Her head jerked up and she stared hard at him, lips tight.
“Me lord,” said Tom softly behind him. “Hanna’s name is Koenig.”
“It is not!” the gypsy snapped. “It is Mulengro, as is mine!”
“First things first, if you please, madam,” Grey said, repressing the urge to stand up, as she leaned glowering over him. “Where is Hanna? And what is she to you? Sister, cousin, daughter …?”
“Sister,” she said, biting the word off like a thread. Her lips were tight as a seam, but Grey touched his gorget once again.
“Life,” he said. “And freedom.” He regarded her steadily, watching indecision play upon her features like the wavering shadows on the walls. She had no way of knowing how powerless he was; he could neither condemn nor release her—and nor would anyone else, all being caught up in the oncoming maelstrom of war.
In the end, he had his way, as he had known he would, and sat listening to her in a state that was neither trance nor dream; just a tranquil acceptance as the pieces fell before him, one upon one.
She was one of the women recruited by the Austrians to spread the rumors of the succubus—and had much enjoyed the spreading, judging from the way she licked her lower lip while telling of it. Her sister Hanna had been married to the soldier Koenig, but had rejected him, he being a faithless hound, like all men.
Bearing in mind the gossip regarding Siegfried’s paternity, Grey nodded thoughtfully, motioning to her with one hand to go on.
She did. Koenig had gone away with the army, but then had come back, and had had the audacity to visit the Schloss, trying to rekindle the flame with Hanna. Afraid that he might succeed in seducing her sister again—“She is weak, Hanna,” she said with a shrug, “she will trust men!”—she had gone to visit Koenig at night, planning to drug him with wine laced with opium, as she had done with the others.
“Only this time, a fatal dose, I suppose.” Grey had propped his elbow upon his crossed knee, hand under his chin. The tiredness had come back; it hovered near at hand, but was not yet clouding his mental processes.
“I meant it so, yes.” She uttered a short laugh. “But he knew the taste of opium. He threw it at me, and grabbed me by the throat.”
Whereupon she had drawn the dagger she always carried at her belt and stabbed at him—striking upward into his open mouth, and piercing his brain.
“You never saw so much blood in all your life,” the gypsy assured Grey, unconsciously echoing Herr Hückel.
“Oh, I rather think I have,” Grey said politely. His hand went to his own waist—but, of course, he had left his dagger with Franz. “But pray go on. The marks, as of an animal’s fangs?”
“A nail,” she said, and shrugged.
“So, was it him—Koenig, I mean—was it him tried to snatch little Siggy?” Tom, deeply absorbed in the revelations, could not keep himself from blurting out the question. He coughed and tried to fade back into the woodwork, but Grey indicated that this was a question which he himself found of some interest.
“It can’t have been; Koenig was already dead. But I assume that it was you the boy saw in his chamber?” What did this witch look like? he had asked. Like a witch, the child replied. Did she? She did not look like Grey’s conception of a witch—but what was that, save the fabrication of a limited imagination?
She was tall for a woman, dark, and her face mingled an odd sexuality with a strongly forbidding aspect—a combination that many men would find intriguing. Grey thought it was not something that would have struck Siggy, but something else about her evidently had.
She nodded. She was fingering her ring, he saw, and watching him with calculation, as though deciding whether to tell him a lie.
“I have seen the dowager princess’s medal,” he said politely. “Is she an Austrian, by birth? I assume that you and your sister are.”
The woman stared at him, and said something in her own tongue, which sounded highly uncomplimentary.
“And you think I am a witch!” she said, evidently translating the thought.
“No, I don’t,” Grey said. “But others do, and that is what brings us here. If you please, madam, let us conclude our business. I expect someone will shortly come for you.” The Schloss was at dinner; Tom had brought Grey a tray, which he was too tired to eat. No doubt the rune-casting would be the after-dinner entertainment, and he must make his desires clear before that.
“Well, then.” The gypsy regarded him, her awe at his perspicacity fading back into the usual derision. “It was your fault.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It was Princess Gertrude—the dowager. She saw Louisa—that slut”—she spat casually on the floor, almost without pausing, and went on—“making sheep’s eyes at you, and was afraid she meant to marry you. Louisa thought she would marry you and go to England, to be safe and rich. But if she did, she would take with her her son.”
“And the dowager did not wish to be parted from her grandson,” Grey said slowly. Whether the gossip was true or not, the old woman loved the boy.
The gypsy nodded. “So she arranged that we would take the boy—my sister and me. He would be safe with us, and after a time, when the Austrians had killed you all, we would bring him back.”
Hanna had gone down the ladder first, meaning to comfort Siggy if he woke in the rain. But Siggy had wakened too soon, and bollixed the scheme by running out of the room. Hanna had no choice but to flee when Grey had tipped the ladder over, leaving her sister to hide in the Schloss and make her way out at daybreak, with the help of the dowager.
“She is with our family,” the gypsy said, with another shrug. “Safe.”
“The ring,” Grey said, nodding at the gypsy’s circlet. “Do you serve the dowager? Is that what it means?”
So much confessed, the gypsy evidently felt now at ease. Casually, she pushed a platter of dead doves aside, and sat down upon the shelf, feet dangling.
“We are Rom,” she said, drawing herself up proudly. “The Rom serve no one. But we have known the Trauchtenbergs—the dowager’s family—for generations, and there is tradition between us. It was her great-grandfather who bought the child who guards the bridge—and that child was the younger brother of my own great-grandfather. The ring was given to my great-grandfather then, as a sign of the bargain.”
Grey heard Tom grunt slightly with confusion, but took no heed. The words struck him as forcibly as a blow, and he could not speak for a moment. The thing was too shocking. He took a deep breath, fighting the vision of Franz’s words—the small, round white skull, looking out at him from the hollow in the bridge.
Sounds of banging and clashing dishes from the scullery nearby brought him to himself, though, and he realized that time was growing short.
“Very well,” he said, as briskly as he could. “I want one last bit of justice, and our bargain is made. Agathe Blomberg.”
“Old Agathe?” The gypsy laughed, and in spite of her missing tooth, he could see how attractive she could be. “How funny! How could they suppose such an old stick might be a demon of desire? A hag, yes, but a night hag?” She went off into peals of laughter, and Grey jumped to his feet, seizing her by the shoulder to silence her.
“Be quiet,” he said. “Someone will come.”
She stopped then, though she still snorted with amusement.
“So, then?”
“So, then,” he said firmly. “When you do your hocus-pocus—whatever it is they’ve brought you here to do—I wish you particularly to exonerate Agathe Blomberg. I don’t care what you say or how you do it—I leave that to your own devices, which I expect are considerable.”
She looked at him for a moment, looked down at his hand upon her shoulder, and shrugged it off.
“That’s all, is it?” she asked sarcastically.
“That’s all. Then you may go.”
“Oh, I may go? How kind.” She stood smiling at him, but not in a kindly way. It occurred to him quite suddenly that she had required no assurances from him, had not asked for so much as his word as a gentleman—though he supposed she would not have valued that, in any case.
She did not care, he realized, with a small shock. She had not told him anything for the sake of saving herself—she simply wasn’t afraid. Did she think the dowager would protect her, for the sake either of their ancient bond, or because of what she knew about the failed kidnapping?
Perhaps. Perhaps she had confidence in something else. And if she had, he chose not to consider what that might be. He rose from the cask of fish, and pushed it back under the shelves.
“Agathe Blomberg was a woman, too,” he said.
She rose, too, and stood looking at him, rubbing her ring with apparent thought.
“So she was. Well, perhaps I will do it, then. Why should men dig up her coffin and drag her poor old carcass through the streets?”
He could feel Tom behind him, vibrating with eagerness to be gone; the racket of the dinner-clearing was much louder.
“For you, though—”
He glanced at her, startled by the tone in her voice, which held something different. Neither mockery nor venom, nor any other emotion that he knew.
Her eyes were huge, gleaming in the candlelight, but so dark that they seemed void pools, her face without expression.
“You will never satisfy a woman,” she said softly. “Any woman who shares your bed will leave after no more than a single night, cursing you.”
Grey rubbed a knuckle against his stubbled chin, and nodded.
“Very likely, madam,” he said. “Good night.”
Epilogue
Among the Trumpets
The order of battle was set. The autumn sun had barely risen, and the troops would march within the hour.
Grey was in the stable block, checking Karolus’s tack, tightening the girth, adjusting the bridle, marking second by second the time until he should depart, as though each second marked an irretrievable and most precious drop of his life.
Outside the stables, all was confusion, as people ran hither and thither, gathering belongings, searching for children, calling for wives and parents, strewing away objects gathered only moments before, heedless in their distraction. His heart beat fast in his chest, and intermittent small thrills coursed up the backs of his legs and curled between them, tightening his scrotum.
The drums were beating in the distance, ordering the troops. The thrum of them beat in his blood, in his bone. Soon, soon, soon. His chest was tight; it was difficult to draw full breath.
He did not hear the footsteps approaching through the straw of the stables. Keyed up as he was, though, he felt the disturbance of air nearby, that intimation of intrusion that now and then had saved his life, and whirled, hand on his dagger.
It was Stephan von Namtzen, gaudy in full uniform, his great plumed helmet underneath one arm—but with a face sober by contrast to his clothing.
“It is nearly time,” the Hanoverian said quietly. “I would speak with you—if you will hear me.”
Grey slowly let his hand fall away from the dagger, and took the full breath he had been longing for.
“You know that I will.”
Von Namtzen inclined his head in acknowledgment, but did not speak at once, seeming to need to gather his words—although they were speaking German now.
“I will marry Louisa,” he said, finally, formally. “If I live until Christmas. My children—” He hesitated, free hand flat upon the breast of his coat. “It will be good they should have a mother once more. And—”
“You need not give reasons,” Grey interrupted. He smiled at the big Hanoverian, with open affection. Caution was no longer necessary. “If you wish this, then I wish you well.”
Von Namtzen’s face lightened. He ducked his head a little, and took a breath.
“Danke. I say, I will marry if I am alive. If I am not …” His hand still rested on his breast, above the miniature of his children.
“If I live, and you do not, then I will go to your home,” Grey said. “I will tell your son what I have known of you. Is this your desire?”
The Hanoverian’s graveness did not alter, but a deep warmth softened his gray eyes.
“It is. You have known me, perhaps, better than anyone.”
He stood still, looking at Grey, and all at once, the relentless marking of fleeting time stopped. Confusion and danger still hastened without, and drums beat loud, but inside the stables, there was a great peace.
Stephan’s hand left his breast, and reached out. Grey took it, and felt love flow between them. He thought that heart and body must be entirely melted—if only for that moment.
Then they parted, each drawing back, each seeing the flash of desolation in the other’s face, both smiling ruefully to see it.
Stephan was turning to go when Grey remembered.
“Wait!” he called, and turned to fumble in his saddlebag.
“What is this?” Stephan turned the small, heavy box over in his hands, looking puzzled.
“A charm,” Grey said, smiling. “A blessing. My blessing—and St. Orgevald’s. May it protect you.”
“But—” Von Namtzen frowned with doubt, and tried to give the reliquary back, but Grey would not accept it.
“Believe me,” he said in English, “it will do you more good than me.”
Stephan looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded, and, tucking the little box away in his pocket, turned and left. Grey turned back to Karolus, who was growing restive, tossing his head and snorting softly through his nose.