Saint-Germain 21: Borne in Blood: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  On the night of April 5th, 1818,

  Magistrate Lindenblatt,

  I believe it is my duty to inform you that I have observed a number of cloaked and masked men leave the Bradnauer farm and proceed along the village lane to the road leading to Sacre-Sang. I counted at least nine men, all mounted, all carrying pistols in saddle-holsters. The hour was after midnight but before the clock struck one. I was on guard at the fountain in the market-square. I am not ashamed to say I hid from the men and resolved to follow them, for the night being very dark, I doubted they would ride faster than a walk; they would not risk their horses for no reason. It was approaching two when they reached their destination.

  Keeping close behind them, I continued to trail them until they reached the edge of Sacre-Sang, where I observed them enter a house near the village church by its kitchen door, leaving their horses tied behind the barn. Shortly after, a single man arrived on foot. He, too, was cloaked and masked, and so I cannot say beyond all doubt who he was; he carried a sack over his shoulder containing I know not what, but I can say he must be from the area of Sacre-Sang, for I heard no horse before he arrived, therefore I assume he walked, and with such a burden, I doubt he would travel far.

  The guard in the village paid him no notice, which convinces me more than all the rest that the man is from the immediate vicinity. It is most sad to think that the suppositions are true and that the aid for the outlaws of this region comes from a man or men who lives here. I wish I had been able to discover who the local man is, so that he might be called before you for an explanation of his activities. As it is, I can say only that the man seemed tall, but that may be because of the sack, and that he remained with the masked men for two hours, and when he left, he was no longer carrying the sack he had brought to their meeting, but I had to slip around the house to the church so that none of the men could see me, which gave me only an instant in which to observe the local man.

  I realize that it would be improper and useless for me to make a formal accusation on this small amount of information, but I will continue to keep watch, and it may be that I will have another opportunity to observe these robbers again, and learn more about them. If I should do, I will inform you at once, as I do now, through the good offices of Pere Stechnadel of Saint-Ange, who has taken down my account and prepared it for you.

  Believe me

  Your friend

  5

  Hero’s left eye was too swollen to open, and her brow was crusted with her own blood, but she struggled to memorize her surroundings in the hope that she would be able to report them to the authorities: it allowed her to believe she would not die here. She was tied to an old wooden frame that might once have housed the gears from the water-wheel; it leaned against the wall so that she was more upright than supine, but she could not stand, so the bonds forced all of her weight onto her wrists and ankles. The knots were tight enough to hold her firmly, so tight that after an hour, sensation was deadened in her hands and feet. The area where she was confined was small, dark, and dank. Broken beams lay at odd angles to the floor; many had lichen and mosses growing on them. Only one fair-sized window high up the wall provided any hint of the day outside, and it was fading as the steep little valley fell into afternoon shadow. The smell was dank, slightly woody and slightly moldy. The constant guggle of water provided the kind of sound the ocean could—steady, loud enough to intrude, but not so loud as to overcome. A pair of glass-chimneyed candles sat on the upended barrel near the door, their length half-gone, their glass chimneys already faintly clouded with soot: Hero reckoned she had been dazed for the better part of an hour, and that, in turn, worried her.

  Light, rapid steps traipsed up the steep, rickety stairs from the floor below, and a moment later Hyacinthie, her dress torn, her walking shoes mired, her hair disheveled, all but bounced into Hero’s improvised cell. “Awake at last,” she enthused. “Well, Madame, and how did you enjoy your nap? You were unconscious for more than half an hour.” Her eyes were bright as splintered glass and her voice was almost a shriek.

  “ … m … not ’njoy.” She was appalled at how stiff her lips were, and how much it hurt to try to move them. She tried to remember how she had got here, and had a dim impression of leaving the Schloss with Hyacinthie, following her along a maze of woodland lanes, and then …

  “I’m sorry to hear that, as I’m sorry I had to hit you with my walking-staff, but there was no other way,” said Hyacinthie in a singsong parody of good manners. “I suppose you don’t know how long it took me to drag you up here, since you were unconscious. It took quite a while to tie you up, too. I ought to leave you alone to rest, but I couldn’t, not before I reassured myself that you were comfortable.” She approached Hero watchfully, alert to any sign that her bonds were untied. “Still caught fast. But the spider was a woman, Arachne, wasn’t she? in the Greek myths?—I think so. Frau Schale gives me so many things to remember, as if any of them are important.” She picked up a long, thin knife from where she had left it. “Let me see. Veins near the skin are blue. My uncle says the blood bears all our secrets, and I still don’t know yours. I should have more blood to study, as he does.” She came to Hero’s side and with a playful flick of her wrist, cut off Hero’s left ear-lobe, dismissing Hero’s shocked cry with a furious titter. “You cannot say you’ll miss it, Madame. And there is blood now. My uncle does not study female blood, but I think it means as much as males’, don’t you?”

  Hero wanted to shout at her, to demand to be released, but all she could manage was a muffled sort of roar. Tears of vexation and anger filled her eyes, making her left eye hurt even more as the tears pressed against the swollen tissues. She felt the blood run down her neck, the only thing warm in the chilly room.

  “Your blood is your heritage, so my uncle claims, and by studying the blood, heritage can be determined. He intends to show that every race, every nation, has its own blood, and that identifies those who share blood.” She whisked the knife along Hero’s cheek. “How bright it is, like a fire in winter.”

  All Hero could manage was a muffled scream of outrage.

  “You are so helpless,” said Hyacinthie.

  “Sto’!” Hero wralled.

  “What a foolish woman you are, Madame.” Hyacinthie put her hands on her hips, mimicking the manner of a parent to a recalcitrant child. “You cling to the Comte because no one else will have you, and you cannot see that it is pity, not affection, that keeps him with you. Better to let him go so he can have someone who will adore him and serve him. You are too old to pleasure him. He will want someone younger. Your death will show your devotion to him better than your life.”

  “ … don’ … know,” Hero managed with a terse, single burst of laughter. “The Com’ … He’s old.”

  “He is a grown man, who knows the world and will take me everywhere; he will not lock me away in a draughty house with no one for company, no friends but his to call upon us, never take me to balls or buy me pretty things,” Hyacinthie said as if daring Hero to contradict her. “If Herr Medoc is acceptable to Uncle Wallache, the Comte must be much more so.”

  “He’s … old,” Hero repeated.

  This time Hyacinthie did not respond to the jibe. “I know he will want me as he has never wanted you, as soon as you are gone from his life.” She wiped the knife on her ruined skirt. “I wonder how long it will take him to forget you?”

  “Ne … ver,” Hero forced herself to say, doing everything she could to enunciate in spite of her split lips and loose teeth.

  “At least his memories will not require him to see you as you are now, all cut and bruised and bleeding. He would be revolted, disgusted. If you had the misfortune to survive, you would be hideous to look upon, all scared and battered.” Hyacinthie giggled. “What a tragedy that would be.”

  Hero felt tears again, and the same revulsion she had experienced when she had glimpsed Ragoczy’s scars; she was ashamed of her weakness. The last thing she wanted to do was reveal any sign of
dismay to this freakish young woman, or to admit any of her accusation could be right. She did her utmost to speak clearly. “What now?” The effort the question demanded of her was enormous and it left her feeling depleted. She tried to move her fingers and toes but could not.

  “Now I arrange to gather your blood. I have a glass jar for it. I need to study it, don’t you see?” Her laughter was short and terrible. “Then you will vanish—just vanish.”

  “Why … mus’ I?” Hero muttered.

  Hyacinthie was not listening. “Originally I planned to burn this place down, but I realized it would attract attention, and you might be rescued before you died, so I reconsidered. A fire was too obvious. Vanishing has advantages. Perhaps your body will wash up down-stream, but if I wedge it under the log-jamb a little way down-stream, it may be a while before you’re found, and by then you’ll be nothing but bones. No one will know they’re yours. You will be only a memory, and even that won’t last very long, you being a stranger in the area.” She scampered over to the window. “I won’t move you until dark, and that gives you another three hours. Don’t worry,” she said glancing flirtatiously over her shoulder. “I’ve thought it all through. They won’t find you here.”

  “’s this … what … you did … t’ the—” Hero struggled to speak; she hoped to keep Hyacinthie talking while she tried to think of a way to escape. Her father had taught her, on their travels, always to think, never to panic: now his lessons would pay off.

  “Rosalie, you mean?” She came back to Hero’s side. “Rosalie vanished, too. Uncle Wallache thinks it was Gypsies who took her.”

  “You … don’?” Hero was feeling quite sick; she tasted bile at the back of her tongue.

  “No. I know what happened.” Hyacinthie did a quick, dancelike turn. “She fell down an old well.”

  Any hope that Hero had that she might be able to appeal to Hyacinthie’s compassion faded to nothing. “When?”

  “At the end of summer, I think it was, or a little later.” Hyacinthie shrugged. “I don’t think she’s still alive, if you’re wondering about it.” She came up to Hero and lightly ran the point of the knife along Hero’s jaw, leaving a bloody path behind. “I haven’t broken your nose yet—that’s for later. My uncle Wallache told me it hurts horribly, worse than breaking a leg.” She went back to the window. “And it’s worse than being poked by his thing in all the places he—He used to say he’d break mine—my nose—if I didn’t let him do—” She stopped abruptly. “I was a child then. I needed to be taught. I needed to show my gratitude.” she said dutifully.

  Hero blinked her right eye, trying to decide what Hyacinthie meant. She was appalled at what the young woman seemed to be saying, but her behavior was so peculiar, she might misunderstand her intentions. “When?” she asked again.

  “I was much younger then, and there was only me to cater to his needs. He told me I was the center of his home.” She smirked, but the smirk faded. “He stopped with me after my courses began. He said it would be dangerous to continue and so I did not receive him again. He ignored me after that.” Her voice rose. “Ignored me!” She slashed at Hero’s arm and paid no attention to her screams. “Once he had Rosalie and Hedda, he couldn’t wait to be rid of me. Of me! What could I do?” Her knife sliced at Hero’s skirt, nicking her shin. “He gave me to that old man! ME!”

  Hero flinched and clamped her jaws shut, not wanting to give Hyacinthie the pleasure of hearing her shriek. Much more of this, she thought distinctly, and I will pass out again. A dizziness was forming at the back of her skull so that every motion made her a bit queasy. She was very frightened, but in a distant sense, as if she were watching herself rather than having the experience. This could not last, and she knew it, but she determined to make the most of it as long as it continued.

  Hyacinthie lit another candle and placed it near Hero. “So I can see you better. You’ve only got the one eye open.” She stared toward the window, her face dreamy. “They say bears used to come here, that they tore down the door. Bears or not, the door is gone. I might be able to get people to believe that bears ate you.”

  This boded ill for Hero; she looked toward the window, blinking to clear the scum of tears and the last bit of blood from her eye. “Wha … are you go’n’ to do?” she struggled to ask.

  She put the jar on the floor under Hero. “I need some more of your blood, so I will take it, to see how much it changes while you lie here.” Hyacinthie wiped the knife again, her eyes glittering as she contemplated her task. “Now, Madame, where should I begin? Not the throat: the throat’s too fast. The leg might be good. Behind the knee, perhaps, or in the groin. Uncle Wallache says there are many large vessels in the legs.” She cocked her head, thinking. “I don’t know how quickly I want you to die. I’d better decide that first, don’t you think?”

  “Tha’ wou’ … be wise,” said Hero, knowing Hyacinthie was completely unaware of her sarcasm. She tried to speak more clearly. “Unwise.”

  “What? Killing you?” Hyacinthie all but sprung onto her toes. “But it is. It is very wise. You cannot be allowed to have him, not any longer. I need him, and I can make him want me.” She raked the point of her knife along Hero’s left sleeve, all the way from her shoulder to her fingers, leaving a long furrow opening the length of her arm. “You have had him long enough. I will have him now.”

  Hero felt her weight shift a little, and realized that Hyacinthie had cut one of the ropes holding her to the gear-housing. She tried to pull on the rope, but the long cut was bleeding and it hurt to move. She took a deep breath and tried again.

  “Soon the deer will come down to the stream to drink,” Hyacinthie crooned. “The shepherds will bring in their flocks, and the cows will go home for milking.” She swung around to glare at Hero. “So you mustn’t think that you’re going to be rescued if you hear steps along the path. No one knows where we are. No one cares.”

  “How … can you … be …” Hero asked; what little vision she had was starting to blur, from tears or loss of blood she could not tell.

  “I know because I planned it to be this way. I have left nothing to chance,” Hyacinthie declared. “I worked it all out. I’m much cleverer than Uncle Wallache thinks I am. I am not a stupid woman, no matter what he believes. He should have kept me with him. I could help him. I can help the Comte.”

  “How?” Steeling herself, Hero dragged on the cut rope, and this time she felt the fibers give way, and pain shot into her hand.

  “I know how to study. I know how to do the observations my uncle does. I have kept journals of my own, private ones. I have recorded all that has transpired at Ravensberg since I came. This will show how useful I am, to Uncle Wallache and the Count. I know the Comte is interested in all this because his publishing house produced Uncle Wallache’s book. Uncle Wallache says—” She saw that Hero had freed her hand, and that it was now dangling at her side, bleeding steadily. “You want to hurry death along, is that it?”

  “No. I … wan’ … ou’,” Hero said, trying to get her arm to work. She could feel only weakness and pain in her loose hand, and that frightened her more than Hyacinthie’s knife.

  “In a while,” said Hyacinthie at her most soothing. “You needn’t rush. We still have plenty of time.”

  Hero summoned up every bit of strength she could and jerked against her remaining bonds; the ropes did not give, but the gear-housing jolted against the wall and a board from the wall behind her fell with an abrupt bang that was loud as a thunder-clap in the enclosed space.

  “Enough of that!” Hyacinthie screeched, and threw herself atop Hero, her knife raised and ready. She made an effort to stab down, but the gear-housing moaned and the upper brace sagged.

  Another board fell, and then came the sound of heavy footsteps from below, and men shouting from somewhere nearby.

  “No! It’s not time!” Hyacinthie swung off Hero and rushed to the top of the precarious stairs, her face set in a ferocious smile; Hero forced herself to listen int
ently, to remain as still as she could, until she knew who had come into the mill. “They must go away.”

  “Fraulein Hyacinthie! Madame von Scharffensee! Are you here?” The voice was Herr Medoc’s. “Call out if you can hear us.”

  Hero heard this and wanted to shout aloud, but she could only make a muffled cry, and wondered if she could be heard at all.

  “There are stairs. Be careful going up them,” said a voice Hyacinthie did not recognize. “Some of the treads are loose, or rotten.”

  “Thanks,” said Medoc, ascending.

  Hyacinthie took a position where Medoc would not see her at first; she crouched low, and as his head appeared in the stairwell opening, she launched herself at him, snarling as she raised her arm to shove her knife down through his shoulder deep into his chest, leaning down hard to drive the point as far into his lung as possible. Blood spread down his jacket and he coughed wetly. Hyacinthie withdrew the knife and was rewarded with a spurting fountain that struck her face and upper body; she plunged the knife in again, this time into the base of his neck. He jerked, blood sprayed from his mouth, and he made a clumsy attempt to dislodge her from his back. She hung on as he staggered, knees collapsing and sending him face forward onto the sagging treads, where he lay, bleeding and spasming as life left him, and Hyacinthie rose, knife still in hand, face and shoulders encaramined, to confront Heller Wegbruden, who had picked up a large plank to serve as a shield against her. The metallic odor of fresh blood intensified, along with the stink of relaxed bowels.

  “Hyacinthie!” Otto Gutesohnes shouted from the open doorway below. “Hyacinthie! Don’t!”

  “I’ll kill you!” she shouted at the men coming into the mill. She struck out with her foot, hit the plank, and sent Wegbruden back down the stairs, not quite falling, but stumbling enough to impact the pillar at the foot of the stairs.

  “Stay where you are!” Gutesohnes told her. “I’ll come get you.”