The Pierced Heart: A Novel Read Free Page B

vessel buffeting the river current, but the boat and the boy are the only signs of human habitation visible for miles. Charles turns away and sits down to his breakfast, a little concerned at how much of the day has already gone. Half an hour later he emerges from his room and makes his way downstairs. At the foot of the spiral steps he finds an archway opening onto a gallery that rings three sides of the hall. One part of last night’s strangeness, at least, is now explained: The branching shadows Charles saw in the gloom were cast by nothing more uncanny than the antlers and ancient weaponry fixed around the pale walls, and the eyes in the darkness no more than glass reflections from the stuffed heads of huge long-dead dogs, their teethbared in a permanent vicious snarl. And as for the figures he glimpsed lurking in the shadows, he sees now, with a quick snort at his own idiocy, that they were only suits of armour, assembled for battle about empty air.
    And empty air is all the rest of the hall contains, at least at this moment. There is no sign of servants, and certainly no sign of the master of the house. The day outside is bright with sun and loud with a western wind, but inside the castle is both dimmed and silent—a curious muffled silence which seems to suck even the echo from the stone. Charles hesitates a moment, wondering whether to go down, when he hears a door open farther along the gallery—a small low door which must be directly below the tower and dome above. The Baron emerges from it, then carefully locks it behind him with a large iron key, before proceeding slowly and thoughtfully towards where Charles is standing. So thoughtful is he, in fact, that Charles almost has to step into his path to attract his attention.
    “Ah!” says the Baron, starting back. He is wearing, Charles notices, exactly the same clothes as he wore the night before.
    “I apologise, Freiherr—I did not intend to alarm you.”
    “No, no,” says the Baron, composing his features quickly. “You have merely anticipated me. I was about to send a servant to enquire whether you would care to begin the business of your sojourn at Castle Reisenberg.”
    He starts to walk on, gesturing Charles to accompany him, and Charles sees him glance back towards the locked door, and finger the key he has placed in the pocket of his long dark coat.
    “I infer,” the Baron continues, his voice still low and slightly rasping, “that the Curators of Sir Thomas Bodley’s Library require two quite distinct categories of reassurance from your visit here?”
    Charles averts his eyes. “I am not sure I understand your meaning.”
    “My dear young man—if I may presume to call you so—if I were a functionary entrusted with a role such as theirs, presented with an offer such as the one I have made, there would be two matters I shouldwish to ascertain. Firstly, that the benefactor in question was indeed the man he claimed to be; and secondly, that there would be no danger, now or at any future time, of any—”
    He pauses a moment, clearly searching for the apposite word.
    “—
embarrassment
, shall we say, arising in consequence of accepting such a gift.”
    Charles reddens, despite himself, and he hears the Baron laugh softly. “There is no need for embarrassment on
your
part, Mr Maddox. You are merely carrying out the task you have been assigned, and the Curators, in their turn, merely fulfilling the duty they owe. I take no offence; indeed as I have already stated, I should undertake exactly the same enquiries, were I in their place.”
    “I confess I have wondered,” begins Charles, as they descend the stairs, “why you chose the Ashmole Bequest as the recipient of your generosity. I was lucky enough to be allowed to view it when I met the Curators in Oxford, and while the illuminated Bestiary is unquestionably charming and no doubt priceless, some of the other items—”
    The Baron smiles at Charles, revealing, for the first time, a line