States of Grace (16 page)

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Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Saint-Germain, #Inquisition, #Women Musicians - Crimes Against

BOOK: States of Grace
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“We are having a roast suckling pig, as you permitted, stuffed with apples and leeks,” said Roosholm, a bit of hesitancy in his remark, as if, now that the meal was being cooked, he had over-stepped his mark.
“Excellent,” Saint-Germain approved. “A keg of beer is set aside, I hope, for your celebration.”
“It is,” said Roosholm, increasingly uncertain.
“Very good. It is fitting that you should keep merry on this night.” He began to smile slowly. “Do not bother about my guests. I will attend to them, and I will see that the dining hall is not neglected.”
Roosholm winced: “It isn’t right that you should be a servant, not when you have a staff to attend to your guests.”
“For any festival but this one, I would agree. But tonight, it is fitting that the lowly be raised up and the high practice humility.” He had thought of this explanation during the morning in his laboratory, and realized he had guessed correctly. “Let me have this honor, Roosholm, and you will have no reason to feel slighted or compromised.”
“Since you are determined upon this course, I can but comply, with the thanks of all your staff.” The stiffness of his speech belied the smile in his eyes.
“Then make your last examination, and go join the rest,” said Saint-Germain. He favored Roosholm with a suggestion of a nod.
“You are most gracious, Grav,” said the steward. “Doubtless your humility will be well-received in Heaven.”
“So long as my guests are satisfied, I will be, as well,” said Saint-Germain.
“Do you plan to admit them to the house as well?” Roosholm asked.
“Ruthger will do that for me. It is quite appropriate, under the circumstances,” said Saint-Germain. “I will not bring any discredit upon you, Roosholm. It would reflect badly on us both if I did.”
Roosholm coughed once. “I will inform your staff of your decision, and we will drink your health for the coming year.”
“For which I thank you,” said Saint-Germain, and indicated the door leading to the servants’ part of the house. “Once the dinner dishes are brought to the dining hall, all of you will be released from your duties until tomorrow morning. Harcourt may choose which of the pages will carry the platters into the dining hall, and then they, too, will be at liberty. Tomorrow you may supervise the distribution of food to the poor.”
“As you wish, Grav,” said Roosholm, fretting but unwilling to challenge Saint-Germain’s specific instructions. He bowed rigidly, turned, and left the dining hall.
Saint-Germain went to the fireplace and laid another log on the fire, watching closely until it began to burn. He was about to light the candles in the standing chandelier in the center of the table when the knocker sounded. Leaving the dining hall and closing the door, he took up his position in the reception room, choosing a place to stand that would welcome his guests without causing them to be too put off by his obvious high station, or too rebuffed by what might appear a lack of consequence. He could hear steps approaching, and then a light scratch on the door. “Enter,” he called to Ruthger.
The four guests accompanying Ruthger crossed the threshold, then paused, taking in Saint-Germain as well as waiting to be announced.
“Grav Saint-Germain,” said Ruthger in very good Flemish, “allow me to present Seur Evangeline, the aunt of Erneste van Amsteljaxter; and Deme Erneste van Amsteljaxter.”
The nun, in the simple habit of a Sister of the Assumption, curtsied moderately, her eyes averted. “May God bless you, Grav, and give you long life,” she said quietly; she did not extend her hand, but held apart from him and the rest with the studied composure.
“Thank you, Seur; I have been fortunate in my longevity,” said Saint-Germain, and gave his attention to Erneste van Amsteljaxter. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Deme; I admire the fine work you have done.”
Dressed in a slate-colored silken, triangular-sleeved saya and a closed skirt without embroidery over a very moderate farthingale, only a small, lace ruff to set off her face and provide cuffs for her inner sleeves, her pale-brown hair pulled back and covered by a cap similar to those worn by scholars, Erneste strove to appear as unfemale as the strictures of fashion would allow. She curtsied slightly, daring to look Saint-Germain directly in the face as she did. “I must thank you for considering my work, Grav, and for allowing me to have my book printed. Many another press-owner would not so extend himself.”
“More fools they,” said Saint-Germain, and indicated the chairs near the hearth. “If you and your aunt would care to sit down?”
“I am Hildebrandt van der Horst,” said the next guest, a man nearing forty, with graying hair and worn face, in a long, deeply pleated scholar’s robe. His manner was as severe as his style. “You printed my work on—”
“Diseases
Afflicting Cattle, Goats, and Sheep, with Treatments
and Palliative Methods for Such Maladies,”
Saint-Germain told him. “An excellent compendium, and one I think must be welcomed everywhere.”
Van der Horst was almost struck silent. “Most gracious,” he mumbled.
Ruthger stood next to the last man, who wore a ribbed doublet and padded short-hose in the style favored in England. “This is the Honorable Bradleigh Milestone, recently come from Oxford.”
“My lord Grav,” said Milestone in poor Flemish.
“I take it your father is a knight, Signor’ Milestone,” said Saint-Germain in English, offering a little bow.
“Sir Laughton Milestone, yes,” he said with every sign of relief. “Your Amsterdam press published my treatise on the political implications of—”
“International mercantilism,” Saint-Germain finished for him. “Yes. A most innovative premise, and an intriguing conclusion.”
Milestone nodded, less surprised than van der Horst had been. “I am afraid it has not been as well-received in the institutions of government as I had hoped it would be.”
“Thus your visit to Antwerp,” Saint-Germain ventured, and went on in the stilted Latin of scholarship. “You are all welcome to my house; you honor me in coming here.” To emphasize this, he went and filled the three glasses with the savory liqueur he had put out for that purpose. As he carried these back to his guests, he went on, “This is a cordial of ancient lineage. I trust you will enjoy it, and consider it my pledge of friendship and continuing support for your work.” He offered the tray first to Erneste, who took the glass, holding it up to the light of the dense cluster of tall wax candles standing in front of a mirror of Venezian glass, providing light and concealing the lack of reflection of his hand.
“The color,” she said. “It appears changeable.”
“It is a pale, clear green,” said Saint-Germain, nodding to her as he presented the tray to van der Horst, who took the glass as if he feared it might break.
“Most … intriguing,” van der Horst said as he sniffed the contents of his glass.
“You are having none?” Milestone asked as he took the third glass.
Rather than answer directly, Saint-Germain said, “I am your servant this evening, in recognition of the importance of the day. I will not eat or drink with you; instead I will do as the great men of Fiorenze have done in times past, and I will wait upon you.” Thinking back to the last Christmas feast he had taken with il Magnifico, he looked directly at Milestone. “You have nothing to fear, Signor’. You will come to no harm at my hands.”
“You gave no glass to the nun,” van der Horst challenged.
“No; I have been informed that she takes only sacramental wine and will not touch strong spirits.” Saint-Germain ignored van der Horst’s snide tone. “I respect her wishes.”
“Then she must be pleased that you have not put her to the embarrassment of refusal,” said Milestone, also in scholars’ Latin.
Seur Evangeline looked down at her hands, remarking as if to the forest of tapers in front of the mirror, “It is not for me to be embarrassed by another’s deeds.”
A moment of awkward silence fell, only to be broken by Ruthger’s return, announcing, “Your meal will be presented shortly. If you will please enter the dining hall?” He opened the door and stood aside while Saint-Germain’s strange assortment of guests trooped into the room, their expressions alert without being completely genial.
“Comity may be hard-won, my master,” Ruthger said to Saint-Germain in an under-voice as he stepped back, closing the doors again, and shutting himself out of the dining hall.
Text of a letter from Capitan Ferrando de los Cerros to Bishop Varne Govert of Antwerp, written in Church Latin, and delivered by Frey Rafael.
To the most esteemed Bishop, Varne Govert, Capitan Ferrando de los Cerros sends his greetings on this, the 19
th
day of January, 1531 Anno Domini, to report on the origins of recent events of disruption and heresy which have plagued Antwerp of late.
Of those who profaned the holy day of Christmas with their marches and their Lutheran hymns, we have detained fifteen of the leaders, nine of whom are prominent men, and have applied to the courts for relief from their incarceration. I fear that when they have pleaded their case, they will be released to cause more mischief. I apply to you for your recommendation on how best to deal with these men. Were it for me to decide, I would cut out their tongues and blind them so that they could preach no more disobedience to Holy Church, nor could they pollute their souls with heretical texts. But it is not my office to do such things without your order, and so I apply to you for that, or to enforce whatever sentence you are moved to impose.
In addition, I have ordered the destruction of nine presses, for they have published works that do not meet with the approval of the Church, and so must be eliminated from this city, so that they can work no more mischief in the world. As you must already know, publishing of profane books has become unfortunately common in this part of the world, and so it is incumbent upon us to stop all presses not engaged in printing holy texts. Let these secular publishers seek some otherwhere to practice their apostasy; until the Church has lost its sway if they wish to pollute Christendom with works that turn men’s eyes from the Glory of God to those mundane concerns that interfere with the teachings of the Church in regard to the workings of this world, they must accept the consequences of their impiety.
Let us rejoice that the King and Emperor Charles has vowed that his son will be raised and educated in Spain, so that we will have a King who is truly one of us, not an Austrian advanced by marriage to the leadership of the richest nation on earth, and who will know that heretics are not to be permitted to sully the faith of God. May that happy day come before we are overwhelmed with Protestants and worse.
I have enclosed with this copies of the reports of the men working for various publishers regarding the works they are presently making available. Those with the most suspect lists are presented first, those with the least are presented second, and those with the lists with the least consistency in point of view are presented last. Many of those in the third grouping have tended to address issues of what may be called science, that is, the study of things in nature. These works are the most subtle, for although they may have no superficial religious implications, their cumulative perspective may serve to undermine the faith of many by attempting to remove from God’s Law such things as the nature of the world, the importance of animals, domestic and wild, in God’s Plan, and the measurements of the earth and heavens, beyond those already set forth in Holy Writ. Of particularly dangerous content are those works based on the discoveries in the New World, for all such compilations can bring into question what other matters God may not have imparted to us, and thereby undermine the faith of those who deal with such matters.
I await your decisions in regard to these reports, and I will act promptly to carry out your will as soon as you have stated it.
Yours in the Name of Christ,
Ferrando de los Cerros, Capitan
 
in Antwerp, by my own hand
 
Erneste van Amsteljaxter stared around Saint-Germain’s study, her eyes wide. “So many books,” she exclaimed softly, almost reverently. “There must be four hundred of them.” She was dressed much the same way she had been when he had first seen her: in an unornamented dull-purple vaya with triangular sleeves, a very moderate farthingale under her simple skirt, and the merest touch of lace at her neck and sleeves. Today she was somewhat less reserved than she had been on their first meeting, and she smiled without seeming to compromise her dignity. “You must have taken years and years to collect and read them all.” She seemed mildly preoccupied, and not entirely due to the books on the shelves; the pelucid northern light from the window made her face as luminous as that of the haloed Magdelene in the local church.
“Fortunately, Deme van Amsteljaxter, I have had years and years,” he said, watching her more closely than she knew; Ruthger had admitted her to the study a few minutes earlier and Saint-Germain was keenly aware of her acute discomfort from being alone in his company, so he devoted himself to easing her edginess.
“Because you have wealth,” she said, a suggestion of wistfulness in her remark. She looked down at her hands.
“Among other things,” he said, and indicated a leather-bound volume closed with iron hinges. “That book may be beyond price.” He had bought it for a goodly amount some years ago, after the Black Plague had swept through Europe, from the heirs of a nobleman who had purchased it from a companyless Crusader four centuries before that. It had been old when the heirs had sold it, and now it was ancient enough to be a treasure.
She squinted at the spine, a bit too relieved to have her attention directed to the tome.
“The Roman Art of Crystal-Grinding,”
she translated slowly, puzzlement marking her features. “My father would have been fascinated, I suspect. Crystal-grinding? Why should Romans want to grind crystals?”
“For the same reason it is done now: to make spectacles to improve eyesight,” said Saint-Germain. “The Romans of old had very real skills in making such things.” He had an instant of recall, watching Nero at the Circus Maximus, wearing his wire-rimmed, greencrystal spectacles, a tribute to his racing corporation and the intense Roman sun.
“They built fine bridges, and wonderful buildings,” she allowed. “But they had many faults.”
“Yes, they did, to both observations,” said Saint-Germain, remembering how he had watched the construction of the Flavian Circus during one of his stays in Roma; it was now called the Colosseum and was partially in ruin, but it still had the power to impress.
“I was not aware of their ability to grind crystals,” said Erneste. “I wonder if there are any left to study.” She went to the fireplace and held out her hands to warm them over the merry flames.
“There are very few still intact,” said Saint-Germain, who had a dozen of them hidden under the floor of the second atrium at his Roman villa.
“For what reason are there so few?” She set the book aside, her fingers lingering on the hinges.
“Perhaps because crystals are more fragile than bridges, and their virtues are less obvious,” Saint-Germain suggested, recalling the centuries of supremacy of unlettered barbarians whose arrival had marked Roma’s fall; he went on a bit more briskly. “I am delighted to welcome you to my house, Erneste van Amsteljaxter, and to my study, since you are fond of books, but I wonder why you have come this morning, especially in such blustery weather, and rain coming before nightfall.” He hoped he had not been too forward in putting this question to her.
“Do I intrude?” she asked quickly, uncertainty showing in every aspect of her demeanor. “Would you prefer that I leave?”
“No; I am curious—one of my failings.” His swift smile vanished as soon as it appeared. “Your aunt Evangeline is with you, Deme van Amsteljaxter—Ruthger informed me—so you are clearly upholding the proprieties.” Her aunt, as he knew, was in the main withdrawing room, doing needlework.
She stopped still, her face flushing. “I fear I am being most importunate in coming here, and were it not for the mortification I feel, I should not have bothered you,” she admitted. “But I have only recently discovered that three months ago my brother had written to you to ask for your help.” She put one hand to her flaming cheek, not daring to look at him. “I am dreadfully chagrined that he would do such a thing—you, a stranger with no ties to him any stronger than that you have published my book. I came to apologize on his behalf.”
“His circumstances seemed a bit precarious,” said Saint-Germain. “He had good reason to seek help somewhere.”
“That they were—his situation’s precarious. And may well be still.” She turned away from him and went toward the fireplace, staring into the flames as if to banish other visions from her thoughts. “I have written to him four times since Christmas, and I have had no word from him in return. I only know that he had written to you because I received a letter from the Landsmacht’s secretary, saying that my letters had arrived but that my brother has been unable to answer.”
Saint-Germain studied her thoughtfully. “It is winter,” he reminded her as kindly as he could. “Messages travel erratically in winter. It would seem, from the note you have received from the secretary, that his messages—or yours—have probably been delayed.”
“That is possible,” she said, her words measured and her manner controlled. “But couriers have twice arrived with letters from Bohemia and Moravia since Christmas, and they have affirmed that the letters carried there have been delivered, at least most of them, so they must be in the Landsmacht’s hands; why he should have them I hardly dare to imagine. Tabor is not so small a place that the couriers would not go there to collect letters, and Grussenwald is not so very far from Tabor.” She coughed. “I know my brother was troubled by the Landsmacht’s growing religiosity, and feared that his employment would end before the promised time—”
“So he said in his letter to me.” Saint-Germain motioned her to a chair. “I was given to understand you had encouraged him to write to me.”
“Not encouraged,” she protested as she sat down. “I only ventured to say that you might be able to advise him if he were dismissed out of hand, as I fear he may have been. The secretary only said that my brother could not answer any letters.”
“You were not in error to make such a recommendation, if that is what he wishes; I will do what I can for him,” he said, and waited for her to go on. “Is it? his wish.”
“I don’t know,” she said, unwilling to look at him. “He has told me so little since he warned me of his difficulties, and I am left to worry, and speculate, neither of which brings me any solace. There are stories every day of men and women—and children—put to torture and death for speaking against—”
“Why is that, do you think—that he has provided no other information to you?” The question was enough to stop her increasing dismay; Saint-Germain went to the heavy shelving and took down a small book of elegant love songs, composed more than three hundred years before. “Is he likely to fail to inform you of any difficulties he may have encountered? You know his character—would he inform you with his problems, or would he seek not to burden you with them?” He read hesitation in her restless gaze. “Let me put it another way—would he expect you to shoulder his difficulties if he is in a precarious situation? Have you done it before? Or do you fear he has been made a prisoner or become repentant, and that is the reason you have heard nothing?” Looking at the four-line staves with the odd, square nones, he heard the plaintive melody of the third song sound in his head while he waited for Erneste to form her reply.
“I am troubled that he has not—” She faltered, her voice becoming unsteady. “I thought he would have sent me a letter, you see, no matter what state of mind he may be in. He always has in the past. I inquired after his health, but learned nothing about it. And the secretary said he could not answer, not that he had not received the letters.”
“But there was nothing from your brother himself.” Saint-Germain said nothing more, waiting for her to speak.
“No. Nothing from him, and that is what causes me the most distress, and why I am afraid for him.” She put her hands together almost as if in prayer, and studied the walls around her.
“And since he has not sent any word to you, you would like me to use my influence to find out if any mishap has befallen him, or anything that would account for his silence,” Saint-Germain supplied for her, marking his place in the song-book with one finger and closing the book around it.
She shook her head. “I am not so forgetful of my place that I would do such a thing,” she protested. “I am beholden to you already, deeply so, and I would rather not increase my indebtedness.”
“You have no reason to be—what I may or may not do for your brother does not devolve upon you in any way: believe this,” he said gently.
But she continued on as if she had not heard him. “I am troubled about my brother’s silence, but I cannot ask you to discover what has become of him. I have nothing to offer you in thanks for what aid you may extend to him.”
“Why do you think that it would be your obligation, Deme? You are asking on his behalf, not your own, are you not?” Saint-Germain asked.
“I … I was hoping you might advise me. Now that I have heard from the secretary, I am at a loss how to proceed. I would like to make inquiries on my own, but not if they would be dangerous for Onfroi.” She looked about the room as if it were new to her. “You have no reason to help us.”
“I have no reason not to, either,” he said.
She rubbed her hands together more forcefully. “No. That wasn’t my purpose in coming here. I wanted you to know that I would not trespass on our association in so improper a way. You must see that. Yet, though I know it is reprehensible, I hope I may prevail upon you to write to the Landsmacht to find out what has become of … Onfroi. He is more apt to send you information than he is to vouchsafe it to me. I don’t ask you to prevaricate or—” She laced her fingers together, then unlaced them again. “And if this would mean another debt—”
“What can I do to convince you I do not think concern for your brother is improper, nor an occasion to be taken advantage of—but you are anxious, are you not?” He watched her struggle with contrary impulses, but held his tongue while she debated with herself.
Finally she sighed. “I admit I hope you will undertake to discover what has become of him, not simply because I ask it, but to know what might endanger the books your company produces.”
“I have such interests, I agree,” he said, letting her take this in. “No doubt your brother could provide me with a great deal of useful information.”
“Yes. I think so, too,” she said, relieved, then frowned again. “But he might not have sufficient to justify your—”
“What is it?” he asked, guessing the answer.
“I know that if you should lend him assistance on my behalf, you might have expectations of me that I may not desire to meet, no matter how grateful I may be—So for that reason alone, I would prefer not to be so greatly obligated to you. If you will tell me what I may do, then I will not impose upon you any longer.” This last admission was made hurriedly, somewhat angrily, and with renewed confusion. “You must think me very naive.”
“Hardly that,” said Saint-Germain, pulling his finger out of the song-book and returning it to the shelves only to take down a copy of Erneste’s book. “This is a most intriguing volume:
Lyrics and Tales of the Peasants of Brabant.
I was particularly struck by the story of ‘How Valeria Was Wooed by the Night Demon.’”
“Because the hero is a priest?” she asked just above a whisper. “There are versions in which he is a knight.”
“He is a most unlikely hero, I agree,” said Saint-Germain smoothly, “but no; that is not what impressed me—I was struck by Valeria using a mirror to discover whether or not her suitor was a demon. That device is unusual, and for that reason, also distinctive.”
“Because you thought the mirror should have shown the demon as terrible as he was?” Erneste asked, doing her best to steady herself through this discussion.
“No—because the mirror showed nothing at all,” said Saint-Germain, a wistful note in his voice.
Erneste sat a bit straighter. “Isn’t that the most horrible thing that could happen: that the demon had no shape, that he took his appearance from her desires?”
“Is that what happened?” Saint-Germain opened the book and thumbed to the page he sought. “Here it is:
‘Alas, when she held up the priceless mirror, Valeria saw that there was no image on the surface of the glass. She knew then that the priest had spoken truth, and she made the Sign of the Cross, whereupon her lover shrieked blasphemously and vanished with an appalling oath in a gout of flames. His accursed vow remained after he had gone: that nothing could save her from joining him in Hell. She went to the priest who had helped her, and he accepted her repentance and forgave her sins.’”
“It is a vivid story,” she said when he closed the book; she seemed half-apologetic and half-proud of her work. “If it weren’t so remarkable, I wouldn’t have included it, for it may cause distress to some who read it.”

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