Communion Blood (62 page)

“For which she would like me to pay?” Ragoczy let the question hang. “If she has said anything to the Holy Office that can be held against her, she will have to endure yet more suffering. I do not

believe her brother Ursellos will do anything to stand between her and harm: do you?”

Color rose in Jose Bruno’s face and he shook his head no. “She does not lie; that is not her intention.”

“I am not accusing her of lying,” Ragoczy said very gently. “But the good Fathers are more absolute than I am.”

“You are not going to betray her, are you?” He was growing frightened.

“If I were going to do so deliberately, I would not seek you out this way. I would let the priests continue their investigation unchecked. I would say nothing to you, and leave Leocadia to be caught in whatever misrepresentation she has made to support her accusations. Yet I have to tell you I had the strong impression that some of the reports the good Fathers have gathered contain information that does not agree with what your sister has told them.” He waited, and when Jose Bruno began to fret, he said, “I would not want this inquiry to be prolonged.”

Jose Bruno shook his head. “No. She would not deal well with more questioning. Since our brother’s death, she has been overwrought. Even before then, she was upset; well, you know she was. Who can blame her? With all her wretchedness, it is not remarkable that she would ... Our brother demanded so much of her: too much. Some of the things she has claimed have been born of her shock at his murder.” He had pulled two threads loose on his sleeve and now busied himself unraveling them.

“Then urge her to revise what she has said. For the sake of her daughter if not for herself.” Ragoczy saw the discomfort in Jose Bruno’s face once more. “What is it?”

“The child has been given as an oblate to the convent of Santa Euphemia in Ostia,” Jose Bruno told him. “Ursellos thought it would be best, and Rothofen said he did not want the baby about to remind Leocadia of her sins.”

“An oblate,” said Ragoczy, appalled that the infant should be made a gift to the Church to grow up a virtual slave to the nuns of Santa Euphemia. He had seen oblates often over the centuries and his compassion for them was as boundless as it was futile.

“You have not seen her.” Jose Bruno crossed himself. “You don’t know what her face is like. She would not be a wife, not with such a deformity. Eventually the Church would be her haven. Better it should be now, when she has not had to endure the unkindness of the world and the disgust of those around her.” He repeated this as if reciting a lesson learned many years ago.

Ragoczy was tempted to ask if Ursellos or Rothofen had been the more insistent but realized this would be useless. He shook his head. “Poor little girl.”

“Well may you say so,” Jose Bruno murmured.

The was a quality to the remark that engaged Ragoczy’s consideration. “What do you mean?” He laid one small hand on Jose Bruno’s shoulder. “Is there any reason the child does not deserve sympathy?”

“No ... no.” Jose Bruno looked about awkwardly. “But someone might interpret your solicitude for something more.”

“And why is that?” Ragoczy would not be denied a truthful answer.

Jose Bruno capitulated. “She told the Holy Office that the child is yours,” he muttered, looking away and ruining the cuff of his sleeve.

Ragoczy stared in amazement. “How can she think that?” he asked, deliberately calm.

“Because the Holy Office calls the truth a he,” said Jose Bruno with a burst of spirit.

“That the baby is the Cardinal’s,” said Ragoczy, knowing that he was correct. “Of course the Holy Office would not tolerate such an assertion; they would not—they could not entertain such a possibility.” He paced a few steps away from Jose Bruno, then paced back to him. “She told them what she decided they wanted to hear, is that it?”

“Yes,” said Jose Bruno; he was neither belligerent or servile.

“So she has named me the father.” He achieved one sad crack of laughter. “No wonder the priests were so insistent.”

“What do you mean?” Jose Bruno asked, growing pale about the mouth.

Ragoczy shook his head. “If you have any influence with your sis-

ter, advise her to withdraw her accusation. It can lead to nothing but tragedy for her.”

Jose Bruno peered at Ragoczy. “It would help you, too, wouldn’t it?”

“Not as much as you suppose,” he replied. “Jose Bruno, talk to her. She must rescind her testimony. She can claim she made it in the throes of grief; the priests will accept that. But if she persists it can only bring more hardship upon her.” He came close to Jose Bruno. “I was unable to give her the succor she desired when she put herself in my hands; now I can, at least, spare her more—”

“I’ll talk to her, but it will be useless. Ursellos and her husband are satisfied with what she has told the Holy Office and they will not tolerate any change she may decide to make.” He lowered his head. “She will not defy them.”

Remembering what he had said to Niklos Aulirios when he first arrived in Roma—
here, everything I am is dangerous
—Ragoczy shook his head slowly as he started back toward his horse. “Then I fear,” he said as kindly as he could, “that her travail is not yet over.”

Text of a message from Ursellos Calaveria y Vacamonte to Ferenc Ragoczy da San-Germain, carried by private courier.

Ragoczy:

You vile scoundrel, you have made your last attempt to corrupt my sister. How despicable of you to impose on my half-wit brother to accomplish your loathsome purpose. On her behalf and on behalf of the honor of our family and her husband, I tell you now to name your second. You and he will meet me at midnight three days hence, on the 30th of August at the crossroads of the Roma-Trefonti and the San Zaccharia—Belcampo Roads. My brother-in-law will act as my second. You have the right to choose the weapons, of course, but I remind you that men of courage fight with rapier and dagger; only cowards insist on pistols. Still, the choice is yours, and I will await your reply. Should you fail to send me word by sunset tomorrow I will know you for the craven, disgraced debaucher I have always maintained you are.

I leave it to you to arrange for a physician, as you are the one most likely to need his services.

Until midnight of the 30th, when only one of us will see the dawn of the next day.

Ursellos Calaveria y Vacamonte By my own hand, this 27th day of August, 1690

8

Amerigo cursed as the coach rumbled over another deep rut; the bull’s-eye lanthoms fixed on the sides of the vehicle did little to illuminate the way ahead on this cloudy night, or to help guide the coach that followed after them, which Matyas drove. A rainstorm earlier in the day had eliminated the dust but had created a thin film of mud in the ruts of the road which slowed their progress up the long slope.

“You did not have to accept the Spaniard’s challenge,” Ettore Co- lonna said, repeating himself for the fourth time since they left Villa Vecchia. “His sister’s testimony is discredited and she has been given a year of public penance for bearing false witness; she is to be beaten [ every Sunday for her mendacity. No one will believe anything she says of you.”

“She has never been believed, more’s the pity,” said Ragoc
2
y. “No one wanted to know the truth.”

Ettore Colonna shook his head in exasperation. “So you have taken it upon yourself to show that you—what?—think she should be excused her lying about you?”

“No.” He laid his hand on the hilt of his rapier. “But her brother and her husband have much to answer for.”

“Given that pair of miscreants, I have no doubt of it. But what good is a duello? It is so secret that no one will know.” Ettore Colonna waved his hand out at the night. “Not so much as a whisper.”

“Do you really think so.” Ragoczy’s face was hard to see in th darkness, but there was a sardonic cast to his attractive, irregula features.

Ettore Colonna gave a hard, short sigh. “Yes. Of course. Everyom always finds out about duels, though the Saints alone know how.” H< swore as the coach jounced over some small rocks. “You’ll break i wheel and we’ll be stuck out here until a farmer comes along to earn your coachman to a blacksmith.”

“Ettore,” said Ragoczy, “you will not change my mind. I woulc rather have this settled once and for all than have to spend all mj days wondering when and where my enemies will strike next. Aftei tonight this is over.”

“You do not truly think a duel will put an end to it, do you?” Ettore Colonna shook his head in amusement. “Rothofen has made several attempts against you, and his lack of success has not discouraged him. With what has happened to his wife, he will resent you more than ever.” He hung on to the looped strap as the coach swayed over another bad section of road. “No one will try to interrupt your engagement, Conte; rest assured the Guardia will not come to stop your duello. Who in his right mind would travel such a terrible road at night?”

“You are here,” Ragoczy pointed out.

“Ah, but I am not in my right mind, not according to the teaching of Mother Church.” He looked out the window. “No wonder Ursellos wanted the meeting at that crossroad. There isn’t even a farmhouse for half a league in any direction.”

“It will suit his purpose very well,” said Ragoczy, leaning back against the squabs; he was feeling tired and old. “This is such a senseless thing.”

“But you are going to do it, aren’t you?” Ettore Colonna asked rhetorically.

“I must, if I am to have any peace. If I refuse the challenge I will have to endure greater suspicion than I have already encountered.” He smoothed the front of his long, black waistcoat and fingered the unruffled cuffs of his camisa. “I rely on you to make sure that all the niceties are observed. Observe every point of honor, and be pains-

taking about it: so that my opponent can have no grounds for complaint.”

“Complaint? From someone like Ursellos Calaveria y Vacamonte? Or Ahrent Rothofen?” Ettore Colonna scoffed. “Those men could not be trusted to present a petition in proper form.”

“Then your role as my second is all the more crucial,” said Ra- goc
2
y, going on steadily, “If anything should happen that cannot be mended, see that the physician is paid off.” He cocked his head to indicate the coach behind them. “Then talk to Rugerius; he knows what to do with my body, which is why he is riding with the physician. He also has all you will need to place my Will in the records of the Magistrates’ Court. I would not like to see another fiasco like the one that brought me to Roma.”

“You speak as if you do not expect to survive,” said Ettore Colonna in genuine concern.

Ragoczy inclined his head. “It is always wisest to be prepared.” j He lapsed into a thoughtful silence, recalling the many, many times he had prepared himself to face the True Death. “I have survived thus far,” he said a bit later.

“The crossroad is ahead, Signor’ Conte!” Amerigo called down from his box. “We’ll be there in a moment.”

Ettore Colonna took his pocket-watch out and held it up outside the coach-window to light its face in the beam of the bull’s-eye lant- hom. “We’re ten minutes early. I expect Ursellos will see poor conduct in that.”

‘Why?” Ragoczy prepared to get out of the coach behind Ettore Colonna.

“He will claim you have used the time to take advantage of him,” was the answer.

“That is probably a good thing,” said Ragoczy. “We can walk the ground, to be sure there are no surprises underfoot.” He felt the remote calm taking hold of him that he had long associated with fighting.

“A wise precaution,” said Ettore Colonna sarcastically. “Just as this is.” He patted the low pocket of his justaucorps.

‘What have you there?” Ragoczy asked as the coach slowed down.

“A charged pistol, of course. To make sure the duello is fair.’ Ettore Colonna flourished his hand as if to bow.

“Do you expect treachery?” Ragoczy asked as if he had no interest in his companion’s answer.

“No. If I expected it, it wouldn’t be treachery.” He half rose as the coach came to a halt. “I will step out first, in case there is anyone hidden in the trees with a weapon.”

“Calaveria y Vacamonte would not go to the trouble of challenging me if all he intended to do was ambush me,” Ragoczy said, wondering as he spoke if it was true.

From his place on the driver’s-box, Amerigo pointed down the slope. “There is another coach coming. Listen!”

The rattle and thuds of the third coach came through the night. “Persistent devils, aren’t they?” Ettore Colonna asked as he took one of the bull’s-eyes lanthoms from its bracket on the coach and began to shine it about the crossroad. “It could be worse. Having the two roads crossing has worn down the deepest furrows.” The light struck a small stone shrine containing a badly weathered statue. “I don’t know what Saint guards this place, but—”

Ragoczy came to scrutinize the figure in the shrine. “Persephone,” he said at last. “How fitting.”

“Don’t let the Holy Office hear you mistake a heathen goddess for a Christian Saint,” Ettore Colonna warned in mock indignation. “You have just eluded them for the moment. Saying this is not a Saint would give them reason to call you back again.”

“First I must survive the duello,” said Ragoczy, lifting a warning finger. He moved away from the shrine and had a look at the ground of the crossroad: it was as he had assumed—the footing was uneven but worn enough to be less rutted than either road going through it, as Ettore Colonna had remarked. The night did not hamper his vision, and he made the most of the little time before the third coach drew up, horses steaming and blowing.

Rothofen was the first out of the coach; he lowered the blazoned panel and used the built-in steps to come down. He made a very minor leg to Ragoczy and Ettore Colonna. “At least you had the stomach to come,” he sniffed as he turned to offer his hand to assist Ursellos to emerge.

The Spaniard was dressed in dark colors, too, but he had kept the ruffles and elegancies of dress fashion demanded including wide buckles on his spur-leathers. He gave a single, contemptuous nod in Ragoczy’s direction. “Did you think to bring a priest?”