The Count of the Living Death (The Chronicles of Hildigrim Blackbeard) (29 page)

“And you smell like the devil!” she muttered. “Yes, very well, we’ll take the entire entourage back to town. But I mean to have a through accounting for all this business with arrests, abductions, and whatever it is that came out of that chest!”

“Everything aunt, I promise you,” Leopold said, gesturing her outside. “If we could just go someplace more private—”

“Just tell me one thing first,” she said, staring him down. “This girl behind you: are you in love with her?”

Mary pressed against him, their hands held tight. He looked back at her and nodded vigorously.

“I see,” she said, with a click of her tongue. “Then that settles it. I’ll speak to her father—not the most charming man, incidentally. We’ll have everything patched up by morning.”

“Patched up?” he repeated.

“Patched up, resolved, married. I need to have something good to write your mother about. Unless you object?”

The lovers exchanged astonished glances. His aunt whisked out of the tower, quickly followed by the pair, Lucas, and whatever soldiers could find their feet. Ivan lingered a moment longer to help his father, whose show of confidence had taken a heavy toll. His knees buckled, and only with support did he totter outside, his pale, trembling hands clutching his son’s arm.

“I fear you’ve made a fool’s bargain,” he said, with a cough. “I’ll be of little use to you now.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Ivan said, sternly. “Can you walk? A few more steps…we’ll get you into the coach.”

“What would your mother think, eh? Joining forces with Hildigrim Blackbeard?”

“I think she knew,” he said, with a grin. “That’s why she left me. She knew I would learn the truth.”

“If so, it was a work of great cunning, perhaps her greatest work of magic. I wonder if she—”

Blackbeard stumbled, though fell safely in Ivan’s grasp. Ivan waited until the sorcerer nodded with assurance, then they continued. Lucas raced ahead, opening the coach door to receive them. Blackbeard took a last, nostalgic look at the tower, his eyes shimmering.

“I’m afraid I can never return. I’ll have to go abroad, find a new hiding place. As a magician it’s best not to leave a calling card.”

“You mean we will. We’re have to gconnected now, remember?”

“Of course, forgive me,” he said, grinning. “I trust you’re in good health?”

The party retired to a large apartment in the center of town, which had belonged to one of her husbands (he wasn’t sure which one; his aunt had married twice—a third was annulled). Leopold remembered it from his childhood; they had stayed here during the Coronation of ‘43, one of the last times he had experienced illness. His aunt quickly took charge of things, marshalling Mary’s father this way and that, dismissing troops, ordering wine and dessert. Once everyone was settled with refreshments, she excused herself for a private audience with Mary’s father. He clearly wasn’t used to such treatment, especially by a woman a few years his junior (or so he flattered himself—she was a full decade younger than him). He tried to protest, but she cut him off, motioning him severely into a small room where her servants waited. Gritting his teeth, he shuffled off with an astonished look at his daughter, as if to say, “and you want
these
people
to be our relations!” The door closed with a resounding
thud
as if swallowing him up for good. Leopold couldn’t resist; he listened anxiously at the door, hearing little beyond his aunt’s calm, measured voice—but not the words she spoke.

“Anything?” Mary asked.

He shrugged pitifully. His aunt’s voice continued, with an occasional pause for someone else to speak, though he couldn’t hear any responses or objections. A half hour passed before he heard chairs scrape against the floor and feet stamp sullenly toward the exit. He hastily returned to his seat to find Ivan, Blackbeard, and Lucas deep into danishes and second glasses of wine.

Mary’s father came out utterly defeated. No one knew quite how, but he not only agreed to the match, but offered a considerable dowry—equal to what he had promised the Duke, which was extravagant to begin with! Leopold’s aunt smiled beneficently, gesturing to the young lovers. They rose reluctantly and approached. She took their hands and united them, smiling with what appeared to be heartfelt joy (perhaps more for her negotiating savvy than any true sentiment for the couple themselves).

“Gentlemen, I invite you to share my joy in proclaiming the engagement of my nephew, Count Leopold of Cinquefoil to Lady Mary Bianca Domenica de Grassini Algarotti. Their marriage date has been set for six weeks hence, at our ancestral estate in Hastings Glen. I trust you will join me in congratulating the young woman’s father in the union of our noble families!”

A series of toasts followed, all of which were grudgingly accepted by her father, who muttered into his glass. Leopold turned to Mary, his heart brimming with feelings he could scarcely contain; he took her hand and prepared to whisk her away to some private chamber, where they could—

“Ah, not so fast!” his aunt said, catching Mary’s sleeve. “I want a few words with this one…in private. I trust you won’t object?”

Leopold struggled for a moment, but realized his aunt would brook no delay. Mary laughed in her eyes before disappearing with his aunt into yet another room, behind another closed door, with goodness-knows-what being said. With a sigh he returned to his chair, where Ivan nudged a replenished glass across the table.

“Cheer up, brother! She’s yours now. And I can honestly say you deseprirve her.”

“Thank you,” he said, after taking a sip. “I can hardly believe…it’s over. I am right in saying that?”

“You’ll get no objection from me,” Blackbeard said, draining his glass. “I only hope I’m far away before you go tampering with another chest.”

“Another?” he gasped, choking on his wine. “Surely you don’t—”

“Your father was a man of many secrets. Perhaps you unearthed the worst of them, but there are others, waiting for curious, nimble fingers.”

“Oh no, I’m through picking locks!” he said, slamming down his glass. “I only have one life left to live and I mean to enjoy it!”

“Then I wish you luck,” the sorcerer said, raising his glass. “Does anyone have the time?”

Lucas removed his pocket watch, which remarkably still worked after all their adventures, and rattled off, “eight minutes past ten.”

“So late?” he mused, looking off into the distance. “Ivan, we should be going soon. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“But you’re in no state to travel!” he protested. “Perhaps in a few weeks, after a suitable period of rest—”

“If I wanted rest I might have stayed over
there
,” he said, suggesting the world beyond. “No, now that my tower is gone we must make haste to find another…ah, well, no need to announce our intentions. Some things must remain mum between master and student.”

Leopold only shrugged, as if to say, “why should I care—I certainly don’t mean to follow you!” Blackbeard flicked his glass to make it
ping
with a musical note, and then rose from his chair, waving off Ivan’s offer to assist him.

“I trust you found everything satisfactory…with the spell and my overall performance, despite a few minor—and quite unavoidable—setbacks?” he asked.

“What? Oh yes, yes, naturally,” the Count nodded. “Very satisfactory.”

“Then with your permission I’ll have that letter now.”

“Letter?”

“Don’t you remember? At the beginning of our business, I requested an open pardon, in writing, that covers any and all activities for the next fifty years affixed with your signature and official stamp. I still require one.”

Leopold laughed, since he suddenly remembered the entire thing—and a damn foolish request it seemed at the time! Now, however, he had no compunctions whatever. He nodded anxiously and gestured to Lucas.

“Lucas, can you fetch me some paper? I’ll draw it up on the spot. Though, to be honest, I’m not sure what good it will do.”

“Let that me my concern,” Blackbeard said, inclining his head.

Moments later, the contract was drawn up, stating that, in short,

Hildigrim Blackbeard, Conjurer-Magician and Sorcerer of the Sixth-Circle and personal friend to the Count of Cinquefoil, is hereby excused of any catastrophes resulting from his magical practices for the next fifty years, only excepting any explicitly treasonous acts or transformations of the royal family. This pardon extends to all portions of the realm, even the Northern and Far Eastern Colonies, and should be honored by all loyal subjects of the realm. I hereby affix my stamp as the Eighth Count of Cinquefoil on this year of 458, in the month of July, on the twentieth day of the month.

The sorcerer looked it over with a satisfied grin.

“Excellent, this is just the thing! I thank you for your generosity, Count Leopold,” Blackbeard said, tucking it away in his sleeve.

“No, please…thank you,” he said, offering his hand. “You’ve given me far more than my life. You’ve given me a reason to live it.”

“It’s the least I owe your father, for his kindness ages ago,” Blackbeard said, accepting his hand. “But I’m delighted to be of service to the next generation. I regret I won’t be in the country to attend your wedding. In a few years, perhaps, I may look in on you….just to see how you’re getting on.”

“You will be most welcome,” he agreed, while secretly hoping it would be many years from the present.

“I hope I will be welcome, too,” Ivan said, standing up. “For brothers we shall always be, whatever the stars have to say on the subject.”

“Ivan, you will be welcome most of all,” he said, embracing him. “Take care of yourself. Write me; write us both. We will be happy to hear your adventures.”

“With all my heart,” he agreed. “Please tell Mary that I…that I wish her all possible happiness. I hope she can learn to forgive what I’ve done. If there’s anything I can do—”

“Ivan, please, it’s not worth mentioning…”

Many words in a similar vein were shared on both sides until Blackbeard, realizing that neither would give way, took Ivan’s arm and hauled him out of the apartment. A final good-bye for both and they vanished, leaving Leopold with a slight ache in his heart. Would he ever see them again? And how different might they all be in a few years, once time flowed between them and effaced the past?

“Finally!” a voice said, as arms grabbed him from behind.

“Mary?”

“Zounds! Your aunt is remarkably impressed with herself,” she laughed, spinning him around. “Wanted to know about my education, my reading habits, my thoughts on women’s emancipation (I’d scarcely even heard of the word)! And all the time, I could only think about you, about tonight and the following day and all the days and nights to come…” she trailed off, pulling him close.

“Ah, you just missed Blackbeard and Ivan. They said they had urgent business.”

“Oh? Well, I wish them well, wherever they’re going. However, I have no further business with them…only with you. Can we take a walk? A very long and private walk where no one can find us?”

“With all my heart,” he agreed—and sneezed. One sneezed followed by an even more dramatic second and third. He held his nose in alarm, then laughed.

“A sneeze! I haven’t done that in…I don’t know how long!”

“Naturally, catching a cold when I have most need of you. Say, if you get a cold, does that mean I will, too? Since we share the same…life and death?”

“I have no idea,” he said, with a slight laugh. “Should I run after Blackbeard and ask him?”

“Don’t trouble him. We’ll conduct our own experiments,” she said, entwining her arm in his. “Now quickly, I mean to abduct you. You’re mine, solely mine, and even she can’t have you. Oh—there’s her voice now! Let’s go!”

Without another word they stole off, leaving Lucas to drain his final glass in private. Emotions and sensations from the past few days ran over him, making him feel a thousand times the man he was. He had been a hero? Had his actions, however modest, juggled the dice of Fate? Yes, he believed they had. His fateful carriage ride would be remembered in ballads and broadsheets, and if someone had an exceptionally poetic mind, even on the Royal Stage. He lost himself in these and even more fantastic daydreams until Leopold’s aunt, having sized him up as a wastrel, grabbed his ear and made him account for himself. Finding himself gloriously tongue-tied, she set him to work cleaning dishes, catching rats, and other menial tasks unbefitting the protagonist of our wondrous tale. For so he persisted in believing himself to the end of his days, telling the story—in his slightly skewed, embellished manner—to his children and grand-children, until they, too, could recite it verbatim. A pity no one bothered to record it.

THE END

Joshua Grasso is a professor of English at East Central University in Ada, Oklahoma. He received his Ph.D. from Miami University, specializing in British Literature from the long eighteenth century. As both a writer and teacher, he uses the past—whether its literature, art, music, or simply ideas—to help us see ourselves through the ‘mirror’ of time. Even with the passing of centuries, our reflection is remarkably consistent—if sometimes troubling.
The Count of the Living Death
is his first novel.