Chapter Eight

The room at the top of the stairway did appear equipped for servants, with an old fireplace to keep the guards from freezing. However, the equipment on view was more geared to greetings than to defence: there was an assortment of umbrellas to keep incoming guests from the rain, but the only firearm in sight was an old shotgun. We followed Florescu—all three of us ducking to pass through the decorative archway—out of the room and down a few steps to an open-air space beside a small courtyard.

Immediately to hand were three doors on as many levels. One of them, marked with a huge terracotta pot holding a market-stand’s worth of cut flowers, stood open to reveal a flight of stairs with a carpeted runner. Carpet and flowers together signalled that we were not entering the servant’s wing, but the living quarters of the royal family.

Which told me that royal feet did indeed trudge up and down those stairs like the rest of us. The housemaids here would have legs of iron—but then, considering the relationship between its narrow foot-print and its considerable height, stairs would be a major part of life for everyone in Castle Bran. In Britain, castles were often broad-based refuges where livestock and peasants would be gathered in during times of threat. Not so Bran. Unless there was a cellar beneath us, with stables and a ceremonial entrance, Bran would not shelter anything less nimble than a goat.

It also occurred to me, catching sight of the courtyard as we started up the second or perhaps third storey, that this could not be Castle Dracula. The only way Jonathan Harker would have been driven inside was if his carriage had been hoisted bodily over the walls. And once there, it could have become a permanent fixture, since the courtyard was barely large enough for a horse to turn, its floor a madly irregular collage of stone steps, plastered walls, decorative garden beds, and raw outcrops of the native rock underneath.

The walls encircling the courtyard were similarly varied, as if to create a sampler of architectural styles—or perhaps a miniature Italian hill-town, with a diminutive town square formed by three-, four-, and five-storey buildings. Stone walls, plaster archways, red-tiled roofs and turrets, the whole joined at the top by zig-zags of half-timbered galleries from which spilled scarlet geraniums. All over were signs of recent renovations—the galleries looked reassuringly firm on their ramparts—but the glimpses I had of the whole uneven and idiosyncratic establishment were curiously appealing, considering that the place was built as a military outpost. One hoped that its current owner did not tidy the patchwork into bland uniformity.

We climbed up and up the corkscrew stairway, passing through rooms and arched passages. In every possible corner was another pot or bowl or ancient stone urn bursting with a mix of summer blossoms. Finally, on the fourth, or perhaps fifth, storey, the stairs came to an end, and the butler ushered us with some ceremony through another low doorway and into a different era.

Crisp, clean, newly renovated, this suite of rooms might have been set down here from another place. The bones of the Medieval castle were there, but the jumble of stone arches and dark corners we had gone past were here fresh plaster and bright whitewash. Snug wood-frame windows held glass modern enough to see through; newly tiled floors gleamed with polish between colourful rugs. The furniture, antiques all, gleamed with polish: heavily carved four-poster bed, age-dark wooden drawers, tall iron candelabras set with candles as big around as my wrist—it would appear that the renovations did not extend to electricity. A massive tiled fireplace, thankfully unlit, held a polished copper bowl of flame-coloured roses.

I moved to one of the deep-set windows, kneeling down on its cushioned seat. We were on the northern side of the castle, overlooking the portion of village we had motored through, and the room was high enough that its openings were actual windows rather than arrow-resistant slits. The gleaming walls made the most of the late afternoon sunlight, although the room would soon grow dim.

No ghosts here.

“Velcome to Cahstle Brahn, Meesus Holmes,” said the major-domo, the pointy ends of his moustache rising and falling with the rhythm of his words. “My name is Florescu. I hope these rooms will prove comfortable. May I ask, when would Sir and Madam care for dinner?”

I replied before Holmes could. “Thank you, Mr Florescu, the rooms are lovely, and supper would be heavenly, but right now I’d appreciate a cup of tea.”

“But of course, Madam. I will have it brought immediately. Let me first give you air…” He walked down the row of windows, throwing them open, and reassured us that if we wished to leave our door open for a brief time, the air would cool—and we were the only guests up on this level.

“A girl will come to light the candles,” he added, and bowed himself out.

Heaven only knew what manner of beverage would be considered “tea” in this distant part of the world, I thought with a mental sigh, and went to explore our Transylvanian quarters.

To my astonishment and joy, one of the doors opened into an actual bath-room, with a brand-new porcelain tub and gas geyser. Running water—in a Medieval castle! In disbelief, I cracked open the tap, expecting nothing but dust—but instead, after a moment, water came.

That did not guarantee that the geyser was connected, or that the device would not blow up, but it did suggest that housemaids would not have to haul steaming buckets up an Everest of stairs to indulge my wish for cleanliness.

I was humming as I scrubbed my face and arms free of heaven only knew how many days of travel. I changed my shirt, combed my hair, glanced at the mirror—definitely not the castle of Count Dracula, I thought happily, if it had a looking glass—and walked back into our sitting-room area feeling considerably more human.

I then came to a dead halt, at this latest in a day of astonishing sights. Delicate porcelain cups and plates, crisp white linen, a polished silver tea-pot suspended over a little blue flame—and was that…?

“Good Lord, are those scones?”

The girl setting out this feast looked taken aback, but Holmes merely said, in a voice that sounded suspiciously muffled, “Both fruit and savoury.”

I stared down at a tea-tray that would not have discredited a head waiter at the Ritz, and realised that I should have trusted that an English Queen, no matter how many years she had lived in Roumania, would not abandon such a cultural tradition as afternoon tea.

The promise of a bath, a proper cup of tea—I suddenly felt much better about this venture into the hinterland. My face must have shown my relief, because the young woman stepped forward to finish arranging the spoons into a neat line.

“May I pour tea, Missus?”

I listened to the same accent I had heard from the butler and the driver before him—the exaggerated diphthong of may, the tongue’s tap on the end of pour, the elongated vowels that turned which and Miss into “wheech” and “Mees,” and the marked tonal slides up and down, compared to that of a native English speaker. “Thank you. What is your name?”

She showed me her dimples and made a quick curtsey. “I am Gabriela, Missus.”

She was on that border between adolescence and womanhood, with a face of fifteen but the attitude of someone two or three years older—not uncommon with working-class girls, who confront reality sooner than their sheltered counterparts. This one was taller than most of her country-women, only two or three inches shorter than I, but she was dressed in the same costume I had seen since we arrived, with embroidered overskirt and full-sleeved blouse gathered under a wide belt. Her head, however, was uncovered, the cut of her light-brown curls suggesting that fashion magazines were not unknown here. The pious touch of a little gold cross at her throat was somewhat undermined by the mischief in her dark eyes. Charming, confident, intelligent—and if she wasn’t known to all as a troublemaker, it wasn’t for lack of trying.

I grinned at her. “Thank you, Gabriela, tell the cook that she has saved my life.”

She laughed—not a giggle, a laugh—and swept out of the room.

I heaped strawberry jam onto a scone and carried it and the cup over to the colourful pillows of the window-seat.

Bran stood at the spot where the Carpathian Mountains, which run from the north-west to the south-east, meet the east-west horizontal of the Transylvanian Alps, forming an arrow aimed at the mouth of the Danube on the Black Sea. The view from this window showed the agricultural plateau within the point of the arrow, with the forested wilderness on its edges.

Below Castle Bran lay a collection of roofs and roads, green gardens and tiny splashes of flower beds. Touches of white marked the presence of cows and goats, and ambling through the more distant fields were the tall figures of the haystacks. Leaning closer to the window, I saw that the base of the castle was a sort of park around a wide spot in the little river. On a map, the roads in and out of Bran described a sort of lopsided H, the upper section of which was visible here: right arm reaching up towards Brașov, left arm meandering along between the fields and the hills, joined by the cross-piece that ran through the village at the edge of the castle’s park. Out of sight, the left leg of the H followed the river valley up to the mountain pass, while the right, little more than a lane, kicked up into the hills in the direction of Bucharest.

From my current god-like position, I could see the common themes of the buildings: roofs were of thatch, shingle, corrugated iron, or tile, but all were sharply angled—the winters here would see a lot of snow. Houses were of wood rather than stone or brick, and generally two-storey, often with the stairs on the outside. Windows were small, both because of the cost and to keep out the cold. Looking over those high walls and carved gates, I found that most encircled a small compound of house, sheds, and garden—some with vine-draped arbours and simple benches. Many appeared to have their own wells, wash-houses, and drying-lines.

From the lower right corner of my view, emerging from the lane into the hills, appeared a wagon that might have evoked a Constable painting had it not been for the surprising number of people clinging to its raised sides. I could hear their voices, then a burst of laughter. Adding to the rustic idyll, a rooster crowed, followed by the complaint of a cow. I did not have to rush to catch a train; no one was shooting at me or bleeding at my feet. I’d even been given a cup of quite decent Indian tea.

I sighed in contentment. “Shall we take a walk?” I suggested. “Before night falls?”

Holmes picked up his tobacco pouch, I dabbed up the last crumbs of scone, and we made our way out to the Transylvanian countryside.

We walked down the steep drive and into the small village, pausing to avoid the dust from another heavily populated cart. This one was pulled by a pale ox with wide horns, and every person in it, from tiny child to wrinkled grandmother, stared and giggled when they spotted us, two alien creatures in our Western clothing and great height. As they passed on, I noticed that the watery eyes and head-ache of recent days were subsiding. I could even smell the clean odours of hay and sweat that trailed behind them.

My brain seemed to be crawling back into life as well. As I watched the cart rumble along the road to Brașov, it occurred to me that the way in had been remarkably straight. “Holmes, do you think that if an archaeological team were to dig into that road, they would find the stone slabs of a Roman highway?”

“Without a doubt. This is Trajan’s Dacia Felix. The small town halfway between here and Brașov was once a Roman outpost named Comidava. I have found myself wondering if some of the symbols in the gates here originated in Rome.”

I followed his gaze to the nearby example: wide and high enough for a laden cart, its tall uprights were carved with a braided pattern, from top to bottom, while the cross-beam had a number of elements that I did not think were mere design. He pointed upward.

“That at the centre is the Eye, for protection. Those marching peaks represent a wolf’s teeth, providing guidance even through dark and wild places. The braids are life unbroken, that generations of family might be protected by the house. I have seen patterns like them in ancient Roman artefacts. And I understand,” he added, “that the women’s embroidery is similarly crafted to bear meaning, blessings, and protection.”

A woman in wide skirts and a brilliant head-scarf scurried past us, one hand tucked around a chicken and the other firmly pulling along her wide-eyed infant. And indeed, my eye spotted a similar shape to that at the peak of the gate arch, worked in red cotton up the length of her sleeves.

“Buna seara,” Holmes said politely. She giggled and hurried on.

“Roumanian sounds rather like Italian, doesn’t it?” I said. “Perhaps if I simply wrote things down, the locals would understand me. The literate ones, at any rate. How much of the language did you pick up while you were here last month, Holmes? Er, Holmes?” I looked around and saw his figure disappearing into the pathway between a small pasture and a barn. I followed, and found him leaning on a low wall surrounding an orchard, taking out his tobacco pouch.

Bees.

The hives were old-fashioned skeps, knee-high basketry domes resting on boards—like eggs from those shambling hay-creatures dotting the landscape. The small openings at the bottom of each skep were thick with end-of-day traffic. The air smelt of honey. I propped my elbows against the wall, facing the opposite direction from Holmes, watching half a dozen sheep crop the stubble around the base of an amiable hay-monster. Somewhere nearby, the odours of meat and spices heralded the approach of the dinner hour. Smoke rose from many of the chimneys.

After a time, Holmes led me down a beaten path that turned out to connect with the centre line of the H of roads through Bran. Dogs barked, children shrieked. Every woman we saw wielded either a farm implement or the eternal spindle. Somewhere, a concertina was playing. We ambled along, admiring the neat houses and a few shop-fronts. One could see signs of long-time poverty given a sudden boost: even the smallest and meanest of houses had repaired shingles and new front doors. One or two of the buildings here were in need of renovation—which surprised me, since I’d have thought that the closer to the castle, the greater the prosperity. On closer examination, they proved to be abandoned, and yet they backed onto the Queen’s parkland. Perhaps the Queen’s architect had plans for them.

We went through a vestigial crossroads and turned down the leg of the H that followed the river. More homes and small farm buildings, many of them with long strings of garlic hanging beneath their eaves, but I had seen those before, and told myself that the purpose was culinary, not for the repulsion of the undead. Indeed, there were often strings of drying peppers, onions, and maize under the eaves as well.

We came to a garage, the Queen’s Rolls-Royce out in front with the driver assiduously polishing away the dust of the road. We greeted him; he tugged at his hat in response. The stables were nearby, and behind them an orchard of trees old and young, with a riot of flower beds along the edges—explaining all those bouquets in the castle.

“Have you met her? The Queen of Roumania?” It was a question I had somehow not considered before. Perhaps because the idea of knowing the granddaughter of an Empress and a Tsar seemed inherently unlikely.

“Not since she became Queen. I met her briefly, many years ago in Malta, when she was very young. I doubt she would remember the occasion.”

“It must be odd,” I reflected after a time, “to grow up aware that your chief value as a person lies in who you can be married off to. There is power, and yet little self-determination.”

“Every so often, one encounters a woman of her type who reaches past the distractions of position, pleasure, and society’s assumptions to become something greater. And even more rarely, one finds a woman who craves not power, but the chance to create something new.”

“And Marie is one of those?”

“As I said: an interesting woman.”

A boy came out of a nearby farmhouse with a bucket, setting off a stampede of goats that leapt and bounced in pursuit of whatever the bucket contained. He held it high, just out of their reach, to tempt the creatures into a nearby shed. There followed a series of thumps, bangs, and affectionate curses. Silence fell. We studied the goat-shed door which, like almost every other wooden surface in the village, had been carved—although these shapes were crude geometry compared to the village’s elaborate gates and posts. I was about to ask Holmes if he knew of any significance when the boy came leaping out, slapping the door shut behind him. He fastened the latch, noticed us watching, and tugged his hat-brim as he trotted across the yard to his own supper.

The thought caused me to notice how long the shadow from a nearby hay creature was. “We should probably head back before the sun goes down. I wouldn’t want the castle to send out a search-party.”

He tapped out his pipe on the ground, crushing the embers under his boot. We walked back arm in arm, up the hill to the castle, and to a very pleasant dinner, and to a most welcome bed.