The Austro-Hungarian Connection: Section Eleven

The prayer

    Two days later, after they’d made camp for the evening, Janos was approached by the Barclay couple and Allen O’Connor. They were the leaders of the up-time defectors, insofar as such a group could be said to have leaders. They were hardly a well-disciplined company.

    The day before, Janos had heard Denise Beasley refer to them sarcastically as a “motley crew.” The term being new to him, he’d asked for a translation. He’d found her explanation quite charming, especially the qualifiers that seemed to be inseparable from the girl’s vocabulary. Even more amusing had been her pugnacious attitude. Clearly, she seemed to be expecting him at any moment to begin chastising her for her language.

    Indeed, he was sometimes tempted to do so, when she lapsed into blasphemy. But he’d already learned from his weeks in Grantville that Americans had a casual attitude toward blasphemy, just as the rumors said they did. And despite his piety, Janos was skeptical—had been since he was a boy—that the way so many priests lumped all sins into unvarying categories was actually a reflection of God’s will. Janos did not presume to understand the Lord’s purpose in all things, and blasphemy was certainly listed as a transgression in the Ten Commandments. Still, he doubted that the Creator who had forged the sun and the moon made no distinction at all between blasphemy and murder.

    As for the girl’s profanity, he simply found it artful. Growing up as the scion of a Hungarian noble family in the countryside, he’d learned profanity from high-born father and low-born milkmaid alike. His were not a prissy folk. Janos himself avoided profanity, as a rule, but that was simply an expression of his austere personality. He didn’t paint or write poetry, either. But he could still appreciate the skill and talent involved in all three of the arts.

    Has Janos’ father still been alive and been there, he might have had caustic remarks to say about the girl’s language. But the old man would have criticized her for the sloppiness of the form, not the nature of the content. When it came to profanity, Janos’ father had been a devotee of formal structure; Denise Beasley, of what the up-timers called free verse.

    Jarring stuff, free verse, at first glance. But in the hands of a skilled poet, it could be effective. Janos has read some poems by an up-timer named e. e. cummings—he’d refused to capitalize even his name—and found them quite good. He’d even had a copy made of some of them to give to his uncle, Pal Nadasdy.

    “We just wanted to tell you that Billie Jean’s settling down,” said Barclay. “We were a little worried there, for a while.”

    Janos nodded. He’d been somewhat concerned himself. Caryn Barlow seemed almost indifferent to the death of her father, but that wasn’t particularly surprising. Their relationship had obviously not been close. In fact, it had seemed to verge on outright hostility. She’d joined the group because of her friendship with Suzi Barclay, not because of her father’s involvement.

    The Mase woman, on the other hand, was an odd one. Clearly intelligent, in most things, even quite intelligent. But it had been hard to analyze her attachment to such a man as Jay Barlow as being anything other than sheer stupidity. It was not simply that the man had been unpleasant, since that was true of many husbands and paramours. He’d been feckless and improvident as well.

    Marina Barclay shook her head. “There’s a history of abuse, there. I think it’s got her all twisted up.”

    Janos couldn’t quite follow the idiom. “Excuse me?”

    “Billie Jean’s father… Well. It was pretty bad. God knows why that got transferred over to an asshole like Barlow, but I think that’s what happened.”

    “Ah.” That was somewhat clearer. It was certainly as clear as Janos wanted it to be. Up-timers set great store by what they called “psychology.” They claimed it was almost a science. Janos was dubious, but supposed it couldn’t be any worse than the astrology which so many down-timers used to guide their way through life.

    “The point is,” said O’Connor, “we don’t think she’ll be a problem any more. Now that she’s cried herself out, we think she’s actually kind of relieved. That was a bad situation.”

    Marina’s expression darkened. “He beat her, sometimes, when he got drunk.”

    Janos looked from her, to her husband, to O’Connor. “Does she have possession of a weapon? A gun, I mean.” He was not concerned, of course, that she might have a knife.

    “No,” said Peter Barclay firmly. “We took that away from her right away. We didn’t… uh…”

    Janos was tempted to scowl, but didn’t. We didn’t want her taking a shot at you because you’d slaughter all of us.

    As if he himself couldn’t make distinctions! They were truly annoying, sometimes, in the way they insulted without even realizing they did so.

    Barclay’s wife immediately demonstrated the talent anew. “And, uh, thanks for not killing her at the time.”

    Janos kept his face expressionless, since he knew there was no intentional insult involved. True, there might come a time in his old age—assuming he lived that long, which was unlikely—when he would be forced to kill an unarmed woman who attacked him. But to do such a thing now, when he was twenty-five, an experienced cavalry officer, and one of the best swordsmen in the Austrian empire? She might as well have thanked him for not being a coward.

 

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    After they left, Janos stood there staring into the fire, mulling on the problem for a while. The up-timers, as usual, had not understood his question. They categorized families by their deeds, as if noble families did not typically have more outlandish members and histories than most peasant families; simply because they had more power, if for no other reason.

    So. It was still probably a preposterous idea to entertain, for many political reasons. But if he persisted in contemplating the matter—which he very well might; he was an introspective man, and knew himself rather well by now—then, sooner or later, he would have to face the problem squarely.

    It was a thorny one, given that he was Hungarian. In many of the Germanies, by now—elsewhere too in the western countries, he thought—the theory had taken hold that Americans as a class belonged to the noble ranks. At the very least, stood outside the class categories altogether. Hungarians and Austrians thought that nonsense, by and large, although Janos was fairly sure their resolve would start crumbling as time went by.

    As such resolve always did, given realities and the passage of enough time. His own august family could trace its origins back to Naples. Three centuries earlier, they had come to Hungary in the entourage of Charles Robert of Anjou, when he assumed the throne of Hungary as King Charles I. Family tradition insisted they’d been a highly-respected family in the Italian aristocracy. Perhaps it was even true. Given Italy, though, that was always suspect. That was a land steeped in commerce, quite unlike rural Hungary. Everything was for sale, including titles.

    But even if it were true, what then? Trace it back still farther, if you could, and what would you find? No Christian family in Europe could claim, as did some Jewish ones, to be able to trace themselves back to the lords spoken of in the Bible. And who had made them lords, except the Lord Himself? Who had also made the Ring of Fire, through which came the man whom many Germans now called their prince. And whose soldiers had, just a few months earlier at Ahrensbök, shoved the title down the throats of haughty French noble generals.

    But that took a lot of time, as a rule. Probably more than Janos would encompass in that span of his life that mattered. Soon enough, he would have to marry again. His little boy Gÿorgÿ needed a mother, and given his position in the empire he really should produce more heirs in case misfortune took his son as it had taken his wife. For which latter purpose, unfortunately, if not the first, a morganatic marriage would probably not be suitable.

    So. He flashed a quick grin at the fire he was staring into. A problem, then. Complex; complicated; even tortuous at points.

    Janos enjoyed solving problems. He also took vows seriously, although he seldom made them formal ones. At the age of twelve, after he realized the full scope of his responsibilities, he had made a solemn vow that while he would be a faithful son of Hungary, he would not—would not—agree to marry a dullard. Be her rank never so high, or her station never more suitable.

    He’d kept that pledge to himself when he married Anna Jakusith. The all-too-short time he’d shared his life with her had confirmed the wisdom of his youngster’s vow. As a purely personal matter, and leaving aside the needs of state, he’d far rather remain a widower for the rest of his life than marry the sort of woman who, every morning and every nightfall, only made him think regretfully of the woman who was no longer there. He would remember Anna always, of course, so long as he lived, as he remembered her in his prayers every day. But he wanted a wife who could forge a place of her own in his life and affections.

 

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    “You’re kidding,” hissed Denise. Quickly, almost surreptitiously, she glanced at Drugeth. The way he was just standing there, not moving at all while he studied whatever the hell he found so fascinating in a campfire, matched Keenan’s depiction perfectly. The expressionless, handsome, brooding face, half in shadows, the easy stance—everything. She could picture him just like that, standing in a castle in Transylvania. Which was part of Hungary, now that she thought about it. Well, parts of it were, anyway.

    “Oh, wow.” She took her eyes away from Janos, lest she draw his attention somehow. She didn’t really believe in supernatural powers, but you could never be sure.

    “Yup,” said Keenan. “That’s the whole story. I got it from Gardiner and Gage just an hour ago, while we were out foraging for wood. Janos Drugeth is a vampire.”

    Noelle sniffed. “Keenan, I am quite certain that neither Gage nor Gardiner said any such thing.”

     “Well, sure. Not in so many words. But what else could we be talking about? I mean, I’ve even heard of his grandma. The Blood Countess. She’s almost as famous as Dracula himself. The one who sucked all those virgins dry of their blood so her complexion wouldn’t get bad. Dozens of virgins.”

    Noelle sniffed again. “There are so many errors in what you just said that I don’t know where to begin. For starters, she didn’t ‘suck the blood’ out of anybody. She—uh…”

    Denise had heard the story, too. “That’s quibbling, Noelle. So she drained them dry with a knife and bathed in the blood. Big fucking difference. And it’s a fact—well, that’s what I heard, anyway—that when they caught her they didn’t try to execute her ‘cause they couldn’t. So they walled her up in a room until she died of old age.”

    “Why didn’t they drive a wooden stake through her heart?” Lannie asked plaintively. “That’s supposed to work.”

    “There are no such things as vampires!” Noelle hissed. But Denise figured the reason she hissed it instead of shouting it was because Noelle was just as concerned as anyone else not to draw Drugeth’s attention.

    Denise glanced quickly at Janos again. He was still in that brown study he seemed to fall into about twenty times a day. Not surprising, really. Denise figured if she were a vampire she’d probably spend a lot of time contemplating the whichness of what herself.

    How fucking exciting could it get? A vampire.

    Well. Close enough, anyway.

 

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    Eventually, Noelle gave up. Even Eddie seemed dubious of her arguments.

    Superstitious dolts!

    She avoided looking at Drugeth for the rest of the evening, she was so exasperated.

    But she found that she couldn’t stop thinking about him, even after she rolled into her blankets, and that was even more exasperating.

    The problem, she finally admitted to herself, was that while she absolutely did not—Did. Not.—believe in vampires, she also had to admit something else.

    She doted on vampire stories. She owned every one of Anne Rice’s books that had come out before the Ring of Fire, and had read none of them less than twice. Her copy of Bram Stoker’s original novel was dog-eared.

    She’d even once, in college, gotten into a ferocious all-night-long argument with three other female students over the subject of which actor’s Dracula had been the best. Stupid mindless twits had been all ga-ga and gushing over effete fops like Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee.

    Even at that age, Noelle knew the truth. A real vampire—which didn’t exist, of course—would be like the Dracula portrayed by Jack Palance. Medieval rulers, commanders of armies, swordsmen, guys with muscles as well as fangs. Not layabouts loafing in a castle somewhere.

    Interesting guys. Exciting guys.

    And just how deep, anyway, was she going to wallow in this idiotic fantasy?

    She was a sane, sensible, rational modern woman. An official of the SoTF government. And he was an enemy soldier.

    Period.

 

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    “Boy, do you look bedraggled,” was Denise’s greeting the next morning.

    “I didn’t sleep well,” Noelle said grumpily.

    Denise grinned at her. “You gotta admit, the guy’s fascinating as all hell. If he weren’t too old for me, I’d be checking him out myself.”

 

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    That evening they reached a village in one of the many little valleys in the Fichtelgebirge. It was a Catholic village, with a small church.

    The village was too small for a tavern, so they camped just outside it. After the camp was made, Janos went to the church.

    Noelle followed him, after waiting a few minutes. Not because she was following him, but simply because she felt the need herself.

    When she entered, he was in one of the pews, praying. She was quite certain he was praying for the souls of the two men he’d slain, a few days earlier. For his own, too, of course. But mostly theirs. There was still much about Janos Drugeth that was a mystery to her, but not everything. One of the prayers she’d be making here, as she had so many times since it happened, would be a prayer for the soul of the torturer she’d killed in Franconia last year. And for her own, for having done it.

    So much for the idiots and their crap about vampires.

    Even as quietly as Noelle was moving, he heard her come in. Being honest, the man really did seem to have preternatural senses. He turned his head and gazed at her for a while, his face as expressionless as it usually was.

    Noelle did her best to ignore the scrutiny. She dipped her fingers in the basin, made the sign of the cross, and went to a pew some distance away from Drugeth. As far distant as she could get, in fact, allowing for the tiny size of the church.

    She concentrated on her own prayers, and was pleased that she managed that pretty well. At least until the end, when she found herself fumbling because she was waiting for Drugeth to leave. There was no way she was going to leave with him.

    Finally, he left. She waited perhaps five minutes before leaving herself.

    Not that it did her any good. She discovered him waiting for her outside.

    It would be silly to avoid him. So, she came up and nodded a greeting.

    “I am told you are a devout Catholic,” he said. “Have even contemplated taking holy vows.”

    “Ah…” She looked away, caught off balance by the unexpected question. “Yes, sort of. It’s something I’ve thought about for years, off and on. Even though everybody who knows me says I’d make a lousy nun. Well, not that, exactly. They think I’d wind up very unhappy with the choice.”

    He said nothing. She was pretty sure that was because he didn’t want to seem as if he were crowding her.

    “What do you think?” she asked suddenly. And then found herself caught even more off balance by her own question—what are you doing, you ninny?—than she had been by his.

    “I think that decision, unlike many others, is one that only the person involved can make. We are all—those of us who are Catholic, for a certainty—obliged to follow the teachings of the church involving matters of conscience. But not even the church presumes to tell a man or a woman if they should take holy vows.”

    He smiled, in that gentle, half-melancholy and half-irenic way he had. “I grant you, for noble families and royal ones more so, that decision is often tightly circumscribed, even sometimes forced outright. Still, I will hold to the principle.”

    “You have no opinion?”

    “I would not put in that way. Let us say I do not presume to advise. That is not quite the same thing as having no opinion.”

    He seemed on the verge of adding something. His lips even started to part open. But, then, he closed them firmly and just shook his head.

    “I should speak no further on the matter. May I escort you back to the camp?”

    Silly to refuse that offer, as well, so she nodded.

    They said nothing on the way. By the time they reached the camp, though, Noelle was in a quiet fury.

    Not at him, but herself. A decision she hadn’t been able to make for years had somehow gotten made in that short walk of no more than two hundred yards. She knew it as surely as she knew anything.

 

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    Damn her impudent soul, Denise was waiting for her with that same aggravating grin.

    “Yeah, right. Enemy of the state. Is he as cute in church as everywhere else?”

    “Vampire, remember?” Noelle half-snarled at her. “As if a vampire would enter holy ground!”

    Denise’s grin didn’t so much as flicker. “You’re dodging the question. Nice try.”

    “What he is, is the most exasperating man I’ve ever met.”

    “Wow.” Denise shook her head, the grin vanishing completely. “You’ve got it bad, girl.”