States of Grace (15 page)
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Saint-Germain, #Inquisition, #Women Musicians - Crimes Against
The page who rushed to do this was a lad of eleven called Joris who often spent his afternoons with Wenzel in the kitchen, learning the secrets of cooking, and playing solitary games with ladles and forks. He was an ambitious, eager boy, all elbows and knees and restless energy, whose only living relative was an uncle serving aboard a merchant-ship.
“That boy has a very high opinion of you,” said Ruthger, a hint of warning in his voice.
“He’s clever enough; in a year or two, I may make him my apprentice, if his interest hasn’t waned,” said Wenzel, trundling over to the cast-iron oven and taking out one of four loaves of bread, holding it with the tips of his fingers to avoid being burned; he went to the chopping board beside the tray on which sat a plate of sausages fresh from the oven, next to two large wedges of cheese, one white, one dull-gold.
“No doubt he will be a credit to you, if you don’t abuse his esteem for you,” said Ruthger. “Lonely boys can credit those they value with virtues no one man can possess.”
“You have some experience in this?” Wenzel said as he took a knife and began to slice the loaf.
“Yes. Years ago,” he said, not adding that it had been over thirteen centuries since Marius’ devotion to him had brought about the youngster’s death in the terrible riots that had inflamed Roma at the end of the reign of Heliogabalus.
“I wouldn’t have thought you were a man to be influenced by the adulation of a child.” Wenzel set the sliced bread in a small basket and covered it with a square of linen.
“I believe I was missing my son,” said Ruthger, and added, “He died—many, many years ago.”
Wenel’s laugh was short and sarcastic. “You had a son?”
“I had,” said Ruthger, and volunteered nothing more as he picked up the tray Wenzel had finished loading. “The beer?”
With a snap of his fingers, Wenzel hurried to the outer pantry, disappeared only to return almost immediately with a large stoneware pitcher filled with dark, fragrant beer. “There.” He held it out and then reached for a tankard to put on the tray. “May the printer have a good appetite.”
“Amen,” said Ruthger, and started toward the backstairs, bound for Saint-Germain’s study.
Maarten Gerben was seated facing the fire, his big hands extended to the fire, revealing permanent ink-stains on his nails and knuckles. He was in his late twenties, thick-bodied and round-faced, in somber-but-prosperous clothing in dark-gray English wool. Although his features were clearly often cheerful, his expression now was reticent and fretful. He stopped speaking as Ruthger came into the room, giving a quick, anxious glance at Saint-Germain.
Saint-Germain was standing behind the second chair, leaning easily on the high back of it. He signaled Ruthger to set the tray down within Gerben’s reach. “You may say what you like in front of Ruthger,” he told Gerben calmly. “He has my complete confidence. You may rely utterly on his discretion.”
“I am sure you may do so,” said Gerben with a slight emphasis on
you.
you.
“And you, as well,” said Saint-Germain, indicating the tray.
“After your examination by the Archbishop’s Council, you can still put such trust in the man?” Gerben marveled.
“I am not in prison, and they questioned Ruthger as well as several others in the household. And you,” said Saint-Germain. “He said nothing to my discredit then, nor would he now.”
Gerben hunched his shoulders. “Other men have misplaced their trust.”
“So they have, and I have been one of them, upon occasion,” Saint-Germain agreed, sensing this was as much a ploy as a complaint. “Help yourself to anything you like.”
“Will you not join me?” Gerben asked, looking hungrily at the plump, hot sausages.
“Thank you, no.” He came around the chair to sit down. “If you will, tell me more about the problems you’ve been having.”
Gerben rubbed his hands together. “It is just the same for printers throughout Bruges, and the rest of the Low Countries under the heel of Spain.” He reached to pour himself a tankard of beer, but stopped, as if worried about being overheard.
“That is becoming more apparent with every passing day,” said Saint-Germain.
“You have the right of it,” said Gerben, reaching for the fork to prong one of the sausages; as the tines penetrated the casing, three little spurts of grease gushed out. “Oh, excellent,” he approved as he lifted the sausage to bite the end off.
“I will tell the cook,” Ruthger said solemnly.
“Yes; do,” said Gerben, chewing steadily, the first signs of pleasure softening the hard lines in his face.
Ruthger nodded and stepped back. “Is there anything more?” he asked Saint-Germain.
“Not at present, no, thank you.” He glanced toward the door. “Perhaps you will return in half an hour?”
Understanding that this meant he was not to go far, Ruthger bowed slightly. “That I will.”
As soon as the door closed behind Ruthger, the satisfaction vanished from Gerben’s countenance. “You must be careful. Even trusted servants have been known to trade their masters for freedom. Keep all secrets to yourself, and no one can reveal them to your disadvantage.”
“I have no such worry on Ruthger’s part, but I will be careful of the rest,” said Saint-Germain, aware that the printer had good reason for such a warning.
“You must,” said Gerben urgently. “In the last month two of my friends—men with presses of their own—have had their books seized, and they themselves have been put in prison for seditious activities. Their authors have left the country. And, for that matter, so have most of mine.” He scowled ferociously. “One of my remaining apprentices has said he is going to sign on a ship bound for the New World. There are fortunes waiting for men with talent, he tells me, and he will not have to feel the Church looking over his shoulder all the time.”
“Is he planning to be a printer in the New World?” Saint-Germain asked tranquilly.
“I don’t think so,” Gerben said, and finished his sausage. “He says a man who can read and write can become a copyist or a notary, and in time, an advocate, and they will need such men as the New World becomes civilized.” The recitation of these optimistic plans made him more morose; he speared a second sausage.
“Have you found a replacement for him?” Saint-Germain guessed this was the reason for Gerben’s despondency.
“I thought I had,” said Gerben. “But the boy’s father has changed his mind since the recent detentions. He’s apprenticed the lad to an apothecary.” This time his bite was emphatic, an outward manifestation of his inner demoralization.
“Always a useful profession,” Saint-Germain murmured.
“But it points the way, don’t you see?” Gerben pleaded. “It shows that anyone printing any books may be held accountable for what they say, or what they are deemed to say, and the Church imposes many things on those who try to present any material that does not—” He stopped and took a long drink of beer. “I apologize, Grav. I have been so … so …”
“Distraught?” Saint-Germain suggested. “I can see that.”
Gerben took another long drink. “I have cause for my concern, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, I would,” said Saint-Germain, sensing that Gerben was trying to come to the point of his visit.
“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “I wish to ask you, keeping all these things in mind—” He stopped suddenly. “I mean, if you would only consider my situation. I wish to continue in this work, more than anything else, but I am afraid that it may lead me into trouble—trouble that would prevent me doing anything more of use, either as a printer, or as a man.” He sagged in his chair, as if what he had said had deflated him.
“I gather you would like to move your press to another city,” said Saint-Germain.
Staring at Saint-Germain as if astonished that he had achieved so much in that hectic outburst, he said, “Yes. I would.”
“Have you a locale in mind?” Saint-Germain asked.
“I do,” said Gerben. “I have written to a merchant who has warehouses on the Channel Islands. He has said that in return for my keeping records and inventories of his cargos stored there, he will permit me to set up my press in the smallest of his warehouses.”
“The Channel Islands,” Saint-Germain repeated slowly. “Have you chosen the one you prefer?”
“Jersey,” said Gerben, so quickly that Saint-Germain suspected he had made up his mind just now. “King Henry—who is Duke there—may be having his difficulties with Rome and the Pope, but I doubt those conflicts will touch the Channel Islands.”
“If Henry Tudor prevails, I think you may be right,” said Saint-Germain. “I gather you want my permission to do this, and my support.”
Now Gerben looked sheepish. “Well, yes, Grav, for if I lose your patronage, I cannot make this move, or any move.”
“Ah,” said Saint-Germain, and leaned forward in his chair. “I do not expect you to put your work and your life at risk for my sake. If you have found that it is too dangerous to do your work here in Bruges, then, by all means, find a safer place to go, and with my good wishes, if you need them. I will continue my support of your press for as long as you continue to publish.”
Gerben’s chuckle was weak from this assuagement. “I was prepared to have to do much more than this,” he admitted before he emptied his tankard and hurriedly refilled it.
Saint-Germain regarded the printer in silence for a short while, then said, “As soon as you have made your arrangements, notify me, and you will be provided the funds you need for your move.” He wondered why the merchant with the warehouses had not extended his beneficence to sponsorship as well, but decided not to add to Gerben’s distress; he listened attentively while Gerben expounded on his plans for his press, so that when Ruthger returned, as he had said he would, he discovered Gerben talking animatedly, his food half-eaten, and Saint-Germain giving him his full attention, a slight, contemplative smile the only indication of his thoughts.
Text of an accounting from Giules d’Attigny, tailor of Bruges, to Grav Saint-Germain.
Most excellent Grav,
I hereby submit my bill, with an accounting for the clothes I have made for you in the last three weeks, with added amounts for putting other work aside in order to finish your garments before your departure for Antwerp. I have already deducted the generous initial payment you made, and ask for a prompt remittance of the balance, as you assured me you would provide prior to your departure Monday week.
I have, as you requested, reckoned the amount in ducats.
| Three chamarre, one of satin, two of fine wool | 3dt |
| five chamise, two of linen, three of silk as provided by the Grav | 2dt |
| two pair of barrel-hose, one in damask, one in wool | 3dt |
| three pair of knee-hose for riding | 3dt |
| six pair of leggings | 1dt |
| two Flemish doublets, lined in silk | 2dt |
| one Flemish dogaline, lined in damask silver silk | 3dt |
| one French doublet-and-dogaline in brocaded silk, as provided by the Grav | 5dt |
| Less deposit of | 10dt |
| Owing | 12dt |
Presented on this, the 2
nd
day of December, 1530, by
nd
day of December, 1530, by
Your most obedient,
Giules d’Attigny
tailor of Bruges
The accounts for your manservant are appended below, and come to the amount of 11 ducats.
“Shall I draw the curtains again?” Ruthger asked in the wan, watery light of Christmas morning that shone through into this, the uppermost floor of Saint-Germain’s Antwerp house; it was set near the outskirts of the town, on a slight rise, inside a tall, wrought-iron fence, amid a cluster of newer buildings that had grown up around the four-hundred-year-old Old Mercers’ Center where cloth of all sorts was still displayed for sale, but now that venerable building also housed jewel merchants and traders bringing cargo from the Spanish holdings in the New World.
Saint-Germain shook his head and sat up again on his ascetical bed, answering in the same Imperial Latin as Ruthger had used to address him. “No. Not while the noise goes on, certainly.” He nodded in the direction of the single window in his bedchamber, that gave a view of neighbors’ roofs and chimney-pots. “It should stop in an hour or so.”
Bells sounded from the spires of the churches of Antwerp; the ringing to welcome Christmas was countered by a somber crowd of Protestants, walking through the city along the major streets, singing the hymns of Martin Luther and exhorting those late to Mass to throw off the oppression of the Church of Rome and embrace the reforms of Luther.
“If we are fortunate, there will be snow by midday; everyone will be driven indoors, so the holiday will not be marred by bloodshed,” said Saint-Germain as he reached to draw on the Persian caftan of heavy black silk that served him as a chamber-robe. “I take it this household is up?”
“Indeed it is,” said Ruthger. “All but three are gone to worship.”
“That is … most interesting,” said Saint-Germain with a sardonic lift to the corners of his mouth that some might mistake for a smile.
“The three who remain are the stableman and his two children,” said Ruthger at his most bland.
“He is a follower of one of the more extreme teachers, is he not? one inclined to pious simplicity and private enclaves?”
“Among other things, yes: he is a Hutterite,” said Ruthger. “Hutter’s followers have been expelled—”
Saint-Germain rose. “—from almost everywhere, as I recall,” he said, stretching. “Just as well, then, that he and his children stay off the streets. There is trouble enough with regular Protestant factions and Catholics abroad today. I trust the staff will not do anything to spite them.”
“Factions. Why call them after Roman racing corporations?” Ruthger wondered aloud.
“Because they are much the same in style: loyal to the point of obsession, unthinking in their endorsements, and determined to support their group in front of all opposition, even if it causes themselves damage to do so.” Saint-Germain shook his head, and went on slowly. “The Church is much in need of change, but riots and burning will not bring improvement, it will only increase the Church’s obduracy, which will push those protesting to more extreme positions, and soon both parts of the debate will be working to the destruction of the other side, as the Reds attempted to do to the Greens during Traianus’ reign, and the Blues did when Constantine held his last Roman games.”
“The Cathars and the followers of Pier Waldo fared badly, and they only defied, not opposed the Church,” Ruthger reminded him.
“Yes, their manner might have been successful had Innocent III not been in a frame of mind to Crusade: he had to make an example of any hint of apostasy. In those times, news moved slowly, and that helped those groups who held together within their own regions. But the Pope was not then as he is now, and could not afford even passive opposition, not in 1208, while you and I were in China and had to rely on Olivia for all our news of the West. He put England under interdict in the same year, and Henry Tudor is making England’s response at last, three centuries later, when news travels much faster, and information is available to many more people,” said Saint-Germain with a solitary shake of his head. “In the thirteenth century, the Church needed the revenues from its holdings in the south of France. Corruption did not vanish from the Church because the Cathars or Waldensian heretics identified it, and paid dearly for their temerity, nor will it now, in spite of each new Protestant divine. Now the Church does not want to lose its revenues from northern Europe, so Luther and his like must be suppressed.”
“Do you think the Church will succeed?” Ruthger turned as an especially loud peal echoed over the city.
Saint-Germain thought a bit, and answered slowly. “That is still uncertain. The Church has more than Protestants to contend with, which adds to the complications. If the Church can stem the tide from the Ottomans, then perhaps it will prevail, but in the meantime, the strategy it has chosen serves to entrench opposition, not to unite the faith, to deal with the Spanish power that has influenced so much of the Italian peninsula. And by tightening its hold, the Church drives more and more of its flock away. This time, the conflict could do worse than start a Crusade, it could sunder whole nations. You remember how often Roman politics mixed with the Great Games, using the sporting alliances to influence political issues. This is much the same; this morning there are Protestants marching in the streets, daring the Church to stop them, just as the racing factions used to do in Rome, but with more dire consequences facing them.”
“They are willing to accept the consequences, or so they claim. They would tell you that their dispute is over faith and God, and the failure of the Church, not winning teams of horses,” said Ruthger, watching the movements in the streets below.
“That would not change the damage they do, except to make it more bitter,” said Saint-Germain.
“We will hope for snow,” said Ruthger, going to adjust the coverlet and sheets on Saint-Germain’s narrow bed.
“Yes; we will,” said Saint-Germain, stepping into thick-soled slippers; their lining of his native earth counteracted the enervation of the sunlight. He rubbed his chin, remarking as he did, “I believe it is time I was shaved, and my hair trimmed. I begin to feel a bit scruffy.”
“So I have thought since we arrived here, four days ago,” said Ruthger. “You are receiving three of the authors whose books you have published, through your various presses in the Lowlands, this afternoon. You will want to make a good appearance, I think.”
“How diplomatically done, old friend. You are right: I should present myself well—not only to impress them, but to show that I am in a position to provide them support, should they need it. So, if you would, plan to bring your razor and your scissors as soon as I finish my bath.” Saint-Germain considered a long moment. “I’ll want the Flemish doublet Giules d’Attigny made, the woollen barrel-hose, and the chamarre in red-black wool. One white chamise, a silk one, and my black-sapphire pectoral on the silver-link collar. And the Flemish buckled shoes; the earth lining has been replaced, I trust.” He glanced at the window. “Do you remember how d’Attigny looked when Karl-lo-Magne ruled here?—Or what this region was like?”
“It was a wild place—but then, so was all Franksland,” said Ruthger. “This portion of the land was all forest and open fields, leading to salt marshes, with a few small villages and fishing towns.”
Saint-Germain steepled his fingers, only the tips touching, and made a circuit of the room, the hem of his caftan whispering along the planks of the floor as he walked. “I was much taken with this region, then; and later, during the Black Plague, I—” He stopped. “And now, another burden is imposed on this district, and its people.”
“Of their own making,” Ruthger remarked, a suggestion of disapproval in his tone of voice.
“At the instigation of zealots, each purveying his own state of grace,” Saint-Germain amended. “I had hoped that the rancor would diminish, but it seems unlikely now; that saddens me.”
“I fear you are right,” said Ruthger, and changed the subject. “You have asked the authors to dine with you, haven’t you?”
“Actually, I believe the invitation said I offered them a Christmas meal, which I intend to do; I spoke with Harcourt day before yesterday, so he could prepare,” he said carefully.
“He said he had purchased two geese for the occasion,” Ruthger informed him. “And last night he had a fish delivered from the market still flopping in the basket.”
“Very good,” said Saint-Germain. “Harcourt seems a capable cook.”
Ruthger chuckled. “You have sampled his cuisine, my master?”
“Because I do not eat does not mean I cannot smell,” Saint-Germain said, and went on crisply, “I will want to bathe around midday, but until then, I have a few matters to attend to in my laboratory.” He gestured to the large room beyond this one, where he had installed his athanor and other equipment.
“Is there anything you will need me to do for you?” Ruthger asked.
“Make sure there is extra wood for all the fires, old friend. Today this house must be warm everywhere.” He regarded Ruthger, an expression between amusement and determination on his attractive, irregular features. “I wish to provide the household every incentive to remain indoors today.”
“Out of harm’s way,” Ruthger agreed; Saint-Germain inclined his head in agreement. “I concur. I will see that the fires are built up. Will you need me until midday?”
“I doubt it; do as you wish with the time,” said Saint-Germain.
“I will have my meal in peace in the kitchen, while most of the household is gone; no one will remark that I eat my meat raw, which I believe will serve us all in good stead. The less strange you and I appear, the less likely we are to attract unwanted attention,” Ruthger announced. “This time I have a very fine, plump partridge and a pheasant. I put the birds into wine as soon as I killed and dressed them.”
“I can but imagine,” said Saint-Germain, waiting until Ruthger left the room to venture into his laboratory, where a handsome, new clock kept fairly reliable time on the wall above his work-table. As he sat down, the hands indicated it was almost nine; the next time he looked up, the hands read 12:31. Saint-Germain set his work aside and left the laboratory, bound for his bathroom on the floor below. The household bustled around him as he watched Ruthger supervise the filling of his tub from buckets of hot water fresh from the stove, and as he sank into the bath, he could smell the aroma of geese stuffed with chestnuts rising from the hearth two floors below.
Shortly after two, Saint-Germain appeared in the reception hall, all rigged out in his finery, his hair trimmed, his jaw newly shaved, and the silver links of his collar gleaming against the red-black of his chamarre and black doublet. On his small, beautiful hands, fine rings shone and winked. Nine of his servants found excuses to come to the main floor to have a glimpse of him as he put three elegant Venezian glasses in order on a tray of antique Chinese brass. He then took down an ornate bottle of liqueur and set it next to the glasses.
“Is everything satisfactory, Grav?” asked Simeon Roosholm, the steward, as he came into the reception room.
“In this chamber, most certainly. I trust the dining hall is ready?” He turned in the direction of the door leading to the dining hall. “And Harcourt’s staff is prepared?”
“Yes, to both,” said Roosholm, a man of twenty-five whose bearing and demeanor suggested complete steadiness. Half a head taller than Saint-Germain, and lean on a large, square frame, he wore a long doublet in dark-blue over a lawn chamise, with a sprig of holly pinned near the collar as a token of the season. The only possible flaw in his appearance were his ears, which were round and red and stuck out from his face like two half-saucers, but this was his affliction to endure, and he did that as he did everything else—stolidly.
“And provision was made for the staff to dine well,” said Saint-Germain, watching Roosholm narrowly.
“Yes. My wife has devoted the day to making preparations in the servants’ hall, and provided the tokens for all, as you have told her to do. I am sure all is to your satisfaction, Grav.” He rocked back on his heels in a show of pride for his wife, who was responsible for all the hangings, curtains, draperies, bed linens, and napery in the household. “You may be certain that she has done her utmost.”
“You have a most worthy spouse,” said Saint-Germain.
“I thank God for her every day,” said Roosholm with feeling.
“And never more so than on Christmas Day, I should imagine,” said Saint-Germain, walking around the reception room and making note of the decorations: holly over the doors, gilded acorns in a bowl on the central table, and fir branches hung on the expanse of the chimney. He had ordered that there be nothing to dismay either Protestant or Catholic, and found himself pleased with what Roosholm and his wife had achieved. “I take it the dining hall is as well-decorated as this room.”
Roosholm nodded in the direction of the arched doorway that led to the dining hall. “If you would care to look? All is in readiness.”
Saint-Germain surprised his steward by opening the door himself; he paused to take in the cavernous chamber, noting that there were sprays of evergreens over all the windows, although the curtains were drawn, and a wreath of holly over the fireplace. “This is most satisfactory, Roosholm.”
“So long as it is to your liking,” said Roosholm.
“That it is. I hope you will have a feast reflective of my pleasure,” said Saint-Germain.
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