The Count of the Living Death (The Chronicles of Hildigrim Blackbeard) (13 page)

“To your marriage, signora,” he said, raising his glass.

She reciprocated and sipped the wine. Cloying and sticky, not at all her to her taste. Like everything else in this castle, she imagined.

“How long have you lived here?” she asked.

 “Twelve years, but I wasn’t born here—no, no, I’m from the mainland, the city itself!” he said, rather abruptly. “I learned my station at the Duke’s father’s estate in Belladonna. Not that anyone appreciates me; a bit like pearls before swine, I’m afraid. However, I was overjoyed to hear of your arrival last week. At last, a woman of rank and discernment. I hope you will consider me your personal attaché, a role I once performed for the Countess d’Agoult.”

“Gladly,” she smiled, draining her glass. “And when is the duke expected?”

“Ah, he wasn’t very clear on that in his letter,” he muttered. “The master doesn’t always think it necessary to inform me of his personal affairs.”

Sensing an opening, she played her hand.

“And you think he should have? That you’ve a right to?”

When the Majordomo realized he had let a truth slip, his eyes widened—but she reassured him with a gentle squeeze of his arm.

“Don’t fear. If you’re to serve me there can be no secrets between us. Gossip is the pact that binds mistress and servant; surely you observed that during your time in the city?”

Astonished by her candor, he gradually lowered his guard and “spilled,” as she predicted. Truth be told, the Duke rarely told him anything, he grumbled. If he perished tomorrow, it would be five months before the master took note of it; and even then, his burial would have to wait a full calendar year, by which time rats and other unspeakable vermin would have eaten his bones. Mary felt more than a twinge of pity for the fellow. They were both prisoners here, each one parceled off and forgotten. Perhaps the Duke would never come to collect her? Perhaps it was all for show, like the estate in a land he never visited (no more than twice in ten years, the Majordomo insisted).

“I appreciate your honesty, Majordomo,” she said. “And now, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble…could you give me a tour of the castle grounds?”

“I…naturally I would love to, signora, but he insisted—it’s one of the few things he actually said in his letter! You are forbidden to leave this room.”

“Forbidden?” she said, crossing the room. “Well then…that seems to be the last word on the subject.”

She rested her hand on the door. The Majordomo leapt up, arms waving, pleading for her to obey the master’s decree. With a smile she pushed it open, revealing a stretch of musty hallway crisscrossed by beams of light.

“Signora, I must insist…”

“No books, hideous wine, and not even a tour, a simple walk around the castle? Not even just once? I promise not to tell. And secrets between a mistress and her servant, as I’m sure you know, are sacred.”

The Majordomo faltered. It was a very simple thing, just a walk. And for her, the first person who listened to him in more than a decade.
His
mistress.
Her
servant.

“This way, signora, if you please.”

     The tour took them past the gardens of the castle (most of them sadly neglected, fallen into various states of disrepair) and down a forgotten path through the woods that ended in a ruined cliff stretching over an endless exfontst opanse of ocean. The horizon was utterly devoid of life, a shimmering line of white and blue. No sign of her husband-to-be, pirates (which the Majordomo said occasionally washed up on the island), or Leopold and the sorcerer. She felt completely alone. The Majordomo read her emotion and gestured to the ground far below.

“When I first arrived I came here often, comforting myself with the thought that I could escape…with one fatal step. But of course I could never do it.”

“Then take my hand; we’ll do it together,” she smiled.

“Surely you jest,” he said, fearful of this unexpected intimacy. “Besides, once you marry you’ll soon be away. He would never stay here. No one willingly stays here.”

“Is it so bad, really?” she asked, stooping to retrieve a stone. “Obviously, I’ve heard terrible rumors of a plague. But you’re still here…”

“There’s no plague,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Many noblemen and women from the mainland came here to discreetly suffer from certain…unspeakable ailments. Their families passed it off as the plague. It’s the healthiest place on earth. You can live forever out here. And feel every minute of it…”

“Incredible!” she laughed, throwing the stone. “How deceitful of them. But aside from the isolation, it seems quite beautiful. Is there something else…?”

The Majordomo walked in agitated circles while stammering vague syllables. He finally committed to an answer, which was simply “it drives me mad.”

“Mad? You seem quite sane to me. Bored silly, but sane.”

“Of course it’s a lovely place; lovely for someone who’s had their fill of adventure, who’s traveled and explored to their heart’s content. Not someone like me. I’ve seen nothing,” he said, his head dropping. “I yearn to do some good in the world. Even to serve a proper master with distinction. But here…I’m merely waiting on death.”

“And yet I almost envy your position,” she said, seeking the shade of a tree. “You can still choose your wife. Or not marry at all. You have the luxury of being overlooked. I, however, am conspicuous, a jewel to be bought and worn.”

“At least you have worth. Not that I
should
be valued, signora; please forgive my prattling. I only mean to say…I wish to be of value to my employer, to someone who could recognize my gifts. Every servant desires to be made use of.”

“But I do value you, Majordomo. But what a name—
Majordomo
! It’s a title! Who are you, really?”

“My name is my title, signora. It’s the pride of my office.”

“I’m not going to spend day after day calling you ‘Majordomo’. I can scarcely keep a straight face. Please indulge me.”

The Majordomo couldn’t resist her pleading stare, which seemed to look upon him not as a broken armchabroken air but as a thoroughly respectable companion. Nevertheless, he broke down and admitted his given name was Lucas. Lucas Henry McDonald. Mary got up and offered him her hand, which he impulsively shrank from. Was she simply making fun of him? She laughed and insisted that she shake his hand and drop all this ridiculous formality. After all, they were hardly in the King’s Ballroom or dining in Stanislav Square. Lucas, fearing a trap and shaking in every nerve and muscle, extended his hand and felt it enfolded by her soft yet friendly grasp.

“We shall be friends, Lucas. And I give you my word, I will get you off this island. For I mean to escape myself.”

“Escape?” he coughed. “But when—how? Not before…your husband’s arrival?”

“Before—quite soon—this instant!” she insisted. “But I need your help. You of all people should know the secrets of the island.”

“
I
would know, signora?” he said, his heart failing him. “But I couldn’t possibly…there’s nowhere to go! Miles and miles of ocean! And no ships!”

“Yes, that’s true. But we don’t need to escape, not really. Can you keep a secret?”

Another secret? He had room for one, at best; two would split his seams, send truth gushing out every pore; he would spill at the slightest opportunity should someone ask. But yes, he nodded, he could keep her secret.

“I’m being rescued,” she whispered. “My true love will come for me, it’s just a matter of time. But I need to escape the castle—go somewhere discreet where the Duke will never find me. Any ideas?”

Lucas swallowed hard, realizing that the adventurous life and opportunities he had often wished for was here, right now, demanding an answer. And it scared the devil out of him. It was one thing to dream of living, but to actually
do
it, to throw everything aside for the prospect of happiness? Who
was
this woman, anyway? Was she mad? The way she spoke to servants and defied convention…she must have had a tremendous dowry for the Duke to put up with it. Unless he didn’t know her at all, which was distinctly possible. In which case allying one’s future with her was suicidal. Once the Duke got wind of it he would toss her out—perhaps abandon her on the island and go off to marry someone else (she could conveniently die of the plague, after all). And indeed, so could he.

“You have to promise…take me with you,” he said, in a weak voice.

“Didn’t I already promise?” she said. “You can live with us, and I’ll make sure you develop those talents and ideas of yours. Lucas, you can trust me.”

He looked into her eyes and believed her. Sane or not, she had a good heart. Amazing she had kept it intact so long.

“I know a place that might work,” he nodded, stirring up his conviction. “But it’s quite far. We’ll need to pack food and supplies. You’re up for it—a half-day’s march? Over rough terrain?”

“Lucas, I’m up for anything—and so should you!” she beamed, embracing him.

When she released him, he could scarcely think or speak. However, one thought troubled him even so: what if the rumors were true? What if the cave actually had…but no, they couldn’t be true. Like the plague it was simply one of tmply onehe colorful myths of the island. Though unlike the plague, the locals all claimed to have seen
it
at various times, though accounts differed on its size and appearance. The one thing they were adamant on was its location: the cave by the headless tower in the east hills. Everyone swore it lived there. At any rate, they would know soon enough.

Blackbeard passed a restless night full of splintered dreams. None of them bore retelling, but each one shared similar images and situations. He consistently found himself facing a tribunal of sorts, answering questions that only had one answer—the one they least wanted to hear. What was troubling him so? Hadn’t he made amends for his previous mistakes? Obviously there was still the question of Leopold: could he die without death, or would he live forever, frozen in the mask of a twenty-two year old? There were so many questions. Nevertheless, he had done what he had to do. Count Leopold was saved, Ivan was rescued, and now Mary would have to be snatched up and returned to her rightful place at Leopold’s side. Funny how each of these good deeds would meet with general disapproval—if not outright condemnation—from the powers-that-be. Hopefully they wouldn’t learn of his involvement.

After his morning toilette, where he finally saw to his neglected beard, Blackbeard went downstairs to find Leopold and Ivan in a heated debate. The subject concerned the mysterious events of last night. Ivan thought about it over and over in bed, but might as well have been asked to recall his grandmother's childhood. Surely he would remember some fragment of the melee, a stray scrap of fear or defeat? Leopold brushed his concerns aside, assuring him that without him they would both be dead. How else could he have defeated his death?

“Then why don’t I remember?” Ivan insisted. “It’s like I wasn’t even there!”

“But you were there…unless I’m a
liar
,” Leopold said, icily. “Is that your implication?”

“Don't be silly! My point is simply this: if I couldn’t help you then, when it most mattered, when
can
I help you? What use am I to you, who fainted away at the mere sight of death?”

“Gentlemen,” Blackbeard intervened, “is this really necessary? We could quibble about the how’s and why’s of the matter eternally. But the truth is clear: you
were
there, Ivan. You
did
save his life.”

“I can’t accept that in my heart. I feel as though I’ve betrayed him instead,” Ivan said, head in his hands.

“You know, many warriors remember nothing of the battles they’ve fought,” Blackbeard said, sitting beside him. “It’s all a blur, they say; that is, the ones who are honest. The others brag and boast and make themselves heroes in the grand manner. Don’t torture yourself needlessly. Besides, we have other matters to attend to.”

“Mary,” Leopold nodded, anxiously.

“That…and the matter of Ivan’s escape,” he said.

“My escape?” Ivan said, distracted.

“Yes, the word has spread and the Secret Council has been scouring the city streets for your whereabouts. Rumor has it that the current Count of Cinquefoil may be involved.”

“Pah,” Leopold said, “they can’t prove anything. Besides, why would I want to save my father’s bastard? No offense.”

“No, of course not…but you’re right, they would never guess the real reason,” Ivan nodded.

“Nevertheless, you can’t be seen; we have to get you out of the country at once. But no road is safe. Eyes are everywhere. The price on your head is significant, considering you’re the first criminal ever to escape from the Dungeons.”

“But what does this matter? We don’t even know where she is!” the Count exclaimed.

“It matters a great deal, unless we want to save them the trouble of finding Ivan and execute him ourselves,” Blackbeard glowered. “Besides, I know exactly where she is.”

“You do? But how? Magic?”

“Magic…or the palace gossip,” he said, feeling his beard (clipped a bit short, he frowned). “A soldier whispered it to a servant who told the entire castle. She’s en route to the island of Cytheria, where she will be married to some Duke—a Russian, I believe.”