Castel Nicolau

Introduction

I am happy to introduce my new novel, Castel Nicolau. I offer a layered work. First, it is an alternate history. Second, it is a period piece set in 1847 Bistrița, Transylvania. And third, Castel Nicolau is a vampire romance.

Count Anghel Nicolau, in the guise of the Count’s errand boy, Micul înger, is pulled into the schemes of the mayor, Dumitru Popescu, and the proprietor of the Bistrița Inn, Andrei Muntean, to impress the visiting American Ambassador and his family before they move on to Bucharest.

As the Count cares for his aged and sickly wife, he is introduced to the Ambassador’s daughter, Genevieve. His role in the mayor’s and proprietor’s scheming pulls him ever closer to the young American woman. With political and international intrigues swirling, Anghel’s peaceful life in Bistrița takes on a dark and desperate turn.

I would like to mention and recommend the poems I’ve used in the writing of this story. They are worthy reads and are as follows:

No Coward Soul Is Mine by Emily Brontë.

She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud by William Wordsworth.

Music, When Soft Voices Die by Percy Bysshe.

1 Little Angel

Empires wax and wane; flowers bloom, then fade, and the living march, inexorably, to the grave. An old soul has seen it all before. Anghel had lived too long; he felt the weight of the years, and he felt the strain on everything that held him upright. He wanted freedom, any kind of freedom, but he would care for his Anna: because a promise, if not kept, is a lie.

Anghel passed the Valtoare, with its whirling water, and waved at Friedrich. Crossing the small bridge that spanned the stream, Anghel turned aside and walked beneath, where he knelt on the earth he had worn down by years of kneeling. He looked into the still water near the bank and studied his youthful features. Vampires do not age. He studied his dark, penetrating eyes, and smoothed back his short black hair, remembering when Anna’s face was as youthful as his reflection. Now, the years seemed empty, and love a burden.

Standing, he smoothed his white cotton tunic, straightened his leather belt, and dusted the knees of his white cotton trousers. Today was the day the Americans would arrive, and Vornic Popescu, the mayor of Bistrița, was beside himself. The mayor wanted everyone to speak English like the Ambassador and his family. It was Anghel’s native language, but he had not used it for a long time. He was sure to feel stupid as soon as he spoke.

Anghel looked into the water and tried a practice sentence. “Hello. I am Micul înger. Little Angel.” Inhaling deeply, he turned with a shake of his head.

The bare dirt road to Bistrița pressed through the thin soles of his shoes. His feet knew every dip and bump on the route between Bistrița and Castel Nicolau. Ahead was the arched wooden gate on the northeastern corner of the walled city. He saw no soldiers on the warda weg: the patrol walkway, but the gate sentries below would pass him through with smiles; Anghel was not only Count Nicolau’s servant, but the general helper of Bistrița, and known by all.

Daisies grew along the northeastern road, and so filled the window flower boxes in the Jewish quarter. A late summer breeze made them sway. The young sentries, Alric and Biede, smiled from beneath their wool caps with fur trim. Their red gambesons were emblazoned with the Bistrița coat of arms; the nested serpent always seemed to catch his eye. And small trees between the houses danced lethargically in the early morning wind.

The hawk looks below itself and sees the rabbit. The rabbit looks below itself but does not see the hawk. So the church sat in the center of Bistrița, viewing the souls below it. It sat cocked at an angle and walled in. It towered above the single-story homes as their inhabitants kept their noses to the earth. Yet, the church, soaring high, looked down and failed to see the castle above it. Anghel passed the church and waved to the minister as he swept the dirt from the walkway.

The Bistrița Inn was across from the Evangelic church; its wall was lower than the church wall, and Anghel took his favorite seat beneath the young hornbeam tree. Sitting with his eyes closed, he could sense the life energy of the small sparrows. He could sense the people of the city as bright pillars of energy. He was not hungry at the moment. A voice called, and Anghel opened his eyes. Bertana, an old matron dressed in dour grays, headed for the church, calling to him.

“Micul înger,” said the matron. “Thū bist jung. Thū ne skalt wunōn.”

Anghel waved and smiled. Of course, he looked young, but his inactivity was temporary. He would be busy all day. A noise made him look north as young soldiers marched around the northwestern quarter and down the dusty street that ran past the Inn. The daily morning march was led by a young officer in a clean uniform. The twelve soldiers were dressed in common clothing and carried tree limbs across their shoulders in place of muskets.

The morning ritual carried the soldiers of Bistrița around the central church eight times before their meager breakfasts. Bistrița was waking up. People stood in their doorways, stretched, and yawned. The noises of the city were waxing; the smells of Bistrița were also present. Anghel could smell the early bread in the ovens, the smoke from chimneys, and animals in the butcher stalls.

The soldiers passed in front of him. Aurel was first in the right column, with his deep-set eyes and long, bony nose; Aurel habitually averted his gaze and had trouble positioning his hands. Those were hallmarks of a thief; he had been caught and punished twice. The soldiers marched around the church and disappeared.

On a bare earthen road, northwest of Bistrița, a coachman whipped his horses lightly and clicked his tongue. The plain box coach raced to its destination. The passengers sat behind curtained windows, with their trunks and baggage tied securely on top. Genevieve Tarbutton sat facing her mother. On the seat to her left were her mother’s decorative woolwork travel bag, her own flower print carpet bag, and her father’s soft leather attaché.

Like a boil, Genevieve’s life was coming to a head, threatening to burst. She had been pulled from a comfortable home, from lifelong friends, and from the amenities of civilized life to travel the backwaters and dusty roads of a foreign country. Boring roads and boring towns filled her days. Fretful fears about bug-ridden Inns filled her nights. Nor was she allowed to approach the residents of this primitive land. At seventeen, Genevieve could not wait to be a free adult.

“I could just die,” complained Genevieve.

Using her silk handkerchief to wave away a small flying insect, Adelaide Tarbutton replied, “Young ladies do not speak so.”

Like her daughter, Adelaide was tall and slender, with fair features. Her eyes and hair were both a lustrous brown. She took up her fan, an ornate item purchased in Vienna, and fanned herself briskly. Laying that aside, she quietly folded her handkerchief.

Bazel, the father, spoke around the paper in his hands. “The trip has been insufferable, but we will rest in Bistrița. I’m told it is a decent place.” He paused to peer over the paper at his daughter, placing the full weight of his words in his narrowed eyes. “But steel yourself, Gen. It will be a difficult stretch to Bucharest.”

Adelaide turned to her husband as he shook the paper and continued to read. “Could we not have continued along the river?” she asked.

Bazel cleared his throat and replied, “Politics, my love.”

“Meanwhile, your daughter withers like a neglected rose,” complained Genevieve, rolling her eyes and falling atop the personal luggage to her left.

“Oh, dear!” complained Adelaide with an annoyed sigh.

Bazel folded the paper into his lap and looked between his wife and daughter. He addressed his daughter. “Be kind. Your mother has suffered much for this trip. We are alive, we are healthy, and we are together. My post in Buchrest serves our great nation, but imagine how lonely your father would be without his wife and daughter.”

Genevieve sat up and asked, “Bistrița? May I look at the shops?”

Adelaide answered, “You may stay beside your mother and father, where a young lady belongs.”

Genevieve argued, “I’m not allowed to do anything. I’m not allowed to speak to anyone. I can not wait to turn eighteen.”

Bazel said, “All in good time, dear.”

Adelaide said, “When we settle in your father’s new post, I will find a decent sort for your company, and a decent man, perhaps, an Ambassador, like your father, to support you when you leave the nest.”

Genevieve rolled her eyes and sighed theatrically. The coach rocked on the rutted road, and Genevieve pulled at the ends of her long brown hair. With a sudden, self-absorbed smile, Genevieve said, “The paddle boat down the Danube was almost delightful. The Captain’s helper had such bright eyes. I wonder what his name was?”

Adelaide responded, “A sweaty rogue, far too interested in a naive young lady.”

Genevieve argued, “I am neither as young nor as naive as you imagine, mother. Please don’t smother me. How can I practice their language if you won’t let me speak to anyone?”

Bazel placed a hand over the clasped hands in his wife’s lap, saying, “It appears our daughter is old and wise”

The sun was not high, but the city was noisy with daily life. Anghel sat and watched. The soldiers had finished their march, and shop owners arrived to begin a new day, with renewed hopes for profit. Nothing changed for Anghel; life was the same from day to day. When he looked at people, they reminded him of industrious ants, mindlessly busy. He could engage with any of them, but his smile was an act; habit rather than genuine.

He played a waiting game that was anchored in his earnest spirit. During the day, his Anna was in the care of his servants. She lay in her bed in Castel Nicolau, receiving genuine love and exemplary care. During the night, Anghel sat at the foot of his wife’s bed and read to her; it was a shared joy. It was all he could give, and it was all he could bear. The love he felt for Anna was mingled with a deep sorrow. He would read a chapter, kiss her cheek, and bid her a sweet sleep. Her old eyes would close, and Anghel would go to his room. If any life was a sorrowful sigh, then certainly it was his.

The kinetic energy of the citizens was a thing he could feel. They ran about while he sat watching, waiting. And then it began. Andrei Muntean, the Inn’s proprietor, stepped out with two large wooden buckets. They were attached to a shoulder board by two sturdy lengths of rope, and both of them had lids. The proprietor called to him, so he turned with a practiced smile.

“Little Angel,” said Andrei. “Will you help with the water?”

“Someone’s been practicing.” The tone of Anghel’s reply was cheery.

Andrei responded, “How can I not, with Popescu going on the way he does?”

Anghel lost his smile at the sight of the large buckets as he strode below the stone arch and along the cobbled walk. “You brought out the big buckets,” said Anghel, with a troubled face.

“Oh, don’t complain,” said Andrei, dismissively. “You’re young and strong. The Americans arrive today. The Ambassador brings his wife and daughter. I’m sure they will want to bathe.” When Anghel sighed and nodded acquiescence, Andrei added, “I will need four buckets.”

Yes, thought Anghel, today I’ll be busy. He followed the matrons as they carried dirty clothing to the valtoare. They laughed and chattered until one of them turned to taunt him. It was a daily test of his patience that the matrons tried to saddle him with one of their fat daughters. He would politely decline, but it never stopped.

“Mîn Rodica is stark; siu mag thia far thi dragan,” said Olga.

He remembered Rodica; she was built like a wrestler. Of course, she could carry the buckets. Rodica was not ugly, but she was a little scary.

Anghel responded, “The Count says I must bear my own burdens.” That seemed to settle the matter.

After two trips to the river and two trips back to the Inn, Anghel was flushed and hungry. He wiped sweat from his face and walked to the china shop. Avram Georgescu was placing new items in his window as onlookers gathered to watch. Anghel stood behind them and quietly fed. The energy of life trickled into his being and satisfied him. He was gentle, and not one of them felt the loss.

Captain General Cezar Dragos sat in the front pew of the Evangelic church. He sat facing the icon of Jesus Christ, blessing with his right hand, and holding an open Bible in his left. Sighing heavily, the Captain General lowered his face and gripped his knees. The memory of his son’s death was fresh every morning. The head snapped back from the impact of the musket ball. The body fell solidly, without bouncing. Cezar leaped from his mount and cradled the lifeless body in his arms, as all around him other bodies fell. The memory of finding his dead wife was bitter; he cut the rope and her body fell to the floor.

The Captain General inhaled deeply and nodded his capitulation to fate. He had killed his son by forcing him to enlist. He had replaced the violin in his boy’s hand with a musket; God forgive him. No. There was no forgiveness for a man whose adamancy killed both his son and wife. There was but one course left for him; he must find an adversary to match his own skill. He must fight that man. Perhaps he would win, but hopefully he would die. Without forgiveness, there was only honor.

Anghel sat in the pew across from the General and studied the beaten man. His short white hair, his broken nose, and his solid chin all spoke tragic volumes. His cocked hat with red feathers sat beside him. His blue jacket was adorned with three flower-like stars and a broad black sash from shoulder to belt. The leather belt was there, but not the sword and scabbard. He was the very image of a fighting man, his buttons bright, and his epaulets prominent. The two white stripes down the outside of his trouser leg commanded an ambient respect for authority, while the polished leather boots spoke of discipline and diligence.

Anghel cleared his throat and spoke softly. “Captain General,” he said. “The proprietor of the Inn sent me to you with a message.”

Sitting straight, Cezar turned to Anghel with narrowed eyes like steel traps, set and hidden. “Speak,” he said gruffly.

Anghel answered, “He said his wine is superior to what the church serves.”

The General stood, and donned his cocked hat. He said, “Until honor, there is wine.”

Anghel followed the Captain General from the church, but was stopped by the outstretched broom of Bishop Petrea. The man was tall, with a wide forehead, receding gray hair, and wizened eyes, black like those of a raven. Anghel clasped his hands before him and turned with a polite prompt in his expression.

The Bishop said, “Come to the service tonight.”

Anghel answered politely, “That depends on what the Count permits. Please do not worry over such as myself; you will have the Americans in attendance. I think that will fill your seats with curious catholics and Jews.”

The Bishop squinted at Anghel and said, "My concern is for your soul.” He turned back to his sweeping as he spoke over his shoulder, “Don’t let the catholics get their hooks in you.”

Feeling thoroughly warned, Anghel excused himself and walked across to the Inn.

He sat in his favorite spot, all but hidden by the hanging branches of the hornbeam tree. He felt that if he kept very still, people would pass him by; he would be invisible. After a while, the band would gather in front of the Inn. Their chatter and practice notes would pass around him; he would be the stone around which the river flows. But that would only last for a time. Vornic Popescu would soon arrive with his nerves on display. He would demand that everyone speak English for the Americans.

He looked up from his thoughts, then his nose kicked in. He covered his mouth and nose with a hand. Alexe Coman stood before him, the handles of the waste cart in his hands. His ratty hair had dried matter in it. His off-white tunic and trousers suffered from habitual hand-wiping. Alexe looked at Anghel with pleading in his pale brown eyes.

“I go to dump the waste,” said Alexe, “then to the stables for manure. Magan thu mî helpan?”

Anghel spoke from behind his hand. “No, Alexe. I’m to meet the Americans when they arrive. I can not do that if I smell like manure.” He immediately felt that his words were too harsh. He amended, “Put it off until tonight. Before I return to Castel Nicolau, I will help you.”

Alexe argued sadly, “The Kotzurs will complain.”

Anghel used his free hand to desperately shoo Alexe away. He added in haste, “Tell them Andrei will buy some for his garden.”

When Alexe was well past, Anghel walked upwind and gasped. The day was already beginning to take a toll. What new insult to his jaded soul must he suffer next? The answer to his question was almost immediate. Andrei stood on the walk and called his name. “Little Angel! Where are you?”

“Here,” answered Anghel, walking back down the street. “How may I help?”

“Oh, there you are,” said Andrei. “The Captain General needs you to run to his house and bring back an item he wishes to give the Americans.” Andrei walked toward Anghel as he spoke. “The item is in his wife’s room.”

Anghel replied, “Say no more. Except what the item is.”

“It is the ivory cameo brooch his wife was fond of,” said Andrei. “You’ll find it in the upper drawer of her chest in the back of the room. Be quick.”

Anghel sprinted through the busy streets, breathlessly greeting familiar faces, or asking to be excused for his hasty passage. The Captain General’s house sat against the southern wall. It looked as troubled as the Captain General. Weeds had taken over the front yard, and the flowers in the window boxes had been dead for quite a while. Anghel passed quickly through the gate and found the door unlocked. He entered a dark, musty house that reeked of loneliness.

He found the room and the chest. He searched the top drawer until he found the brooch. He did not wonder why the Captain General wanted to be rid of it; it only brought him pain. Anghel amended his early thoughts; yes, his life was the sigh of sorrow, but the Captain General’s sigh was just as deep. Anghel tucked the brooch behind his belt and sprinted back to the Inn.

It was not that Anghel minded; his days were filled with helping the townsfolk. It’s just that he hoped today, knowing he would be busy with the Americans, he might not be called on so much before their arrival. He stuck his head through the Inn door, winded, and called out.

“Sir,” he called. “I have the item.”

Andrei called from the second floor, “Angel? Come to the second floor. We’re up here.”

Anghel stepped into the foyer and closed the door; the interior was impressive. Three overhead lamps hung from the ceiling. Each lamp was covered by a small red canopy of cloth with white tassels hanging from the hems. The wallpaper was brown with gold fleurs-de-lis symbols. He could smell the oil in the lamps and the flaxseed oil that kept the furniture polished.

He turned to the staircase on the left side of the long foyer; the steps were polished wood atop whitewashed wood, and the banister was a rich, dark brown. Andrei had worked hard and reached into his deepest pockets to make the Bistrița Inn as elegant as anything in Bucharest. Anghel ascended to the second floor and turned to the eastern wing. It was a suite of three rooms, with the central room accessible through sliding French doors.

He entered and found Andrei struggling to center a heavy mahogany table with the help of his strongest employee, Sabin. Andrei’s two maids, Liana and Mirela, were setting the room in order.

Anghel repeated, “I have the item.”

Andrei stopped and panted theatrically. “Put it on the mantle.” Watching Anghel complete the action, Andrei pulled a kerchief from his vest pocket to wipe his face and neck. He pressed it across his small mustache before returning it. He then said, “The rest of us have jobs while you seem relaxed and easy.”

Anghel smiled and winked at the maids. He answered the proprietor, “I stand ready to help.”

Andrei walked to Anghel and placed a hand on his shoulder, saying, “Thit is gōd. Today, I really need your help.”

“Please,” replied Anghel. “Tell me what you need.”

Head hung, Anghel descended the staircase and walked to the door at the end of the foyer. He had to stop and walk around the ladder that Iacob stood atop to check the oil in the lamps. Iacob smiled down apologetically. Sullen, Anghel took a bit of Iacob’s energy in passing.

Through the door, there was a common dining area with rooms off both sides; to the left was the kitchen, and Anghel could smell baked bread and boiling broth. To the right was a reading room used for stout drinks and fat cigars. Anghel passed through the back door into another sitting room, with storage to the left, a back door to the garden, and a bathing room to the right.

Anghel stood in the bathing room doorway and shook his head; he had really stepped into that one. The bathing room was large, with blue walls and white corners. The bathing room housed two copper tubs, several tables with water basins, mirrors, towel racks with towels, and a small fireplace in the eastern wall. Over a small fire hung an iron pot for hot water; to either side of the fireplace sat the four buckets of water Anghel had earlier brought in.

There was a back door in the western wall that led to a small room housing facing privies. The door that led beyond the privies fell into a walled area apart from the garden, where Alexe could pass with his cart to collect the waste. Anghel sighed and stepped into the bathing room to remove the cotton covers from the copper tubs. He dropped the covers on the floor and knelt between the tubs. Polishing a copper tub was an exercise in madness; his aversion to such a chore was serious, but he had opened his mouth and volunteered before Andrei named the chore.

He stood and gathered the covers from the floor and dropped them into the dolly by the back door. Procrastinating, Anghel stoked the flame in the fireplace. He took an old towel and lifted the iron pot, carried it to the dolly, and emptied the hot water. The iron barrel sat on four sturdy iron legs, and between them was a box of soap flakes. He scattered half a handful of flakes into the hot water, and pressed the posser into the wash. If he did the wash and ran the cotton sheets through the mangle, he could put off the polishing of the copper tubs. After the wash, he could set the towels and the imported soap. He could fill the water basins and fold the hand towels, but eventually, he would stand facing the two tubs.

Anghel stepped into the foyer, sniffing his hands; the ladder and Iacob were gone. Pausing at the bottom of the staircase, Anghel sighed and steeled his practiced smile before ascending. Beyond the central room was a veranda. The maids stood on step stools, hanging garlands. Sabin was gone, and Andrei leaned over the table, polishing the surface with a thick cloth. Andrei raised himself and noticed Anghel.

Anghel complained, “My hands smell like metal.”

Andrei said, “I want the Americans to be impressed.”

Anghel entered the room and stopped to look down on the polished table. He said, “I washed the covers, folded the towels, and put wood on the fire.”

The maids entered from the veranda and spoke as one, saying, “Thank you, Micul înger.” They curtsied as they passed him, heading into the bedrooms.

Andrei smiled at Anghel and asked, “What do you think? The Americans will have private dining. I tell you, they will leave my Inn satisfied. I donate everything. All I ask is a good word in Bucharest.” With a sigh, he added, “It would be great if the Count could visit.”

Anghel replied, “He must care for his wife.”

“Yes. Yes,” said Andrei, with a dismissive flick of one hand. “A Count may do as he pleases.”

Anghel bristled at the proprietor’s dismissiveness, but he did not show it. Instead, Anghel smiled and said, with a nod to the large table, “You’ve missed a spot.”

“Where?” asked Andrei, raising his cloth in readiness.

Anghel reached out and pressed his finger into the center of the table, saying, “Here.”

His jest had almost earned him a swatting, but Andrei retracted his hand, knowing the influence and benevolence of the Count. In place of a swatting, Andrei scolded the brash boy and sent him away. So, Anghel returned to his spot under the hornbeam tree, and watched Bistrița busy itself with life. He watched delivery boys bring meat from the butcher. He watched fat farm girls deliver vegetables. He watched a neatly dressed Colonel deliver the Captain General’s sword and scabbard. He hid behind the branches of the hornbeam tree and watched life march haltingly by.

Anghel had known the passing of many years, many more than his youthful face displayed. Still, waiting was waiting. He wanted the Americans to arrive. He wanted his part in it to be over quickly. At the end of the day, he still had to help Alexe before returning home. He wondered if he could call in a favor; many people owed him. But who could he convince to take his place with Alexe?

Anghel lowered his head and closed his eyes. Anna’s face coalesced behind his lids. Her youthful smile pleased him, and he missed the young beauty he had wed.