Communion Blood (59 page)

“Oh, come. You make him sound a model of seduction. Would not a little resistance have sweetened the chase for him?” prodded the tallest. “What man does not like to conquer a woman, after all?”

“That man does not,” Giorgianna said hotly. “He is not one of those grand gentlemen who live only to force themselves on women. He is no rake.”

“So you claim,” said the shortest.

“I have been his lover long enough to know that he would not use a woman—any woman—against her will. What he gains from a woman can only come with her consent.” She folded her arms as if to keep the three priests from staring at her; she felt shame increasing within her, for telling these priests what they insisted they hear.

“You believe this?” The tallest studied her as if she were as foreign as Ragoczy.

“I have experienced it for myself,” she said. How much she wanted to get away from this place and from these men! She was beginning to despise herself for doing their bidding and compromising Ragoczy. Her head was aching and she had to fight the urge to urinate.

“You claim he used you well,” the shortest said. “How are we to think of you, if that is the case? Have you not declared yourself an adulteress?”

“I have not performed the act that would make me so,” Giorgianna protested. “If I were a virgin, his loving would not make me less so. My virtue is untainted.” She knew it was useless to say that her husband had given her permission to have Ragoczy for a lover so long as they were discreet and she brought no cuckoos into the nest.

“Does your Confessor say so?” asked the oldest in sharp disapproval.

“He has given me a penance to perform, and I have done this in

humility.” She did her best to sound submissive when she longed to shout her anger. “As I have done the thing you ordered me to do. No doubt you will also impose penance upon me for doing as you required me to do.”

“You have done what was needed for you to be redeemed with the Church,” said the oldest of the three. He regarded her with sharp, unforgiving eyes. “Women have always been a source of ills in the world. No one is more aware of that than I am. Every day we see how men are turned from love of God to the carnal passion of women.” He crossed himself. “I have been spared such tribulation, through God’s Mercy.’’

The shortest priest nodded, adding, “That you have used the thing that damned you, to reveal greater evils than your own, exonerates your sin.” It was apparent by the way he spoke that this was supposed to be encouraging.

“Then I will thank God for it,” said Giorgianna, hoping her acquiescence would end her interrogation. “I have done what you have asked. I have told you all I know.”

“And God will reward you as you deserve,” said the shortest as he looked down to glance over the record that had been made. “Sign this for us, and you may go. The sedan-chair will return you to your palazzo.”

The suddenness of this decision almost took her breath away. Giorgianna got up from her stool and went to the table. She was shown the place she had to sign, and was given a quill for the purpose.
“But...
I haven’t
read..
.’’She silenced her protestations and took up the quill, putting down her signature quickly; she was shocked to see how crabbed and unsteady her writing was.

“You will say nothing of this,” the oldest ordered her. “If you speak of what you have done, no sin of yours can be absolved.”

She curtsied, grateful and outraged at once. “I will say nothing,” she vowed, and turned as she heard the door behind her open. At a signal from the oldest priest, she hurried out of the chamber, only to be confronted by a monk, who pointed down the corridor. Hoping this was truly the way out, she went where the monk indicated, and emerged into blazing afternoon sunlight. A sedan-chair waited a few

steps beyond, and she hastened to get into it, praying as the bearers took it up that she would indeed be returned to her palazzo and not carried to the Pope’s Little House.

Back in the little room of the Gesu the three priests looked over Giorgianna’s account. “What do you think?” the shortest asked.

“It is at odds with what the Spanish woman says,” the oldest remarked.

“The Spanish woman says her Cardinal-brother made a whore of her,” said the tallest with a look of contempt. ‘Why should she not he about the father of her child as well?”

The oldest tapped a lean finger on the vellum. “Much as I deplore women who display themselves in public, I find the testimony of this singer more credible than that of the Spanish woman.” He sighed. ‘We had better summon her again. She can travel; she was delivered four days ago.”

“The infant is undersized and hare-lipped,” said the tallest. “Her brother has supplied us with the midwife’s information. The delivery was not at full term, and the girl is not expected to five.”

“A hare-lipped infant—and a female at that—speaks to the perfidy of the mother,” the oldest declared. “Yes. Have her brought here so that we may discover what took place between her and Ragoczy. Before she arrives, we should have the testimony of all those questioned brought to us.” He tugged the bell-pull and repeated this to the monk who answered the summons, adding, “Tell her husband and her brother that either or both may accompany her here, but they may not listen to our questioning.”

“Do you think that wise?” asked the tallest.

“Her brother is a hot-headed man, and would be inclined to try to discover our purpose if we did not permit him to accompany her.” The oldest sighed. “That Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte should have been burdened with such a family: it is a most unsatisfactory thing.” The two other priests exchanged knowing glances; the shortest crossed himself. “God imposes burdens on us all.”

“Amen,” said the other two, and sat down to wait for the records and the arrival of Leocadia.

It was two hours later when she was escorted into the study, still

wan from childbirth, her eyes red with weeping and exhaustion. She wore a simple dark-brown gown without lace or other ornamentation over petticoats of simple muslin. Facing the writing-table, she dropped to her knees.

The three priests looked up from the various records of interrogations they had been reviewing. The oldest pointed to the stool where Giorgianna had sat. “You may.”

Leocadia did as she was instructed, her manner subdued. She crossed herself and pressed her hands together, waiting.

“Did your husband and brother come with you?” asked the shortest.

“My brother. My husband ... is occupied.” She spoke just above a whisper; the priests had to strain to hear her. “My brother’s carriage brought me. My brother is across the piazza.”

“He will be attended to,” said the oldest as he held up a vellum sheet. “This is your accusation of Ragoczy da San-Germain as your seducer and the father of your child. Do you recognize it?”

“If you tell me that is what it is, I believe you,” she said, trying to make herself heard.

“And you stand by this accusation? that it was he who got you with child?” The oldest stared at her, his old eyes keen.

“I swore before God that it was so, more than once,” she said, her voice faltering. “I have nothing else to add.”

“You say that Ragoczy used you in the way of men, against your will. That he forced himself upon you carnally while you sought refuge at his villa, and where he pretended to provide you with sanctuary all the while demanding that you accede to his desires.” The tallest priest rapped the table with his fingers. “You said this on more than one occasion. Your answers were taken down and you declared them to be accurate.”

“They are,” she said; she was sitting hunched over as if to warm herself in a room that was close and hot.

“Do you still hold to that testimony?” asked the shortest priest.

“Why should I not? It is the truth.” She glared at the floor.

“But you also swore it was true that your murdered brother, Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte, had ravaged you for his camalistic pleasure. Then you said that it was not so, that Ragoczy had compelled you to lie,” the shortest said, holding up another sheet of vellum. “You swore you had to obey him, or he would do harm to your family.”

“He killed my brother,” she muttered.

“No, he did not,” said the oldest. “We have testimony from three different men, none of whom knew the testimony of the other, that puts him at Senza Pari at the time the murder occurred. Whom do you suspect, other than Ragoczy?”

Leocadia shook her head several times. “No. No, no. It was Ragoczy. I saw him. He swore he would kill Martin, and he did.” She began to rock on the stool, her eyes half-closed, her shoulders up.

“Good, trustworthy men say otherwise,” said the shortest. “They reported what they knew, and put their hands to it as truth. Do you say they lied?”

“They lied,” Leocadia answered in sing-song tones.

“Why should they lie? They swore on their souls that they reported honestly.” The tallest drummed the table again. “You say they lied, when it is you who have bed.”

“I have
not
lied,” she said, opening her eyes and staring at the three priests with a look compounded of indignation, distress, and effrontery. She straightened up on the stool. “He made me his unwilling mistress, and would not permit me to return to my family until he knew his seed was planted within me.”

The oldest priest leaned forward. “The midwife says the female infant you delivered came before term. That would mean that she was conceived in December or January, according to her testimony.” He indicated another sheet of vellum. “Your brother provided us with her account of your delivery and the condition of your daughter. God has struck a heavy blow.”

Leocadia winced. “She is not perfectly formed.” This concession brought tears to her eyes.

“If your brother brought you back from Villa Vecchia before December and the infant you have is unfinished, how do you account for that?” The shortest priest pointed at Leocadia. “Do not add to your lies, woman. The time in which a woman is delivered was established with the birth of the three sons of Adamo and Eva. The Devil may expel an infant from the womb before time, but only the ignorant Ottomites believe that the baby will slumber in the womb for more than a year when a wife is widowed.”

“I do not lie,” Leocadia said again. “I have been made pregnant by Ragoczy, and the baby I have delivered is his.”

“His,” repeated the oldest. “You say he lay with you, that he penetrated you as a man penetrates a woman. You swear that only he has had access to your body, and that no other man impregnated you.”

She nodded. “He did.”

The tallest looked directly at Leocadia. “When he lay with you, could you see his body?”

Her mouth trembled. “Some of it,” she said carefully.

“What part did you see?” the tallest pursued.

“The front part, of course,” she replied in a burst of temper. “He had to undress in part to do the act.”

The tallest nodded. “And did you take note of anything that would identify him more certainly? Did he have marks on him that you can describe?”

“I...
I did not notice any,” she said, and saw something in the glances the priests exchanged that put her on alert. “I did not see all his body.”

“But what you did see was unmarked,” said the oldest, nodding once.

“You are certain it was the man Ragoczy,” said the tallest. “You could not be mistaken.”

“Yes! It was he! I should know who ravished me!” She made each accusation as if she were delivering blows.

“But you said your brother ravished you,” the oldest reminded her. “You said he had made you his whore. Now you say it was Ragoczy. You said you thought Ragoczy killed the Cardinal, but we have good evidence that he could not have done it. We also have testimony that he could not be the father of your child. We must investigate more thoroughly before we can consider all you have revealed to us.”

“You have told your Confessor that Ragoczy offered you protection and used you with charity and respect,” said the shortest priest. “You said as much out of the Confessional, so the Seal is unbroken.” He held up his hand. “Which are we to believe?”

“But I
was
ravished!” Leocadia exclaimed, reaching out as if to grasp the priests across the table. “The infant I bore is proof of it.” “Yes. It is proof that someone lay with you,” said the oldest severely. “We cannot establish who that person was. We must be cautious in these matters.” He folded his hands. “We will let you go back to your home, where your brother and your husband can care for you.” He tugged the bell-pull. “We will take no further action for now. For which you should give thanks to God; a false accusation is as much a sin as the sin named in the accusation.”

Leocadia staggered to her feet. “No!
No!
You must punish him.” The tallest priest gave her a long, cold look. “Be grateful we have not. Your soul could be forfeit.” He looked up at the monks who came into the study. “Escort this good woman to her brother, that he may take her home. You will find him at 11 Cacciatore.”

The monks nodded, and came to flank Leocadia, paying no heed to her outburst of prayers. Without speaking, they moved her out of the study and toward the side-door through which Giorgianna had left, and took her across the piazza to the very select gambling den where they knew Ursellos would be. Every step of the way Leocadia recited Psalms or called out imprecations, none of which fazed the monks; only Ursellos’ threat of a beating succeeded in quieting her while they waited for his carriage, and her stillness was bom of her wrath as much as her despair.

Text of a letter from Jean-Louis, estate manager of Olivia Clemens’ horse-farm near Tours, to Niklos Aulirios.

To the most well-regarded heir of the widow Olivia Clemens, the greetings of Jean-Louis, son of Perceval, the manager of this place.

Good Sieur Aulirios, it was with joy that I learned of your coming visit. 1 have alerted all the staff that it will soon be our very pleasant duty to welcome you to your home in France. All of us at this establishment are delighted to learn that you have prevailed in your claim in the courts, for it would have be the cruelest injustice to see all Madame Clemens’ holdings pass into the hands of a bastard, and a German at that.