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 (26 page)
Saint-Germain’s dark eyes were not as hampered by night as were the eyes of living men, but he was careful not to give away too much of what he saw. “I would suppose that there is a travelers’ inn on the edge of the town; that is the usual pattern in these isolated places. It might be best if we go there, rather than into the town.”
“They’ll have word at such an inn about what lies ahead,” said delle Fonde; his voice was hoarse and his remark ended on a cough. “It’s the dust,” he explained.
“Cover your face with your neck-cloth, as I do,” Yeoville suggested.
“He’d look like a highwayman,” Mercer said testily.
“Then suffer and cough,” said Yeoville, shrugging to emphasize his indifference.
“My men are tired,” Belfountain said as much to stop the carping as to explain the resentment around him.
“Not surprising,” said Ruthger.
“Do we go onward?” Belfountain asked, pointing toward the town. “At least as far as the travelers’ inn?” He expected no answer and got none. “Where is the inn, Oralle? Do you know?”
“On the southeast side of the town,” Oralle told him. “I should think they will have a lantern lit.”
“Excellent,” Belfountain approved, and decided to order the small party to move on; their progress toward the town was marked by a chorus of barks from farmers’ dogs, although no farmer or other peasant came to greet them. “Not a good sign.”
“Let us hope they have not armed themselves to keep us away,” said Saint-Germain, who had often experienced such reception in the past.
“Do you think that likely?” Yeoville asked, reaching for his sword.
“No; I think that if they wanted to scare us off, they would have done so before the dogs started barking,” said Saint-Germain, and saw Belfountain nod. “They may want us to ride on; that would account for their silence.”
There was a brief silence, then Oralle said, “There may be smugglers in this region. The town would make a point of taking no notice of them.”
“What would they be smuggling?” Ruthger asked.
“Beer, wine, jewels, weapons,” said Oralle. “Some are even bringing masks and ornaments from the New World.”
“Smugglers or no, the travelers’ inn will welcome us,” said Belfountain with conviction. “If we pay enough.”
“That is no concern for any of you,” said Saint-Germain, who knew it was expected of him. “I can offer a handsome sum for our stay.”
Far to the west the piled clouds winked with lightning, but no grumble of thunder followed.
“Rain is coming,” said delle Fonde. “And because of the rain, our horses will do better in a stall tonight.”
“Then let us go on to the inn,” said Belfountain, starting his horse walking again. “The southeast side of the town, you say?”
“As I recall it, it was,” said Oralle. “It was thus four years ago. I will know the place when I see it.”
“Good enough,” said Belfountain, and chose a narrow track that appeared to circle around the town. “This should take us to what we want.”
The path was a bit damp in places where the river that grazed Beau Roison’s flank spread out to create a marsh, but other than that the way was as unimpeded as the merchants’ road to Avignon. Finally a three-story building loomed up ahead; there was a courtyard surrounded by a stockade, and a barn that gave onto a good-sized pasture. There were the sounds of a dulcimer and shawm coming from the building, and a few voices lifted in song.
“That is where we are bound, it seems,” said Belfountain, starting forward.
Mercer held back. “What if they are not—”
“This is a little town; I doubt we’ll find a company of Spaniards in the taproom, or any men with illicit cargo in their packs. This is too obvious a place for such things, and there is too much gossip in travelers’ inns,” said Belfountain abruptly.
“I was thinking highwaymen, perhaps,” said Mercer. “They’re not as obvious as smugglers.”
“Highwaymen,” Yeoville repeated. “Why should there be highwaymen in this place more than another?”
“Because no one from the town has challenged us,” said Mercer.
This simple statement was enough to make Belfountain rein in. “You mean that all this could be a trap for unwary travelers.”
“I fear it may be; yes.” Mercer glanced around at the others; delle Fonde shook his head, Oralle stared at the stockade as if determined to pierce through it by the intensity of his stare alone.
“Belfountain,” said Saint-Germain, “I will go to the tavern, on my own. Either I will return to you, or I will ring the kitchen bell; if I do that, assume it is safe to come inside. If I summon you in any other manner, then leave this place and wait for me in Bensancon. If I fail to come in five days, Ruthger will pay your fee and he will depart for Venezia.”
“But Grav,” Belfountain exclaimed in amazement, “it is you we are bound to protect. You are the man who has bought his safety from us. You cannot put yourself in harm’s way to save us—our obligation is to risk our lives to preserve yours.”
“Then think of this as a kind of game I seek to play for my own amusement,” said Saint-Germain.
“It is no game, my master,” said Ruthger in Byzantine Greek.
Saint-Germain dismounted from his gray and looked up at Ruthger. “I know.”
“Then why must you—?”
“We are all tired and hungry, and we must rest if we are to keep on at this pace. And we need to know what lies ahead.” He had changed from Greek to French. “Better to risk one than lose all.”
“I cannot argue that,” said Belfountain. “But it should be one of us.”
“Belfountain, think a moment. You are clearly a soldier: equally clearly I am not. Which of us do you think would be more welcome in the taproom if the inn is an honest one?” Saint-Germain gave Belfountain a short while to consider his answer, then said, “I will attend to this, make whatever arrangements I can, and will provide you the agreed signal.”
Belfountain was uneasy with this approach, but could not come up with anything to offer instead. As Saint-Germain began to walk toward the inn, he said, “Have a care as you go. They may have men posted outside.”
“If they do, I will trust that I will see them first,” said Saint-Germain.
“But if they should capture you—” Belfountain persisted.
“Then we will all be at a disadvantage,” said Saint-Germain, and continued on as if he had nothing more on his mind than the gathering storm and avoiding getting his fine silver-buckled boots smirched by the wallow that extended beyond the line of pigsties.
Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens, from Orleans, to Sanct-Germain Franciscus, in care of Eclipse Trading Company in Amsterdam, written in Imperial Latin, carried by private courier, and delivered thirteen days after it was written.
To my most dear, most aggravating, most mystifying friend, in the present guise of Grav Saint-Germain, the affectionate greetings of Olivia, from my horse farm near Orleans on this, the 19
th
day of July, 1531, in great concern for your well-being.
th
day of July, 1531, in great concern for your well-being.
So I have your note of the 5
th
day of July, saying you must return to Venezia in a short time. I am sending this to you in Amsterdam in the hope that it will arrive before you depart, but with the confidence that your factor will send it on to you if you have departed by the time this reaches the Lowlands. Your note tells me that you fear some irregularity in your finances may have put your associates in Venezia at an unintended disadvantage, and you must hasten to set the whole matter to rights. I wonder if those who have not been worthy of your trust have any idea what they will reap for their perfidy? You must forgive my delight in the confrontation I am imagining. For all the centuries and centuries I have been one of your blood, I have never known you to slack in the redress of wrongs, nor to mistake vengeance for rectitude. Though you say it is easier for you to pardon desperate acts because time does not weigh upon you as heavily as it does on the living, I know you will not expose yourself or others to injustice, and tolerant as you are, you do not give countenance to criminality.
th
day of July, saying you must return to Venezia in a short time. I am sending this to you in Amsterdam in the hope that it will arrive before you depart, but with the confidence that your factor will send it on to you if you have departed by the time this reaches the Lowlands. Your note tells me that you fear some irregularity in your finances may have put your associates in Venezia at an unintended disadvantage, and you must hasten to set the whole matter to rights. I wonder if those who have not been worthy of your trust have any idea what they will reap for their perfidy? You must forgive my delight in the confrontation I am imagining. For all the centuries and centuries I have been one of your blood, I have never known you to slack in the redress of wrongs, nor to mistake vengeance for rectitude. Though you say it is easier for you to pardon desperate acts because time does not weigh upon you as heavily as it does on the living, I know you will not expose yourself or others to injustice, and tolerant as you are, you do not give countenance to criminality.
In your determination to help those who have borne hardship because of you, do not, I pray you, decide to give over all you have in compensation to them. I know you, my most dear Sanct’ Germain, and I know you can be generous to a fault; I laud your impulse to rectify all unjust misery that is caused by association with you, and I wish I had the greatness of heart to emulate you, but my nature is not as forbearing as yours, so I caution you that excessive recompense may create expectations that neither you nor anyone alive can fulfill, and that will prove a burden that will only increase, never diminish. Think of how Clodotius battened on you, greedy as a leech, with the intention of using all your kindness to sink his hooks still deeper into you. For one who has lived the millennia you have, to be taken in by so venal a man astonishes me, yet I am worried that you might fall into the same estimable error. For my sake, if not your own, stand firm for the sake of those to whose defense you are rising.
You still have that property near Attigny, do you not? You might find it serves your purpose to go there while the various courts address the treachery you have described. I realize that may put you in the path of various rural outrages undertaken to vindicate multifarious religious views, but where in Europe is this not so? South of the Alps there is the Church, but that does not spare you, for the Spanish seek to impose their will on the Pope at every occasion. In Attigny, you would be able to speed messages from the north or the south without having to be present yourself, and thus you would not have to expose yourself to detention and worse. I say this only because the upheavals among the peoples here have become increasingly violent, and if such violence should turn on you, it might be more than you are able to recover from: they are burning heretics, you know, and breaking others on the wheel, to be an example to those who do not accept the salvation they offer. My most-dear friend, I would rather you off in the remotest reaches of Asia or the Americas than broken on the wheel and cast into a pit of lye. I cannot bear the thought of you risking the True Death to correct some mistakes in arithmetic.
Here in France there are constant rumors about the excesses of the Protestants in the north and northeast. To hear the gossip, we are to expect legions of outraged Protestant Saxons and Hessians armed with staves and pitchforks to march across the fair land of France, destroying everything they encounter, and burning all those good Catholics who do not immediately renounce their faith in favor of Protestant teachings. The Abbe in the village has said that he is certain that there are peasants here who would welcome such an invasion,
and I cannot wholly dismiss his concerns, which is why I have mounted a watch on my lands and buildings. It is bad enough that I am foreign, but I am a woman, and that makes me more subject to scrutiny than any foreign man, and so I am being as circumspect as I can in my search for a lover, as well as in my dealings with the Abbe and the townsfolk.
and I cannot wholly dismiss his concerns, which is why I have mounted a watch on my lands and buildings. It is bad enough that I am foreign, but I am a woman, and that makes me more subject to scrutiny than any foreign man, and so I am being as circumspect as I can in my search for a lover, as well as in my dealings with the Abbe and the townsfolk.
To inform you of more pleasant things, I have now four fine studs at this horse farm, and the prices they can command for covering the mares of others has kept this place expanding for the last quarter-century. One of the stallions may interest you, for almost all his get are gray, and I know your preference for grays. Shall I put three of my mares in foal to him for you, so that you have the foals to look forward to? I would count it a privilege to supply your stable.
With the hope that you do not have to pay too high a price—in gold or in things more precious—upon your return to Venezia, and with the warranty that my deep affection and my wholehearted love remains unswervingly yours, from now until I am dust,
In saeculi saeculorum, as the Abbe puts it, Olivia
By my own hand, given to Niklos Aulirios to carry to Orleans where he is to entrust it to a professional messenger.
“Mestre tomorrow, no later than midafternoon,” said Belfountain as he squatted next to the campfire contained in a ring of stones; three rabbits turned on spits over the flames, lending the odor of cooking meat mixed with wild thyme and garlic to the smoke rising from the fires. Mercer and delle Fonde shared the task of working the cranks, paying far more attention to their meal preparations than to what their leader was saying.
“How many figs are left?” Mercer asked delle Fonde, trying to pat the saddlebag on the ground between them.
“A dozen or so; probably two apiece. Here. Let me deal with the cheese.” Delle Fonde moved aside so Mercer could work the three spits himself while he cut up the last of the cheese into thick wedges and dropped them into a cooking pot with a handle; he took a jar from his saddlebag and opened it, then poured the contents into the pot and began to stir it with a wooden spoon.
Belfountain reached down and put another dry branch on the fire. “sixteen days. Only three days more than I reckoned we would need to reach Venezia—under the circumstances, an excellent passage. No fighting to speak of, at least not of our concern, and no theft beyond a little pilferage at the Terlingen posting house. Forty miles covered yesterday, according to the stones, and thirty-eight today. All in all, a successful escort mission.” It was a fine night, the sky overhead so shiny with stars that it seemed as if the darkness had been buffed to a brilliant gloss; getting to his feet Belfountain looked up and nodded his approval. “A cheerful evening for the last of our journey, though we spend it in the open. It is all to the good.”
“Better than that storm two nights ago, at the pass,” said Mercer. “It has been a wet summer.” It being the last night of their mission the men were more at ease, gathered around the campfire for light more than warmth on this pleasant summer night, already anticipating their promised three days at liberty that would begin as soon as they reached Mestre.
“Thank God for it, or there would have been more killing, especially among the peasants,” said Oralle.
“And more delays for us,” said Mercer.
“Peasants and Protestants are rebelling everywhere this summer,” said Yeoville, and went back to mending the scabbard that held his heaviest sword.
“And there are other workers taking up arms, as well,” Oralle remarked. “Wool-workers, weavers, all demanding justice for—”
“We were lucky to get around the worst of them,” said delle Fonde.
“Rebellion, uprisings, revolts—they’re all just excuses for defying the Church,” said Mercer.
“We’re past the worst enclaves of the Calvinists and Lutherans—that’s reason to be glad,” said Oralle.
“You hope,” said delle Fonde, who was stirring up a mixture of melted white cheese, sour wine, and thick chunks of stale bread. “He’s right: Protestants are everywhere. At least there are enough of them that they can stand against the Church. Not all heretics are so fortunate.”
“Stands to reason the Protestants are behind us; Venezia is a Catholic republic,” Oralle declared.
“Jews and Eastern Rite Christians are allowed to worship in Venezia without risk, so the Veneziani can make the most of their trading with the men from the east,” said delle Fonde, a note of disapproval in his voice. “There is even a chapel for the Ottoman merchants to worship their Allah, on the Giudecca. I have seen its tower.”
“The Minor Consiglio has familiars to keep watch on those places,” said Oralle, dismissing the matter. “Those who go to those places are known.”
“There are spies all over,” Mercer observed. “Even in the confessional.”
“Have a care what you say in Confession, then,” said delle Fonde.
“Or buy an indulgence and avoid Confession entirely,” said Yeoville with a merry, cynical laugh. “I don’t know about any of you, but I’d never tell a priest half of what I’ve done. If I must have an indulgence to expiate my sins, then so be it.”
Belfountain shook his head. “It’s more than indulgences that Protestants object to—Yeoville is right: priests are known to gossip, and many honest sinners are compromised because of it. That’s what many Protestant Christians believe.”
“Others have before them, and paid for their faith in blood,” said delle Fonde, his expression hard.
“Are Protestant Christians any more virtuous?” Oralle directed this to Mercer. “Or do they only think they are?”
“The Church is saying that because of the Protestants, devils will be released upon the world, deceiving men,” said Mercer. “Without the Church to guide men, all will go astray into the hands of Satan.”
“There are peculiar doings in the world, no doubt,” Yeoville said as if glad of such a development.
“It is a dangerous time,” said Mercer.
“All the more work for us,” said Belfountain. “So long as our faith is the faith of the man who pays us.”
“We can be sure of steady work, putting the fear of God into anyone who won’t pay us,” said delle Fonde with bitter bravado.
“You mean sack a town for the Glory of God?” Mercer asked. “Why not?”
“What would God achieve for a sacking?” Delle Fonde spoke so softly that almost no one heard him.
“Which God?” Oralle guffawed and clapped his hands.
“Any God, so long as we can keep the spoils,” said Mercer.
“And are paid in advance,” said Belfountain.
“I wonder what would happen if Calvin and Luther were locked in a cell together?” Yeoville asked suddenly, and answered his own question. “I think they would tear one another to pieces.”
“In the name of a just and merciful God,” said Mercer, shaking his head. All but delle Fonde chuckled as Mercer intended they should, but because of delle Fonde’s silence the chuckles faded quickly.
“All right, man: what is it?” Belfountain asked.
“I … I’d rather not—” delle Fonde said apologetically. “It is nothing that should concern you.”
“Now that we are in Venezian territory?” ventured Oralle. “Is it the Catholic Church that keeps you silent? Or are you defending Protestants by saying nothing of what you know?”
Delle Fonde became more reticent still. “That isn’t the issue.”
“Oho,” said Mercer, smiling again, but without a trace of goodfellowship. “What is the matter, Giulio? Is there something you’re hiding from us—your comrades-in-arms?”
“Secrets are worse than ferrets,” said Yeoville, quoting the old Italian-Swiss proverb in order to goad delle Fonde into revealing more.
“Leave him alone,” said Belfountain. “It has nothing to do with us. Every one of you has secrets, as is your right: no man in my Company has to tell more of his past than he wishes, and that goes for all of you. You may keep the faith you have or have none, as it pleases you. But see you do not fight about what you do not know about one another.”
“Yes. We may not know but we can guess, and our guesses are probably worse than the truth, but if he wants to risk that …” said Oralle, and suddenly yawned. “If only we had a little wine left.”
“Or some beer,” said Mercer. “A jug of it apiece.”
“Wine is better in this part of the world,” Oralle said, hoping for a sharp reaction.
“Tomorrow you may swill until you cannot stand upright,” said Belfountain. “Tonight we have no wine left.”
“A pity,” said Oralle.
These complaints diverted the others from questioning delle Fonde, the men carping to one another that they longed for wine or beer, anything to relieve their thirst, and that it was unfair that they had nothing to drink.
“There is a stream not very far away,” Ruggier pointed out.
“There is,” said Belfountain. “But its waters are not wholesome. Those who drink from it often suffer from the bloody flux.”
“Ah,” said di Santo-Germano as he came into the glow of the firelight from where his few cases and chests had been piled and covered for the night; his black clothing made his appearance unnerving for the Company, and two of the men crossed themselves. “So that’s the problem: a good thing to know. Bloody flux is to be avoided.” At another time he would have offered these men a tincture to rid the water of its contamination, but he had not brought any of that preparation with him on this hurried journey. “Then best not to drink of the stream—the animals should be kept from it, as well. I will find a spring for them while you sleep, so they will be able to slake their thirst in the morning.”
“Wine and beer are safe, and they warm the heart,” said delle Fonde, a forlorn note in his statement. “Do you not agree, Conte?”
Di Santo-Germano looked over at delle Fonde, a bit startled by the question. “If the choice is wine, beer, or unwholesome water, then wine and beer are preferable, at least for men. Not all creatures are as susceptible to the flux as humans are.” It was a safe enough answer, and it allowed the men to debate which was better—wine or beer; no conclusion was reached, but none was expected, and it ended shortly before the rabbits were ready to eat; the men took out their knives in preparation for their meal. Excusing himself, di Santo-Germano walked away from the campfire toward the remuda to groom the horses, as he had done every evening they had camped on the road.
“An odd one, the Conte,” said Mercer. Since they had crossed the borders of the Venezian Empire, the men of the escort had taken to using di Santo-Germano instead of Saint-Germain, and Conte instead of Grav, and they had stopped calling his manservant Ruthger and now referred to him as Ruggier. “I don’t think I’ve seen him touch wine or beer. Or water, for that matter.” He glanced in Ruggier’s direction, clearly seeking a comment.
“My master dines and drinks in private. It is the custom of those of his blood.” Ruggier nodded toward the pot of cheese-and-bread. “That will burn if you hold it too close to the fire.”
Delle Fonde drew his pot back from the flames, and looked about sheepishly. “I ask your pardon, comrades,” he said pointedly to the hungry men sitting around the campfire while he stirred the pot more energetically.
Mercer pointed to Ruggier. “I have also noticed that you eat in private—each of you; alone.”
“It is a habit I have picked up from my master over my years of service, for he often travels—as exiles must—and it is easier to live by his habits than to constantly learn new ones; in many places, we have had to stay apart from others, as custom requires, so it is not unreasonable for me to dine alone,” said Ruggier calmly but not quite truthfully; he knew that his diet of raw meat would seem repellant to these men. “I have provided fowl and game for us to eat, and you know I always take my share.”
“From that, we must suppose that your master hunts only for himself as well as dines alone. And he, like most men of high station, does not share.” Yeoville made this a challenge, lifting his chin and raising his voice.
Ruggier remained unflustered. “You would be correct.” There was a brief, awkward silence among those gathered around the campfire; it ended as delle Fonde took one of the spits and began to cut portions of rabbit for the men, who seized their shares in their hands and knives, and began eagerly to eat. Ruggier got to his feet, saying as he did, “May you make a fine meal. I will be on guard from midnight until dawn?”
“You will,” said Belfountain. “Yeoville will be with you.”
“Very good; at midnight, then, and on until dawn,” Ruggier said with a half-nod in Yeoville’s direction, adding, “I am going to assist my master with grooming the horses.”
“Of course you are,” said Belfountain, his attention fixed on the second spit that Oralle was removing from its place over the flames; the meat sizzled where the flames had blackened it, and the small thyme leaves fell off like little cinders. “Tell him that we will be under way at first light.”
“Gladly,” said Ruggier, and continued on toward the remuda line, where he found di Santo-Germano brushing the mouse-colored gelding he had been riding earlier.
“Belfountain’s blood-bay has a bad bruise on the offside forepastern,” said di Santo-Germano as Ruggier came up to him; he spoke in the language of Persia. “It probably happened when we were coming down from that defile, through the brush. I’m surprised he is not lame.”
“Belfountain will want to find a remount tomorrow, then,” said Ruggier in the same tongue.
“I’ll treat the bruise tonight; that should help,” said di Santo-Germano. He finished brushing the gelding’s coat and set his brush aside in favor of a long-toothed comb for the mane and tail. “Those men—they’re noticing too much about us, are they not.”
“They are, and they’re beginning to ask questions,” said Ruggier. “I think they will be pleased to see the last of you, and of me.”
The sound of laughter drifted to them from the bright ring of the campfire.
“Small wonder,” said di Santo-Germano; he busied himself easing a burr out of the horse’s mane. “Last night, while I feigned sleeping, I kept breathing so that the guard would not become aware that I do not have to breathe but to speak. I should do the same tonight—as should you.”
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