Lord John And The Hand Of Devils

The Princess von Lowenstein did seem most taken with him; he wasn’t surprised that Sir Peter had noticed her smiles and languishings. Fortunately, she seemed equally taken with Stephan von Namtzen, going so far as to have Hanoverian delicacies served regularly at dinner in his honor.



At the top of the stair, he hesitated. There were three corridors opening off the landing, and it always took a moment to be sure which of the stone-floored halls led to his own chamber. A flicker of movement to the left attracted his eye, and he turned that way, to see someone dodge out of sight behind a tall armoire that stood against the wall.



“Wo ist das?” he asked sharply, and got a stifled gasp in reply.



Moving cautiously, he went and peered round the edge of the armoire, to find a small, dark-haired boy pressed against the wall, both hands clasped over his mouth and eyes round as saucers. The boy wore a nightshirt and cap, and had plainly escaped from his nursery. He recognized the child, though he had seen him only once or twice before; it was the princess’s young son—what was the boy’s name? Heinrich? Reinhardt?



“Don’t be afraid,” he said gently to the boy, in his slow, careful German. “I am your mother’s friend. Where is your room?”



The boy didn’t reply, but his eyes flicked down the hallway and back. Grey saw no open doors, but held out a hand to the boy.



“It is very late,” he said. “Shall we find your bed?”



The boy shook his head so hard that the tassel of his nightcap slapped against the wall.



“I don’t want to go to bed. There is a bad woman there. Ein Hexe.”



“A witch?” Grey repeated, and felt an odd frisson run down his back, as though someone had touched his nape with a cold finger. “What did this witch look like?”



The child stared back at him, uncomprehending.



“Like a witch,” he said.



“Oh,” said Grey, momentarily stymied. He rallied, though, and beckoned, curling his fingers at the boy. “Come, then; show me. I am a soldier, I am not afraid of a witch.”



“You will kill her and cut out her heart and fry it over the fire?” the boy asked eagerly, peeling himself off the wall. He reached out to touch the hilt of Grey’s dagger, still on his belt.



“Well, perhaps,” Grey temporized. “Let us go find her first.” He grasped the boy under the arms and swung him up; the child came willingly enough, curling his legs around Grey’s waist and cuddling close to him for warmth.



The hallway was dark; only a rushlight sputtered in a sconce near the farther end, and the stones emanated a chill that made the child’s own warmth more than welcome. Rain was still coming down hard; a small dribble of moisture had seeped in through the shutters at the end of the hall, and the flickering light shone on the puddle.



Thunder boomed in the distance, and the child threw his arms around Grey’s neck with a gasp.



“It is all right.” Grey patted the small back soothingly, though his own heart had leapt convulsively at the sound. No doubt the sound of the storm had wakened the boy.



“Where is your chamber?”



“Upstairs.” The boy pointed vaguely toward the far end of the hallway; presumably there was a back stair somewhere near. The Schloss was immense and sprawling; Grey had learned no more of its geography than what was necessary to reach his own quarters. He hoped that the boy knew the place better, so they were not obliged to wander the chilly hallways all night.



As he approached the end of the hall, the lightning flashed again, a vivid line of white that outlined the window—and showed him clearly that the shutters were unfastened. With the boom of thunder came a gust of wind, and one loose shutter flung back suddenly, admitting a freezing gust of rain.



“Oooh!” The boy clutched him tightly round the neck, nearly choking him.



“It is all right,” he said again, as calmly as possible, shifting his burden in order to free one hand.



He leaned out to seize the shutter, trying at the same time to shelter the boy with his body. A soundless flash lit up the world in a burst of black and white, and he blinked, dazzled, a pinwheel of stark images whirling at the back of his eyes. Thunder rolled past, with a sound so like an oxcart full of stones that he glanced up involuntarily, half-expecting to see one of the old German gods go past, driving gleefully through the clouds.



The image he saw was not of the storm-tossed sky, though, but of something seen when the lightning flashed. He blinked hard, clearing his sight, and then looked down. It was there. A ladder, leaning against the wall of the house. Well, then. Perhaps the child had seen someone strange in his room.



“Here,” he said to the boy, turning to set him down. “Stay out of the rain while I fasten the shutter.”



He turned back, and leaning out into the storm, pushed the ladder off, so that it fell away into the dark. Then he closed and fastened the shutters, and picked up the shivering boy again. The wind had blown out the rushlight, and he was obliged to feel his way into the turning of the hall.



“It’s very dark,” said the boy, with a tremor in his voice.



“Soldiers are not afraid of the dark,” he reassured the child, thinking of the graveyard.



“I’m not afraid!” The little boy’s cheek was pressed against his neck.



“Of course you are not. How are you called, young sir?” he asked, in hopes of distracting the boy.



“Siggy.”



“Siggy,” he repeated, feeling his way along the wall with one hand. “I am John. Johannes, in your tongue.”



“I know,” said the boy, surprising him. “The servant girls think you are good-looking. Not so big as Landgrave Stephan, but prettier. Are you rich? The Landgrave is very rich.”



“I won’t starve,” Grey said, wondering how long the blasted hallway was, and whether he might discover the staircase by falling down it in the dark.



At least the boy seemed to have lost some of his fear; he cuddled close, rubbing his head under Grey’s chin. There was a distinct smell about him; nothing unpleasant—rather like the smell of a month-old litter of puppies, Grey thought, warmly animal.



Something occurred to him then, something he should have thought to ask at once.



“Where is your nurse?” A boy of this age would surely not sleep alone.



“I don’t know. Maybe the witch ate her.”



This cheering suggestion coincided with a welcome flicker of light in the distance, and the sound of voices. Hastening toward these, Grey at last found the nursery stair, just as a wild-eyed woman in nightgown, cap, and shawl popped out, holding a pottery candlestick.



“Siegfried!” she cried. “Master Siggy, where have you been? What has—Oh!” At this point, she realized that Grey was there, and reared back as though struck forcibly in the chest.



“Guten Abend, Madam,” he said, politely. “Is this your nurse, Siggy?”



“No,” said Siggy, scornful of such ignorance. “That’s just Hetty. Mama’s maid.”



“Siggy? Siegfried, is it you? Oh, my boy, my boy!” The light from above dimmed as a fluttering body hurtled down the stair, and the Princess von Lowenstein seized the boy from his arms, hugging her son and kissing him so passionately that his nightcap fell off.



More servants were coming downstairs, less precipitously. Two footmen and a woman who might be a parlor maid, all in varying degrees of undress, but equipped with candles or rushlights. Evidently, Grey had had the good fortune to encounter a search party.



There was a good deal of confused conversation, as Grey’s attempt at explanation was interrupted by Siggy’s own rather disjointed account of his adventures, punctuated by exclamations of horror and surprise from the princess and Hetty.



“Witch?” the princess was saying, looking down at her son in alarm. “You saw a witch? Did you have an evil dream, child?”



“No. I just woke up and there was a witch in my room. Can I have some marzipan?”



“Perhaps it would be a good idea to search the house,” Grey managed to get in. “It is possible that the … witch … is still inside.”



The princess had very fine, pale skin, radiant in the candlelight, but at this, it went a sickly color, like toadstools. Grey glanced meaningfully at Siggy, and the princess at once gave the child to Hetty, telling the maid to take him to his nursery.



“Tell me what is happening,” she said, gripping Grey’s arm, and he did, finishing the account with a question of his own.



“The child’s nurse? Where is she?”



“We don’t know. I went to the nursery to look at Siegfried before retiring—” The princess’s hand fluttered to her bosom, as she became aware that she was wearing a rather unbecoming woolen nightgown and cap, with a heavy shawl and thick, fuzzy stockings. “He wasn’t there; neither was the nurse. Jakob, Thomas—” She turned to the footmen, suddenly taking charge. “Search! The house first, then the grounds.”



A distant rumbling of thunder reminded everyone that it was still pouring with rain outside, but the footmen vanished with speed.



The sudden silence left in the wake of their departure gave Grey a slightly eerie feeling, as though the thick stone walls had moved subtly closer. A solitary candle burned, left behind on the stairs.



“Who would do this?” said the princess, her voice suddenly small and frightened. “Did they mean to take Siegfried? Why?”



It looked very much to Grey as though kidnapping had been the plan; no other possibility had entered his mind, until the princess seized him by the arm again.



“Do you think—do you think it was … her?” she whispered, eyes dilated to pools of horror. “The succubus?”



“I think not,” Grey said, taking hold of her hands for reassurance. They were cold as ice—hardly surprising, in view of the temperature inside the Schloss. He smiled at her, squeezing her fingers gently. “A succubus would not require a ladder, surely?” He forbore to add that a boy of Siggy’s age was unlikely to have much that a succubus would want, if he had correctly understood the nature of such a creature.



A little color came back into the princess’s face, as she saw the logic in this.



“No, that’s true.” The edge of her mouth twitched in an attempt at a smile, though her eyes were still fearful.



“It might be advisable to set a guard near your son’s room,” Grey suggested. “Though I expect the … person … has been frightened off by now.”



She shuddered, whether from cold or at the thought of roving intruders, he couldn’t tell. Still, she was clearly steadier at the thought of action, and that being so, he rather reluctantly took the opportunity to share with her Sir Peter Hicks’s cautions, feeling that perhaps a solid enemy such as the French would be preferable to phantasms and shadowy threats.



“Ha, those frog-eaters,” she said, proving his supposition by drawing herself up with a touch of scorn in her voice. “They have tried before, the Schloss to take. They have never done it; they will not do it now.” She gestured briefly at the stone walls surrounding them, by way of justification in this opinion. “My husband’s great-great-great-grandfather built the Schloss; we have a well inside the house, a stable, food stores. This place was built to withstand siege.”



“I am sure you are right,” Grey said, smiling. “But you will perhaps take some care?” He let go her hands, willing her to draw the interview to a close. Excitement over, he was very much aware that it had been a long day, and that he was freezing.



“I will,” she promised him. She hesitated a moment, not quite sure how to take her leave gracefully, then stepped forward, rose onto her toes, and with her hands on his shoulders, kissed him on the mouth.



“Good night, Lord John,” she said softly, in English. “Danke.” She turned and hurried up the stairs, picking up her skirts as she went.



Grey stood for a startled moment looking after her, the disconcerting feel of her uncorseted breasts still imprinted on his chest. Then shook his head and went to pick up the candlestick she had left on the stair for him.



Straightening up, he was overtaken by a massive yawn, the fatigues of the day coming down upon him like a thousandweight of grapeshot. He only hoped he could find his own chamber again, in this ancient labyrinth. Perhaps he should have asked the princess for direction.



He made his way back down the hallway, his candle flame seeming puny and insignificant in the oppressive darkness cast by the great stone blocks of Schloss Lowenstein. It was only when the light gleamed on the puddle on the floor that the thought suddenly occurred to him: Someone had to have opened the shutters—from the inside.



Grey made his way back as far as the head of the main stair, only to find Stephan von Namtzen coming up it. The Hanoverian was a little flushed with brandy, but still clearheaded, and listened to Grey’s account of events with consternation.



“Dreckskerle!” he said, and spat on the floor to emphasize his opinion of kidnappers. “The servants are searching, you say—but you think they will find nothing?”



“Perhaps they will find the nurse,” Grey said. “But if the kidnapper has an ally inside the house—and he must … or she, I suppose,” he added. “The boy did say he saw a witch.”



“Ja, I see.” Von Namtzen looked grim. One big hand fisted at his side, but then relaxed. “I will perhaps go and speak to the princess. My men, I will have them come to guard the house. If there is a criminal within, he will not get out.”



“I’m sure the princess will be grateful.” Grey felt all at once terribly tired. “I must take Bodger—the body—back to his regiment in the morning. Oh—in that regard …” He explained Sir Peter’s wishes, to which von Namtzen agreed with a flip of the hand.