Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Saint-Germain, #Inquisition, #Women Musicians - Crimes Against
States of Grace (14 page)
“Armed men are killing folk in this region, by order of Huldrych Zwingli, for the new Emperor favors the Pope, who crowned him! Everyone knows it!” the angular man shrieked, lifting his baling hooks high above his head, then lunged forward and dug the long hooks deep into the flank and rump of Claudell’s horse; the gelding screamed, kicked and bucked, nearly unseating his rider, and managing to clip the furious peasant on the side of the head with his hoof as his rear legs buckled and he sank heavily onto his on-side stifle. The man staggered back, keening in agony, blood welling from his cheek.
The peasants began to mill together, horrified at what their companion had done; it was one thing to threaten armed men, and quite another to attack them in earnest. Two of them lifted their weapons pugnaciously, and took a step forward, all the while looking from their injured comrade to Belfountain’s men, three of whom were preparing to move in on them.
“Hold!” Saint-Germain ordered; his voice, although not strained or loud, carried to every man.
Belfountain glared at Saint-Germain, pointing to Claudell, who was dismounting as best he could without further injuring his gelding. “We’re going to lose a good horse, thanks to these fools! One of you men, bring a pistol and put him out of his misery!”
Mondroit came from the front right flank, dismounted, and began to charge his pistol. Everyone had gone silent.
“There is no sense in courting more losses,” said Saint-Germain as he slipped his katana back into its scabbard and climbed down from the wagon, going to the injured man as Mondroit prepared to shoot the gelding. “I want to see what happened to your face,” he said to the peasant, who had sunk to his knees, now whimpering with pain.
“You will kill me,” the man accused, barely understandable.
“No, I will not,” said Saint-Germain. “Believe this.” He stood beside the peasant, noticing that the man was beginning to shiver. “Ruthger, bring a blanket,” he called out.
The peasants were muttering amongst themselves, casting infuriated glances at the armed men and the black-clad man. One of them raised his woodsman’s axe and took a tentative step forward just as Mondroit fired a single ball into the middle of the gelding’s brain; the horse jerked, then collapsed.
Belfountain’s men moved closer to the peasants, ready to attack, anxious for Belfountain’s signal to set upon the ill-armed rabble.
The injured peasant wailed and fell onto his side; Saint-Germain knelt beside him.
Going about Saint-Germain’s request as if nothing were amiss, Ruthger climbed down from the second wagon, a folded blanket of two-colored wool in his hands. He paid no attention to the soldiers or the peasants, but went directly to Saint-Germain. “Is there anything else you would like?”
Saint-Germain had been studying the peasant, and realized that he was badly injured. “I think a carry-bed will be needed, and my medicament in the dark-blue glass vial.” He spoke in Imperial Latin, keeping his voice low. “We’ll need a second blanket, as well, or a canvass roll.”
“Are you certain?” Ruthger’s somber face betrayed nothing of his concern. “He is conscious and not confused.”
“That will not last,” said Saint-Germain with regretful certainty as he carefully draped the blanket around the man’s shoulders, and pulling it close around his hunched body. “He will soon begin to babble and to drift into a stupor. Once that happens, he is as good as dead.”
Ruthger looked down at the peasant, who was shaking in earnest now. “Are you sure he cannot be cured? Surely you know something—”
“I am,” said Saint-Germain. “His skull is cracked in at least two places. See how his face sags under the eye and the blood coming from his ear? He will not recover no matter what I do, so he might as well die as easily as possible. It’s syrup of poppies or agony.”
“I’ll fetch another blanket, and the vial,” said Ruthger, and went off to do those things.
Claudell and Mondroit were struggling to remove the tack from the dead horse, tugging at the saddle to pull the girth from under the body.
Belfountain rode a little closer to Saint-Germain. “What about this fellow? Do we leave him? What do you think the others will do?”
Saint-Germain shook his head. “I cannot say. But I know what we should do, to ease this bad situation: make a carrying-bed for this man, and help the others to ready him to travel.”
“Why should we bother? We can push our way through,” said Belfountain.
“Not without risk of further injuries,” said Saint-Germain, “and that could delay us still more.”
Sighing through his teeth, Belfountain took a long moment to consider his response, then said, “Very well.” He raised his voice. “Help these men make a travel-bed. Their companion will need it. You! Cathcart! You take charge!”
Cathcart muttered something pithy as he dismounted and handed his reins to Belfountain. His Venetian Italian was far from expert, and his accent was harshly English, but he made his intentions plain, and finally one of the peasants lowered his pitchfork and came forward. “Thank God,” Cathcart said in English, and then switched back to his version of the northern dialect. “We have a roll of canvass. If you can bring two poles, we can fashion a carry-bed for your fellow there.”
One of the peasants hefted his long-handled hoe. “Will this do?” he offered, avoiding the condemning glance of two others among his companions. “We have an orchard-hook, too. It has a substantial, long handle.”
Ruthger came back to Saint-Germain, a long roll of linen in one hand, and a small vial of dark-blue glass in the other; a second blanket was tucked under his arm. He held these out to him, the blanket providing support for the bandages and vial. “What more should I do, my master?”
“Since you had the good sense to bring a bandage, you can help me to wrap his head so the broken bones won’t shift any more than they must; once the syrup has taken hold, we will bind his head,” said Saint-Germain, dropping down on one knee beside the stricken man. Doing his best to use the local speech, he said, “I have medicine for you; it will ease your pain and let you rest while your friends take you back to your home.”
The man moaned and his eyes fluttered, and he wheezed more than he had before.
“First I need to see your face,” Saint-Germain continued. “If you will lower your hands for me?”
Behind the three of them, Cathcart had finally enlisted the aid of three of the peasants, and was now unrolling canvass and trying to explain how it was to be attached to the handles of hoes, hooks, and swineherd’s weighted staff.
The peasant shuddered and lowered his hands a short way from his face, his fingers tense as talons. His color was ashen and a thin line of blood ran from his nose. He shuddered and his left hand spasmed.
“You will have to swallow this,” said Saint-Germain, holding the unstoppered vial to his mouth and preparing to tip the liquid in.
The carry-bed was almost finished, and the peasants began to talk among themselves as to who should be bearers, all the while watching the soldiers uneasily and making gestures of protection.
Now a light spattering of rain pattered down, hardly more than a suggestion of damp, but both Belfountain and Saint-Germain looked up as Belfountain burst out, “Mary’s Tits! We’ll have mud for sure!”
Saint-Germain continued to concentrate on the peasant, who was coughing with the effort to get some of the syrup down. “Steady, good fellow. Steady,” he encouraged as he managed to get the last half of the vial’s contents into him.
“How much longer?” Cathcart asked Saint-Germain. “These men are getting restless.”
“I cannot blame them for that,” said Saint-Germain, rather remotely; his attention was still fixed on the injured man. “We want to wrap his head, and then you may take him,” he said to the peasants in a fairly good version of their dialect.
The rainfall grew a bit heavier and the wind-gusts returned, shoving at the mountain as if to move it. The peasants huddled together, resentment mixing with chagrin as they watched Saint-Germain deliberately secure the long strip of linen around the man’s head; by the time he was finished with his task, the peasant was barely conscious.
Cathcart helped load the peasant onto the carry-bed, and stood back so that his companions could lift the carry-bed and head off toward their village, some of the men already worried about the storm.
“What do you want to wager they don’t abandon him a league from here?” Belfountain said to Saint-Germain.
“It will depend upon the weather,” said Saint-Germain.
“And how bad his wound is,” added Belfountain, a note of curiosity in his observation.
“It is a very bad wound,” said Saint-Germain, looking up as Ruthger approached holding a shining lanthorn. “Very good, old friend. We will need light very soon.”
“So we will,” said Belfountain. He motioned to his men. “Get your lanthorns, all of you!”
As his men hurried to do as he ordered, Saint-Germain climbed back onto the driving-box of his wagon and hung the lanthorn on its bracket at the edge of the driving-box so that the way ahead would be illuminated, for although the dark did not impede his vision, he knew that Belfountain and his men would be wary and perplexed if only they had to take the precaution to light the road ahead. Picking up the reins, he resigned himself to an hour of rain.
Text of a letter from Joseph-Marie Derricot of Liege to Christofo Sen in Venice, written in Latin and carried by private courier; delivered fourteen days after it was dispatched.
To the most esteemed Secretary to the Venezian Savii, the respectful greetings of Joseph-Marie Derricot, abiding at Liege in the Inn of the Shuttle and Loom, and, in accordance with your instructions, informing you of the arrival and departure of persons of interest to the Savii.
You had informed me, some weeks since, that an eminent foreigner, known in Venezia as Franzicco Ragoczy, il Conte di Santo-Germano, might be expected to pass through this city, for such were his plans as filed with the Minor Consiglio. From your description, he had hired armed escort and was bound for Antwerp, Amsterdam, and Bruges. I wish to report that last night there arrived from the south, a foreigner calling himself Ferenz Ragoczy, Grav Saint-Germain, who was accompanied by armed men, a manservant, and the priest and farrier of the soldiers. He wore a signet ring I have briefly seen: it is a disk with raised displayed wings, black on silver, which he presented to establish his identity when he first entered the city. This would be consistent with what you have said regarding this man; coupled with the similarities of name—which can be accounted for in terms of regional language—I am almost completely convinced that I have seen your man, and that he is truly bound for the Lowlands, as you supposed.
This Grav Saint-Germain is presently at the Old Mill, an inn of good size, able to take in all his armed men, provide them food, bed, and drink for a fairly substantial amount, but not exorbitant, as is charged at the Starry Crown. He has paid for three nights there, and so I must suppose he will be here at least that amount of time.
I was told that he had received a courier from Antwerp, apparently something about a house there, but I have no details to offer you. Suffice it to say that his presence in Liege is not a secret, nor is it intended to be, and that Saint-Germain has already offered bona fides to the leaders of the city and its Guilds. I am persuaded that he is engaged in nothing nefarious, that he is not planning to abscond with money or other treasure, and that he is planning to return to Venezia within the year, for the soldiers have said that they are engaged to escort him south-by-east come June, and that their leader, an Englishman named Belfountain, has already established the terms of their journey.
I shall inform you of any developments not already set forth here, such as any detention here or deviation from the stated plans of this Grav. The state of the city is such that there is some risk that the present leaders may have more inquiry to make of the Grav, since he has shown proof that he owns presses in various places. Books can be hazardous in these precarious times.
Be certain that your ducats will be put to good use,
And that I remain
Your most humble servant to command,
Joseph-Marie Darricot
At Liege, by my own hand, on this, the 8
th
day of October, 1530 Anno Domini
th
day of October, 1530 Anno Domini
Bruges was blustery, with sharp winds off the North Sea cutting along the streets and shrieking down chimneys, sapping the last of autumn’s warmth and replacing it with the promise of an early winter. Occasional patches of blue shone through the racing clouds, lending an evanescent cheer to the waning day.
Coming through the door on a shove of the northwesterly wind, Ruthger nodded to Jaquet Saint Philemon, who had hurried to answer the knock on the door, saying, “I’d wish you good afternoon, Saint Philemon, but it certainly isn’t, if the weather is any test of the matter.” He swung his knee-length, fur-trimmed, mulberry-colored chamarre off his shoulders, revealing a short, old-fashioned huque in double-woven English wool of russet-brown over knee-length pin-tucked barrel-hose in dull satin of raw ocher; his leggings were dark-gold and his high-topped shoes were made of Cordovan leather. He handed the chamarre to the steward, going on, “Maarten Gerben will be here within the hour to see my master. I trust I may find him in his study?”
“Yes,” said Saint Philemon, giving his cuff-bands a fussy twist. “He left his apartment about two hours ago, and went to his study as soon as he had been given the cards left for him.”
“Thank you.” Ruthger started toward the stairs to the second floor, then stopped. “The tailor is coming around later today, shortly before sunset, delivering two new suits of clothes—one for my master and one for me, and taking measurements for others.”
Saint Philemon had a short, fierce, inner debate, then remarked, “That will be of benefit; aside from your chamarre, your garments are not in the current mode, except for your Venezian clothing, and such is not appropriate here. You will be glad of what the tailor brings you.”
Ruthger came close to laughing. “Just so.”
“You will want to be notified when he arrives, I would suppose,” said Saint Philemon, setting the door-latch with care; it would not do to have the wind blow it open.
“Yes, and when Gerben arrives,” said Ruthger.
“I’ll attend to it,” said Saint Philemon, going to fetch a footman to keep watch on the door.
Ruthger climbed the stairs to the second floor; they were not so steep as the stairs in the house on Campo San Luca, but they made up for this in their narrowness. As Ruthger continued upward, he decided that another oil-lamp in the stairwell would relieve its constant gloom, and determined to instruct Saint Philemon to secure one to the wall at the first small square step that served as a landing. At the top of the second flight, Ruthger took the corridor leading southeast and tapped on the double doors at its end.
“Come in, old friend,” called the voice from inside.
Ruthger turned the latch and stepped through the double doors: Saint-Germain’s study was the largest room in the house, set at the back of the building, over the kitchens. There were two trestle-tables, a book-stand, two tall stools, and three closed cabinets, along with two chairs, and an upholstered bench facing the hearth where this afternoon a small fire burned. Saint-Germain himself was perched on one of the stools at the larger of the two tables, a small beam-scale suspended from his hand, the greatest portion of his attention fixed on the two objects he was weighing, one a brass spool, the other a haphazard knob of gold. He wore an English doublet in black-silk twill, piped in silver, with a narrow ruff of exquisite point-lace. His barrel-hose were a bit shorter than Ruthger’s, made of polished satin, and leggings of black silk; although he was a decade out of the current fashion, he had lost none of his elegance. “Well enough for a first effort,” he said as much to himself as to Ruthger as he tossed the gold into the air and caught it. “The athanor will need some minor repairs.”
Ruthger waited until Saint-Germain set the scale down, then said, “Gerben is coming today. I persuaded him that he would do better, speaking with you directly, than continuing this endless exchange of messages. There is going to be confusion or an interception if you continue as you have.”
“Excellent,” Saint-Germain approved. “I will be glad to receive him at last.”
“He asked me to warn you that he is being watched,” Ruthger added.
“As are most printers in Bruges,” Saint-Germain observed, taking care to speak the local dialect in case any of his household might be listening.
“That they are,” said Ruthger. “But that does not mean we should be unmindful of it.”
Saint-Germain swung around on the stool to face Ruthger. “You have the right of it, of course. We do not want to add … ah … fuel to the fire.” His sardonic witticism held a grim reminder of the printers and book-makers whose businesses had been burned to the ground during the last two years by various outraged mobs rampaging through the city.
“By no means,” said Ruthger with a trace of acerbic amusement on his features.
“Is Gerben concerned for his bindery?” Saint-Germain asked. “Or is it the press itself that he worries for?”
“What printer in the Low Countries would not be concerned for both?” Ruthger countered, and went on in Venezian Italian, “He did his utmost to present the appearance of confidence and composure, but his eyes flickered often and he jumped at sudden sounds. His clothes are loose on his frame, so I must suppose he has recently lost weight, yet he doesn’t appear to be ill, only troubled.”
“I see,” said Saint-Germain thoughtfully in the same tongue. “What more did you notice?”
“His shop is short handed,” Ruthger reminded him, “and he has only two apprentices now: last year—”
“—he had four,” Saint-Germain finished for him. “That is discouraging, at least for him.”
“At least,” Ruthger seconded. “He lost one apprentice to high fever and putrid bowels, but the other left for Mass one day and never returned.”
“Kidnapped, does he think?” Saint-Germain asked.
“Not kidnapped: he fears the lad was taken by the Secular Arm of the Church, and is being held in one of the monastery prisons,” Ruthger said, his emotions carefully banked. “It’s that, or he fled the country.”
“Had he done anything to merit such attention?” Saint-Germain inquired, an edge in his voice as he tossed the gold again, and caught it, then set it on the table.
“Gerben didn’t say, but he thought that the youth had been working with some comrades to print up broadsheets—you know, the kind that are posted on walls throughout the city, most inflammatory in their rhetoric, inciting disputes and conflict among the various local religious factions.” Ruthger paused. “Until they are white-washed over or torn down.”
Saint-Germain gave a single nod. “It is not something about which Gerben may safely make inquiries, if that is the case. Neither the civil nor the religious authorities take well to those who spread dissension among the people, and small wonder. Gerben’s oppugns on the apprentice’s behalf could lead to his interrogation for making inquiry.”
“Assuming, if he were not detained, he would be told anything at all,” added Ruthger.
“Yes; assuming that,” said Saint-Germain, getting down from his stool and pacing the length of his study. “It is getting worse, is it not?” he asked from the far end of the room.
Ruthger had been with Saint-Germain long enough to know that he meant the tension between religious groups. “Yes, and it will not soon be better.”
“No, I fear not,” said Saint-Germain, picking up the gold and holding it to the light. “Seven ounces, English weight. I was hoping for ten.”
“Seven ounces is not a small amount,” Ruthger remarked as he took the lump of gold Saint-Germain had made in the athanor.
“If matters were more settled, then I would agree,” Saint-Germain said.
“But you’re worried,” said Ruthger.
“That I am,” said Saint-Germain in the dialect of Bruges. “This city is like a pot on the simmer. It could soon boil over, and that could mean more hardship than most citizens now endure. Spain is proving a hard master for their Netherlands, and Clemente is unlikely to rein in any Hapsburg, not since the Spanish sacked Roma.”
“Do you think the Church will try to bring the city to heel?” Ruthger sighed.
“Spain would doubtless like to make such an attempt, and the Church might permit it, but the Holy Roman Emperor would not countenance so oppressive a course, or so it appears.” Saint-Germain glanced toward the door, aware of a soft sound beyond it. He signaled to Ruthger, and then went on, “Protestants are more tolerated by the Austrian Hapsburgs than the Spanish Hapsburgs, though they are all ruled by the same man.”
“Does that lessen or increase the instability, do you think?” Ruthger moved a few steps nearer the door.
“It is too soon to say,” said Saint-Germain. “If the Spanish have their way, there will be blood in the streets and then the chance for negotiated resolution will be lost. You know how these confrontations escalate: we have seen it before.”
Ruthger put his hand lightly on the door-latch. “How many more times will this happen?”
“Pitting faith against faith?” Saint-Germain came back down the chamber. “As long as the gods are a mystery, or so I fear.”
At his signal, Ruthger opened the door, to find Oton Marchand, the senior footman, standing close to it. “So!” Ruthger said. “You carry a message?”
Oton colored to the roots of his fair hair. “I … I … that is … No message.” This admission ended on a brusque sigh.
“So you were listening.” No one moved as Saint-Germain regarded Oton steadily for a short while. Then, apparently satisfied, he said, “Well, you are come in good time. I have an errand for you.”
“Certainly,” said Oton in a rush of an emotion that might have been gratitude. “Whatever you require.”
Saint-Germain saw the flick of Ruthger’s eye, but continued on as if he had not. “Have a plate of sausage and cheese made ready, and bring a pitcher of beer and a tankard, if you will.”
“Certainly,” said Oton, and started away from Saint-Germain, his features twisted in dismay. “Your pardon, Grav; I should not have—”
“You will need another tub of wood if you want to keep your fire going,” Ruthger pointed out.
Saint-Germain offered a rueful smile. “Thank you for noticing. Yes, by all means, have a tub of wood sent up, Oton. It would not do for me to receive Gerben in a cold room.”
Ruthger nodded as Oton hastened away, “I wonder to whom he reports?” He did not expect an answer. “I’ll go to the kitchen to get your tray, and leave you to prepare your dispatch to Gennaro Emerenzio; the courier will be here in an hour.”
“You are good to remind me,” said Saint-Germain, ducking his head as if chagrined by his lapse in memory; he reached into a drawer under the table and pulled out a sealed envelope, which he handed to Ruthger. “This should be sufficient. The courier is one of Belfountain’s, or one we have hired here?”
“Yes; one of Belfountain’s. As part of the retaining contract I struck with him on your behalf.” He slipped the envelope inside his doublet, frowning a bit, then said, “If anyone should inquire, am I at liberty to reveal the terms of your agreement with Belfountain?”
Saint-Germain’s glint of a smile told Ruthger that he had been right: Saint-Germain wanted any household spies to know about his arrangements with private couriers. “Certainly, if they have good reason to ask for it.”
With a slight nod, Ruthger left the room, securing the latch before going back down the narrow stairs to the main floor, and from there along the corridor to the kitchen.
Wenzel Horner, the chief cook, was a man of moderate height, but with shoulders and forearms like a blacksmith. Just now he busy cutting up cabbage for the pork stew cooking in the large pot hung over the coals in the maw of the fireplace. He looked up as Ruthger came in. “It’s you, is it? What am I to do for the Grav?”
“He would like a tray sent up for his visitor—when the visitor arrives,” said Ruthger. “Sausage, cheese, and beer.”
“I have a barrel we have just tapped; it is better than many barrels have been of late.” Wenzel yawned. “Is that all the Grav needs me to do?”
“Don’t feel unappreciated,” said Ruthger. “My master’s privacy in his dining is the custom among his people. Do not feel offended that he does not avail himself of your excellent cooking.”
Wenzel sniffed. “One would think he has no consequence at all—he never has guests to dine, and he, himself, keeps his own company for his meals, whatever they may be.”
“It is the way of those of his blood,” said Ruthger in a tone that deflected any further pursuit on the cook’s part.
Wenzel scraped the chopped cabbage into a bowl. “I have applebread in the warming ovens, or does that tempt you?”
“Alas,” said Ruthger, and then said, “But I am sure my master’s visitor would like to have it with his sausage and cheese.”
“I will see he has a slice or two,” Wenzel said magnanimously.
Knowing that the cook’s pique had been mollified, Ruthger left the kitchen, bound for the steward’s quarters, where he spent a short while in reviewing the household accounts with Saint Philemon. By the time he returned to the kitchen, he had handed off the envelope to Belfountain’s courier and received a note from the butcher, saying that there were fresh lambs in the market. As he approached Wenzel to arrange about shopping, he was informed word had come from Oton that the printer Gerben had arrived and was waiting in the vestibule. Making a rapid decision, Ruthger said, “Have Oton escort Gerben to the Grav’s study. I will bring the refreshments up to them.”
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