Mr. Darcy's Great Escape (9 page)

Darcy was aware enough now to dart for the door, but it was shut, and the guards were ready to grab him. They didn't harm him, just held him quite effectively. “You can't keep us locked up here forever!”

“You are mistaken, Herr Darcy, about the extent of His Grace's hospitality. It is quite vast.” He made a gesture, and the guards dragged them both away.

***

“Doctor—” was all Darcy managed to say before he was pulled off in another direction. The terrible thought that he might never see him again went through him like a cold shiver as he was brought to his feet and made to stumble around in the castle. It wasn't like the rebuilt castles of Scotland, largely manor houses. This was an ancient place of stone and torches and winding staircases with no windows. “Look, I don't even speak your language, how can I—” But he was just rewarded with a smack on the back of his head and more Romanian words. They brought him to a room with only two chairs, one off to the side and the other in the center. It was wooden and had metal clamps on it. They freed him from his shackles and locked him into the chair.

They then left him, taking the light with them. They left only the single candle burning down on the wooden table, the only other furniture in the room. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Darcy took in his surroundings, but there was little to take in. Four empty walls, a wooden door, and a candle. The flickering of it was hypnotic in a way, and his eyes constantly fell to the wick, watching it burn and the wax drip down.

Despite his position, he did not realize he had managed to fall asleep until icy water hit him in the face, thoroughly waking him up. He tried to wipe it from his eyes but found his arms unmovable. His predicament came back to him very quickly.

“
Guten Morgen,
Herr Darcy.”

“Once again, I must remind you that I don't speak German,” Darcy said, raising his head to the inquisitor. It was Trommler again.

“
Vous parlez Francais
?” (Do you speak French?)

“Not much,” he replied, his voice hoarse from thirst. “Please, very little.”

Trommler took a very careful seat on the stool that had been brought for him. “We will have to work in English, then, no?” But it sounded more like “
Ve vill haf to vork…
” with his thick accent. “Excuse my accent. We should be acquainted properly now. I am Herr Konrad Trommler.”

“Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy,” Darcy replied out of habit. “Look, I don't know why I'm here—perhaps you have your intelligence mixed up or something, because I've not come to look for Brian Maddox; I'm looking for
my
brother, who is totally unrelated and not in Transylvania at all—”

“Have you ever heard of Dracula?”

“What?” Darcy said. “No, I have not.”

“His name means son of Dracu—His father was a member of the order of the Dragon. He lived, they say, three centuries ago in Wallachia—right next to us. His real name was Vlad the Impaler. Do you wish to know why he was called that?”

“No.”

Trommler smiled. “I think it would actually be worse to leave it to your imagination. Reconsider, Herr Darcy.”

“I will not.” The circumstances were extreme, but he would not give in to this man's fright tactics. “I suppose you're going to try to intimidate me by telling me the count is his descendent.”

“You are familiar with inquisition, Herr Darcy?”

“No. I am a gentleman.”

“My opinion on English gentlemen is not very good,” said Trommler, “having observed one for over two years.”

“Brian Maddox is no gentleman.”

“Then you are aware of his habits?”

“I know him. I am related to him by marriage, yes. I have spent time with him, yes. But I've not seen or heard from him in years.” He could talk, if that was all they were going to do. “If you think
either
of us knows his whereabouts, or even if he is still alive, then you are mistaken again.”

“So
der doktor
said,” Trommler told him, “before he passed out.”

Darcy swallowed.

“But enough about
Doktor
Maddox. Your brother is German?”

“French,” he said, not easily. It was harder and harder to keep up the presentation that he was calm. “Half-brother. He was born in France. Now he lives in Austria.”

“Half? How many bastard children did your father have? Or perhaps your mother was a whore?”

Darcy tried, very hard, to break free of his restraints. They were iron, so it was useless, but it was his body's natural response. “
She was not a whore
!”

“Herr Darcy, it was a simple question.”

“Calling one's mother a whore is not a simple question!” He was being provoked, and he knew it, but he didn't care.

“Herr Darcy, you had better calm down,” said Trommler in an almost concerned voice. “You are only hurting yourself. See?” He stood up and indicated Darcy's wrist, which was bleeding where iron met skin.

He did not want to admit that his inquisitor was right, but Darcy did take a moment to close his eyes and breathe. “It was my father who was unfaithful. For your records,” Darcy said. “Are you satisfied?”

“We have a long way to go before we come to that,” Trommler said, taking his seat again. “Now, your brother, why did he come to Austria? To take in the sights?”

“He is a monk,” Darcy said. “His name is Grégoire. He was living in France, but his monastery was dissolved. So now he is in some town called Munich, or was. We lost contact with him.”

“And you came to look for him? You were close?”

“Yes,” Darcy said, not particularly liking the idea of
were
.

“Does your mother approve of this?”

“My parents are dead,” he added, “Herr Trommler.”

“The monasteries have been dissolved by General Bonaparte. You have heard this?”

“Yes.” He was tired. He was losing whatever game they were playing. “I heard they were dissolved, and I didn't hear from him, so I came to look for him. I have nothing to do with any of this nonsense with Mr. Maddox. The doctor and I were to part ways in Berlin. We were only traveling together because I don't know German and I've not yet hired a translator. Neither of us has the information you want.” He continued, “I am a very rich man in England. My family would pay anything—”

“The treasure he stole was not just from the accounts. It was a treasure beyond rubies to His Grace,” Trommler informed him. “He stole his daughter.”

“I believe she was Mr. Maddox's wife.”

“I was at the wedding, yes. I knew their every movement, their every congress, their every conversation.”

“You were a spy,” Darcy said. “Did Brian even know you spoke English?”

“Of course not,” Trommler paced, temporarily blinding him with darkness and light as he stepped in front of and then away from the lantern of the guard. “I also read his lovely letters to his dear brother
Danny
. They had a somewhat—awkward history, did they not?”

“They did.”

“He wrote him excessively and yet left out so many things that one might have wanted a loved one to know. That the princess could not conceive. That his own life was threatened if she was not with child after their second anniversary. That his father-in-law had no problems with putting his new son's head on a spike to remarry his only daughter. That he was planning to make off with her and half the treasury.”

“I don't know,” Darcy confessed. “I didn't read his letters. All I know is what Dr. Maddox told me, which was that everything was fine. And Dr. Maddox does not lie.”

“His brother is very different then.”

“They are like night and day.” Darcy straightened up, trying to collect his wits. “I don't want to make small talk with you. You must be stupid to not have figured out that I don't know anything about what Brian Maddox has done since he went missing or where he might be! There is no reason to press the point. Brian's ridden to the moon for all I know! And if he were right here, I would strike him for all the trouble he's caused! Now please tell me what I have to say for you to patch me and let me go!”

Trommler luxuriously took his time with his answer. “His Grace, the count, lacks an understanding of subtlety. He will assume that unless you had been put in some peril, you would hold back. But you have nothing for me and nothing that will satisfy him. So we all have to play our little games while we wait for the bigger prize.”

Darcy really wasn't very aware of what happened next. He felt like he was floating, between exhaustion, shock, and thirst. This was not supposed to have happened. This was what he had promised Elizabeth would
not happen
. They unlocked him and dragged him down, somewhere farther into the castle, where there was no light but from torches. He put up no opposition as they put him in a cell and put a leg iron over one ankle, as if he had any serious means of escape once the door was locked. The cell next to him was vacant.

Hours seemed to pass, and Dr. Maddox was nowhere to be found. Darcy anxiously stood and paced his cell for as far as he could with the leg iron, which was about half the actual length. When he was hungry enough, he finally tried the black bread and downed the water too quickly. It wasn't water, of course, but some kind of watery alcohol, and it went straight to his head. And this was to be his only drink?

Dizzy, he sat back down on the straw and must have nodded off when he was stirred by the creaking of the bars in the cell beside him swinging open, and a body was tossed in. When the iron was attached, they left the crumpled form of Dr. Maddox alone, saying nothing to Darcy.

“Maddox?” Darcy whispered, and when he was sure they were gone, he said, “Doctor?”

No response, and he had fallen on his side, so all Darcy could see was the rise and fall of his chest, meaning he was at least breathing. “Maddox?” Darcy reached for his jar and used the remains of the local drink by pushing the brim through the bars. Fortunately, the doctor had fallen so that his face was in the proper position to be hit by the flow of watery liquor.

This did wake him. Dr. Maddox groaned and rolled onto his back, revealing his bloodied right hand, which he had been holding against his chest. He cursed in several different languages and curled over in pain.

“Maddox,” Darcy said through the bars. “What did they do?”

“My hand,” Dr. Maddox replied. “They smashed it. I can feel—it's broken. If I don't—” He could not continue his sentence, distracted by pain. “I-if I don't splint it—”

“You're bleeding.”

“I know, I can feel it, oh God, yes.”

Darcy felt helpless, watching the doctor suffer while he had been left alone. “Can you see it?”

“Not well enough in this poor light. I—I can see colors—a-and shapes,” Dr. Maddox said in a pain-induced stutter. “But it's not distinct.”

“May I bandage your wound for you?”

“If you can, please.”

Dr. Maddox stuck his hand through the bars, and Darcy removed his cravat and bound Maddox's fingers together. The bleeding stopped, and Dr. Maddox thanked him before passing out.

***

After what felt like many days—or maybe one, he had no idea of knowing—Darcy woke from his slumber to see Dr. Maddox sitting up, slowly taking bread in small bites. “Doctor?”

“Darcy,” Dr. Maddox said; his voice in his long sleep, had mainly recovered. “Thank you.”

“How is the hand?”

“I've no idea, aside from it hurting to the pits of hell.” Dr. Maddox took a long swig from his jug. They were refilled every day and given fresh bread, so the count had intentions of keeping them alive, at least minimally. “I assume they questioned you. I think I heard it, but… it's all a bit unclear now.”

“They did,” Darcy added, “not very much. He was convinced I knew nothing of Brian's whereabouts.”

“I think I convinced them that you do not speak the language and are only here of my stupidity.”

“Thank God for that,” Darcy said. “The former, I mean. Though I do hate you for this. Let's be perfectly clear about that.”

“Do you have any idea of the time?”

“None. My watch is broken.”

“But I must have been out a few days. I can feel it on my face.”

Darcy, too, had whiskers. “Probably; I tried marking the days, but I have no window,” he said. “If I may inquire—”

“It was a ruse,” Dr. Maddox said. “My brother fled the country long before the execution was ordered. They want to draw him out, and they watched his post, so they knew my address and identity.”

“So he is alive?”

“He may well be, or not. But to their knowledge, he is.”

“Will he come for us?”

Dr. Maddox shrugged. “How would he know we are here? The count overestimates his abilities to be heard. If Brian is hiding somewhere far from here, he's not getting the palace notices.”

“And his crime?”

“They did not tell me the story coherently. They assumed I was in league with him and therefore knew every detail. But… what I managed to glean from them was that, despite the very happy marriage he described, the count was upset that his daughter was married two years and was still not with child. So he gave Brian an ultimatum of three months, or his head would be on a spike.”

“And he ran.” Darcy admitted, “Any sensible man would.”

“The very next day. They might have not pursued, but he took Nadezhda with him.” Dr. Maddox closed his eyes. “Why did he have to pick this moment in his life to become the white knight?”

“So he loved her?”

“I never doubted that he did. And considering the situation… and my own knowledge, if they were barren, the fault was probably hers. Not intentionally, of course.”