Chap. 1: Death Rides a Pale Horse from Lord John and the Succubus in Lord John and the Hand of the Devils
Copyright © 2003 Diana Gabaldon, Lord John and the Hand of the Devils. All rights reserved.

Historical note: Between 1756 and 1763, Great Britain joined with her allies, Prussia and Hanover; to fight against the combined forces of Austria, Saxony--and England’s ancient foe, France. In the autumn of 1757, the Duke of Cumberland was obliged to surrender at Kloster-Zeven, leaving the allied armies temporarily shattered and the forces of Frederick the Great of Prussia encircled by French and Austrian troops.

Grey’s spoken German was improving by leaps and bounds, but found itself barely equal to the present task.

After a long, boring day of rain and paperwork, there had come the sound of loud dispute in the corridor outside his office, and the head of Lance-Korporal Helwig appeared in his doorway, wearing an apologetic expression.

“Major Grey?” he said “Ich habe ein kleine Englische-Problem.”

A moment later, Lance-Korporal Helwig had disappeared down the corridor like an eel sliding into mud, and Major John Grey, English liaison to the First Regiment of Hanoverian Foot, found himself adjudicating a three-way dispute among an English private, a Gypsy prostitute, and a Prussian tavern-owner.

“A little English problem,” Helwig had described it as. The problem, as Grey saw it, was rather the lack of English.

The tavern owner spoke the local dialect with such fluency and speed that Grey grasped no more than one word in ten. The English private, who normally probably knew no more German than “Ja,” “Nein,” and the two or three crude phrases necessary to accomplish immoral transactions, was so stricken with fury that he was all but speechless in his own tongue as well.

The Gypsy, whose abundant charms were scarcely impaired by several missing teeth, had German that most nearly matched Grey’s own in terms of grammar--though her vocabulary was immensely more colorful and detailed.

Using alternate hands to quell the sputterings of the private and the torrents of the Prussian, Grey concentrated his attention carefully on the Gypsy’s explanations--meanwhile taking care to consider the source, which meant discounting the factual basis of most of what she said.

“.. and then the disgusting pig of an Englishman, he put his [incomprehensible colloquial expression] into my [unknown Gypsy word]! And then...”

“She said, she said, she’d do it for sixpence, sir! She did, she said so--but, but, but then...”

“[These-barbarian-pig-dogs-did-revolting-things-under the-table-and-made-it-
fall-over-so-the-leg-of-the-table-was-broken and-the-dishes-broken-too-even-
my-large-platter-which-cost-six-thalers-at-St. Martin’s-Fair-and-the-meat-was-
ruined-by-falling-on-the-floor-and-even-if-it-was-not-the-dogs-fell-upon-it-
snarling-so-that I-was-bitten-when-I-tried-to-seize-it-away-from-them-and-all-
the time-these-vile-persons-were-copulating-like-filthy-foxes-on-the-floor-and
THEN...]”

At length, an accommodation was reached, by means of Grey’s demanding that all three parties produce what money was presently in their possession. A certain amount of shifty-eyed reluctance and dramatic pantomimes of pocket-searching having resulted in three small heaps of silver and copper, he firmly rearranged these so as to be roughly equitable in terms of size and metal value, without reference as to the actual coinage involved, as these appeared to include the currency of at least six different principalities.

He then scowled fiercely at the three combatants, jabbed a finger at the three heaps, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating that they should take their money and leave while he was still in possession of his temper.

This they did, and storing away a most interesting Gypsy curse for future reference, Grey returned tranquilly to his interrupted correspondence.

“26 September 1757
To Harold, Earl of Melton
From Lord John Grey
The Township of Gundwitz,
Kingdom of Prussia

My Lord--

In reply to your request for information regarding my situation, I beg to say that I am well-suited. My duties are...” He paused, considering, then wrote, “interesting,” smiling slightly to himself at thought of what interpretation Hal might put upon that, “...and the conditions comfortable. I am quartered with several other English and German officers in the house of a Princess von Lowenstein, the widow of a minor Prussian noble, who possesses a fine estate near the town of [ ].

The French are reported to be as near as [ ], but we expect no immediate trouble. Still, so late in the year, the snow will come soon, and put an end to the fighting; they may try for a final thrust before the winter sets in.”

He dipped his quill again, and changed tacks.

“My grateful thanks to your good wife for the small-clothes, which are superior in quality to what is available here.”

At this point, he was obliged to transfer the pen to his left hand in order to scratch ferociously at the inside of his left thigh. He was wearing a pair of the local German product under his breeches, and while they were well-laundered and not infested with vermin, they were made of coarse linen and appeared to have been starched with some substance derived from potatoes, which was irritating in the extreme.

“Tell mother I am still intact, and not starving,” he concluded, transferring the pen back to his right hand. “Quite the reverse, in fact; Princess von Lowenstein has an excellent cook.

Your Most Affec’t. Brother,

J.”

Sealing this with a brisk stamp of his half-moon signet, he then took down one of the ledgers and a stack of reports, and began the mechanical work of recording deaths and desertions. There was an outbreak of bloody flux among the men; more than a score lost to it in the last two weeks.

The thought brought the Gypsy woman’s last remarks to mind. Blood and bowels had both come into that, though he feared he had missed some of the refinements. He had understood her to be wishing him an infestation of tapeworms, who would suck the blood from his organs and then exit his body in an unusual but highly objectionable way, leaving him a cold, drained husk.

Perhaps she had merely been trying to curse him with the flux, in a particularly colorful idiom. She would of course know that the disease was about amongst the troops. If he were indeed to contract it, she could claim success for her curse, and thus enhance her reputation.

He paused for a moment, twiddling the quill. It was rather uncommon for the flux to occur in the cold weather; it was more commonly a disease of hot summer, while winter was the season for consumption, catarrh, influenza and fever.

He was not at all inclined to believe in curses, but did believe in poison. A whore would have ample opportunity to administer poison to her customers...but to what end? He turned to another folder of reports and shuffled through them, but saw no increase in the report of robbery or missing items--and the dead soldiers’ comrades would certainly have noted anything of the kind. A man’s belongings were sold by auction at his death, the money used to pay his debts and--if anything were left--to be sent to his family.

He put back the folder and shrugged, dismissing it. Illness and death trod closely in a soldier’s footsteps, regardless of season or Gypsy curse. Tapeworms, indeed! Still, it might be worth warning Private...Bodger, that was his name..to be wary of what he ate, particularly in the company of light-frigates and other dubious women.

A gentle rain had begun to fall again outside, and the sound of it against the windowpanes combined with the soothing shuffle of paper and scratch of quill to induce a pleasant sense of mindless drowsiness. He was disturbed from this trance-like state by the sound of footsteps on the wooden stair.

Captain Stephan von Namtzen, Landgrave von Erdberg, poked his handsome blond head through the doorway, ducking automatically to avoid braining himself on the lintel. The gentleman following him had no such difficulty, being a foot or so shorter.

“Captain von Namtzen,” Grey said, standing politely. “May I be of assistance?”

“I have here Herr Blomberg,” Stephan said in English, indicating the small, round, nervous-looking individual who accompanied him. “He wishes to borrow your horse.”

Grey was sufficiently startled by this that he merely said, “Which one?” rather than “Who is Herr Blomberg?” or “What does he want with a horse?”

The first of these questions was largely academic in any case; Herr Blomberg wore an elaborate chain of office about his neck, done in broad, flat links of enamel and chased gold, from which depended a seven-pointed starburst, enclosing a plaque of enamel on which was painted some scene of historic interest. Herr Blomberg’s engraved silver coat-buttons and shoe-buckles were sufficient to proclaim his wealth; the chain of office merely confirmed his importance as being secular, rather than noble.

“Herr Blomberg is buergermeister of the town,” Stephan explained, taking matters in a strictly logical order of importance, as was his habit. “He requires a white stallion, in order that he shall discover and destroy a succubus. Someone has told him that you possess such a horse,” he concluded, frowning at the temerity of whoever had been bandying such information.

“A succubus?” Grey asked, automatically rearranging the logical order of this speech, as was his habit.

Herr Blomberg had no English, but evidently recognized this single word, [or its the same in both languages] for he nodded vigorously, his old-fashioned wig bobbing, and launched into impassioned speech, accompanied by much gesticulation.

With Stephan’s assistance, Grey gathered that the village of Gundwitz had recently suffered a series of mysterious and disturbing events, involving a number of men who claimed to have been victimized in their sleep by a young woman of demonic aspect. By the time these events had made their way to the attention of Herr Blomberg, the situation was serious; a man had died.

“Unfortunately,” Stephan added, still in English, “the dead man is ours.” He pressed his lips tightly together, conveying his dislike of the situation.

“Ours?” Grey asked, unsure what this usage implied, other than that the victim had been a soldier.

“Mine,” Stephan clarified, looking further displeased. “A common foot-soldier.”

But still a problem, obviously. The Landgrave von Erdberg had three hundred Schwabian foot-troops, raised from his own lands, equipped and funded from his personal fortune. In addition, Captain von Namtzen commanded two additional companies of Prussian horse, and was in temporary command of the fragments of an artillery company whose officers had all died in an outbreak of the bloody flux. But for him to say “Mine,” in that tone of voice meant that the soldier was one of his Hanoverians.

Grey wished to hear more details regarding both the immediate death and--most particularly--the demoniac visitations, but his questions along these lines were interrupted by Herr Blomberg, who had been growing more restive by the moment.

“It grows soon dark,” the Buergermeister pointed out in German. “We do not wish to fall into an open grave, so wet as it is.”

“Ein offen Grab?” Grey repeated, feeling a sudden chill draft on the back of his neck.

“This is true,” Stephan said, with a nod of moody acquiescence. “It would be a terrible thing if your horse were to break his leg; he is a splendid creature. Come then, let us go.”