Communion Blood (16 page)

And so it was: the guests were rowdier and the music more hectic, the playing becoming strident to cut through the din of conversation and laughter. Dancing quickly became a scramble, more for mock pursuits than Terpsichorean art. The candles in the chandeliers burned down so that the floor was soon slippery with wax, a development approved with hilarity even by those who slid upon it. The grand salon was uncomfortably warm except near the terrace doors where a chilly breeze drove the rollicking guests back into the center of the huge room. Ragoczy remained in the gallery for the greater part of an hour, descending only when the music stopped again and most of the guests hastened off to the supper room for a late-night buffet.

“Conte!” Ettore Colonna called out as he caught sight of his black- clad guest. “You gave me a start. I thought for a moment a priest had arrived.” He was leaning on the arm of Celestino Bruschi, smiling at his own mistake.

“I apologize for alarming you,” said Ragoczy drily. “From what I can see, your evening may be counted a success.” He heard a clock sound the six chimes of midnight. “You will none of you be asleep before dawn.”

“Yes—I think so, too,” said Ettore Colonna with a kind of innocent pride. “At least no one is bored.”

Celestino Bruschi laughed aloud at such an absurd notion.

“I should think not,” said Ragoczy with a lift of one brow. “How could anyone be at such an entertainment.” His compliment was sincere enough but it was tinged with an element of the isolation which overcame him from time to time.

“And yet,” said Ettore Colonna, “I sense you are about to desert me and all these guests.”

“You cannot go, Signor’ Conte: it is too late,” Bruschi seconded.

Ragoczy nodded. “It is as I told you when I came. I regret that I must return to my villa tonight. The workmen will be arriving before dawn and they will need my instructions for laying the foundation in the new wing.” That this would mean putting down a cushion of his native earth he kept to himself.

“I suppose I need not remind you that you have a two-hour ride ahead of you? And that the roads are not wholly safe? Are you determined to go?” Unlike Bruschi, Ettore Colonna made no effort to dissuade his foreign guest from leaving. “If you decide to remain, you will be welcome.”

“The road was as long coming here,” Ragoczy reminded him, “and I have my sword and a pistol.”

“Well, under the circumstances, I do perceive that you might prefer la Ferrugia to any bed partner you could find here tonight. I will resign myself.” He disengaged from Bruschi and made a leg. “Then I must thank you for accepting my hospitality and for being good enough to make your way here for so short a stay.”

Ragoczy made an answering leg. ‘What can I be but grateful for your invitation and the splendid evening you have provided?” He knew more fulsome praises were required of him if he were not to offend Ettore Colonna. “Your villa is beautiful; it is a pleasure to see it at last. The service your staff offers is above any fault. And the quality of the music exactly suits the most exquisite taste.”

Ettore Colonna held up his hands in mock surrender. “Basta. Basta.” He began to laugh. “All right. We must agree you have had a pleasant time and you admire Gran Segretto. I appreciate your courtesy, Signor’ Conte. Many a Roman could learn politesse from you.” He clapped his hands, and when a servant appeared, he said, “Send word to the stable to saddle Signore Ragoc
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y’s horse and bring it round to the carriage-door.” Then, as he dismissed the servant, he said, ‘Why did you ride? Surely it wasn’t necessary. You have two fine carriages, don’t you?”

“Yes. And had I come in one, I would have to contend with a coachman, a footman, and four horses late at night on the road. I might as well hire a herald to announce my presence and be done with it. I’ve already come to grief through such recklessness.” He made no mention of the nearly severed spring, or his apprehension that another similar misfortune could befall him; he saw Ettore Colonna look mildly surprised. “I can make better time riding alone, don’t you think? and be safer doing it.”

“I’ll concede that,” said Ettore Colonna, and then glanced about to be certain they were not overheard, his long saturnine face becoming earnest. “The suit you’ll present to the Magistrate?—it’s Narcisso della Rovere, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Ragoczy, suddenly guarded in his manner. He paused in buckling on his sword, putting all his attention on Ettore Colonna.

“Celestino, give us a moment, will you?” Ettore Colonna waited until his companion had withdrawn, then he said, “You want to be careful of him. Narcisso della Rovere is known to favor Churchmen in all causes.” He lifted his long, well-shaped hands to show how philosophical he was about it.

“There are no Churchmen to be helped in this case,” Ragoczy pointed out, finishing with the belt-buckle and fingering the hilt of the sword to make sure it hung properly. He patted his deep pocket where he had already placed his pistol.

“The man making the claim is in Archbishop Walmund’s suite,” said Ettore Colonna. “The Magistrate surely knows this; you cannot think it will have no bearing upon him. He is a creature of the Church more than an enforcer of the law.” He held up his index finger in warning. “Be careful. That is all I can say.”

Ragoczy considered this. “I thank you for your concern, Signore Colonna. I had not factored that possibility into my plans.” This was not entirely accurate, for he was well-aware that the Magisterial Courts were biased in the Church’s favor, but he was grateful to have his apprehension confirmed.

“The della Roveres are as thick with the Church as we Colonnas are,” Ettore Colonna declared. “And they have as much to protect as we have.”

“I will bear this all in mind.” He studied Ettore Colonna for a moment, scrutinizing him without apology. “Do you ever worry about how this could end?”

“For me? No. I know I am safe. But for some of the others, yes, I do. When Rufio Lampone left to go to England, I knew he was being wise. He was in danger not only from his academic work, but from our—ah—association. The Church was going to use the latter to condemn him to the flames.” His expression was emotionless but there was something in his eyes that was disquieting. “He is Rufus Berry now, and teaches in Cambridge in England. From time to time I receive a letter from him, carried by one of our mutual friends, and I feel my loss afresh. I am grateful for his deliverance even as I miss him as I would miss my own eyes.”

“This cannot be an easy life for you, amico mio.” Ragoczy regarded him steadily.

“It is not easy for any of us,” Ettore Colonna said bluntly. “In our own land we are as much foreigners as you.”

“A pity,” said Ragoczy. He made a point of looking about, taking in the sumptuous surroundings. “Still, you have the advantage of living well.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Ettore Colonna with relish. “If one must be imprisoned, at least the cell is pleasant and the jailers nearly invisible.” He coughed. “And Cousin Gennaro makes a most inconspicuous chaperon.”

At the reminder of that name, Ragoczy felt twinge of anxiety. “We did not see your cousin tonight, I think.” He did not want to appear too inquisitive for he was not eager to meet Gennaro Colonna again.

“No. He is not comfortable with strangers; he does not see well and that adds to his sense of confusion when strangers are about. He is quite ancient and so steeped in goodness that it is assumed he will have a beneficial effect upon me by virtue of his presence.” He shook his head. “Not that he wasn’t a wild youth. There are tales in the family that he debauched a young woman of good family, which made it necessary to send him away. From what I have been told, he was shipped off to the New World in disgrace, and found salvation instead of his fortune there.” He chuckled. “Perhaps the family still hopes that I will repent and follow my cousin’s example.”

Trying to show nothing more than courteous interest, Ragoczy said, “Quite a tale.” He recalled his first meeting with Gennaro Colonna, and could not help but be curious about the old man this young reprobate had become.

“And all the better for being true.” Ettore Colonna grinned hu- morlessly. “If I am reminded one more time that he owes it all to—” He stopped himself. “—a foreigner,” he went on in another tone. “A Conde de San Germanno.”

“My uncle,” said Ragoczy quickly. He had decided on this history some weeks before so that the mendacity now came readily to his tongue.

“Got tired of fighting the Turks, did he?” Colonna shrugged. “Well, why not the New World? Did your uncle prosper there?”

“For a while,” Ragoczy answered truthfully.

“My cousin says he was in Church prisons.” He shook his head gravely. “That must have been terrible. My cousin lost track of him for a time, but apparently was able to help gain his release, or so he tells me.” There was enough doubt in his voice to show he was uncertain that such a deliverance was possible.

“I don’t know,” said Ragoczy, keeping to the story he had made for himself.

“So.” Any further discussion was forestalled by the arrival of the groom saying that Signore Ragoczy’s horse was saddled and waiting at the carriage-door. Relieved not to have to delve into matters that were probably painful, Ettore Colonna sighed and made a leg. “Well, another time, Signor’ Conte.”

“I anticipate it with pleasure,” he replied with more courtesy than truth.

“My guest’s cloak and hat,” Ettore Colonna commanded, and a lackey hurried off to do his bidding. “If you cannot be persuaded to remain the night, all I can do is wish you a safe journey and a speedy return.”

Ragoczy continued the ceremony of leave-taking. “I am most grateful to you for a—”

“—for a most stimulating and entertaining evening. Yes, I know,” said Ettore Colonna, cutting short the ritual. “Come again when you like; you will always be welcome here, although whether that is a kindness to you, I do not know.”

“I will consider it an honor,” said Ragoczy, standing still while the lackey draped his cloak around his shoulders and handed him his hat.

“Then I can only appreciate your kindness and pray you will never have cause to regret it.” Ettore Colonna stepped back and waved, about to return to his guests when something else struck him, and he said, “Be careful what you tell your Confessor. He reports to the Curia.”

“So I supposed,” said Ragoczy, with a half-salute in acknowledgment. He turned on his heel and stepped out into the night where a groom was holding his mare’s bridle. Ragoczy lifted the stirrup and checked the girth, tightening it one notch as he said, “She holds her breath.” He had also been able to ascertain that no mischief had been done to the saddle.

“Many do,” the groom said with the patience of long experience with horses.

Ragoczy vaulted into the saddle, fixed his feet in the stirrups, gathered up the reins, flipped a silver coin to the groom, then touched the mare’s flank with his heel; she moved forward at a fast walk which turned to a trot on the broad, well-kept road that led up to Gran Segretto.

Soon the private drive reached the main road, still rutted from the mud of winter; Ragoczy was forced to pull the mare into a walk and let her pick her way over the uneven ground. She fretted at first, then settled down to a steady pace that covered the distance twice as swifdy as a man could walk. Ragoczy kept his seat and let the night fill him, restoring him and bringing ease to his complicated thoughts: the dangers around him seemed to multiply as he let his mind drift. How strange it felt to be riding to Roma with no Olivia to meet him. From the days of Nero she had been as bound to Roman earth as he was to Carpathian. He could not keep from missing her though he knew he was indulging himself, a luxury that vampires could not afford—memory was one thing, nostalgia was another. He had long ago learned the futility of yearning for what was past. Keeping his attention on his horse, he let the apprehensions that had risen during the evening fade as he made his way home.

Now Giorgianna claimed the center of his reverie; their affaire was going well, but he knew it would not last; neither of them wanted that, as Giorgianna had told him more than a week before. She was as delighted with his generosity as she was puzzled by his lovemaking, which she assumed was intended to keep her from becoming pregnant, a gallantry that pleased her only because he gave her such intense pleasure when they lay together. Currently she regarded his expression of passion as a courtesy, but the day would come when she would not be so understanding. When that happened, the small villa he had hired for her in Roma, and the jewels he lavished on her, and the lyrics he wrote for her, would not be sufficient to keep her from finding a more usual lover. “Probably just as well,” he said aloud, and the mare angled her head to listen. He had tasted her blood three times, one more time would be safe still, but if he should do so a fifth or sixth time, Giorgianna would be at risk, which he was well-aware was no kindness.

Finally he reached the turning for the Villa Vecchia; the monks at the monastery were chanting, the sound spiraling on the air like an audible fragrance. Ragoczy checked his mare as she began to trot again, murmuring, “One accident on this road is enough, my girl.” The mare whickered at the sound of his voice, and obeyed his hands.

The stable was largely complete, and Ragoczy turned his mare toward it, sensing her eagerness for her stall and a late meal. He passed under the hayloft and halted the mare in the wide aisle between the ranks of box-stalls. As he dismounted, he looked about in the vain hope that he might find a groom still awake. Unperturbed to discover he was alone, Ragoczy began to remove the mare’s tack, starting with her breastplate and crupper, which he hung on a bracket for the groom to clean in the morning. He had stowed the saddle and its pad, brushed the mare down, cleaned her hooves, given her mane and tail a cursory brush, and had brought a halter to replace her bridle when he heard someone weeping. It was a plaintive, forlorn sound, hardly louder than a whisper. He stood very still, listening, and watching the mare’s ears swivel to catch the sound. “Steady, girl; don’t fidget,” he breathed in his native tongue as he patted her neck. Carefully he removed the mare’s bridle and put the halter on, then, with the bridle hung over his arm, he led the mare toward her stall— it was the only stall with an open door. As they neared it, the mare balked abruptly, stopping and bringing her head up.