt little bow, reminding me of Prince Siegfried, my would-be groom, who was also related to the royal house of Romania. Oh, Lord, of course he’d be here. That aspect hadn’t struck me before. The moment I had this thought, another followed. This couldn’t possibly be a trap, could it? Both my family and Prince Siegfried had been annoyed when I had turned down his marriage proposal. And Siegfried was the type who likes to get his own way. Had I been specially invited to this wedding so that I’d be trapped in a spooky old castle in the middle of the mountains of Romania with a convenient priest to perform a marriage ceremony?
I looked back longingly at the motorcar as Count Dragomir indicated we should follow him up the steps.
We entered the castle into a towering hall hung with banners and weapons. Archways around the walls led into dark passageways. The floor and walls were solid stone and it was almost as cold inside as it was out.
“You will rest after exhausting journey,” Dragomir said. His breath hung visibly in the cold air. “I will have servants show you to your rooms. We dine at eight. Her Highness Princess Maria Theresa looks forward to renewing acquaintanceship with her old friend Lady Georgiana of Rannoch. Please do follow now.”
He clapped his hands. A bevy of footmen leaped out of the shadows, snatched up our train cases and started up another flight of steep stone steps that ascended one of the walls with no railing. My feet felt as tired as if I’d been on a long hike and I realized it was a long way down if I were to stumble. At the top we came out to a hallway colder and draftier than anything at Castle Rannoch, then up a spiral staircase, round and round until I was feeling dizzy. The staircase ended in a broad corridor with a carved wooden ceiling. Again the floor was stone, and it was lined with ancestral portraits of people who looked fierce, half mad or both. Queenie had been following hard on my heels. Suddenly she gave a scream and leaped to grab me, nearly sending us both sprawling.
“There’s someone standing behind the pillar,” she gasped.
I turned to look. “It’s only a suit of armor,” I said.
“But I could swear it moved, miss. I saw it raise its arm.”
The suit was indeed standing holding a pike with one arm raised. I opened the visor. “See. There’s nobody inside. Come on, or we’ll lose our guide.”
Queenie followed, keeping so close that she kept bumping into me every time I slowed. A door was opened, curtains were held back and I stepped into an impressively large room.
Queenie was breathing down my neck. “Ooh, heck,” she said. “It looks like something out of the pictures, don’t it, miss? Boris Karloff and Frankenstein.”
“Come,” the footman now said to Queenie. “Mistress rest now. Come.”
“Go with him, Queenie,” I said. “He’ll take you to your room. Have a rest yourself but come back in time to dress me for dinner.”
Queenie shot me a frightened glance and went after him reluctantly. The curtains fell into place and I was alone. The room smelled old and damp, in a way that was not unfamiliar to me from our castle at home. But whereas the rooms at Castle Rannoch were spartan in the extreme, this room was full of drapes, hangings and heavy furniture. In the middle was a four-poster bed hung with velvet curtains that would have been quite suitable for the Princess and the Pea. Similar heavy curtains covered one wall, with presumably a window behind them. More curtains concealed the door I had just come through. A fire was burning in an ornate marble fireplace but it hadn’t succeeded in heating the room very well. There was a massive wardrobe, a dressing table, a bulky chest of drawers, a writing desk by the window and a huge painting on the wall of a pale, rather good-looking young man in a white shirt, reminding me of one of the Romantic poets—had Lord Byron visited these parts? But then Byron had been dark and this young man was blond. The lighting was extremely poor, dim and flickering, coming from a couple of sconces on the walls. I looked around, still feeling queasy from the ride and uneasy from the strange tension that had been building ever since that man had tried to enter my compartment. It wasn’t the pleasantest feeling standing in a room with no obvious window or door and I decided to go and pull back the curtains on the far wall.
As I crossed the room I detected a movement and my heart lurched as I saw a white face looking at me. Then I realized it was only a pockmarked old looking glass on the wardrobe door. I pulled back the curtains enough to reveal the window, managed to open the shutters and stood looking out into the blackness of the night. Not a single light shone out from the dark forested hills. Snow was still falling softly and cold flakes landed on my cheeks. I looked down. My room must have been in the part of the castle built on the edge of the rock, because it seemed an awfully long way down into nothing. Far away I detected the sound of howling coming through the stillness. It didn’t sound like any dog I had ever heard and the word “wolves” crept into my mind.
I was just about to close the window again when I stiffened, then peered intently into the darkness trying to make out what I was really seeing. Something or somebody was climbing up the castle wall.
Chapter 12
Bran Castle
Somewhere in the middle of Transylvania
Wednesday, November 16
I couldn’t believe my eyes. All I could make out was a figure all in black with what looked like a cape blowing out behind it in the wind moving steadily up the apparently smooth stone wall of the castle. Then all at once it vanished. I stood there, staring for a while until the wind picked up, carrying with it the howling of wolves, and snow started to blow into the room. Then I closed the window again. I lay on the bed and tried to rest but I couldn’t. Drat that Deer-Harte woman. If she hadn’t brought up the subject of vampires, my thoughts wouldn’t be running wild at this point. I lay looking around the room. The top of the wardrobe appeared to be carved with gargoyles at each corner. There were faces in the crown molding and—dear God, what was that? A piece of furniture I hadn’t noticed, half hidden behind the door curtains. It looked like a large carved wood chest. A very large carved wood chest big enough to conceal a person. Or . . . it couldn’t be a coffin, could it?
I got up and tiptoed across the room. I had to know what was inside that chest. The lid was infernally heavy. I was just struggling to get it open when I felt a draft behind me and a hand touched my back. I yelled and spun around. The lid crashed shut with a hollow thud and there was Queenie looking scared.
“Sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to startle you. I came in real quiet-like, in case you were still sleeping.”
“Sleeping? How can I sleep in a place like this?” I asked.
She looked around. “Blimey. I see what you mean. This is a spooky old place, ain’t it? Gives me the willies. Reminds me of the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussauds. Except for the bloke on the wall. He’s a bit of all right, ain’t he?”
“I’m not sure I like him looking at me when I’m in bed,” I said, and as I said it I realized that the portrait was directly above the chest/coffin. “What’s your room like?”
“A bit like Holloway Prison, if you want my opinion. Plain and cold. And way up in one of the turrets. I don’t see myself getting much sleep up there. And you have to go round and round this windy staircase to reach it. I got lost several times on the way down. I’d have ended up down in the dungeons by now, if it hadn’t been for one of them blokes in the smashing uniform who rescued me and brought me here. I don’t know how I’m ever going to find my way back.” She stared at me. “Are you all right, miss? You look awful pale.”
I was about to tell her about the thing climbing up the castle wall but then I realized that I couldn’t. That Rannoch sense of duty kicked in and I was sure that Robert Bruce Rannoch or Mu
rdoch McLachan Rannoch wouldn’t have been frightened by a figure climbing up a wall. I had to appear to be calm and in control.
“I’m absolutely splendid, thank you, Queenie,” I said. “Now, I wonder when my baggage will arrive.”
Almost on cue there was a tap on my door and the bags were brought in by more tall, dark-haired footmen, all seeming to look identical.
“You might as well put away my clothes and then help me get dressed for dinner,” I said. “I wonder where you’re supposed to find water for me to wash.”
We scouted out the hall and found a bathroom not too far away—a massive cavern of a room with great stone arches rising to a vaulted ceiling. The claw-footed tub in the middle was big enough to go swimming in. A geyser contraption over it presumably supplied hot water.
“I think I’ll have a bath before dinner,” I said. “Why don’t you start running me a bath and then see if you can locate my robe.”
I undressed while Queenie unpacked and hung up my things. That’s when we discovered that she hadn’t packed a robe for me. “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll have to walk down the hall in my nightdress. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else around.”
I scooted rapidly back to the bathroom, feeling rather self-conscious in my nightdress, and found the whole place full of steam and the bath temperature hot enough to boil a steamed pudding. What’s more the window was jammed shut and it took ages for me to run out half the bathwater and fill it with cold. After that I had a lovely long soak, got out feeling refreshed and looked around for a towel. There wasn’t one. Now I was in a pickle. The nightdress that I had worn had become so sodden with steam that it was almost as wet as I was. I had no way to dry off. I’d have to make a run for it.
I pulled my nightdress over my head with great difficulty. It clung to my wet body like a second skin. I opened the bathroom door, looked up and down the hallway then sprinted for my own bedroom. That was when I realized I couldn’t remember how many doors down the hallway was mine. It was two, surely. Or was it three? I was conscious of the trail of drips behind me, of the puddle forming around me, and my feet freezing on the stone floor. I stood outside the second door and tried to open it. It wouldn’t open.
I tapped on it firmly. “Queenie, let me in, please.”
No answer.
I rapped louder. “Queenie, for God’s sake open the door.”
The door was flung open suddenly and I found myself staring into the bleary-eyed face of Prince Siegfried. He had obviously just woken from sleep. He looked me up and down, his eyebrows raised in horror.
“I’m so sorry. I must have the wrong room,” I mumbled.
“Lady Georgiana,” he exclaimed. “Mein Gott. What is the meaning of this? You are not wearing clothes. Most inappropriate. What has befallen you? You have had an accident and fallen into water?”
“I am wearing something but it’s rather wet. You see, there were no towels in the bathroom and I forgot which door was mine and...” I was babbling on until I heard Queenie’s voice hissing, “Psst. Down ’ere, miss.”
“Sorry to trouble you,” I said and fled.
Of course when I reached the safety of my room, I discovered that there were towels on the top shelf of the wardrobe. I dried off still feeling utterly stupid and embarrassed. Of all doors, I had to knock on Siegfried’s. All in all it had been a long and trying day.
It was lucky that I had had oodles of practice in dressing myself, as Queenie was more hindrance than help. She got my dress stuck trying to put my head through one of the armholes. Then her idea of doing my hair made me look like I was housing a bird’s nest. But eventually I looked presentable, wearing burgundy velvet and the family rubies, and I was ready by the time the first gong sounded.
“I’m going down to dinner now, Queenie,” I said. “I’m not sure where you go for your supper, but one of the servants will show you.”
Her eyes darted nervously and I felt sorry for her. “I can’t be late on the first evening here,” I said. “Honestly you’ll be all right. Just go down to the kitchen.”
I left her looking as if she wanted to follow me and made my own way, with some difficulty, to the predinner gathering in the long gallery. The gallery was hung with more banners, and adorned with the heads of various animals, ranging from wild boar to bears, but it looked bright and festive with hundreds of candles sparkling on crystal chandeliers. The assembled company was dripping with braid, medals and diamonds, reminding me of one of the more extravagant Viennese operettas. I felt the wave of nervousness that always comes over me on such occasions, tinged with the worry that I’ll do something clumsy like trip over the carpet, knock over a statue or spill my drink. I am inclined to be clumsy when I’m nervous. I was wondering if I could join the company without being noticed, but at that moment I was announced and heads turned to appraise me. A young man detached himself from a group and came to greet me, his hand outstretched.
“Georgiana. How good of you to come. I don’t know if you remember me but we met once when we were children. I am Nicholas, the bridegroom, and I believe we are second cousins or something like that.”
His English was flawless, with a typical public school accent, and he was tall and good-looking, with the dark blond hair and blue eyes of many of the Saxe-Coburg clan. I felt an instant stab of sympathy that he was being landed with Moony Matty. He was actually a prince I wouldn’t mind marrying myself—if one were absolutely forced into marrying a prince.
“How do you do, Your Highness,” I said, bobbing a curtsy as we shook hands. “I’m afraid I don’t remember meeting you.”
“At a celebration for the end of the Great War. We spent it in England, you know. You were a skinny little thing at the time and we made short work of a box of Turkish delight under a table, if I remember correctly.”
I laughed. “And felt horribly sick afterward. Oh, I do remember now. You were about to go off to school. I was envious because I was stuck at home with a governess.” Then I remembered something else. “You were at school with Darcy O’Mara, weren’t you? He mentioned that you were a good rugby player.”
“So you know Darcy, do you? Damned good fullback himself. Plenty of speed. So how do you like the castle?” He grinned impishly. “Delightfully gothic, wouldn’t you say? Maria insisted on having the wedding here.”
“It’s a family tradition, I suppose.”
“Maybe for the original family—Vlad the Impaler, reputed to be Dracula, was one of them, I believe. But Maria’s family hasn’t been on the throne for that long. No, I think it has more to do with Maria’s fond memories of summer holidays spent here as a child, and her romantic nature—wanting to be married in a fairy-tale castle.” He leaned closer to me. “Frankly I would have preferred somewhere more comfortable and accessible.”
“It does seem rather—gothic, as you say,” I agreed.
We broke off as a large man barged up to us. “And who is this delightful creature? Introduce me please, Nicholas.” He spoke with a heavy accent.
He was pale and light haired with the flat features of the Slav and his uniform was so covered in medals, sashes, orders and braid that he appeared almost a caricature of a general from Gilbert and Sullivan. And I noticed that he had called the prince Nicholas.
A slight spasm of annoyance crossed Nicholas’s face. “Oh, Pirin. Of course; this is my dear relative from England. Lady Georgiana, may I present Field Marshal Pirin, head of the Bulgarian armed forces and personal adviser to my father, the king.”
“Field Marshal. I’m pleased to meet you.” I inclined my head graciously as we shook hands. His hand was meaty and sweaty and it held mine a little too long.
“So from England you come, Lady Georgiana. How is the dear old King George? Splendid old chap, isn’t he, but rather boring. Hardly drinks at all.”
“He was well when I last saw him, thank you,” I said frostily, as I didn’t like this supposed familiarity with the king, “although as you have probably heard, the king’s health ha
s not been the best recently.”
“Yes, I hear this. And the Prince of Wales—is he ready to step into his father’s shoes, do you think? Will he do a good job when the old man kicks the bucket, as you say in England, or will he still be the playboy?”
I really didn’t want to discuss my family with a complete stranger and one not even royal. “I’m sure he’ll be absolutely splendid when the time comes,” I said.
The field marshal put a meaty hand on my bare arm and gave it a squeeze. “I like this girl. She has fire,” he said to Nicholas. “She shall sit beside me at dinner tonight and I will get to know her better.” And he gave me what could only be described as a leer.
“I’m afraid that my bride has insisted that Georgiana sit close to her at dinner. They are dear friends, you know, and they will want time to chat. Have you met Maria Theresa yet, Georgiana? I know she is dying to see you again. Let us go and seek her out.”
He took my arm and led me away. “Odious fellow,” he whispered when we were out of earshot. “But we have to tread carefully in Bulgaria at the moment. He is from our southwestern province of Macedonia, and there is a strong separatist movement in that area, wanting to break away from us—and Yugoslavia would like to annex our part of Macedonia to its own. So you see, it’s delicate. As long as Pirin holds power, he can keep them loyal. If he goes, they will try to break away. There will be civil war. Yugoslavia will undoubtedly take the side of the break-away province and before you know it another regional, if not world, war will be on our doorsteps. So we flatter and humor him. But he’s a peasant. And a dangerous one.”
“I see.”
“That is why this alliance with Romania is so important. We need them on our side if there is any kind of Balkan conflict. But no talk of gloomy things tonight. Tonight we feast and celebrate my wedding. Ah, there is my lovely bride now. Maria, Schatzlein, look who I have found.”
